A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Read online

  Temperamental, the river rushes on, carrying the mud of first creation, containing something of the Blue Nile’s playfulness, something of the White Nile’s wisdom. It rises and falls, dividing and spreading at times to lose itself in the swamp beds, only to reassemble in the form of its principal, unified artery. It does not settle down or assume a character of dignified sobriety until it espies the crowns of the palms south of the valley of Egypt. The oldest palm trees known to humankind, they have stood for eons resplendent upon the riverbank, sown by Pharaohs and cultivated by Copts; their dates fed the soldiers of Rome; the Arab conquerors knew the secrets of their seeds and disseminated them.

  The waters of the river subside, their power diminishes, but the irrigation systems pursue it, blindfolded bulls ceaselessly turning the waterwheels. Behind each bull there sits a small boy, who holds a stick with a rope tied to it looking much like an ankh, and who urges the bull, calling “Aa! Aa!” The wheel turns, its buckets ascending, bearing magical fountains of river water and depositing them in the canals that branch and branch again across the face of the land, like veins of the body, blood red at the time of the floods, while the earth is black as musk, the crops as green as emerald, the wheat as yellow as jasper stone. Fava beans, corn, barley, lentils, gourds, watermelons, tomatoes, eggplants, and green beans all vie for place in the irrigated fields, while the palms rise up like the arms of the ancient gods, their roots deep in wet soil, their heads well up in the blazing sky.

  The river continues its course amid the silence of the valley until the sound of chanting can be heard, and the columns of the temples, the obelisks, the church spires, the minarets appear. Flocks of doves scatter across the sky to feast their eyes upon the sight of the emerald waters before returning each evening to their nests.

  Aisha heard the usual morning sounds starting up behind her. The crowded girls’ dormitory, with its closely packed beds, had begun to stir, with the sounds of yawning, suppressed squeals, and minor squabbles. The girls made up the beds, whispering about their unfinished dreams and their innermost thoughts. Aisha felt a small hand come to rest on her shoulder, and heard Isis’s voice saying mildly to her, “Don’t wander too far—morning prayers are still ahead of us.”

  Aisha turned, and there was Isis with her round, brown face, her coarse hair, which sat atop her head like a tarnished crown, her wide-set eyes, and always on her lips the same friendly smile. Aisha reached out and stroked her cheek. Isis was the only friend she had won since coming to this school. Isis did not try to ask her too many questions, or probe her elliptical replies, nor did she seem surprised by Aisha’s never leaving the school or making trips to her hometown during the long vacations. She offered her uncomplicated friendship without restraint or hesitation. Pointing at the sun, which had begun its ascent above the raging river, Isis said, “We should thank the Lord that each day He gives us a new sun.”

  Aisha smiled and said, “Then shouldn’t He vary the routine a little—one day for the sun, one day for the moon?”

  “Come along, you little heretic—let’s go get ready.”

  The girls began to line up in rows beside the beds, all dressed in the school uniform: a white shirt with a high collar, a light blue jumper, and shoes with metal buttons. Sister Margaret, however, didn’t appear as she normally did each morning to take them to prayers. Instead, the abbess came and stood by the door of the dormitory, fixing them all with a hard stare, impatient for the last of the laggard girls to finish getting ready before scolding them.

  Standing next to Aisha, Isis whispered in her ear, “It seems Sister Margaret has thrown us over for her devotions again.”

  By now they were all accustomed to the ways of Sister Margaret, a wandering spirit in the school corridors. During her happier moments she flitted about everywhere like a butterfly, bestowing greetings and smiles on everyone, and sitting up late by the girls’ beds at night to listen patiently to all manner of confessions. But when she was melancholy, when the sparkle in her eye went out—then she would remove herself from their midst and descend to her preferred spot in the cellar, where she would remain without food or drink for long days, during which no one dared approach her. She was a young woman of remarkable beauty, delicacy, and stature. From talk she had overheard, Aisha knew that she was the daughter of one of New York’s most eminent families, and that her father had made his fortune as “king” of something or other—whether it was soap, perfume, coffee, or bananas—all that mattered was that he lived in royal opulence. Yet she had renounced all that and fled to this ascetics’ retreat. Aisha never forgot that Sister Margaret had been the first to receive her, the first one here to take her part, or that the abbess might not have taken her in but for the sister’s urgent appeal.

  Isis walked beside Aisha, their fingers entwined. They passed through the dormitory and into the corridor, stopping to wait their turn to go downstairs. The girls’ excited hubbub resounded from the worn staircase, where they were all afraid of slipping and falling—they clutched one another, laughing.

  Isis said to Aisha, “You’re coming home with me to our mansion in Minya. My father will speak to the director here and you’ll come as our guest.”

  “I can’t leave here,” said Aisha quickly.

  “Come now, Mary, it’s just a school—you’re not a prisoner here. The outside world is passing you by. How are you ever going to see it? And especially my older brother, Menes.”

  The abbess called out an order for silence, and the girls headed for the small chapel. First they crossed the courtyard, where Rizq stood drawing water from the well in the center. He was a burly man, shabbily dressed, and his was the first face Aisha had seen on coming to this school, but only later had she learned his name. He was the only Saïdi there, and he performed nearly every chore: he was guard, gardener, and attendant, and despite his grubby clothes he kept everything clean. He stood still, holding the rope for the bucket, his head bowed and his eyes cast down until the line of girls had passed by him. It was forbidden for him to look at them, to greet them or address them in any way, as if, where they were concerned, he was not a human being; accordingly, none of the girls could remember having heard his voice at any time—certainly he wasn’t deaf, but any speech he uttered fell on ears other than theirs.

  Silence descended as the girls took their places in the chapel. As always, Isis was careful to make sure she sat next to Aisha, their knees reassuringly in contact. Father George began to recite the prayers. He always had the Bible in his hand, even though he knew all its verses by heart. All the girls were looking forward to the end of Mass and the beginning of the summer vacation, when everyone went away. Perhaps Father George sensed this, for his sermon dragged on as he talked about “nature’s wrath,” comparing it to human anger. He had in mind the scene of the raging Nile just outside the school walls at that very moment. Everyone was going away, but Aisha would stay—she wouldn’t dare go with Isis. She would not stir from this place.

  Aisha felt something cold find its way under her feet. With a gasp she lifted them up: it was water creeping across the church floor. The other girls began to shriek. Father George paused uncomprehending, his sermon interrupted; meanwhile, water poured in under the church door and soon the floor was awash. My God, thought Aisha, it’s the flood—the river’s risen and come all the way here.

  The bells began ringing—no doubt Rizq, apprehending the danger, had begun sounding the alarm. The girls’ voices rose in terror as they got up and rushed toward the door and the trickle of water beneath their feet became an inundation. Father George still stood in the pulpit, not yet understanding what was happening. The water had flooded the courtyard as well, coming straight from the river and insinuating itself through the openings in the outer wall.

  “Upstairs! Now!” cried the abbess.

  The girls dashed headlong for the stairs, but Aisha stood rooted in place, staring at the lower staircase. The water was rushing noisily down, taking over, imposing its will, making for the
locked door with all speed and no one to stop it. Pointing to the water in the stairwell, Aisha addressed the abbess, shouting, “Sister Margaret is in the cellar!”

  Everyone turned in the direction of this new calamity in the making. Father George plunged hastily into the water in his long cassock and descended the stairs leading to the cellar door. First, he tried to open it, and then he pounded on it, shouting, “Open the door, Sister Margaret!”

  He kept knocking and calling out, but got no response. The girls stood frozen on the stairs, the water still pouring in—had it overwhelmed and drowned her before she realized what was happening? Some of the girls began to cry, and Isis struck her cheeks in anguish. Father George tried pushing the door, but to no avail. The abbess fell to her knees in the water and prayed.

  There was no escape from death, Aisha thought—neither here nor in her village.

  All at once Rizq appeared. He began to make his way across the courtyard, roiling the water around him. He descended the stairs in one leap, pushed Father George unceremoniously aside, and threw his shoulder against the door. The wooden slab shook but did not give way. He battered it a second time, and a third—it seemed to Aisha that she could hear his bones breaking, but he gave no sign of feeling any pain. He continued his relentless assault upon the door until he was staggering. Then the hinges tore away. Water burst into the cellar through the gap, but Rizq sprang forward as well, as if he were one with the river’s surging current. No one dared follow him. The girls stood trembling on the stairs, while the abbess knelt amid the flood and still the waters of the river spread, overwhelming the courtyard altogether.

  At last Rizq emerged, carrying the black-clad form. He was gasping, gulping in air with difficulty, bearing aloft the still and lifeless figure of Sister Margaret. Her wimple had fallen away from her head and exposed her reddish hair, which hung down loose, and on the other side dangled her feet. Because she was unusually tall, it seemed as if there could be no connection between head and feet. She hung limp as death itself, and in the same apparel, the same pallor and silence. There was a collective sob of lamentation, but Rizq pressed forward, looking for a place in the flooded courtyard that was high enough to set her down, finding only the edge of the well. He turned her over in his arms and placed her facedown, then began without hesitation to pound her back vigorously. Her body shook beneath each of his efforts, but he didn’t release her from his grasp. Spurts of water turbid with algae and foam gushed from her mouth, as if she were involuntarily emptying herself of the sap of life; she did not appear to be responding to his pummeling, so Rizq turned her on her back once more, grasped her shoulder firmly to keep her from slipping down, and applied pressure to her chest with his palms. The girls inhaled sharply on seeing his hands make contact with her inviolate body, and the abbess closed her eyes, but Father George came forward and held her head, evincing no protest to what Rizq was so boldly doing. Father George raised Sister Margaret’s head higher; with his fingers Rizq held her nose to prevent air from escaping and placed his mouth on hers. He covered her lips and began to blow hard. The girls closed their eyes, as Rizq filled her limp body with his own vigorous breath. Her chest began to move slightly, her ribcage responding to the bursts of air being forced into it. Then all at once she rose, struggled for breath, and coughed hard. Some more muddy water gushed from her mouth.

  Everyone gasped, hearing the sound of life returning to Sister Margaret, who coughed and coughed. She flailed upward with her arms as if groping for breath from the air around her, Rizq still keeping a secure hold on her to keep her from making any sudden movements. Once more she gulped for air, then reached out and clutched a piece of Rizq’s clothing.

  “Hallelujah!” cried Father George.

  The girls burst out shouting, and the abbess began to weep. They had all witnessed a little miracle. Sister Margaret opened her eyes at last—reddened, but shining—and she gazed into the face of Rizq, who was as close to her as could be. She regarded him with her blue eyes as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Could you carry me upstairs?” she pleaded weakly.

  Rizq reached under her back and easily lifted her tall, brittle frame. The abbess came out of her reverie and stood up in the middle of the flood.

  “Where did you learn all that?” she asked.

  Diffidently, Rizq replied, “In the military, ma’am—when I was a soldier.”

  The abbess sighed and made the sign of the cross. “It is truly a miracle,” she said. “Now, let us all go up.”

  The water kept on rising until it reached her knees; Father George’s cassock was saturated. The girls made way for Rizq to mount the stairs carrying Sister Margaret, who had clasped her hands about his neck and surrendered her fragile being to his care. On her pale face was a faint smile. The abbess hurried ahead of them, while the girls waited—they had seen it with their own eyes, this small miracle! Aisha followed the rest up the stairs. They entered the girls’ dormitory and Aisha pointed out her own bed, so Rizq went to it and gently laid Sister Margaret down. She, though, kept her arms locked around his neck, not wanting to let go. Aisha heard her say in a feeble appeal, “Don’t leave me,” while he strove, embarrassed, to free himself from her locked arms.

  Later, she told Aisha, “I felt as though he was the Messiah—my own private messiah, come back in the guise of an Egyptian peasant to call forth the life of my body. The resurrection of Lazarus all over again.”

  Rizq withdrew, his head bowed meekly. It was his first time, and perhaps his last, entering a place in which his presence was forbidden, handling a body he was not even supposed to look at. Outside, the red waters of the river swirled, restive.

  The following day, all the streets around the school were submerged. A shimmering lake of dark water surrounded them, with a blazing sun reflected in its surface and a hot wind blowing off the river. Margaret opened her eyes and looked at Aisha. “I’m hungry,” she said. Aisha was surprised to hear this word fall from her lips—she habitually ate only enough to keep her alive. There was a rush to get her some food. She began to eat, slowly and meditatively, pausing to look about her as if in search of something. Then, without speaking, she lay down on the bed and fell asleep again, despite the noise the girls were making. She was reclaiming the life-force that had drained away from her.

  The school became an island, cut off from everything. The roads connecting it to the city were impassable, while the river swept before it the remains of the things its waters had engulfed: tree branches, fragments of wrecked boats, drowned animals, floating containers. The flood, as overlord, imposed its dominance on the region, demolishing earthen bulwarks and dissolving mud-brick houses. In spite of this, Margaret continued to revive. She stayed on in the girls’ dormitory, so as not to be alone in her little room. She ate sparingly, but there was a serious problem with the school’s diminishing reserves of food. There were no longer any markets or merchants, nor any traveling food carts. The only people to be seen at all were vagrants who had braved the water in search of such spoils as the flood might yield.

  Margaret got out of bed and began drifting about on tiptoe, like a butterfly, smiling, her eyes shining. There was no electricity or telephone service anymore. There was only enough food for one small meal each day, and it was clear that even this would not last much longer. Silently and fearfully, the nuns distributed the remains of the dried foodstuffs. The abbess announced that she would fast until this adversity passed. All creation had been transformed into a lake of reddish water. The mountains of the western shore seemed to belong to a different world.

  But Margaret was living her own private happiness. She sat on the bed, opposite Aisha, and said to her, “That angel who saved my life—who is he?”

  “That was no angel,” said Aisha. “It was just a peasant who’s worked here at the school for a long time—how can you not have seen him all this while? His name is Rizq.”

  “Don’t speak of him that way,” was Margaret’s fretful reply. “He’s
more than just some peasant—his is a divine gift few others possess. He has the power to restore life. Where do you suppose he is now?”

  “He must be downstairs,” said Aisha offhandedly.

  Now Margaret spoke up in genuine alarm. “Downstairs there’s nothing but water, nothing but flooding . . .”

  She got up and crossed the floor in her bare feet, leaving the dormitory to peer over the balustrade at the rear courtyard. She found only water and the tops of plants. Aisha started after her and found her clutching the railing in fear, her fingers dug in as if she meant to bore into the wood with them. Her voice shaking, Margaret said, “He’s not there. Can he have drowned?”

  “Why all this anxiety about him?” said Aisha. “He’s strong and can look after himself. He’s just like me or any other peasant: accustomed since childhood to these floods. Surely he knows how to keep out of danger.”

  But Margaret, bewildered, kept turning this way and that, her gaze wandering. When Aisha led her back to bed, she got up again.

  The waters went on rising, and there was no longer anything to fill the silence but the lapping of the waves. Now the dried foods were running out as well, as everyone at the school crowded into the girls’ dormitory. Aisha had been through this experience more than once in her distant village, but she had never imagined that the river could so isolate a big city like Asyout. With eyes full of dread and anxiety, they kept watch; even Margaret’s restoration to life began to lag. She seemed lost, waiting for something that never came.