They entered a room of soaring, magnificent proportions dominated by eight large and twenty-four smaller Moorish archways. It was decorated in wild, gilded Turkish Baroque, the walls hung with magnificent tapestries with arabesque floral designs typical of the late Ottoman period, and great mirrors flashing a million dazzling reflections from the chandeliers. Gilt and damask created a gorgeous contrast in the sumptuous furnishings. Beneath a row of stained-glass lunettes stood backless little sofas, in front of which were low rectangular coffee tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl. On top of them were set small plates of mezzeh.
The ballroom boasted a beautiful floor of pale-green marble parquetry and was illuminated by immense glittering candelabra. At the far end of the room, raised on a platform, a small orchestra was playing beautiful Strauss waltzes for the enjoyment of upper-crust guests selected from the Turkish nobility, titled Egyptians, diplomats and notable members of the expatriate community. Ladies blossomed forth like exotic flowers in bright reds, pale corals, soft greens, and various shades of purple – so suited to the Egyptian colouring – and men strutted around in bespoke black or white dinner suits, complete with red fez for most of them.
Princess Nazek stood at the top of the stairs, elegantly regal in a beautiful pale-gold dress with floating skirts, her necklace and tiara sparkling in the light of the chandeliers. She was chatting to a host of people who greeted her in turn before relinquishing her company to other guests keen for her attention. When Aida’s few minutes with her came, the princess beamed, asked how her stay in Cairo had been and insisted that she come to the palace for tea soon. No sooner had the trio paid their respects to Princess Nazek than they were surrounded by Kamel and Camelia’s friends. While effusive greetings were swapped, Aida’s gaze swept the vast room, wondering if there was a chance that Phares would put in an appearance this evening. There were so many people crowding into the space that it was impossible to tell if he was here or not. With a faint sigh, she told herself to forget about him and just enjoy her evening.
‘Ah, Kamel Pasha! Where have you been? We haven’t seen you at the roulette table for a long time. All well with you?’ The smooth, sophisticated voice came from behind Aida, and she stiffened, recognising it immediately as that of Prince Shams Sakr El Din.
‘My dear Prince, I’ve taken up bridge instead. A much less stressful pursuit,’ Kamel answered in a tone just as debonair.
‘Ah, but a much more boring one, you must admit.’ Turning to Camelia, he lifted her hand to his lips, murmuring ‘Madame’, before directing his attention to Aida, his pale eyes narrowing. His voice thickened slightly: ‘Mademoiselle El Masri. It’s a small world, is it not?’
Kamel Pharaony’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. ‘You know each other?’
‘We met on the train,’ Aida provided, her face set with a gracious expression.
Prince Shams Sakr El Din smiled briefly. ‘I had the pleasure of Mademoiselle El Masri’s company on the train from Minieh to Cairo. I’m delighted we meet again, mademoiselle.’
Just then there was a hiatus in the music while the orchestra chose a new waltz and he inclined his head slightly towards Aida, lowering his voice: ‘I hope you will do me the honour of this dance.’ Then, without waiting for her response, he nodded towards Camelia and her father – ‘Madame … Kamel Pasha’ – and took her by the wrist, drawing her on to the dancefloor.
Despite the spaciousness of the ballroom the crush was terrific, and Aida found that dancing in her elaborate gown was more of a masterful performance than a pleasure. Holding her tightly against his strong body, the prince whirled her around the edge of the ballroom twice without speaking, then stopped at one of the sofas. His reptilian eyes glittered. ‘Shall we have a drink and a few amuse-bouches?’ he asked, without letting go of her waist.
‘Why not?’ Aida capitulated, still a little bewildered by his gall. Although she couldn’t really say she liked him, she had to admit that she found the prince somehow fascinating. Oh, she had no doubt that he was a predator, and a dangerous one at that, but he was different and exciting. Her father had always reproached her for tempting fate in one way or another – as a child, she climbed the highest trees; at the seaside she swam so far out she once had difficulty coming back and a boat of fishermen had rescued her. During the war, though she had loathed the suffering she witnessed, Aida found it exhilarating to walk back at night to the nurses’ home through the dark streets of London, even during the curfews. She never went down to the shelters when the warning sirens went off, though she knew she was flirting with danger.
They were still standing at the edge of the ballroom. Letting go of her, Shams Sakr El Din beckoned to a waiter, who was hovering nearby, then turned back to Aida: ‘What will you drink? Champagne? Princess Nazek’s cellars are famous. Even during the war, she managed to keep them well stocked.’
‘I’d love a glass of champagne. Thank you.’ Although the Muslim religion forbade the drinking of alcohol, it was obvious to Aida that the Westernised royalty members ignored this particular rule. As for her, attending a ball was a rare treat; tonight, she could enjoy such an indulgence without censure and it brought an added element of excitement to the evening.
Having ordered their drinks, the prince steered her to one of the small sofas at the side of the room. When they were seated, he took from his inside pocket a gold box decorated with tiny precious stones and offered her a cigarette.
Aida shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Ah yes, you don’t smoke – I forgot.’ He helped himself to one and lit it. ‘Why did you refuse to let me escort you to the ball?’ he asked after he had inhaled deeply.
Aida suspected a wave of gossip was already rippling through the ballroom, speculating about the return of the daughter of Ayoub El Masri and how she was keeping company with the infamous Bedouin prince, Shams Sakr El Din, but she didn’t care. She lifted her chin.
‘We hardly know each other.’
‘You don’t strike me as a conventional woman.’
‘You’ve just proved that you don’t know me.’
There was a hiatus in the conversation while the waiter brought over their drinks and set them on the small table in front of the two-seater sofa. The prince lifted his glass to her. ‘To the future,’ he murmured and took a sip of champagne. ‘And now to return to our conversation. You say I’m wrong to think that you are a nonconformist – what is it the lovely Isadora Duncan once said? Most human beings today waste some twenty-five to thirty years of their lives before they break through the actual conventional lies which surround them.’
‘And the writer Lucy Maud Montgomery would answer her: ‘As a rule, I am very careful to be shallow and conventional where depth and originality are wasted.’
The prince regarded her through a curl of smoke with a look of surprised gratification. ‘Beautiful, intelligent, and witty with it. A rare rose to add to my garden.’
‘Your garden?’ Aida did not like the sound of this.
The reptilian eyes narrowed again, and his smile was enigmatic. ‘Yes, my harem.’
‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten,’ she replied drily. ‘You couldn’t be a respectable prince without a harem.’
‘Doesn’t it pique your female curiosity?’
‘Not one bit. I find the concept somewhat barbaric and retrograde. Surprising in men of your education.’
Prince Shams Sakr El Din laughed, though it was more of a snort. ‘Education has nothing to do with it, habibti. I can’t believe you are so naïve about the world that you cannot understand the concept of the harem … a man’s garden where many flowers bloom for his pleasure … with different colours, textures, fragrances.’ His gaze dropped to Aida’s lips, then lowered to her throat and bare shoulders, shamelessly devouring with his eyes every bit of her bare skin.
All at once bewildered, amused and insulted by his undisguised admiration, Aida shivered internally and took a few sips of her champagne. During the war she had met men and women of all
kinds, in the hospital wards, bars and bombed prisons. She was used to men looking at her with affection, gratitude, admiration, or sometimes with anger and even lustfully, but none had fazed her. And now, for a split second, the light that had lit up in the prince’s pale yellow eyes made her flesh creep. Still, the rebellious part of her could not resist the provocation and was enjoying this little banter with His Highness …
She set down her glass and gave him a mocking smile. ‘You people of the desert have some charming philosophies when it comes to women, haven’t you?’
‘If you mean that we venerate them? Yes.’
‘Like sex objects.’
He waved his cigarette dismissively. ‘Why put it in such ugly terms?’
‘Because these women in your harem are there for your pleasure. You said it yourself.’
‘But they regard it as a great honour.’
‘For heaven’s sake, spare me the hypocrisy!’
‘When you visit my kingdom in Wahat El Nakheel, you can ask them yourself.’
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of me going there.’
‘Are you afraid of me, Mademoiselle El Masri?’
‘Certainly not,’ Aida retorted, suddenly on the defensive.
He gave a low, private sort of laugh. ‘Then you will come to Kasr El Nawafeer. I am organising a picnic at the oasis in a few weeks for the Cairo expatriate community. Everybody will be there …’ He adopted a gracious, accommodating look. ‘It will give you a chance to ease yourself back into Cairene society after being a fish out of water for so long. Besides, aren’t you just that little bit curious? Yes, you are. Admit it.’
Aida hesitated, taken aback by his cajoling charm. ‘Perhaps.’ She reached for her glass and allowed herself the shade of a smile. He was right. Everything inside her burned with curiosity to see the inside of his palace and what it was like to travel by camel to Wahat El Nakheel. It would certainly be an adventure, and something inside her still craved excitement. The bubbles in the champagne felt cool and invigorating on her tongue as she took another sip. ‘I’ll admit that I’m fascinated by the desert. I’ve never ventured far into it to know much about it, but it does appeal.’
His piercing gaze was unwavering. ‘So, you will come.’
‘At the moment I don’t have any plans, but I might be going back to England.’
‘Europe is not a happy place at the moment, and you strike me as someone who likes to have fun … You’ll be much better off sticking around here, in Cairo, where you will be mightily entertained every day. Trust me.’
Before Aida had time to answer, they were joined by a party of young socialites magnificently dressed in the latest Paris fashion, and blazing with jewels. They gathered around the prince, all talking and laughing at once. Most of them were women who looked at him with stars in their eyes as they embraced him in greeting. Aida was presented to each in turn, and they all sat around gossiping and talking sport and politics, the prince holding court, directing the conversation with artful finesse. Aida could now see why he had such a notorious reputation. He was not only a womaniser, but a stirrer – he spent his time flirting, cunningly manipulating the ego of each woman present, and sowing discord and jealousy among them. She found it a distasteful game, but the conversation was anything but boring. He was a well-connected intellectual, after all. A man about town, he knew much about the complicated politics of Egypt, and Aida, who had been away for so long, was interested in learning anything that concerned her country. Anyhow, the ballroom was so vast that soon she had lost sight of Camelia and Kamel, and as she hadn’t yet recognised anyone else that she knew, she had little option but to stick with him.
The ballroom opened on to an immense walled garden, where an enormous marquee had been set up for dinner on one acre of land. Inside the marquee, a long, narrow buffet table, covered in velvet sirmas embroidered with gold thread, stretched almost out of sight. Standing behind it, suffragis wearing kaftans in the family colours of dark green and gold served guests who wandered in to sit at round tables. The tent was lit with Turkish blue mosaic drop lanterns, and beyond this pool of light the rest of the garden lay deep in shadow.
Each of the tables surrounded by delicate gilt chairs sat ten people, and were covered with silk tablecloths bought in Smyrna, hand-embroidered with gold and silver thread. They gleamed with monogrammed flatware in gold vermeil finish and fine crystal glasses rimmed with gold that bore the family’s crest, also etched in gold. At the centre of each table stood luxurious Turkish Ottoman royal glass vases dating back to the fifteenth century, etched and encrusted with crystal diamonds and gilded with gold leaf and platinum, each containing a tasteful display of yellow roses.
Having only ever attended one royal ball before, Aida had forgotten how lavishly these banquets were presented. A whole gamut of Turkish and European entrees, main courses and delicious desserts cooked to perfection were beautifully presented on trays inlaid with diamonds, the most impressive being a great model of the Cairo Citadel in ice, its doors and windows filled with caviar and with solid gold spoons to scoop it out. There were kabak mucver, zucchini puffs served with yoghurt and dill sauce; mahshi, a variety of vegetables stuffed with rice, mince and herbs; borek, filo pastry parcels of feta cheese, spinach and onion; kofta wa kabab, a mixture of chargrilled skewered meatballs and morsels of mutton. There were boned fowl of all sorts, cooked with pomegranate, spices and fennel, or stuffed with raisins, pistachio nuts and crumbled bread seasoned with herbs. Sometimes they were served in a sauce made of walnuts called sharkasieh, which Aida especially favoured. Otherwise, the lamb legs arranged on beds of pilaf rice, cooked with liver slices, currants, peanuts, chestnuts, cinnamon and a variety of herbs seemed to be very popular. Numerous dishes of veal and beef roasts surrounded by tender young vegetables perfectly braised in samna, clarified butter, also had a long line of guests queuing for them, and finally, there were yakhnees, or stews, and a wonderful array of fish dressed with sauces and aspic.
The delicious food and wine did its usual good work: tongues were loosened, eyes brightened, geniality engendered; and under the blue lamps that made conversation lingering and easy, the opulent and flamboyant scene seemed to Aida like a staged opera version of the fairy tales in One Thousand and One Nights.
Though her eyes searched for Camelia and Kamel, Aida had not been able to see them among the sea of guests, and so, after helping herself to a plate of food, she had no other alternative but to follow the prince to a table where four people were already seated: a grizzled, serene-looking Swede, a white-haired, rotund, gesticulating Italian, a girl with hair like a flame, whose slender shoulders were wrapped in a black shawl, and a moon-faced man, with steady blue eyes and a rare, beautiful smile. They all seemed to know him, and he them … yes, the prince knew a great many people, Aida thought as he carried out the introductions once again. By the looks of it, he was not only popular with women, but also with men, who had been greeting him cheerily throughout the evening and earnestly seeking his opinion about their various business ventures. Soon, two other ladies and their husbands, who it later transpired were English government officials, joined the table.
The prince was immediately monopolised by the redhead on his right, who was looking up at him with eager, sparkling eyes. Somehow rather relieved, Aida turned to the moon-faced young man seated on her left, who looked to be between thirty and thirty-five, fair with a receding hairline and a face dominated by a high forehead. As fortune would have it he was none other but Alastair Carlisle, the consul at the British Embassy with whom she had planned to arrange a meeting.
She smiled at him, taking a forkful of timbale made from stuffed olives and crayfish. He had an open and approachable manner and for that reason alone she was glad to engage him in conversation. Perhaps later she could discreetly enquire about his work at the Embassy and find out more about the stolen antiquities market.
‘How long have you been in Cairo?’ she asked.
‘I was pos
ted here four years after the war broke out.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Are you Egyptian? You speak beautiful English.’
‘My mother was English and my father Egyptian. I’ve just come back from England, where I spent the whole of the war.’
‘That must have been frightful.’
‘Yes … much hardship and suffering. I worked in the hospitals as a nurse.’
‘You said your name is El Masri?’
‘Yes, Aida El Masri.
‘Are you the young lady who rang yesterday asking about Sir Miles?’
‘Yes, he’s a friend of my Uncle George in London, who gave me a letter for him. I wasn’t sure how to get hold of him now that he’s left Cairo, so in the end I dropped it off at the Embassy.’
‘Ah yes, things are changing pretty rapidly here at the moment. Though for Sir Miles, his new post in Southeast Asia is a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire, poor chap. Inevitable, really. As soon as the new Labour government were voted in, the writing was on the wall for Sir Miles – or Lord Killearn, I should say now. I have his contact details in Singapore. I’ll make sure your letter reaches him.’
‘You’re very kind. Thank you.’
He paused. ‘Do you mind me asking, do you live in Cairo?’
‘Not at all. At the moment I’m staying with friends near the pyramids, but I’m going back to Luxor in a couple of days – that’s really where I call my home.’
The consul gave her a sharp glance. ‘Have you known Prince Shams Sakr El Din a long time?’
‘No, I met him on the train from Luxor and bumped into him tonight.’ Perhaps it was the prince’s reputation but she felt the consul disapproved. She added demurely, ‘He’s rather taken me under his wing.’
Song of the Nile Page 15