A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Read online

  Blackden pushed me toward the entrance of the building, exhorting me, “Go ahead, boy. You’ll be the first to venture into Christo’s tavern tonight.”

  The place was more crowded than I had expected, brimming with the odors of tobacco, alcohol, and urine. The crowd was a peculiar assortment, transformed by the dimness into an indistinguishable mass, despite their various origins: Europeans, city folk in tarbushes, thick-bodied farmers different from those I had seen outside, Gypsy women with coal-black hair and full lips, women flushed or pale, all of them hiding their faces behind masks of heavy cosmetics. In the middle of all this an obese woman gyrated while everyone clapped.

  From behind the bar a fat Greek man called out, waving the bottles he was holding, “Welcome, my best customers! I’ve been waiting for you!”

  Feeling suffocated, I wanted to escape, but Blackden had his hand on my back and pushed me until I was face-to-face with the corpulent Greek. “We have here,” Blackden said loudly, “a fresh virgin. We need you to help him forget about this country’s pitiless nights.”

  The Greek bared his crooked teeth. “God bless the foreigners, the wretches, and the virgins!” he said. “You’ve brought him to the right place.”

  I only just moistened my lips with the glass of wine he handed to me, but my stomach contracted immediately. The other two drained their glasses in one go. The Greek kept refilling them. The others shouted as the dancing woman jiggled her belly and swung her hips.

  Fraser said, “The only way you’ll be able to stand Newberry is if you come here every night.”

  In one respect, he was right. Newberry had let me down, and no doubt he had let them down as well. “He promised us,” Fraser continued, “that we’d have a part in the excavations and the archaeological discoveries that would get all the newspapers in Europe talking about us. And here we are instead, copyists of wall art in some remote, desolate tomb.”

  Surprised, I said, “I thought the excavations were taking place far to the south.”

  “You really are green,” he said. “Just a few miles from here is Tel al-Amarna. That’s where the madman Petrie is searching for Akhenaten’s tomb. Every day Newberry creeps along behind him to eavesdrop on his findings. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day he killed the man before he could achieve any results.”

  They went on drinking, and I saw that I had no alternative but to stay and be a spectator. I moistened my lips some more with the nasty wine—perhaps I’d get used to the taste. By listening to other people’s conversations, I slowly familiarized myself with the mixture of faces that filled the room. There were regional administrators, government employees, cotton magnates, and mayors of nearby villages. How did this portly Greek manage to bring them all together here in this dim cavern so far from the city, and immerse them in rural nightlife?

  “He’s the king in these parts,” said Blackden. “Every farmer in this village and the surrounding villages owes him money, and no matter how good their harvest, it’s never enough to pay off their debts. But there’s another, more important reason he can get them all to come here . . .”

  Suddenly the place fell silent. From some obscure part of the establishment came a beautiful young girl. Her face was not masked with cosmetics, unlike the others. All eyes turned toward her as she calmly and self-assuredly made her way among them. The Greek smiled, observing the reaction to her appearance, like a breath of fresh air in the stifling fug of the tavern.

  I stared at her in amazement. This wasn’t a fit place for her, but Fraser raised his glass to her and said, “She’s come at last, Helen of Troy, whose honor the Greeks took more trouble to defend than she herself did.”

  She merely smiled, and sat down by the bar, while the crowd formed a semicircle around her and stared. I could see that she was the real attraction that drew all those customers to this godforsaken place.

  “My precious girl is pleased with you tonight,” said the Greek with relish, “and she’s going to sing for you.”

  I looked at Blackden. He was staring mutely at her, enchanted, while her gaze wandered the room without fixing upon anyone in particular. She began to sing, her melodious voice issuing from her throat to fill the space and enliven it a little. I didn’t understand the words, but the modulations of her voice took me back to the flat country I had left behind, the undulating sea beneath my feet, the faces of my seven siblings, crowding around me and vying to carry my case as I prepared to set out, my mother’s tears, and my father’s expression, set and impassive.

  Then I remembered the fragrance of the first body I had known.

  The ship that bore me from Liverpool had covered many miles, and when the city called Alexandria came into view, the ship grew feeble as an old woman. I was holding onto the iron rail, as the city and its white buildings drew ever nearer to me, an African bird sitting on an egg, breathing out heat. There was no fog to muddy my view of it, nor did the sun seem to hide from it. I stepped onto the quay and was overwhelmed by the crowds and the cacophony on all sides. I was surrounded by brown faces indistinguishable from one another, all shouting to one another at close range, gesticulating, and moving in all directions. Their clothing looked more like rags than garments; flies and dust swirled around them. Was it possible that these were the people who had fashioned the objects preserved in Lord Amherst’s hall?

  Bewildered, I stood still, not knowing where to go. An elderly porter went past, his back bent, carrying a wooden box. I saw his face for a brief instant, wide-eyed with a large nose and prominent cheekbones. He was one of them, one of the faces carved in the worn wooden panel in Lord Amherst’s hall. I made my way very slowly through the crowd, and discovered that these were the selfsame beings, that they had climbed down from the temple walls, had stepped from their paintings and the illumined papyrus sheets. They were the ones, the very same, but they were more wretched, not so dignified, all of them milling about aimlessly, uncertainly, under this burning sun, as if they were living in a time not their own. I stopped abruptly, transfixed.

  All the passengers who had accompanied me on the ship’s passage had gone their way. I turned to see whether anyone was waiting for me, but found no one: I was alone and forlorn, not even eighteen years old, in short pants, with my case of reinforced cardboard, and tweed cap. I was not supposed to linger in this place—from what they had told me I had assumed that someone from the Department of Antiquities would be waiting for me, to help me board the train for Cairo, so that I might present myself to the director, Gaston Maspero. But after a long wait I realized that no one would come.

  There was nothing for it but to leave the port on my own and use the few Egyptian liras I had with me to find my way to the railway station. At the entrance, a guard inspected my passport, and on determining that I was British he raised his hands in salute, snapping his heels on the ground. I perceived that, despite my youth, I enjoyed all the benefits of the empire. The street outside the port was crowded with people and carts drawn by horses and donkeys. On the other side stood a number of military trucks draped with the British flag. I felt secure, for there were people who would take it upon themselves to look after me on this strange turf. An elderly porter pressed upon me his offer to take my case and conduct me to one of the hotels. I signaled my refusal. He was of lowly appearance and spoke broken English. I wanted to walk until I was tired, for after long days of traveling by ship I was longing for the solidity of dry land.

  “One piaster,” the man said desperately. “I’m at your service.”

  I didn’t answer him. I walked along Gomruk Street, among shops, warehouses, agencies. There were people wearing dusty cloths on their heads—where had those come from? And why had they substituted them for the striped head coverings that appeared in the paintings? What were these garments? Where was the cloth they used to wrap around their waists, showing off the beauty of their bare chests? Why did they now show themselves in such ugly trappings? What happened to the wide eyes of the women, outlined in shades of kohl? Per
haps this was a temporary phenomenon, for ports always draw mixtures of all kinds of people. Inside, perhaps, they were still as they had always been, beneath all this dust.

  I heard hoofbeats right behind me, so I stepped aside to allow the horse to pass, but the vehicle the beast was pulling stopped beside me. There was a black carriage—later I learned that it was called a hantour—drawn by a skinny horse. The driver sat erect, with a long switch in his hand.

  I heard a hoarse voice calling to me, “Hey—you! Foreign boy!”

  The voice was calling to me in halting English. Seated within the carriage was an unveiled woman, wrapped in a black abaya, a little older than I was, wide-eyed with curling eyelashes, her nose a little prominent, lips painted a vivid red that went well with her copper complexion. On her head was a kerchief in similarly bold colors, looking a little like the head cloths found in the paintings. Surely I had seen her before, in a carving or a picture, or in one of Lord Amherst’s books. I stood stock-still, while she went on whispering her broken phrases.

  “Come—get in quickly.”

  I stood frozen in place, but she held out her hand and pulled me toward her. She didn’t need much strength to prevail over me: I was dazzled, in shock, incapable of resistance. She seated me beside her, and signaled to the driver to proceed, so he flicked his switch over the back of the skinny horse. The carriage rolled on, leaving behind the port and its dun-colored establishments. I saw a sign shaped like an arrow, bearing the words “To the city center,” but she didn’t go in that direction. She did not speak, but merely held onto my arm, as if she was afraid I might hop out and escape. The wind grew a little less hot. I was going back toward the sea, but from a different direction. I didn’t look at her, but her body kept bumping against mine with each lurch of the carriage. Suddenly the sorry buildings disappeared, and the sea came into view, green and open and sparkling with whitecaps.

  The carriage came to a stop, and the girl leapt down gracefully. She beckoned me to get out. Seeing my fearfulness, she said, “Don’t be afraid. I won’t eat you!”

  I picked up my suitcase and joined her. The carriage drew away all at once, and I stood there listening to the horse’s hoofbeats until they faded away, leaving only the murmur of the surf. She took off the wooden shoes she was wearing, drew the black garment about her, and walked barefoot in the sand. I felt drained, and a sensation of seasickness upset my stomach, but I followed her. A wooden structure appeared before us, a small dilapidated building. It was amazing that the hut could withstand all that wind. She pushed open the door and went in, while I stood outside, irresolute. She extended her hand once more and pulled me inside. I smelled the aroma of wood permeated with salt and iodine. There was nothing in the hut but a small bed woven from palm fronds and a window giving onto a faded sky in which there was only a single bird. She seated me on the edge of the bed and took off her head covering. Then she sat before me and gazed intently into my face.

  “How young you look!” she said. “Your moustache is nothing but yellow fuzz, like a chick’s down.”

  She fell silent for a bit, then reached out and wiped the perspiration from my brow. She spoke again. “Tell me the truth. Have you ever touched a woman?”

  “My mother,” I said.

  Laughing, she said, “I know that, silly! I don’t mean that kind of touching. I mean touching an actual woman, who can really give you something—something that’s not like what you get from your mother.”

  She knelt upon the ground and unfastened the straps of my sandals. Examining my reddened toes, she exclaimed, “What rosy little toes you have, just like goldfish. Are you a soldier? But no, you’re too young and mild-mannered. What do you do?”

  I found my voice and managed to say, “I’m an artist.”

  “Are you really?” she said. “Do you do portraits of children or of adults? It doesn’t matter. You must have money. Isn’t that right?”

  I was barefoot, inside a tumbledown shack, with an exceedingly bold woman, and I didn’t know what awaited me outside. I took out all the liras in my pocket and showed them to her: twenty pounds, an advance sum I had obtained in Liverpool, before I boarded the ship. I had wanted to give some of it to my father, but I’d had no opportunity. She looked at me, and at the picture of King George V depicted on the coins.

  “That’s a lot of money,” she exclaimed in surprise. “I won’t take more than I’m entitled to.”

  She took exactly five pounds. She could have taken the entire sum, but she returned the rest to my pocket. Then she got up and began to undress. Her copper-colored body seemed warm and familiar.

  “If you’re an artist,” she said, “then why not begin with me? Do you like my body?”

  But artwork would come later. Meanwhile, I was shy and didn’t know what to do. She had me stretch out on my back, and then she took over completely. The heat of her body transmitted itself to mine, which had known only the coolness of childhood. Her movements matched the rhythms of the surf, the flow tide filled with desire, the ebb tide a respite in which to catch the breath. Prodding me, she said, “You’re as shy and tender as a girl. Don’t close your eyes—this is your first time, and you must experience it fully, in every way.” I tried to do as she said. Her face had changed color and seemed alien, but it was the rest of her that was doing all the work. I found myself trembling, quivering in every cell of my being. A part of my soul left me and inhabited her body.

  She fell deeply asleep, still pressed up against me. Her face resumed its normal color and she appeared much younger than I had thought. Feeling warm and languorous and sad, I lay staring at the ceiling, whose timbers seemed about to scatter with the wind. It was as if the world had suddenly changed, and everything I undertook upon this strange terrain would be different. I clung to her.

  When she stirred, I asked her about her mother. She laughed and said, “What do you think? Cleopatra, of course.” I couldn’t tell whether she was joking or serious. Then I slept.

  I woke in alarm. There had been a knock upon the door, and at first I imagined it was my father, or my aunt with her Gospel in her hand, or Lord Amherst himself. But the girl covered herself, her coppery skin, and sprang nimbly from the bed. My back was hurting, and the palm fronds had left marks on my skin. The girl, though, went out through the door, closing it behind her so that no one would see me. I heard the sound of her talking to some man, their voices rising and falling. The man’s was rough, but hers was strong and commanding. I thought they must be quarreling. I heard her make a harsh, hawking noise in her throat, and then all was still. It seemed that the man had gone away. The door of the shack opened and she appeared, holding a huge silvery fish still fighting for its life.

  She smiled and said, “That was a fisherman, bringing us this fish—you must be dying of hunger.”

  She went to a corner of the hut, where there was a tin receptacle filled with ash, on which were laid some sticks of firewood. She did no more than to drag it outside and light a fire in it, blowing on it a little and then leaving the rest to the sea breeze. I got up and watched her as she washed the fish in seawater, then sat down on the beach. With her hand she scraped together some moist sand and, with some salt, heaped it up all around the fish, as if she was performing an ancient rite, in which the fish was no more or less than a small sacrifice. The wind could just about have plucked off the light robe with which she cloaked her body; even this nakedness was part of the ritual. As gulls began to circle around her like a nimbus, she placed the fish, with the wet sand encasing it, upon the crackling fire. A trail of smoke rose, and she blew resolutely on the fire until little tongues of flame issued forth once more. She pushed aside strands of her hair each time they fell and got in her way. What was happening around me was unreal—I was walking in a dream. I opened my small case, took out my tablet and pencils, and began to sketch upon the white paper, making a drawing of the first pharaonic ritual I had seen. I stopped after a little while. Her face was flushed and she was out of breath. She
came over to me and studied my sketch.

  “You’re drawing me,” she said. “What did you see in me that you liked?”

  “Go back!” I cried. “Keep blowing on the fire!”

  Laughing, she went back to the fire. “You like fish Alexandrian style, then!” she said.

  The fish was done before I had finished the picture. She picked it up carelessly, hot as it was, and split it open. The exposed white belly divided in two, the spine extended like an Eastern landscape. She reached over and began feeding me the still-hot pieces, while I kept working on the picture. Her image was imprinted on my mind, so that I had no need to ask her to resume blowing on the fire. I was surprised by the flavor of the fish. I had come from the island of fish—it was the staple diet—and yet I had never tasted such delicious fish as this. Together we finished it off, leaving the spiny bones scattered on the ground beside us while we made love for the second time, this time gently and slowly. She whispered to me that I was a quick learner.

  “Day is almost done,” she said. “We’d better go out for a little so that we don’t get bored with each other too soon.”

  We bathed in the sea, put on our clothes, and walked through the sand. We rode a small, colorful wooden cart with an awning, drawn by a mule. The water took on a violet color, the sun crimson: a world painted in watercolors, which had not yet lost the imprint of the divine. The tracks left in the sand by the mule were the only thing in creation that had just been born. The cart stopped before a vast stone building—an old fortress, half-collapsed, its stones dark with a dusty coating of gunpowder. A great portion of the stones had been torn away and lay broken and scattered about the ruined walls. All that remained standing were turrets riddled with gaps, also ringed with gunpowder. The whole place gave off an odor of conflagration and death.