A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Read online

  “Come this way,” he said. “Say hello to the Pasha.”

  She allowed herself to be towed behind him, struggling to keep her balance. He led her to a group of men who were talking and laughing, in the midst of whom was a man who looked exactly like Menes, apart from his grey hair and his curled moustache.

  “Father,” said Menes, “this is Mary, Isis’s school friend and classmate.”

  The Pasha turned to her and studied her, a slight smile on his lips. “You’ve graced our party, young lady!” he said.

  Isis came over and kissed her father, then adroitly steered Aisha over to where the women were sitting. Eveline Hanim was smoldering with irritation. Isis sat beside Aisha as if to protect her, Aisha herself sitting in the chair at the end of the row. She listened to the women’s chatter—they were speaking English and French, with only a smattering of Arabic thrown in here and there for fun. They talked about Cairo and the khedive Abbas and the endless parties that had taken over Cairo with the advent, in force, of the Europeans. Aisha noted with pleasure that Menes had not stopped staring at her.

  The Pasha, on the other hand, looked anxious. He kept going every few minutes to stare out from the balcony that opened onto the Nile, before returning to his guests.

  The musical ensemble took its place in the center of the large room and the musicians began tuning their instruments, while the maestro sat on a chair drinking a cup of deep yellow aniseed tea.

  Voices rose suddenly, and the Pasha hurried to the balcony along with a number of the guests. Aisha craned her neck and saw the dahabeah all lit up and gliding across the surface of the Nile. Isis stood up, took her by the hand, and led her to another part of the room, away from the crowd. The Pasha held out his hand to Eveline Hanim, who got up and took it, gathering up the train of her dress with her free hand. Together they quickly left the room and descended the stairs leading to the river, followed by a great many of the guests and British officers.

  “He’s the guest of honor tonight,” Isis said, animated. “Lord Cromer.” Aisha looked at her questioningly, and Isis went on in a whisper, “He’s the British high commissioner, the actual leader—sultan above the sultan himself. Every winter he goes to Luxor—he and his second wife, Lady Katherine—and it’s understood he’ll stop in with us. My father is very proud of their friendship.”

  The rituals of another world were being enacted before Aisha’s eyes. The servants brought torches and went down to the landing at the embankment. The ladies congregated on one side and the men on the other, all eyes fastened upon the dahabeah as its mooring lines were cast upon the shore. The crew set out wooden planks to form a gangway. Aisha held her breath, seeing Lord Cromer appear in the ship’s doorway, beside him a tall lady wearing a fur coat and a large hat, which concealed her face. The sight of them evoked a wave of excitement among all the onlookers standing onshore. Some clapped enthusiastically, while the British officers raised their glasses and cheered. The stately old man advanced with dignity and self-assurance, proceeding through the applause that greeted him until at last he achieved the shore. The Pasha shook hands with him and the lady extended her hand for him to kiss. Eveline Hanim ducked her head and curtseyed, and then she and her husband stepped aside so that Lord Cromer and his wife could precede them up the steps, everyone else following in their wake.

  The crowd returned once more to the grand room in which the party was taking place. Not all of them shook hands with Lord Cromer—there were only a few who dared to approach him, few who were favored with the honor of shaking his hand. He himself chose whose hand he would take, and whom he would ignore. He stood in the middle of the room beneath the enormous chandelier, casting a cold eye upon the assembled guests, gazing out at them from some other realm. At last he sat down in the midst of the gathering, and Aisha was able to get a look at his elongated face, thick moustache, and silver hair, as well as the medals displayed upon his chest. Lady Katherine had removed her coat and revealed her shimmering black dress. Her face was very pale, its expression one of extreme ill humor, of irritation with everything about the surrounding atmosphere—it was as if she went about holding her nose. She sat next to Eveline Hanim, who shrank perceptibly.

  Aisha got as far away from all of them as she could. She wished she might find a way to go upstairs and disappear into Isis’s room. She kept to a corner, cowering there and hoping no one would notice her.

  In another corner of the room Master Abdel Hayy stood up, having finished his aniseed tea, and sat down at the front of the musical ensemble. The musicians seated behind him were tense, uneasily watching this gathering of Pashas and foreigners. When Lord Cromer stopped conversing with those around him, Isis’s father hurriedly signaled to the ensemble. The maestro cleared his throat as if he was coughing up the dust from the road, and the musicians began tuning their instruments. When he signed to them with his finger held aloft, they began to play. Each time they finished a piece he nodded, and they applied themselves to their instruments once more. He allowed himself time to compose his voice and prepare to perform. All at once his song rang out, in the sorrow of one abandoned and sleepless. His voice was husky at first, but then it gradually cleared, as if he were drawing his breath from deep caverns. The faces of the musicians in the ensemble reddened with the exertion of playing. Then the musicians, among them the boy, began repeating the maestro’s refrains after him.

  Aisha glanced at Lord Cromer’s face, and found that it too was flushed. He placed a hand on his shirt collar, as if in an effort to loosen a necktie that was choking him, and a look of dismay crossed Lady Katherine’s face. She fixed her gaze upon the maestro’s throat as his voice rose. Among the guests, the Egyptians swayed, under the spell of the music, but the foreigners, baffled, were motionless.

  Suddenly Lord Cromer stood up and shouted in English, “Oh, do be still! This wailing, it’s unbearable.”

  The room fell abruptly silent, and the maestro came all at once to himself, out of his reverie. “Honorable Lord!” he cried beseechingly.

  Alarmed, the Pasha hurried over to Lord Cromer; Eveline Hanim was in a swoon.

  “Sir,” said the Pasha, “what is it?”

  “Dismiss him at once,” said Lord Cromer, gesturing toward the artist. “I can’t take any more of this lugubrious moaning. Have you no one else?”

  The artist understood little of what was said, but his face had gone pale with humiliation. The members of the ensemble began packing up their instruments, although no one had instructed them to do so, while the artist stood rooted in place, his face quivering with a mixture of emotions, as if he might weep. The boy went and attached himself to his father.

  The Pasha hurried over, took the artist’s arm, and gently pulled him away. “Please come with me,” he said. Master Abdel Hayy was breathing with difficulty, but he left the room with the Pasha. The musicians struggled with their instruments as they strove to get away; the boy seemed about to cry, and all the while Lord Cromer stood erect like a victorious general observing the remnants of his routed enemy.

  “My God,” he said. “What a nightmare. I thought I was going to faint.”

  Soon there rose a murmur of subdued laughter among the foreigners. Eveline Hanim came to herself and glanced about, bewildered. The Egyptian guests held their peace at first, then joined in with the rest in low, uneasy laughter. Aisha felt very sorry for the artist, whose husky voice had moved her to the core, putting her in mind of Margaret’s sorrows. She looked about for Isis. Isis was seated beside her mother, dabbing at her face with a small handkerchief.

  Aisha was startled to find someone staring fixedly at her—indeed, he could scarcely take his eyes off her. It was a young Englishman, in his late twenties, with a narrow, melancholy face and a thin moustache the color of straw. She looked the other way, but she could tell he was still watching her.

  The Pasha returned, speechless with embarrassment. But Lord Cromer, with all the modesty of a conqueror, clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Ne
vermind, Pasha. Your choice of entertainer was unfortunate, but you did well in your choice of guests. I’ll bring this evening’s party to life.”

  With that, he strode manfully to the ebony piano in the corner, on which Isis took her lessons from a French music teacher. Chuckling as he raised the lid he said, “Lucky for me it’s clean—dust would have interfered with my playing.”

  Everyone laughed raucously. He applied himself smoothly to the keys, abruptly filling the room with their music. Eveline Hanim revived, and the pallor faded from the Pasha’s face as the tension eased and the foreigners murmured admiringly. The Egyptians kept their resentment to themselves: another defeat—what did it matter?

  Aisha looked about anxiously. However proficient the playing, she felt oppressed. She slid warily along the wall, hoping no one would see her or hear the rustle of her skirt. Lord Cromer had reached a climax in his performance, so Aisha managed to slip out onto to the wide balcony, well away from all of them. She shivered at the touch of the night breeze on her face and shoulders. She saw the blazing torches illuminating the drive that stretched away from the entrance to the mansion, and beyond them the darkness that blanketed the adjacent hamlet. The sound of the piano reached her, mixed with that of the crickets and frogs.

  She drew a deep breath. Down below she saw the musical ensemble leaving the mansion, the men with heads bowed, as two of them supported the artist. They went haltingly with the old man, pausing every couple of steps, and then proceeding, eyes cast down. None of them dared raise his head except the boy, who turned and looked at the mansion, his face wet and shining with tears. Would the old man even be able to make it to Cairo in this condition? Would he ever sing again? They supported him until, with difficulty, he got into the carriage, which in turn began its difficult progress.

  “Are you sorry for him?”

  She heard the voice coming from behind her and started up in alarm. The question was put to her in English. It was the young Englishman who had been staring at her all the while. He approached now with a drink in his hand, his face quite flushed—perhaps he was already slightly drunk. Aisha moved to put some distance between herself and him. Still, he continued, saying simply, “It’s the same with me—I’m not happy about what that conceited peacock did. Listen to that dreadful performance of his—he fancies himself another Chopin, no less.”

  Aisha smiled. The carriage bearing the musicians faded into the mist rising off of the fields, while the performance went on inside. The young man seemed not to expect her to say much. Extending his hand to her, he said. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Howard Carter.”

  There was nothing for it but to offer him her trembling fingers, hoping he wouldn’t notice how cold they were. Maybe he did notice, though, for he held onto them a moment, possibly to steady them. He smiled, looking directly into her face again. “Perhaps you haven’t heard of me, but I know you—I’ve seen you more than once.”

  “Me?” exclaimed Aisha, astonished. She felt the blood rising in her veins. “It’s the first time I’ve ever attended an event like this,” she said. She was about to add that for years she had never left the school, but she remembered Margaret and the men from the embassy, and she pressed her lips shut.

  Inside, the guests applauded. Guessing that the party must be over, she moved to go back in the house, but Carter stood in her path—he hadn’t yet finished with what he had to say, and he didn’t want to miss this chance to be alone with her. The piano playing resumed, and the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of the burning torches.

  “Excuse me,” said Carter, “but I have seen you many times . . . at Beni Hassan al-Ghuroub . . . Beni Abid . . . Fayoum . . . Deir al-Bahri in Luxor . . .”

  In mounting discomfiture, Aisha said, “You must be mistaken, sir. I’m a classmate of the Pasha’s daughter, Isis, at a private school. I’ve hardly ever left the school.”

  But the young man held fast to his conviction. Perhaps drink was to blame for this.

  “Many times I’ve made paintings from reliefs of your face,” he said, “its features in all their details: this rather proud nose, the wide hazel eyes, the magnificent high forehead, these blue-black tresses, the complexion tinted brown by the sun and red by the Nile.”

  “Sir!” cried Aisha.

  “I can show you the evidence,” he said. “I’ve got it here with me—if you’ll give me a chance, I’ll bring it to you from the carriage.”

  Aisha didn’t know what to do. He stood eagerly before her, the glass in his hand, breathing hard with the force of his emotions, hollow-eyed and with a burning stare.

  She bowed her head. “Are you sure I’m the one?” she said. “To foreigners, all Egyptian faces look alike. And you, too, to us . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” said Carter, “it was like that in the beginning. When I first came to Egypt. But after so many years I can distinguish all the faces. Yours in particular.”

  “You’re confusing me, sir.”

  “I work now for the preservation of antiquities, but I was originally an artist, and I’ll always be an artist. The job was a chance that came my way in life. My mission is to familiarize myself with the faces and memorize their features the way a poet memorizes his verses.”

  Carter stepped forward and placed the glass he was holding on the parapet. “Wait here,” he said. “Don’t move; don’t go anywhere—now I’ll prove to you everything I’ve been saying.”

  He hurriedly left the balcony, oblivious to Lord Cromer, who was still absorbed in his playing and possessed indeed by the spirit of Chopin. The eyes of the guests were upon him as he crossed the room, his brisk footsteps loud enough that Cromer’s fingers fumbled at the piano keys, though he didn’t look in Carter’s direction. The Pasha observed with alarm his departure from the house, and looked toward the balcony—perhaps there he could discover the reason for what had happened. He knew Carter was one of the most prestigious of those commissioned to work in Upper Egypt, for he was the director in charge of the Egyptian Antiquities Service, and his authority extended from Asyout all the way to the Sudanese border. He was sought after every year by all the lords and important state visitors, including Lord Cromer himself. His departure in such a manner was another scandal the Pasha didn’t need. He glanced at Eveline Hanim, who was also upset and once more looking faint. He didn’t dare get up and go after Carter, with Lord Cromer at the peak of his performance, his fingers gathering speed on the keyboard and his breath coming fast. He finished with a resounding chord.

  Lord Cromer, out of breath, stilled his hands and let his arms fall to his sides, getting his wind back on the conclusion of his contest with the keyboard. Everyone stood up and began to applaud wildly, Lord Cromer dipping his head, offering barely perceptible nods in acknowledgment of their enthusiasm.

  Out on the balcony, Aisha was watching Carter as he dashed out of the house and hurried across the open space illuminated by the flickering torches, heading for a horse-drawn carriage that stood in a corner. “This is madness,” she said to herself. “This Englishman will get me mixed up in some scandal.” She mustn’t stay longer on the balcony, especially while she could hear the applause inside—she must steal quietly inside and mingle with the crowd, so as to belie any connection between herself and this Englishman.

  She entered the room on tiptoe. Lord Cromer was the center of attention—everyone stood around him shaking hands with him once more. He had won a twofold victory: first over the elderly artist, and then a second time by proving his musical aptitude. Aisha was hoping to pass unseen, but Eveline Hanim spotted her, and threw her a vicious glance, concluding that she was the reason for the lunatic Englishman’s untoward exit. Eveline Hanim would wait until after the party to settle accounts with Aisha.

  In the midst of this commotion, the wild-eyed Englishman reappeared, coming in from outside and holding in his arms a bundle of paper scrolls. It was clear he had snatched them up at random from among a larger collection of scrolls. Lord Cromer craned his neck
, ignoring all those who surrounded him. He regarded Carter with a sneer. The others all turned toward Carter as well, as Cromer spoke. “Mr. Carter,” he said, “I see you didn’t care for my playing.”

  Carter stopped. He dropped one of the scrolls, and as he knelt quickly to pick it up the rest of them fell to the floor. He began hastily gathering them up, muttering unintelligible words. No one moved to assist him—even the hosts, the Pasha and his wife, were unable to move. They knew he had angered Lord Cromer to a degree that precluded anyone’s stepping forward to help him. At last he gave up his attempt to collect the scrolls. He said, finally, “I beg your pardon for this disruption. I wanted to show you . . . that is, to show her, something.”

  He pointed toward Aisha, who was standing against the wall. They all turned to her, including Lord Cromer, and she wished she could vanish from their sight. But here they all were, seeing her for the first time all night, registering her presence. Isis looked at her sympathetically, and smiled. As the blood drained from Aisha’s face, Carter quickly began to pick up the scrolls and spread them on the floor, looking about for heavy objects to secure them. It was Menes, finally, who came to his aid, bringing small articles of glassware and setting them on the edges. The papers began to reveal their contents: watercolor paintings done in delicate lines and subtle hues, the design nevertheless clear and unambiguous. They were all of Egyptian faces—or rather, of one face in particular: portraits in profile showing a proud nose, wide eyes tapered at the corners by the application of kohl, flowing locks of hair and, arranged on the forehead, jewels whose designs alternated between flower patterns, serpent heads, and sun discs. The designs differed from one painting to the next—the dress, the hairstyle, the cosmetics, and the jewels—but the face was the same. The assembled crowd could not but turn and study the paintings with interest. Even Lord Cromer himself stood still and examined them.