Aida nodded.
‘You drank it, though I presume it hadn’t been boiled?’
‘I am not usually so …’
‘Reckless? Do you know that in this part of the world raw milk can cause tuberculosis?’
She folded her arms. This was just like the old Phares. ‘How could I have refused such a spontaneous gesture?’
‘You still haven’t answered me. What were you doing out in the countryside at the crack of dawn? You must be a guest somewhere. We’re too far from the centre of Luxor for you to be a tourist.’
‘I was exploring this beautiful countryside.’
‘You like our country?’
‘Very much so.’
He smiled, showing a row of brilliant white teeth. ‘It must seem quaint to you, as if suspended in another time.’
‘That’s what I like about it.’
‘Come,’ he said, his expression becoming imperious, ‘I told you you’d have to pay a forfeit. You’re going to have coffee with me.’
‘I think I ought to go back.’
‘You can go back immediately afterwards and I’ll show you a much shorter way out of our esba, I mean our farm.’ His voice was gentle, and when she didn’t answer, his eyes became a velvety caress. ‘Is my suggestion not clear enough?’
For a moment the coal flame dancing in Phares’s black eyes had her hypnotised. Aida smiled, but remained silent.
‘Come,’ he said again, ‘do as you’re told.’
Aida started at the command, feeling a surge of indignation – she hated machismo in men, always had – but she smiled to herself. Phares hadn’t changed; he’d always been bossy and slightly arrogant. ‘I don’t think so, thank you.’
Phares gave a soft laugh, watching her with amusement. ‘I think you were going to accept my invitation, so what brought up the prickles, Goldilocks?’
She decided to ignore the taunt. He used to indulge in this sort of innocent banter when she was fifteen and in those days she was happy for the attention, now his patronising tone merely irritated her. ‘You said there was a shorter way out of your property?’
‘No coffee then?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘If you give me directions, I’m quite capable of finding my way alone.’
‘Possibly. But I’m not going to allow you to do so.’
Aida gave up. In silence they crossed the garden, striking through the Pharaony sugarcane plantation towards the Nile. Here, a path ran straight to the main road along the river, not far from the El Masri fields of cotton and the lane that Aida had taken that morning. It was less than half the distance of her morning walk.
‘There you are,’ said Phares. ‘Now you’re on the main road. And since you haven’t told me where you’re staying, I can’t give you any more directions.’ He studied her face intently. ‘I assume you’re a guest at one of the large farms beside the river. Whichever side you’re on, in each direction you’ll find a bridge which leads to the opposite bank.’
Aida smiled. ‘Thank you very much.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’
He took it in his own strong palm and as their skin touched it seemed to Aida that she was warmed from head to toe, making her almost gasp aloud. It was as if the firm hand holding hers infused its own vitality, an electric current galvanising her cold, bewildered self to life. Never in her life had a handshake caused that to happen. Right away she wanted to break the contact and, as if sensing this, Phares increased the pressure of his grip. Heart beating furiously, she stood looking up at him, into those magnificent dark, laughing eyes, and to her irritation, Aida felt her cheeks colour.
The sun meshed him in gold. He conveyed an air of inherent authority that seemed to be as much a part of him as his tall, sparse figure and raven black hair. ‘I am Phares Pharaony … Dr Phares Pharaony. Will you come and visit me again now that you know the way?’ The initial hardness in his voice had disappeared and been replaced with a low-pitched warmth and vibrancy.
‘Goodbye, Dr Pharaony.’
Phares was still holding on to her hand, locking it within his, as if telling her without words that she was now in the power of the Pharaony family and there was to be no escape from him. ‘Say that you will come and see me again.’
His nearness overpowered her; he looked at her in a way that was overwhelming; not even when she was younger had she felt like this, and she wanted to distance herself from him to dispel the effect. Gently, she managed to disengage herself from his warm grip. ‘Goodbye,’ she said determinedly.
Phares flashed her an easy smile with those fine even white teeth showing again as his lips parted.
‘Stubborn, aren’t you? But I’m more stubborn still. I will find you and we will meet again before too long.’
‘Will we?’ she challenged him. ‘I don’t think so.’
The air between them crackled with intensity and they stood there mesmerised for longer than Aida knew. In the silence, the young woman felt the atmosphere become charged with a force that seemed elemental … as if a storm were coming.
Had Phares felt it too? For a second, a furtive questioning look flashed in his dark pupils, then he said abruptly, ‘You must go, Goldilocks.’ There was a low note of urgency in his voice.
‘Yes, I must.’ But Aida’s feet were rooted, an odd glow of warmth rising in her face; she would not have moved unless Phares, with a nod and a smile, hadn’t turned away at that moment and gone briskly off towards the path. Aida was freed then, and with a fleet step and a beating heart went speeding down the path alongside the Nile, still in a daze.
She was stunned by the feelings that had assailed her in Phares’s presence – the same lightheadedness she felt years ago when he was in the same room, but with something more, a totally alien emotion that had stirred every nerve in her body. It must be the heat, she thought, or physical exhaustion, or perhaps the lack of food; she had gone out this morning without having any breakfast and now it was almost time for lunch.
The river was flowing timelessly between its banks, grey and tranquil amid green rushes, papyrus and other water plants. It had a romantic magic that was all its own – tranquillity plus mystery, ancient yet untouched by time – a magic that had surrounded her for the first eighteen years of her life. And now she was back and it was as if she had never gone away. Yet her future here was uncertain, complicated by the mission she had given herself. After all, eight years had passed …
If she was to believe Naguib Bishara’s words to her yesterday, Aida supposed that once Phares knew who she was – and he would eventually – he would ask her to marry him; and she would of course dismiss him as she had previously.
But would she? The young man had always fascinated her, and still did.
Wouldn’t she find it easier to investigate the truth if she didn’t let on about her intentions and merely rolled with the waves? Wouldn’t it be more astute to get closer to the Pharaony family instead of distancing herself from them? Still, that option, she decided, felt wrong. No, for so many reasons, Phares could never be hers nor she his.
Nevertheless, as she walked back to Karawan House Dada Amina’s favourite quote rang like a presentiment in her ears: Al maktoub alal guibeen la bodda an tarah el ein, what is written will be fulfilled. Aida didn’t know whether she wished this, or feared it.
Chapter 2
Alone in his powerful MG TC two-seater, lost in thought, Dr Phares Pharaony was driving back from El Amal, his hospital in Luxor, to Kasr El Shorouk, his home on the outskirts of the city. The narrow, uneven road, which ran perilously close to the high bank of a deep canal, was teeming with the usual hordes of people and animals. He was accustomed to the familiar medley of large buffalos and their calves snorting; small donkeys trotting stiffly in the middle of the road, loaded with berseem – the native clover on which all animals were fed; mangy dogs barking; children shouting and running after the car; and the fowl, geese and ducks flying haphazardly abou
t, clucking furiously. Sometimes this swarm of unruly, happy-go-lucky people and their flocks made him smile indulgently, but today, Dr Pharaony was grim-faced at the wheel. He blasted his horn irritably as the roadster constantly swerved from side to side while he tried to avoid collision with either man or beast by a hair’s breadth, and the mass scattered wildly.
Strangely enough, the reason for Phares’s black mood could be laid at Aida’s door. The young doctor had spent most of his Sunday trying to find out discreetly the identity of the beautiful siren who had appeared so unexpectedly in his garden that morning, but his enquiries remained fruitless. No new group of visitors had arrived in Luxor, either by train or plane, during the last forty-eight hours. The only person who had come on the Misrair plane from Cairo the day before was Sit Aida, Ayoub El Masri’s daughter, whom he remembered all too clearly had been a plump girl of no great beauty, albeit with intelligence and wit, and a fiery and reckless nature that he secretly admired.
Phares was blessed with striking good looks, as well as great charm, intelligence and a magnificent constitution, and had not lived to the age of thirty-four in monk-like austerity. Westernised, educated in France and well travelled, he’d had his share of passing affairs, like any other man of his age and background. Cairo being a cosmopolitan place, Phares hadn’t needed to poach his pleasure among the more conservative Egyptian and Turkish families, but had found it in the company of light-hearted Western women who, like him, were looking for carefree passing flings.
Phares’s experiences had given him insight and wisdom; he knew women very well, liked them tremendously and judged them shrewdly. He was a man of strong passions, firmly reined in – when he chose to do so – but he was far from a saint. Because of his wealth and good looks, any inclination he might have had towards excess could easily be indulged, but his innate strength of character had ensured that he’d become mature and ripened but not spoiled. Wise, kind and responsible, yet still quick to respond to the pleasures of life, he pulsed with life and energy.
However, despite his experience and sophistication, one thing so far had been lacking in him: Phares had never been in love. Not that this was of great relevance. In accordance with the custom of great landowning families, he was now of an age where society thought that he needed a wife. In fact, before the war there had been talk of him marrying Aida El Masri, the only daughter of Ayoub El Masri, his father’s best friend and the owner of the neighbouring esba. Marriage to his childhood friend Aida would not have been without its challenges but it would have combined their estates, something his father Kamel had set his sights upon. In any case, that had been prevented by the sudden death of Ayoub El Masri, and Aida had left the country for England just before the war broke out, so matters had stood as before. And as the war continued, Phares had found neither the time, nor the reason, to marry, and his father Kamel remained hopeful that one day Aida would return and the knot would be tied, or the young woman would eventually sell to him. In either case the land would become part of the Pharaony estates.
Phares sighed. He knew that if Aida El Masri was back, his father would be raising his hopes once more that his eldest son would do his duty.
Hathor, the Pharaony residence in Luxor, named after the Ancient Egyptian goddess of love, rose against the sky above the eastern bank of the great river. An imposing wrought-iron gate announced the entrance to the esba; on one of its inlaid wooden panels was etched a mural of the nearby Temple of Hathor at Denderah, while on the other gate, a poem was carved in hieroglyphics, in which Hathor, goddess of the Nile, exalted her husband Horus, god of the sky.
Phares passed the gatekeeper’s lodge and swept up the broad driveway of the noble house edged with elegant palm trees and crossed by gravel paths. Built of white sandstone in the old colonial style, it was square and pillared and substantial. A tall colonnaded porch dominated the entire frontage, and all along the upper storey, set further back, long, green-shuttered windows led from the first-floor bedrooms on to the balcony above. It was a gracious home and because it was so lovingly maintained and cared for, the years had been kind to it.
Coming to a stop in front of the fine marble steps leading up to the front door, Phares was surprised to see that the shutters of his father’s apartment were wide open. His frown deepened. Kamel had left for Assiut earlier that week on business and was not expected to return for at least two weeks. He had planned to extend his journey to Cairo and then onwards to call on his elderly mother Fardus, who lived in the Pharaony family home in Alexandria and whom he visited every three months. It was not in the pasha’s habit to cut short these trips unless something of importance required a change of plan.
Phares was overcome by a wave of concern and he rushed up the steps; Kamel had a weak heart and the young doctor’s immediate thought was that his father had been taken ill. As he reached the threshold, he was met by Daoud the head suffragi.
‘Masa’ al-khayr ya, Daoud, good afternoon. Why are the shutters of Kamel Pasha’s apartment opened? Has my father returned?’
‘Masa’ al-khayr ya Bey. Yes, Saat El Basha, His Highness the pasha arrived about an hour ago. He told me to ask you to join him on the main terrace as soon as you came in. He is waiting for you.’
‘Fine. I will join him immediately. Is he well?’
If Daoud was surprised by his master’s question his impassive expression revealed nothing. ‘Yes, he is well. He is having a glass of karkadeeh. Would you like one as well or would you prefer tea or coffee?’
‘I will have the same as the pasha, shukran.’
While the outside of Hathor was stately – beautifully designed by an Italian architect to be a clear statement of wealth and status, with its balconies, porticoes and terraces well-hidden from the road by hedges of blooming tropical shrubs and great flowering vines – the interior of the house was no less impressive. Its hall was a large circular space with a considerable domed ceiling of night-blue Venetian stained glass, scattered here and there with tiny golden stars, and below this representation of the firmament, a floor of diamond-shaped white-and-grey granite and black tiles. On the right was the grand marble and wrought-iron stairway and gallery leading to the floors above; on the opposite side was the wood-panelled dining room, its dimensions ample for a banquet, elegantly furnished with highly polished furniture upholstered with leather embossed with gold. While the whole interior of the house was filled with exquisite Persian carpets and was highly ornamented, often with gold leaf, none of it was overdone. It was furnished in elegant European style with corresponding furniture upholstered in delicate brocades, all in the very best of taste.
Phares made his way down one of the many corridors to the main terrace at the back of the house, where he found the pasha waiting for him. Kamel Pharaony was seated in an armchair at one of the small tables, sipping cold karkadeeh, an infusion of hibiscus flowers renowned for lowering blood pressure – its effect somewhat undermined no doubt by the large plate of pastries he was comfortably working his way through.
Kamel beamed as Phares stepped on to the terrace. ‘Ah, there you are, Phares, my son.’
‘I’m surprised to see you, Father. You were supposed to be back on Sunday. When I saw your shutters were open, I was worried. Is anything the matter?’
‘No, no, no, nothing to worry about. Everything is great.’
Kamel Pharaony was a handsome portly man in his early sixties, his skin tanned to a deep bronze and with thick white hair and a big white curled-up moustache. An air of greatness flowed around him. At first glance it might have been difficult to credit that Phares and the pasha were father and son, but the two proud faces, the brilliant dark eyes, high-bridged noses and the charisma emanating from both men spoke of a strong resemblance, and at a second glance their kinship was unmistakable.
Kamel had never wanted to remarry after Gamila’s death, not only because he had loved his wife deeply, but also because he did not want to bring a stepmother into his children’s life. A man of the wor
ld, farsighted and wise, he had realised that he was young enough to remarry and have more children, children whom in some sense might usurp part of the place Phares and Camelia occupied in his heart. Besides, he could not believe that any normal woman would not put her own children first. Added to this, there was the question of inheritance: what would happen to Phares and Camelia if something happened to him and he had had more sons? Phares hadn’t needed his father to explain his reasoning to him; he understood and admired the sacrifice Kamel had made on his behalf, and was grateful to him.
‘Sit down,’ the older man commanded.
‘I’ll stand for a while if you don’t mind,’ Phares answered, leaning against one of the marble columns that lined the terrace. ‘I’ve been too busy to go for my usual walk today.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Phares eyed his father suspiciously. Kamel was acting out of character. He was usually calm and collected, but this evening he could sense a restless excitement in the old man. ‘What’s up, Father?’
‘Well, you’ll never guess …’
Phares’s eyebrows went up enquiringly.
‘Ayoub El Masri’s daughter is back …’
Ah, so he was right. Now he had no difficulty in guessing at what was behind his father’s strange behaviour. Phares shrugged nonchalantly. ‘So? I don’t see what’s so surprising in that. She had to return one day. Her house is in a sorry state and if it hadn’t been for us, her land would have fallen into the hands of squatters. It’s high time she came back to Egypt to look after her affairs.’
‘But, my son, can’t you see? This is a wonderful opportunity.’
Phares’s tall figure stiffened, his dark eyes growing wary. He readied himself for the onslaught, for he knew that the pasha was shrewd enough to have a hundred and one arguments to support his point.
The old man cast his son a keen glance, saying in a controlled voice, ‘I know there have been other women you have considered, but I do not want to discuss that now. It was always accepted that you and Aida would be married … and if it hadn’t been for that terrible tragedy, our two families would have united.’
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