‘I’m fine really, don’t fuss.’
Suddenly the sheikh tripped, but he regained his balance, revolving with his head at his knees, before bringing himself up in a twisted, violent writhing of his whole body. His pleated cap fluttered to the floor like a dead moth.
And now, as the audience stared, they saw that the serene flat face had been transformed. The sheikh was in a trance, his eyes wild and staring through strings of long black hair. He raised his hands higher, supplicating, drawing the spirit into dialogue, sweat running down his face, the drums accelerating to keep pace with his quickening, rhythmic whirling.
‘Ahhhh! Ahhhh!’ The women marked their turns with short, sharp cries. The incense and insistent drumbeat as well as the rhythmic perpetual turning were beginning to tell.
Aida shook her head, fighting off a sense of giddiness. The scene had actually seemed for a moment to move backwards and forwards before her eyes. Beside her, Camelia fidgeted uneasily.
The sheikh was now closing in on the crouched figure of the woman, closer in his turns until in an apparently chance movement he touched her. He whirled away, then whirled back and dragged her swiftly across the floor, sliding her deftly into the centre of the circle.
The patient sat, a faceless pathetic bundle, the only fixed point in the moving whirling group in the siwan.
‘Ahhhh! Ahhhh!’ The women closed in, forming a protective circle of white around the sick person, who began to bob back and forth slowly and rhythmically. Above the drums and clapping, Aida could hear a new sound, a tearing, convulsive sobbing. Boom! Boom! Boom! The drums were deafening.
‘Ahhhh! Ahhhh!’
Pivoting, the sheikh whirled swiftly upon the patient like a fury and tore open the cocoon of her white dress. The circle of women in white fell back and the drums ceased suddenly. The woman screamed, exposed in her wrinkled cotton kaftan, her eyes glazed, face swollen with weeping, hair dishevelled and wild. ‘Allah!’ she wailed. ‘Allah! Ya Allah!’
Trying to stand, she fell in a crumpled heap to the floor. The women in white carried her gently to a corner, cradled and comforted her, smoothing her hair while she wept bitterly and loudly, calling upon Allah for mercy and compassion.
‘Have you seen enough? Can we go now?’ Camelia asked, restlessly.
Aida was still scanning the tent, peering from the sheikh to the women in white and wondering if that was the end of the ritual. ‘Shouldn’t there have been a sacrifice? I’m sure Dada Amina told me that usually they sacrificed some sort of bird or animal.’
‘I’m going,’ Camelia said emphatically. ‘I would let you stay for all the gory details, but it’s dark and I don’t want you wandering these dark alleys on your own so let’s call it a day, shall we?’
Aida laughed. ‘All right, all right, don’t get stroppy. It was interesting, fascinating even. It’s one of our Egyptian customs.’
‘Not one we should be proud of.’
At that moment Aida caught sight of a man talking to the sheikh. Dressed in a worn baggy shirt and faded old trousers, he was a clear head taller than most Egyptian men and had the features of a black-eyed hawk, his piercing eyes fringed with dark lashes, his nose narrow with a vague hump and hook. His thick, tightly curled hair was sun-bleached to a pale brown that contrasted strangely with his deeply tanned skin, and a black straggly beard clung to his chin like winter-ravaged ivy tendrils.
The man looked oddly familiar. For a moment Aida couldn’t place him, then her focus sharpened as it dawned on her where she had seen him before: Karawan House, years before. It was Souma Hassanein’s brother, Atef.
In a split second Aida weighed up what to do. She turned to Camelia, trying to school her features into a neutral expression. ‘Look, I’m going to stay for a minute. Do you mind terribly?’
Her friend shook her head in resignation. ‘I’ll wait for you outside. Don’t be long, all right?’
As Camelia left, Aida moved slowly through the crowd to the edge of the tent near the entrance and waited. She watched as Atef murmured something to the sheikh, put his hands together in thanks and started back through the crowd, coming closer to the spot where she was standing.
Instinctively, she reached out a hand and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Atef Hassanein, is that you?’
The man’s head jerked sideways, scowling, then seeing that Aida was a well-dressed European, his expression became somewhat puzzled.
‘Hadreteck meen, who are you?’
She held herself confidently. ‘I am Aida El Masri. You are Souma’s brother, Atef, aren’t you? She used to work for our family in Luxor.’
He could not conceal his surprise. ‘Sit Aida? Ayoub Bey El Masri’s daughter? Ahlan, welcome.’
She needed to be direct and to the point and scrutinised the man closely. ‘You remember my father so you’ll remember too that Souma left our house suddenly after his arrest. Where did she go?’
Atef’s gaze held a coiled wariness. ‘Souma left Luxor while she could. May Allah protect you, Sit Aida, but I cannot speak to you anymore. Your father, Allah yerhamoh, may God have mercy on him, was a good man. His death was a terrible tragedy, but you must stay away from all this.’ His speech was low and rapid, his hawkish eyes flitting to the left and right as he spoke.
Surveying the man’s restless posture and his agitated expression, Aida could tell that he was afraid. ‘What do you mean, Atef? You know my father didn’t steal that Nefertari statue, don’t you?’
‘You don’t want to get mixed up in all this. Let sleeping dogs lie, Sit Aida. Wallahi, I swear to you, as Allah is my witness, these are dangerous people … they have eyes and ears everywhere. If they find out I’ve talked to you, we’ll both be killed.’
She stared into his dark face. ‘If who finds out? Who are you talking about?’
Atef’s gaze was caught by something behind her. He took a step away. ‘I’m sorry, Sit Aida, forgive me.’ Before she could ask him anything else he hastened towards a group of people leaving the tent and disappeared into the night.
She stood there for a moment before leaving, knowing it was pointless trying to follow him. She cast a glance around the tent, wondering who or what had made Atef bolt so suddenly, but in the smoky haze all she could see was the same group of people milling around. The plump woman had taken up her tar once more and was singing in a guttural voice.
Aida joined Camelia outside without a word of what had happened. She had to keep this to herself until she could think clearly about what to do. Children skipped around them as they went past the dark blind fronts of the Musky houses into a lit-up row of fruit stalls, still open although it was late. The insistent sweet smell of ripe guavas reached them, triumphing over all the other smells of the alley, and they paused to buy some of the pungent fruit before hurrying to where they had left Osta Fathi, the driver with the car.
* * *
On that last night before Phares’s return, as she was undressing to get into bed, Aida heard a car drive up to the house. She ran to the window hoping it was Phares, but in the moonlight, it was clear enough for her to make out that it was not his car but a taxi. Soon, Camelia came running down the stairs as two men got out, carrying a third. Aida watched as she joined them, leading the three men into the house. A few minutes later, the two bearers hurried back to the taxi, which drove off silently. Shortly afterwards Aida heard a faint rap at her door.
‘Come in,’ she said, turning from the window.
The door opened and Camelia, white-faced and in tears, stood on the threshold.
Aida rushed to her friend. ‘What’s happened? Who was …’
Camelia brought a finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Shush …’ as she slowly closed the door behind her. ‘Please come, I need your help,’ she murmured, tears rolling down her beautiful face. ‘Quickly! Sami has been hurt. I told him not to go … I knew it would be more dangerous than ever.’
Aida’s brows knitted together. ‘What’s happened?’ she repeated. ‘Who’s Sami?’
‘It’s a long story and I don’t have time to give you details. Suffice to say a friend of mine has been hurt by a bullet and I can’t call a doctor or take him to hospital.’
‘You mean he’s been shot?’ Aida tried to keep calm.
‘I thought they should bring him here. You’re a qualified nurse, you’ve dealt with the wounded … I didn’t know what else to do!’ Camelia’s eyes were wild with panic. ‘Please come quickly, Aida, he’s lost so much blood already.’
But Aida was already moving, snatching up her dressing gown and slipping it on over her underwear. ‘What medical supplies do you have and where are they?’ she demanded as she ran to the door, impelled by instinct.
‘Phares sometimes performs minor operations on fellahin who’ve been hurt in the fields. Everything you need will be downstairs.’
Aida followed her breathless friend, both of them running through corridors and down the stairs to the basement where Sami lay on a small bed moaning, almost unconscious. He was young and well built, with a lean face that looked waxen despite his tanned skin, his brows drawn together in a grimace of pain. Aida immediately knelt down beside him and took his pulse: it was weak but steady. She unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a blood-soaked cloth tied tightly around a shoulder wound. She breathed a sigh of relief. Having dealt with many such cases in the war, she knew from experience that this was little more than a flesh wound. Sami was bleeding freely, but their main issue now was to remove the bullet and clean the area with antiseptic before infection set in.
Meanwhile, her friend was working herself into a frenzy of grief, sobbing almost uncontrollably. Aida, needing to keep a cool head, was brisk: ‘Camelia, fetch me painkillers, antiseptic lotion, cotton wool, sterile dressings and a clean bandage. And stop that noise!’
Calmed by Aida’s measured tone of authority, Camelia immediately went to a large medicine cabinet against the wall, unlocked it and hunted among the well-ordered medical supplies to find the items. Aida breathed another sigh of relief when she saw what a well-provisioned household it was, inwardly blessing Phares for it. A moment later and she was giving Sami a shot of morphine in his arm. Then with swift, deft fingers, she swabbed gently at the congealed blood around the wound, before probing it carefully to remove the bullet with a tweezer-like probe. By now, Camelia had stopped crying and looked on helplessly while Aida stitched and dressed the wound, until it was ready for the bandage.
‘I’ve done all I can, now you must leave him to rest.’
Camelia went to her friend and put her arms around her, fresh tears rolling silently down her face. ‘I will never forget what you’ve done tonight, Aida. Thank you.’
‘Here …’ Aida felt in her dressing-gown pocket for a handkerchief and offered it to Camelia, looking at her with concern. ‘He’ll need an antibiotic. Check there are some in the cabinet. You don’t want that wound to become infected.’
Camelia took the handkerchief, her huge eyes red and watery. ‘Yes, of course. There are some, I’ll get them now.’
‘Good.’ Aida was relieved, yet knew that Sami still needed careful supervision. ‘You know, he should still be seen by a doctor, don’t you?’
Camelia nodded, then retrieved the medicine from the medicine cabinet. ‘You’ve been wonderful, Aida. I can’t thank you enough. I don’t think that a doctor could have done any better than what you’ve managed. But don’t worry, his friends are coming back in a few hours. They’re planning to take him to another friend’s house, whose father is a doctor. Tonight, it just couldn’t be done, it was too dangerous … but you’ve saved him. God bless you.’
‘I’ve given him a sedative so he’ll sleep for the next six hours at least. Tell your friends they must move him carefully.’ Her expression softened. ‘You need to get some rest. I can see it’s been a great shock.’
Camelia shook her head. ‘I won’t be able to sleep. I know you must be exhausted after the strain, habibti, but can I come up to your room for a while?’
Aida gave a sad little laugh. ‘Strain? That was nothing.’ Her eyes clouded as she remembered the suffering she had witnessed in the war hospitals. ‘I’ve seen much worse that this.’ She put an arm round Camelia’s shoulder. ‘Anyhow, I’m wide awake too. Why don’t we have a cup of teelio? It’s been so long since I’ve had some. It’ll calm us down.’
Camelia’s face brightened slightly.‘What a wonderful idea. Go to your room and I’ll bring it to you. You didn’t even have time to undress properly. I’m sorry, Aida.’
She smiled reassuringly. ‘You were right to fetch me. Every minute counted. Your friend has lost a lot of blood.’
Aida went up to her room. Although she wasn’t sure, she had an inkling of what all this was about. During her conversations with Camelia since her return, she had sensed her friend’s nationalist sympathies and she had the suspicion that, even if she wasn’t directly involved, she was somehow mixed up with the Nationalist Party, which had pitted themselves against a government too willing to accede to the British. Only the previous day, they had heard on the radio about another demonstration and more rioting that had broken out. Camelia had taken on the impassioned countenance Aida was starting to become familiar with. Her large eyes were fired with intensity as she described how it had been since the February student-led general strike.
‘It will go down in history as one of Egypt’s most infamous tragedies,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘The police opened the Abbas flyover on the orders of the Prime Minister. They let the protesters on to the bridge and dozens fell over the side and drowned in the Nile. It was awful. They then rounded up the survivors and arrested them. There was such an outcry that Prime Minister Nokrashy had to resign. As you know, Ismail Sidqi took over … though I’m not sure he’s much better.’
She had gone on to explain to Aida how the tragedy had triggered the student-led general strike, followed by clashes between Egyptian students and British occupation troops.
‘The students went on to torch a British military camp.’
‘Is that really a good idea? Surely we don’t want more violence?’ Aida had said quietly.
‘Maybe if they don’t, no one will sit up and take notice. Forty-seven students have died for the cause. If only Sidqi wasn’t so old and ill. He hasn’t the strength to lead the negotiations with the British.’
Sensing where Camelia’s sympathies seemed to lie, Aida hoped that her friend hadn’t become out of her depth. Frustration with the political order had created a boiling pot of activism, whether by supporters of the nationalist Wafd Party, the Muslim Brotherhood or the communists. It was clearly a dangerous time. After their last conversation, a feeling of disquiet had rippled through Aida, and now she realised she had been right. Her friend was clearly involved in some way. Now Camelia came back with the two cups of lime flower infusion. She had changed into her pyjamas and looked calmer, though her eyes were still rimmed with red.
The two young women sat on Aida’s bed, like old times except for the worry on Camelia’s face.
‘I suppose I owe you an explanation,’ she said at last, eyeing Aida sheepishly.
‘I think I can guess … Which group are you working for?’
‘Better you don’t know,’ Camelia answered quietly. ‘But I’m not really part of the organisation, I just help from time to time.’
Aida threw her a sceptical glance. ‘You must be helping a lot for them to risk bringing their wounded to you in the middle of the night …’
Camelia said nothing, but her large expressive eyes were full of confusion and uncertainty as they fixed on her friend.
Aida sighed. ‘Does Phares know about this?’
Camelia gasped. ‘No! And don’t you dare tell him. Please, Aida, you can’t!’
‘Do you realise what sort of risk you’re taking? Think how this could reflect on your family … on Phares’s career.’
‘Yes, but … but … this feeling of patriotism goes beyond that. Mounir would have encouraged me, I�
��m sure.’
Aida eyed her friend quizzically. ‘Mounir? Are you sure? How do you feel about Sami? He’s a very handsome man.’
‘What do you mean?’ Camelia replied feebly.
‘Are you sure it’s not your feelings for Sami rather than a powerful sense of patriotism that’s motivating you?’
Aida saw her friend’s cheeks burn red. ‘How could I have any feeling of that sort for Sami when I still grieve for Mounir?’
‘Love takes various forms. Your love for your husband still lies deep in your bones, but that doesn’t prevent you having feelings for another man. Mounir will never come back, and the way you were crying tonight …’
‘Oh, Aida, you don’t miss anything, do you? You’re voicing something I have been denying to myself for some time. And Sami cares for me, too … though he has never said so. I can read it in his eyes when he looks at me … But there is no future for us, we could never marry. His father is a carpenter – can you imagine our family’s reaction? Anyhow, Sami’s too involved in politics … He once told me that he was married to Egypt – the fairest bride he could ever wish for. Anyway, he is too proud to face a rejection, of course. Or elope, for that matter.’ Camelia gazed at her friend wryly. ‘But how come you are so perceptive about my feelings and so blind about yours?’
Aida laughed softly and shook her head, draining her cup. ‘Don’t change the subject. Anyhow, it’s already past one o’clock and if you need to be awake for your friends, you’d better get some sleep.’ She stood up, tying the cord of her dressing gown. ‘And now I’d like to check on Sami once more before going to bed, and again in the morning before he goes.’
Camelia jumped up from the bed and put their cups on the tray. ‘Let’s do it, but I don’t want him to see you in the morning. It puts you at risk.’ Her beautiful face darkened. ‘If he gets caught and is tortured, he could speak. I want you kept out of this.’
‘But …’
Camelia grasped her arm and fixed her with a haunted look. ‘Please, Aida. Don’t make me regret that I came to you. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.’
Song of the Nile Page 32