A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Read online

  “Be careful!” Aisha cried. “You could drown!”

  Margaret stopped and looked back to face Aisha. “I drowned already—remember?”

  She turned a circle, knelt upon the ground, and dug her knees into the mud, wracked with weeping. Aisha went to her, placed her hand over her heart, and said, “Calm yourself, Margaret. Let’s go back to the school. There’s been enough trouble already.”

  “What’s happened is only the beginning,” said Margaret. “I’ve been bleeding since yesterday. I’ve bled out every drop of blood in my body. I knew they were crucifying him outside, and even so I was too weak to go out to him and stand up for him. My body is completely dried up, and I’ve lost the last trace of life he left inside me, the last memories of my own messiah.”

  She rose and took off her gown. Aisha drew a sharp breath at the sight of her nakedness, but before she could make any move Margaret had plunged into the water. The mud clinging to the shore must have yielded, for the stark-white body sank suddenly into the river’s black depths. “Margaret,” Aisha cried, “where are you?” She threw herself in after her. The water engulfed her, its chill penetrating her bones. Casting about, she found no trace of Margaret. Again she screamed and called, flailing desperately at the water. She dived beneath the surface with her eyes open and discerned a shape of livid white, sinking, surrendering to the motion of the current. Aisha thrashed about under the surface until she got hold of Margaret’s hair, reeled her in, and pushed her upward toward the surface. “Hold onto me!” she cried. “I’ll get you out!”

  “I don’t want to,” Margaret sobbed, trying to free herself, but Aisha held on fiercely to her hair and pushed her anguished face above the surface of the water. She was light, as if her body had been emptied out, left hollow. Gasping, Aisha propelled her forward, until they both were mired in the mud. Margaret seemed too weak to attempt any resistance. Aisha dragged her by the hair until her face was well out of the water, and then began to weep.

  “Margaret,” she begged, “please, don’t make me keep pulling you by your hair. Promise me you won’t go back into the water!” Margaret’s naked white form was half-exposed, the other half submerged in the mud. She had tried death by drowning for the second time.

  Suddenly Margaret spoke, struggling for breath. “What is your other name?” she said. “Your Muslim name.”

  “Aisha.”

  “In the name of your God, Aisha, let me find peace in the depths of this cold river. This is my resting place.”

  Her hand still clutching strands of Margaret’s hair, Aisha wept. “Don’t do this to me,” she pleaded.

  They stayed like that, half-immersed in the cold water, half-exposed to the chill of the night. It was dark and gloomy, and the waves slapped peevishly at the shore. Together Aisha and Margaret grew still, Margaret’s body going slack. Her spirit was slipping away, with no one to prevent it.

  Then in the distance Aisha heard, faintly at first, a sound—a continuous hum that grew louder as it approached—one of the automobiles so seldom seen in Asyout at all, much less on the river road at this time of night. Any passerby who could help would serve Aisha’s need, and she thought of going to the middle of the road to flag down the vehicle, but she stayed where she was, clutching Margaret’s sodden tresses, not daring to let go of her, for fear she might slip away into the river in a matter of seconds. Feeling herself on the point of freezing from the cold and the damp, Aisha called out for help.

  “I don’t want anyone to see me naked like this,” Margaret moaned feebly.

  But it was too late for that. Aisha heard the car come to a sudden stop, its wheels skidding in the dust and gravel. Then came the sound of footsteps approaching. She shouted again, and when she looked around she saw Father George, who gave a sigh of relief.

  “Praise the Lord,” he said. “They’re here.” He raised his voice and called out, “Here they are!”

  At that moment three other men arrived. The abbess was not with them. They were three foreigners, unusually tall, and formally dressed. They moved in quickly, and saw Margaret’s body half-sunk in the mud. “The naked girl—is she the one?” said one of them, addressing himself to Father George, who nodded, turning his face the other way. The one who had spoken now said, pointing to Aisha, “And who is this?”

  “Just a student from the school,” Father George replied.

  No one paid any attention to her. One of them took off his coat as the other two moved forward and released Margaret’s hair from Aisha’s cramped fingers. As they pulled Margaret out of the mud, Aisha retreated and sat huddled out of the way. The one who had removed his coat covered Margaret’s nakedness with it, and then felt her throat. “She’s still alive,” he told the others.

  He tucked the coat around her to warm her. “Sister Margaret,” he said, “we’re from the American embassy, and we’ve come to fetch you.”

  She made no reply. One of them picked her up easily in his arms. Strands of her wet hair dangled, and her body hung limp. Though her eyes were closed, Aisha waved a hand at her as they carried her to the car, which was waiting above the river. After a moment, Aisha heard the sound of the engine fading in the distance, and then silence fell, leaving nothing but the cold and the dark of night. No one had seen her or taken any notice of her, and yet she was happy that Margaret was still alive, and that someone had come to her rescue. But who was there that could come to the aid of Rizq? Was he even still alive?

  She got up, shivering, clutched her chest with her arms, and went unsteadily through the streets, which were still empty. Dogs barked in the distance. The sky was very black, and what little moon there had been was now gone. The school looked dark, devoid of life. But the iron gate was open, just as it had been when she left it. She stepped inside, and was startled to find the abbess standing in the middle of the courtyard, looking grimly in her direction. Aisha stopped, trembling. She wanted to tell everything, all her secrets and Margaret’s, all the burdens that weighed upon her slight frame and her tender age. Her story had become too complicated—she couldn’t take another step without unburdening her inmost heart.

  But she heard the abbess’s voice. “There is no longer a place for you at this school,” she said.

  Aisha gasped. “I’ll tell you everything, Mother Superior,” she said.

  “If you talked from now until morning,” said the abbess, as coldly as before, “it wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “I have no place to go for shelter,” said Aisha. “And in all that’s happened I’ve done nothing wrong. I can—”

  “I don’t wish to hear it,” said the abbess. “I’ll stay here until you gather up your things and get out. From this moment, I don’t want you here.”

  There was nothing more to be said. Aisha climbed the stairs and turned on the light in the dormitory. She was struck by the whiteness of the empty beds. On the walls were words, and hearts drawn with arrows, which the cleaning compounds had been unable to remove. The room was permeated with an air of desolate abandonment. Her bed was the only one unmade, the only one bearing any trace of life. She opened her clothes chest. Her clothes were few—a handful of undergarments belonging to the school and the black jilbaab in which she had first arrived from the village of Beni Khalaf. She took off her wet clothes, leaving them on the floor. She picked up the old jilbaab and pulled it on. It was all she had to warm and protect her body. She looked at the garments lying sodden on the floor, and those in the chest that were dry. There was nothing else that belonged to her. All her efforts had come to naught.

  When she went downstairs the courtyard was empty. The gate stood open, waiting for her to leave, and the streets were silent—even the dogs had stopped barking. The shops were closed; in the recesses of the alleyways homeless children slept and street peddlers passed the night on their carts. The only way open to her was to go to the railway station. The station was dark as well, a series of wooden shelters erected in the middle of an arid expanse. She curled up on one of the wooden
benches, clasping her knees with her arms. She saw the wolf circling her at a distance as she sat waiting for morning to come, and with it the train. Where was she to go?

  2Minya

  “YOU CAN’T STAY HIDDEN IN MY ROOM ALL THE TIME, MARY—what will my mother say? And my father? You’ve got to come out and get to know them.”

  Was she being evicted? Had Isis tired of her being there? Aisha was sitting in a corner of the room, still wearing her old peasant dress. She had no idea what to do, how she should behave. She had taken the train here without thinking anything through carefully. And when she found herself ensconced in the mansion she felt she had made a mistake. She would have to go back to the village of Beni Khalaf, come what might.

  She had taken a desperate chance in coming to this palace set on the banks of the Nile, hidden amid acacias and regal palm trees. The servants had refused to let her set foot over the threshold. Surveying her dusty clothing and disheveled appearance, they took her for a beggar. She pleaded with them, but to no avail; it was Menes, Isis’s brother, who came to her rescue. He had seen her on several occasions when he had taken his sister to school. It was he who admitted her, albeit with a puzzled expression on his face and a gasp of surprise from Isis at the sight of her—Isis had stared, scarcely recognizing her. Then she made haste to take her to her room, not wanting anyone to see her in the state she was in. Aisha passed through the mansion, awestruck by the gleaming white marble, brilliantly colored carpets, crystal chandeliers suspended from high ceilings, and portraits in heavy gilt frames from which glowered men with curling moustaches. Feeling she had no right to enter such a place, she sequestered herself in Isis’s room.

  Several days passed in which she was unable to come to any decision. She wanted to leave and continue her journey—no matter where. Isis, however, held fast to her, refusing to let her go. Aisha told her an abridged version of what had happened at the school, and saw tears come to her eyes on hearing of Margaret’s fate, but she didn’t like to let her go her way without first discussing matters with her father and asking for help. Aisha, though, kept to her confinement in the bedroom. She didn’t dare go out and face the others in the household. “Please, Isis,” she said in a shaky voice, “I don’t want anything. Let me be. A few more days, and I’ll go back to my village.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, and you’re not attending the party dressed like that.”

  “Party? What party?”

  “The party my father’s giving tonight. All the country’s most important people will be there—you’ll see. Unfortunately, most of them are old. The young people will be scarce, as usual.”

  Aisha watched her skipping happily about the room like someone who belonged to a different world. “Isis, please,” she begged, “I’ve never been to a party in my life, and I’ll spoil everything, the way I always do. I only came here for a temporary haven. If you want me to go now, I will.”

  “In the house of Wasfi Pasha,” Isis replied firmly, “you must do as Wasfi Pasha’s family does.”

  “But I haven’t anything to wear.”

  Isis ran to open a closetful of clothes for her. In all her life, Aisha had never seen clothes so beautiful or so costly. She stood there, transfixed.

  “My clothes are all yours to choose from, Mary. Pick out whatever you’d like.”

  “Please—I couldn’t . . .”

  “The Pasha—my father—won’t help you with anything unless you impress him by showing yourself to him at your finest.”

  A regiment of servants entered the room—young girls dressed in jet black. They waited for a sign from Isis, then pounced on Aisha. They took her to the bath, removed all her old clothes, tossed them into a trash bin, and began dousing her with endless jugs of hot water. They scrubbed her all over with soap and fragrant oil, and wrapped her in thick cotton towels. Isis laughed to see her fluttering in their hands like a wet sparrow. She went on resisting, but bowed her head before the hairdresser, who came expressly to style the women’s hair at the mansion. She trimmed Aisha’s hair and expressed her indignation that such beautiful hair had never been cared for until now. She applied a mixture of henna and scented oils, buffed and varnished Aisha’s fingernails, then rubbed powder on her face and lipstick on her lips. Aisha was transformed in spite of herself. In the mirror she saw an unfamiliar face, bearing no resemblance to the old Aisha.

  Isis pulled an armful of dresses from the closet and spread them on the bed. They were of gleaming silk and chiffon, with dentelle trim. Isis held them up in front of her, turning them this way and that. She held them under Aisha’s nose and from them wafted Isis’s own perfume, which it seemed she never varied. Dazzled, Aisha took one of them from her, a sleeveless dress with a wide scoop neck. She imagined herself in it, décolleté, arms smooth and bare. Abashed, she said, “I would be embarrassed to wear anything like this!”

  “These are special party dresses,” said Isis. “Inside houses and salons, you can’t be seen by any of those peasants outside. The only ones who’ll see you are the scions of wealth, and they’re used to these things.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be difficult. Or what’s the point in your having studied at that wretched school?”

  Standing before the mirror, Aisha was mortified at the sight of her exposed neck and the shape of her breasts. She reached for the hem of the dress, about to take it off, but Isis cried, “Silly girl! That dress is yours—from now on I won’t wear it anymore.”

  A woman came into the room. Feeling at first as though she was looking at a picture from one of the glossy American magazines they had at the school, Aisha was riveted. The woman was tall, dressed in a simple sheath. Her hair was waved and styled close to her head in front, braided in back. In her hand was a holder with a lit cigarette at the end of it. She leaned against the door and said languidly, “Girls, girls—what is all this commotion?”

  Isis stood up straight and said, “Mama, this is Mary, my friend from school.”

  The woman looked at Aisha with a faint smile on her lips. She didn’t greet her, but her face bore no expression of distaste. She crossed herself as if to dispel fears she harbored within, and said, “You look lovely in that dress.”

  Thank God, Aisha thought, that this woman had not seen her in her dirty peasant dress. She ducked her head shyly, but the woman had already turned to leave, saying, “Try not to be late to the party, and do try not to spoil it!”

  With the same languorous steps, she walked away, Aisha staring after her in wonder—although she didn’t know whether her words had expressed displeasure or caution. But Isis turned to Aisha with a smile. “Eveline Hanim. The one and only.”

  The chandeliers were all lit up, and the crystals cast all the colors of the rainbow. Aisha knew that in the cellar there was a remarkable machine for generating electricity, which the Pasha had brought back specially from England, and which was running full blast on this particular night to drive off the darkness that cloaked the village, the mountain, and the river. Dozens of torches had also been lit, and were flickering in the wind. They formed two rows along the driveway connecting the mansion to the road that passed through the farmlands, and two more rows flanking the stairway from the house to the river landing.

  As the evening’s events commenced, the guests began to assemble at the mansion. Aisha stood next to Isis at her bedroom window, watching the horse-drawn carriages pull up, dispensing, along with the ostrich feathers that emerged from within them, whiffs of lavender and face powder: the women were beautiful. They carried themselves just the way Eveline Hanim did, and doubtless talked like her, too. The men seemed well pleased with themselves: a mix of Egyptians, foreigners, and British officers. Servants kept coming, bowing to each guest, while the drivers descended from the carriages and set baskets of fodder before the horses.

  An old carriage arrived, rattling on its four wheels, which looked as though they were about to fall off. It stopped in front of the door, and several men got out of th
e back seat, carrying musical instruments. An older man, tall and extremely thin and wearing a scarlet tarbush, got out of the front seat. Isis’s brother, Menes, came forward quickly to receive him and help him up the stairs to the house. Behind them came a youth, of slight build despite his height, and dressed exactly like the old man, as if their clothes had been cut from the same fabric.

  “The artist has arrived,” said Isis excitedly, “the evening’s star entertainment! Master Saleh Abdel Hayy and his ensemble. He is the maestro who performs for kings and sultans. The young man following him is his son Sameh. They say his voice is beautiful, too, like his father’s.”

  But Aisha was too distracted to pay attention to Sameh. Before she could stop herself she said, “Your brother, Menes . . . how handsome and elegant he looks tonight!”

  “He’s all yours,” said Isis offhandedly. “Just leave me the rest of the young men at the party!”

  The servants conducted the artist off to one side, away from his group. He and his son entered by the front door, while the servants led the rest of the ensemble to a side door.

  “They’ll serve dinner to the ensemble first,” Isis explained. “But the maestro will sit at the table with the other guests. Ah—it’s time for us to go down.”

  This was the moment Aisha had been dreading. Again she begged to be allowed to stay upstairs, but Isis, with childlike obstinacy, was determined that Aisha should accompany her. Together they descended the first few steps leading to the main room, now full of people. Feeling herself about to trip, Aisha clutched the banister, trying to hide behind Isis.

  Eveline Hanim was the first to notice them. She muttered between her teeth, “I don’t know why Isis has insisted on bringing this peasant girl with her!”

  But Menes stared in wonder at Aisha, unable to believe her transformation—she resembled a Coptic princess of old, just like those whose pictures he had seen in the monasteries at Fayoum: wide-open eyes, head held high, an expectant gaze. He moved toward the staircase. Isis gave him a little smile, thinking he was approaching on her account, but in a disconcerting move he took Aisha by the hand and drew her forward.