A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Read online

  I opened my eyes and tried to get up. I saw the faces of Fraser and Blackden staring at me. “Where did you and Newberry go?” demanded one of them sharply. “Don’t try to lie.”

  I closed my eyes and the darkness swiftly returned. I tried to push away the things that were pressing on my chest. Fraser was gripping the collar of my shirt and shaking me roughly. No, it was the heat, making me shiver—that and the nightmares that closed in on me, causing the world to come down around me. But the paintings on the wall of the tombs, those remained fixed and immutable, the only reality standing between me and death and the void.

  I don’t know how long it was that I lay suspended between consciousness and delirium, but I came to myself feeling terribly thirsty. The fire was dying and Idris was asleep on the ground. The gray lights of dawn came in through the entrance of the tomb. I got up with difficulty. The earth swayed beneath my feet, but I kept walking. The waters of the river had begun to recede, revealing a number of green islands. I sniffed the air. I saw the birds, which had begun their morning sorties, and I knew that I had been given a second chance at life.

  Idris was happy when he saw me. He insisted he was going to prepare some onion soup for me. I laughed, but he swore he had learned the recipe from foreigners—from Englishmen—and that he was very good at making it, even though he didn’t care for the taste of it.

  I sat by the entrance to the tomb until the sun rose and bestowed its warmth upon my body. There was no one but me on the western bank. Idris said, “The foreign gentleman, the high-ranking one, still hasn’t turned up, and the other two have been gone for two days.”

  No one came until after midday. Then Newberry arrived, stood facing me, and took in my wasted body. Speaking through his moustache he said, “You really are ill. I met with the doctor at Minya and he informed me.”

  He didn’t wait for me to answer, but launched straight into talk of the steps he had taken for his project. He had sent Amherst a long telegram and obtained from him a provisional agreement to fund the project. Lord Amherst wanted to visit Egypt with his daughter—he wished to see the site for himself. He was wildly enthusiastic, his expectations running high.

  Weakly, I asked, “Can the thing really be so simple? Couldn’t we be mistaken?”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “What do you mean?” he cried. You saw for yourself the paintings at the entrance to the passage!”

  “Indeed. Thousands of slaves dragging an enormous statue, but they were heading out of the tomb with it, not into it. By no means are these burial rites.”

  I didn’t know why I said it, why I wanted to dampen his enthusiasm. I was alarmed by this zeal of his.

  “Where is that painting? I wish to see it.”

  I went inside, opened my case, and looked for the papers that had been with me—the map I had drawn, the wall panel I had sketched in its basic details, and the notes and instructions I had recorded, so that we might refer to them later on returning to the spot. But there was nothing. Everything had disappeared.

  I shouted at Idris, “Where have my papers gone? What happened while I was delirious?” He looked at me, mystified. He didn’t know why I was shouting.

  Newberry advanced swiftly and stood before me in alarm. “What do you mean?” he cried.

  Crushed, I sat down. I felt guilty. It seemed as though my fever was about to come back. “I was ill and feverish,” I said. “I didn’t know what was going on around me.”

  Abruptly Newberry advanced on Idris with rapid steps and seized him by the neck. The man got to his feet, terrified. He cried out for help and tried to free himself from Newberry’s grip. Newberry shoved him up against the stone wall. “Who took the papers?” he demanded.

  Idris was choking. I tried to get up to come to his rescue, but Newberry shouted at me to keep my distance. Struggling for breath, Idris said, “I swear I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t invite any stranger to approach this place. There were only the two foreign beys who work here.”

  Newberry stopped pushing him. He released his grip on Idris’s neck. Idris picked himself up and scurried away, making hastily for the outside of the tomb. He must have gotten into his boat and gone back to the other side of the river. Newberry looked at me and I looked back at him, both of us dismayed, unable to utter a word. At last he said, “Did you tell them?”

  I hung my head, unable to deny it. Had I in fact done so? Had they listened to me when I was raving, and learned the secret of our journey? I couldn’t endure his accusing looks. He felt betrayed—by me, by Fraser and Blackden. He walked out of the tomb. I couldn’t go after him. There would have been no point in trying to make the best of things.

  The two of them didn’t come until sunset. Tucked under their arms were a number of folded papers and a case filled with drawings. They headed in our direction, as cheerful as if they were enjoying a particularly triumphant moment. Newberry was watching them, eyes narrowed. They stopped and faced him defiantly. Blackden got out the folded papers, waved them right in his face, and said, “We went there and spent two whole days.”

  “What do you mean ‘there’?” Newberry asked in a choked voice.

  Fraser stepped forward and tossed the map down in front of him, the map they had stolen from my case. “That cave you were thinking was Akhenaten’s tomb was nothing but a quarry for the high-quality marble they used to make statues of kings.”

  With an effort, Newberry swallowed. He clutched at his thick moustache as if clinging to it. “You’re lying,” he said. “You’re both lying, no doubt about it.”

  Fraser challenged him. “The supervisor of that quarry was Hatnup—he was the man sitting on his seat at the entrance, watching the workers as they labored to pull the statue. We found his name recorded in five different places.”

  Trying to maintain his composure, Newberry said, “You had no right to go there without my permission. And you have no right to steal my maps and interfere with my discovery.”

  “The truth is,” Blackden retorted disdainfully, “you ought to thank us. We saved you from the hazard of falling prey to the Bedouins’ deception, and from wasting money on a search for more rocks . . .”

  Newberry made off in the direction of the Nile. He wasn’t listening to them; he was preoccupied with getting to some air he could breathe. Adamantly he kept repeating the same words: “You had no right . . . no right . . .”

  I was angry with them, but incapable of taking any action. Pointing to Newberry, Fraser said coldly, “He’s become an old man. He doesn’t accept defeat easily.”

  I felt that it was our defeat, all of us—the end of us as a team. We would not be able to stay here together after this. These barren rocks, the harsh environment—had they brought out the worst in us, or had we all come to this primitive place already freighted with these small, petty feelings?

  4Doubara Palace

  THE PASHA GESTURED TO AISHA, inviting her to sit down opposite him, but she stood until he took his own seat. The wheels of the train began to squeal, the palm trees swayed, and a gust of wind blew, full of dust. The compartment in which they were sitting was opulent, with luxurious seats upholstered in green leather, walls decorated with pictures, framed under glass, of the old temples and of boats floating on the Nile. The Pasha rested his chin on the head of his cane and studied her, making sure she was comfortable.

  She was not comfortable. She clamped her knees together and laced her fingers, wondering whether the Pasha had recognized the dress she was wearing or realized that it belonged to his daughter Isis. But he was absorbed, gazing at her face. Her skin was the color of a husk of wheat ripe for harvesting. She had fine, symmetrical features, wide eyes, shining brightly—he had not imagined that peasants could possess such grace. She seemed resigned to her fate; she had no other recourse. He felt rather like a priest, taking her as a fresh sacrifice to an old god in order to gain his favor. The idea disturbed him, so he tried to put it out of his mind.

  He said—simply in order to say something
—“Don’t be so downcast. You’re going to live in the most important place in Egypt. You won’t be a servant—certainly not. You’ll be a companion to Lady Katherine, the wife of the honorable Lord Cromer. She is even more important than the wife of the khedive—perhaps more important than the khedive himself!”

  He tried to be cheerful, and to ease the burden of the long journey for her. She nodded compliantly and looked fixedly into his face, afraid to lower her gaze, in case that would be felt as an insult. The last ranks of palm trees disappeared, as if they had finished bidding her farewell. The edge of a mountain appeared; a faint, uneasy line.

  “It may be,” the Pasha resumed, “that Lord Cromer is a little strange—stern, and not very kind—but he has to be that way to govern a chaotic country like ours. What can we expect? But it was he who selected you, by the way, and designated you as a companion for his wife—in all these months that have passed since our party, he hasn’t forgotten you.”

  It didn’t matter what he said. She was afraid of Cromer. After what he’d done to the artist, Master Saleh Abdel Hayy, could she be safe with him? But there was no alternative. She had wished she might be given the chance to return to her little village and spend a few moments in her mother’s embrace. But she couldn’t go back—she was forever compelled to keep moving northward, always northward.

  There was a knock at the glass door and the conductor appeared—a thin man in a yellow uniform. Before he could speak, the Pasha threw him a hard look that made him retreat, apologizing profusely. The train stopped at some station, and vendors crying their wares appeared outside the windows. On went the train, stopping and starting, stopping and starting. Aisha grew bored, and gave up reading the names of the stations. On her right a small river appeared—it seemed familiar to her. The riverbank receded into the distance from time to time, then resumed its place running right alongside the train, the shimmering surface of the water clearly visible. Finally, after innumerable hours, the train chuffed its last exhalation and the wheels screeched along the tracks, bringing the engine to a halt at a vast, crowded station.

  The Pasha disembarked; Aisha picked up her bundle of clothing and stepped down behind him. The roof of the station was exceedingly high, the ground beneath it covered with crisscrossing iron rails. In front of the station was a broad square, thronged with carts and vendors. Darkness began to fall upon the place, and lamps were aglow with a faint silvery light. A black carriage trimmed with gleaming brass pulled up and stopped before them. The Pasha climbed aboard, and she settled on the small seat opposite him. He rapped with his cane on the floor of the carriage, saying in an imperious tone, “Take us to Doubara Palace.” The driver snapped to attention and the horse stirred, both having realized that they had an important man onboard. The driver cracked the whip in the air, and the horse set off at a trot.

  Aisha opened her eyes wide, staring at the street that opened up before them: two neat rows of trees with lofty houses behind them, lampposts surmounted by gas lamps, people walking freely and fearlessly along the sidewalks, the road full of carriages pulled by horses, and even a few cars. She saw the horse-drawn tramways as they moved forward, bells clanging. For the first time, Aisha laughed. She felt strangely elated, seeing how far the city extended, and the neat appearance of its inhabitants. The street ended at a wide square filled with people, plants, and lights.

  “This is Ismaïliyya Square,” said the Pasha. “It is the most important place in the city. We are close to Doubara Palace now, where Lord Cromer resides.”

  She saw a row of white palaces scattered along the shoreline of the river. The Nile was different from what she had seen before, lively and flowing vigorously, covered in lights reflecting off its surface. The carriage moved along an avenue whose trees towered over it. Still the palaces appeared, one after another on both sides of the street. At last the carriage stopped before the largest and grandest of them, which resembled a brilliantly white animal reclining upon the shore, the river slipping deferentially along before it. Aisha alighted breathlessly. There were two English guards, one on either side of the door, their posture erect, their faces ruddy, clad in short pants and red caps, and gripping rifles equipped with sharpened bayonets. The Pasha moved toward a smaller side door and spoke to a man who sat behind a modest desk.

  “I wish to meet with his Lordship,” he said. “My name is Paulos Pasha, and he . . .”

  The man noted his name on a piece of paper and indifferently passed it along to another guard, who left them standing there. Then the guard returned and said, speaking severely, “Lord Cromer does not receive Egyptians after five o’clock in the evening. Why don’t you come early tomorrow morning and announce yourself then?”

  Mortified, the Pasha explained, “I’m not asking for anything. I’ve brought something that personally concerns Lord Cromer. I ask only that you inform him as to who I am.”

  The guard exhaled sharply, his patience at an end. Egyptians of this type irritated him. “Come back in the morning,” he barked.

  “I cannot,” pleaded the Pasha. “This girl is with me, and it is essential that I myself turn her over to his Lordship. I won’t take much of his time. He is apprised of the matter.”

  Noticing her for the first time, the guard looked at her, and curled his lip—the gift did not warrant disturbing his Lordship. But who was he to decide? Aisha was amazed at the abject tone of the Pasha’s words. He had lost his dignity and authority. The guard addressed him once more. “What did you say your name was?”

  For the third time, the Pasha humbly repeated what he had said. Aisha felt sorry for him, wishing he would take her and let them leave this place. The guard left them standing there yet again and was gone a long time. The palace windows, brightly lit, appeared between the trees. The Pasha didn’t dare look at her. Then came the sound of a telephone ringing. The guard behind the desk picked up the receiver, and then ushered them inside.

  They crossed a long corridor in a capacious garden paved with stones, and climbed the stairs leading to the palace. The sound of a melody being played on the piano reached them, a slow and gentle air, which did not at all accord with the nervous atmosphere. They entered a grand hall crowded with furniture: European sofas, Indian weavings, Chinese urns, and pieces of pharaonic sculpture. They remained standing, while Lord Cromer sat at the piano, absorbed in his playing, oblivious to the world and unaware of their presence. There was no one to listen to him—he was playing for himself, for his own private enjoyment. The piece, which was at its climax, began to subside into a gradual decrescendo, until it concluded, and he heaved a sigh of exhaustion.

  The Pasha clapped appreciatively, and Lord Cromer turned, startled, as if he had forgotten he’d granted them entry. He closed the lid of the piano and rose to his feet, revealing his flushed face, white moustache, barrel chest, and middling height. Not forgetting his imperious military bearing, he looked at the Pasha as if he was an alien creature with no right to encroach upon these grounds. He appeared not to have noticed Aisha.

  “May God bring your Lordship a pleasant evening,” said the Pasha ingratiatingly. “I apologize for disturbing your leisure hours, but I’ve brought the girl whom you requested.”

  Lord Cromer let out his breath in exasperation. What he was obliged to put up with from these Egyptians and their tactlessness! But he said, “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble, Pasha. I doubt Lady Katherine remembers this business.”

  Then he turned politely to where Aisha was standing. A baffled look came over his face, but he didn’t move from his spot. “I believe,” he said, “that this is the young girl who was at the party—the one at which Mr. Carter made such a scene about her.”

  The Pasha’s face, at last, glowed with pleasure. He hastened to point out the worth of what he was offering.

  “Indeed, honorable Lord,” he said. “He thought she was an ancient pharaonic deity.”

  “This stubborn fellow called Carter . . . he won’t leave off making difficulties. Ouf�
��I had no wish to remember him on a calm night such as this.”

  He drew a bit closer and, for the second time, with his fingers lifted Aisha’s chin and raised her face to his scrutiny. She felt she might die of embarrassment.

  “Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps her presence will offer Lady Katherine some diversion.”

  He went to the small table in the middle of the room, picked up a little silver bell, and shook it gently. A Nubian servant, tall and thin, appeared. “Take this girl to the servants’ quarters,” said Lord Cromer. “Tidy her up and prepare a place for her.”

  Aisha stood fearfully in her place. With dread, she registered the words servants’ quarters. The Pasha signaled to her encouragingly, indicating that she should go. A look of relief had appeared on his face once Lord Cromer accepted his gift, but as she went out the door of the hall she heard Cromer’s voice, which had resumed its coldness. “I shouldn’t like to delay any further your return to Minya, Pasha.”

  It was only after three full days that Aisha encountered Lady Katherine. She had spent the interval in the small building across the garden; it was crowded with an assortment of servants—Irish, Scots, Armenian, Indian, and Nubian. Straightaway, one of them—clearly the one in charge—shouted at her, “You’ve got a dreadful stink about you—her Ladyship will be able to smell you from ten meters off!” Aisha was mortified. All the odors of this long day clung to her body: her sweat, the dust, other travelers, the flies, the fields, the manure.

  The women stripped off her clothes and thrust her into a tub filled with hot water and soap bubbles. They loosened her braids and scrubbed her scalp. They took her old clothes and put them into a receptacle from which flames leapt, until they were burnt to cinders. “No need for fleas in this house!” said the imperious one: Mistress Julia, as Aisha would later learn. She was an old woman, but of robust physique; her skin was stretched taut on her bones and her blue eyes were protuberant. They gave Aisha a clean set of clothes resembling the ones they wore, and assigned her a cramped room just wide enough for a bed and, beside it, a small table that held two books, the first of which was the Bible. The second was a book of poetry with tiny English print, entitled Paraphrases and Translations from the Greek, which Aisha found, to her astonishment, was by none other than Lord Cromer.