A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  “My dear Howard,” said Emilia, “you’re in love with this girl, Rosa . . . aren’t you?”

  For the first time, my voice rose in protest. “Certainly not.”

  “That’s as may be,” said Emilia calmly, “but at the very least you are interested in her. I saw how you looked at her all during the reception. During lunch you never took your eyes off her, but alas she was looking in another direction. She can’t see you in your position.”

  I was aware of a lump in my throat, a constriction in my chest. She, however, regarded me with a determined air—it was only too obvious that she was a mature and experienced woman, while I was still stumbling about in my twenties, not knowing how to embark upon my first experiences in the world of women.

  “What do you mean?” I said in a choked voice.

  “Clearly you have taken yourself well away from the world, my dear,” she said. “You don’t wear suitable clothes, and you don’t know the proper way to eat at table. Moreover, you are always silent—how can you get her attention like that? You must make her look at you, change your appearance, become more receptive to life—and money was invented to serve these ends. I don’t know how much you earn each month from your work, but I’m sure it is a negligible sum.”

  My wages did not exceed five pounds a month, but I dared not admit this to her. It was enough for me—or at least I thought it sufficient.

  “These paintings you guard so closely,” Emilia resumed, “will not for long be in Mr. Davis’s hands. He will most likely donate them to a museum, and thus will their glory redound to you. No one will remember who bought them from you. Take the money, my dear—you need it. And let me teach you some skills that will enable you to win over this young lady.”

  When I left the berth at last, the sun was about to set. So enchanting was the view of the river that a hush had fallen upon the crowd. They were all standing at the ship’s rail, gazing at the water as it changed color—there was no other river that performed such wonders. Rosa was standing on her own, while Naville sat upon a chair, evidently immobilized from too much drink. I approached and stood beside her, the boldest step I had taken in all the twenty years of my life. We stood there in silence. A great deal had happened to me on this day.

  “Why haven’t you come back to visit Deir al-Bahri?” I asked her at last. “I thought that I . . . what I mean is . . . I thought you were interested in the paintings there.”

  She turned toward me, surprised. “I thought you found my being there annoying,” she said. “You kept so silent all the time, and you didn’t press me to stay.”

  Her reply shocked me. I realized all at once that everything Miss Emilia had said to me in the stateroom was true. Rosa stood near me, her hand clutching the ship’s rail close to mine. I wanted to place my fingers on hers, but I lacked the courage. I glanced behind me. Naville sat overcome by sleep. She looked at him, amused. How could such a powerful man be vanquished by drink?

  “I’d like you to come back,” I said at last. “There are beautiful paintings you haven’t seen yet. It would be my pleasure to show them to you.”

  She placed her hand over mine and smiled at me.

  She didn’t come the following day, either. Davis came, as well as a great many of the guests who had attended his party. They were mounted upon donkeys, whose backs they warmed with blows from their switches, stirring up the sand and making a great din amid the silence of the dead. The peasants and the muleteers held the edges of their garments between their teeth and tried in vain to keep up. I could only smile, seeing Davis jump down before me, eager as a child. The weather was hot, but it was apparent that the residue of the previous evening’s libations had not yet evaporated from all of their heads. They milled around me, turning over my papers, then dispersed themselves about the temple. Emilia kissed me on the cheek as was her manner, and presented me with a carefully tied parcel.

  “This is for you,” she said. “For the pretty young lady. Don’t open it until after we leave.”

  I was downcast, feeling sadly neglected by Rosa. I accompanied them into the various chambers, reading the inscriptions and interpreting the paintings, disparate fragments of the life of a queen whose abysmal luck had decreed that she should be female.

  “For twenty years—the length of her reign—her body oppressed her,” I explained. “She strove to delude herself and everyone else that she was actually a man, merely born with the wrong traits. Her real tragedy was in not finding a man who was her equal. Her father, Thutmose I, had left her with an illegitimate brother whom she was forced to marry, despite her contempt for the bond that united them. She was not granted a suitable position on the throne by his side, or a warm place in his bed. He persistently marginalized her, putting his favorites above her, and he repeated what his father had done, producing with another woman an illegitimate son whom he undertook to raise as the heir to his throne.

  “Hatshepsut, though a mild and bashful girl, could not bear being defrauded and ignored. She grew up unobserved behind the scenes. Her body matured and was convulsed with longing; her mind was open to all tactical options, but what happened thereafter was mysterious. A young man, an architect and a genius, came into her life—that was Senenmut, who eventually built this temple for her. Did he come to know her early on, and did this relationship grant her the strength and the impetus to rid herself of her husband, or did Senenmut make his appearance later, the recompense destined for a solitary widow whose bed was cold, her body long forsaken?

  “Hatshepsut bestowed upon this architect eighty honorific titles, and charged him with the care of her only daughter. She would make love with him only in a boat set upon the waters on moonlit nights. In love she was passionate, as a ruler powerful. Not only did she wear a false beard, but she was the first woman in history who wore gloves in order to conceal the fragility of her fingers.

  “She built one of the strongest fleets in the ancient world. Her ships went first to the country of Punt, in Africa, whence they fetched wood and perfumes. From the wood they constructed another fleet, grander and more vast, capable of traversing the Sea of Shadows. But destiny was to turn back upon itself. Her husband’s illegitimate son lay always in ambush, hiding in the shadows of the palace, waiting to find the right moment to avenge his father’s death. No doubt the priests helped him to seize his opportunity and pounce upon her—her and her lover the architect—in one fell swoop. The outcome of these events is obscure, but death did not divide them for long. There was a passageway connecting her tomb to his, so that they could meet again at world’s end.”

  I stopped speaking and turned to see whether there were any questions. There stood Rosa, leaning against a column surmounted by a capital. She was gazing at me, her eyes shining. The group withdrew, but she came up to me and said, “I thought you had forgotten how to speak. I didn’t know you were so good at relating tales of love.”

  All the others waved good-bye to me as they mounted their donkeys in preparation for departure. Emilia turned and embraced Rosa. She kissed her and whispered a few words in her ear, and they laughed together like mischievous girls. Then at last we were left alone. We sat together before the wall, upon which were depicted women presenting offerings to the god Amun. She took out her papers and began to sketch rapidly. I wanted to tell her how many things had changed for me, to tell her about my sudden feeling that I had reached a point at which I must stop and make a life-changing decision. But the words accumulated in my chest, too weak to come out. I forgot all the advice Emilia had given me as I contemplated Rosa’s profile, while she sat there beside me with her shoulder nearly touching mine. She resembled one of those young girls who were presenting the offerings—but to which god? I didn’t know.

  “Don’t stare at me so much,” she said, “or my features will get mixed up with the outlines of your paintings!”

  She was smiling, but I was embarrassed, feeling myself wanting in courtesy. She did not object, though, when I took her hand. We went out to the ba
lcony outside the sanctuary. Abdel Rasul was headed toward us, bearing my food supplies, and together we contemplated his mysterious smile. She took a little food with me, and I, my tongue loosed at last, recounted to her something of my experiences in Egypt. Suddenly I remembered the day when I had met Fraser, when he had stood upon the stony perimeter of the tombs at Beni Hassan and said, “We’ve all come to this place to escape our personal afflictions.” Why had a pretty girl like Rosa come to such a place? Was there someone she was running away from? What sort of trouble would drive a girl like this to bed down in such a desolate place, in an encampment inhabited exclusively by men covered in dust? I dared not ask her.

  At sunset, I walked with her to Naville’s encampment. The desert was hot, the ruins imposingly silent. The waters of the Nile were unsettled, like a troubled heart. We paused for a moment, far from the eyes of others. Ought I to kiss her at this moment, or settle for foolishly squeezing her hand?

  In the days that followed I saw her, and we continued with our paintings, our conversation, our strolls among the columns of the temples and the flocks of migrating birds at the river’s edge. I inhaled her mild fragrance at leisure and my heart let go of the loneliness in which I had dwelt for so long. I came to know her shifting facial expressions: serious as an old woman, mischievous as a child, alluring as an unattainable ancient goddess. She allowed me to clean the paint off of her fingers and tuck her hair back behind her ears for her. One day while sitting beside me she stopped painting, stood up, and moved a little way off. Then she seated herself before me. She set her papers in her lap and said with a smile, “I’m tired of copying these stiff figures. I’m going to do your portrait instead.”

  She began sketching with animated strokes, as if the lines on the paper had been held prisoner inside her fingers for a long time. She would raise her head every so often to take in my features, gazing for a long time into my eyes, as if she wanted to penetrate my mind. I was trembling, no longer finding it easy to make eye contact with her. So I spread out my papers as well, and began to work on her portrait. We laughed together in conspiratorial delight, as we rapidly plied our brushes. We finished at the same moment.

  We sat side by side, each of us attuned to the proximity of the other’s body. She had portrayed me with my hair unkempt; my eyes were shining, but their expression was faraway and sad; she had drawn my nose larger than life, my moustache as scarcely more than an accumulation of fuzz.

  She gazed for a long time at her own portrait, then looked at me quizzically. Could it be that she had read between the lines, and did she know what an anguished spirit was behind the image? I had done no more in my portrayal of her than to bedeck her with crowns and scarabs and ankhs.

  The season was almost over, with everyone preparing to leave, in dread of Luxor’s scorching summer. In just a few days the dahabeah and the grand ships would slip their moorings and head north with the tide of departures. Would Rosa go with them?

  Emilia had brought me a parcel of new clothes, which enabled me better to keep up appearances before Rosa. I had accepted the gift because Emilia reminded me of my aunt, my father’s sister, who taught me English by means of the Bible.

  I, too, was drawing near to the end of my special season, and I had realized that there was no need for me to stay on alone in this place. The decisive moment for me with Rosa came at sunset. We were standing together on the bank of the Nile, the fields stretching out before us lushly verdant. I reached out, rested my hand on her shoulder, then kissed her on the cheek, which was soft and warm. She stared at me in surprise; I put my arm about her waist and kissed her on the lips. Her lips were cool. She didn’t pull away, but neither did she return my kiss. My whole body was perturbed, and I said in an unsteady voice, “I’m going to change my life—I shan’t remain in this profession any longer. I’ve sold some of my paintings, and received a large sum in exchange. I’ll give up this wretched job and be free to do my own painting—I’ll be able to earn plenty to set up a house worthy of you.”

  She did not reply. I tried to take her in my arms once more—the first kiss, I thought, had not expressed my true feelings. But she withdrew her hand and held me off, preventing me from making a move. On her face was a resolute frown.

  “I’m in love with Naville,” she said. “I came here for his sake.”

  My mouth fell open in astonishment. I wanted to speak, to interrogate, to object, to comprehend—or at the very least to point out to her that Naville was married and had no right to make her fall in love with him and abandon me for his sake. But all at once she had become cold and distant, and all power of speech left me. The most I got from her was a brief, pitying glance; she had no attachment to me, and she owed me no explanation.

  “I think I shall go now,” she said. “I’m quite sure I can find my own way.”

  Late that same night, Abdel Rasul visited me unexpectedly. I heard his approaching footsteps. He stood erect before me, planting his staff in the sand. On his head was an enormous turban; he was barefoot. “Foreigner,” he said, “I saw the light coming from your camp—this is not your custom. You go to bed early, and rise with the dawn.”

  Startled, I said to him, “I didn’t know you roamed about at night, too.”

  “This is my land,” he replied, “I wander it at all times. For me, night is like day. I know the terrain well—I don’t need light.”

  “Perhaps you were looking for artifacts to steal!” I said sardonically.

  Without losing his temper, he answered, “No one plunders his own land, foreigner. Whatever is here, buried or out in the open, we have a right to. You are temporary guests—the Turks and Circassians were here before you. But it is we who remain.”

  I kept quiet for a bit. I felt much of what he was saying was uncalled-for, but there were other things I wanted to talk about with him. What happened in the valley did not much concern me; I knew they all stole things: the farmers, the diggers, the explorers, the museum curators, the consuls, and those who called themselves Egyptologists. All of them vied for the spoils buried in this arid patch of ground. I was weary and brokenhearted, and I couldn’t tell whether Abdel Rasul’s arrival was mere happenstance or whether in some mysterious way he knew about what had happened to me that day.

  “That girl,” I found myself saying to him, “the artist who used to come here—did you know that she was romantically involved with Naville?”

  “You mean the young foreign woman?” he replied. “She is his mistress—everyone knows that. They’re getting ready to travel to Cairo together.”

  It was as simple as that—quite clear. How could I have been the only one who didn’t see it? How could I have been so gullible, carried away by an illusion?

  Abdel Rasul stared wordlessly at me. Then he spoke. “Don’t let these things distress you, foreigner,” he said. “Everyone here is just passing through, and all their liaisons are temporary as well. When the season ends, everyone heads north and all promises expire. That’s always been the way of it.”

  The following day I went to Luxor and sent a telegram to the Egyptian Antiquities Service in London, informing them of my resignation. I stopped by the Winter Palace Hotel, where Emilia was packing in preparation for her own departure. She kissed me sadly, seeing the look of despair on my face.

  “You knew she was his mistress,” I said to her, “and yet you still insisted that I pursue my relationship with her.”

  She sighed. “That little fool,” she replied. “I wanted to give her the opportunity for a normal romance.”

  “You should have told me what was going on, that it was serious between them . . .”

  “My dear, this sort of thing happens every day. Such is the game of love and deception. You’ll grow up one day and become a part of it, too. Come . . . you must have a glass with us before we go. How unfortunate that I met you too late, my poor young friend.”

  There was nothing natural about what was happening, but the season was ending all the same. They all went aw
ay, and I stayed on, alone. I too should have gone, but it was a long way to my village of Swaffham, and I didn’t think the journey would bring me any consolation.

  I took to exploring the dusty streets of the city, which wound between close-set houses of mud brick. I bumped up against passersby but avoided the water buffaloes and donkey-drawn carts. I didn’t notice that I had entered the slave district situated on the outskirts of the city until I found myself in the very heart of it.

  Little barefoot children surrounded me, showing their white teeth, entwining their small fingers with mine. They clustered around me, compelling me to go where they wanted me to go. I stumbled over stones and dirty puddles, but they kept pulling me along. This neighborhood was where enslaved Africans congregated, having escaped over the borders and evaded their masters; here also were fugitives from the law, as well as those fearful of revenge from blood feuds, among others—outcasts all. The houses were small—shacks, rather—with bamboo walls and roofs thatched with palm fronds. Seated before them were African women clad in colorful garments, their hair bound up in small turbans. Lamplight flickered before every house. The women called out to the children, encouraging them to continue pulling me. I did not resist; the glasses of wine I had drunk were turning my stomach.

  The children led me to a capacious building with a large gate made from the trunks of palm trees. They pushed me inside, and the gate closed behind me. I stood in an exposed courtyard, an African temple constructed of palm fronds interwoven with tree branches. Coming toward me was a massive woman, whose colorful clothing was barely secured above the swell of her ample bosom. She drew me by the hand, as if my presence was nothing out of the ordinary, leading me across the open space. We entered a dimly lit sorcerer’s maze consisting of innumerable corridors and chambers.