The air in the hall was thick with a suffocating cloud of smoke, and closely packed with bodies white and black. In the center was a lit brazier from which rose a dense column of smoke. They were burning a large chunk of West African hashish: the lot of them were inhaling nothing but hashish fumes. A sense of warmth and torpor pervaded my limbs—I was exhausted, I needed to rest. I was handed along to another woman, an alluring black girl, slimmer and younger than the first, her hair arranged in tiny, beaded braids. I gave myself up to her, disappearing into her. Some men came in carrying frame drums. They gathered around the fire, beating the drums loudly, while in their midst a woman, entirely naked, executed a sinuous dance. The black girl clung to me, running her hands over my body. Opposite me I saw a white woman sitting sandwiched between two black men, their legs entwined, their hands clutching at her breasts.
I felt a strangulating anxiety; the black girl took me out to the long corridor and brought me to a narrow room in which there was nothing but a straw mat and a worn pillow. She removed her clothing and flung herself upon me. On the point of weeping, I tried to extricate myself from beneath her weight. I wanted Rosa, with all her delicacy, despite her frivolity and shortsightedness. “What’s the matter with you, the lot of you?” the girl shouted full in my face. “Why do you come to me with all your complications and your squeamishness?” Before I could make a move, she sank her nails into my face. The corpulent woman I’d encountered earlier intervened, pulling the girl off of me and wiping traces of blood from my face.
In a confiding tone she said to me, “If you’d rather have a boy, just say so. It’s all on offer.” All I wanted was to get away from this place. The black girl spat at me, and crouched naked in a corner of the room. I gave the big woman all the money I had in my pocket, and an even larger black man appeared, lifted me up onto his shoulders, and tossed me outside.
I stayed no longer in Deir al-Bahri, but took up residence in the village of al-Qurna, leaving the world of the Europeans on the other side of the river. I had learned to speak Arabic fluently, so there was no impediment to my communication with the peasants in the village, and by degrees I penetrated their society. I saw the ones who surreptitiously dug for treasure, and those who counterfeited the statues and other antiquities, or made imitation papyrus fragments. They formed a hidden world, to which it was no easy matter for foreigners to gain access. But once I submitted my resignation they began to trust me a little more. I continued to frequent the temples scattered about the area—Medinet Habu, the Ramesseum, and Deir al-Bahri. I visited gravesites replete with magnificent paintings, such as the tomb of Seti I, featuring the most extraordinary paintings I’ve seen in all my life, and the tomb of Amenophis II, where the mummies of kings who could not achieve immortality are laid in rows. I made my paintings, and I saw the world I had for so long been unable to see as I had wished.
The Nile kept rising until it covered the broad expanse of flat land, and swarms of mosquitoes expanded with it. We took to immersing ourselves in the water every day, but we could no longer reach the other shore—our connection to the rest of the world had been severed. The image of the god Hapi, who gave the Egyptians the yearly flood, was incised upon the walls on the Island of Philae. His features combine masculine ruggedness with feminine delicacy. He wears a crown woven from palm fronds, and his arms are weighed down with the abundance of gifts he carries.
The world no longer mattered to me in any case. Abdel Rasul told me he was preparing to provide me with a boat that would take me to the other shore, and from there to Cairo, the countryside not being a fit place now for anyone but its native inhabitants. But I was ill and exhausted, and had given myself up, under assault by the fevers of malaria each night. I had no thought even of crossing the river to see one of the doctors. I swallowed some of the tablets that were among my possessions, and spent my nights in feverish dreams of the rains of Swaffham and the wolves of Beni Hassan. When I saw the pitying expression in Abdel Rasul’s eyes, I realized that I was too weak for there to be any other world for me.
The fever diminished, the waters receded from the plain, and the oppressive heat faded, especially in the evening. I wanted to go out and move about, and to resume my artwork, but Abdel Rasul shook his head: I was too frail to go out in the blazing heat of day, but when I kept insisting he at last agreed to take me along on his nocturnal peregrinations. Together we made our way under the moonlight, which made the tombs appear less desolate, while the wolves called to one another from afar. We went to the Ramesseum, breathing the fragrance of the green fields. Before us rose the trunks of the ancient palm trees, which had been bred and had multiplied for ages upon ages. I observed the tracks of Abdel Rasul’s large, unshod feet in the soft sand; it was as if he left his imprint everywhere he went. We heard the sound of the water wheels irrigating the soil by night, long after the heat of the day and well away from the eyes of the irrigation inspectors. The water buffaloes and the blindfolded bulls rotated them in never-ending circles. Everything appeared unreal. The scoops drew up the water from the bottom of the well and dumped it into the canals leading to the field, the wheel’s axle always turning within a vast hollow stone cut from basalt, shining with moisture and reflecting the moonbeams.
“That piece of granite,” said Abdel Rasul, gesturing toward it, “before it became the axle of this waterwheel, was a pillar for the house of al-Qurna’s mayor, which stood close to the banks of the Nile. A depraved man he was. He bedded only the daughters of Gypsies. After he died we used bulls to drag all these stones here; it took three nights, working until dawn, to move every stone.
“Before the mayor lived in the house, it served as a barracks for the French soldiers, who spent some time here while artists recorded these ruins. When the house was destroyed, British soldiers took it over and set up camp within its walls on their way to do battle with the armies of the Mahdi. I myself saw their campfires, as they smoked their pipes and cleaned the bayonets on their rifles. The honorable Mahdi was a hero but, like Orabi, he was unlucky.
“Before that these stones were the foundation of the little mosque until it succumbed to the floods that submerged the valley. Those who built the mosque had taken the stones from a Mamluk fortress of al-Zahir Baybars, when the sanjaks came to this land. And they say that the Mamluks took it from an old Coptic stronghold enclosing a church and monastic cells, and that the Copts had effaced all traces of the ancient pharaonic inscriptions the stones had borne, replacing them with images of the cross, which remain to this day.”
In this solemn place, his voice seemed to draw its subject-matter from the echoes of long bygone eras. “How do you know all these things?” I asked him.
“This is what they say,” he replied cryptically. “There are many tales. Each stone here has its tale to tell.”
We walked a long way, and I felt the night air fill me with great energy. I wanted to work; I wasn’t thinking of sitting for many hours amid temples so long silent, but it was essential that I prepare myself for the coming season. Having arranged matters so that my paintbrush should be my livelihood, I didn’t dare tell my father that, in spite of myself, I had been transformed, cast in his image.
The season was still some weeks off; the excavations would not begin for at least another two months, but Naville came to me, catching me by surprise when he entered my residence amidst the houses of al-Qurna. I was stretched out upon my bed, which I had sprinkled with cold water. He stood beside me, towering over me, his thick moustache curled up at the ends until it connected with his muttonchops. As he looked down at me a smile I could not read played about his lips. Had he come to gloat, to mock me? Had Rosa told him, perhaps in one of their moments of shared sensual bliss, about the ill-fated offer I had made her? Had they paused to jeer at me and then resumed their lovemaking once more? It seemed as though he must not know anything about the truth of my feelings or the secret hatred I bore him.
He sat down before me and said simply, “You’ve given me a run for
my money—I’m quite worn out from looking for you. I nearly gave up—are you in hiding from some legal judgment?” He was back to teasing me. “I’ve come early,” he continued, “before the start of the season, expressly so as to seek you out!”
“I didn’t think you needed anyone,” I replied tightly.
“Now then, don’t be cross,” he said jovially. “There’s nothing between us to warrant any of that. I’ve come to offer you a good job.”
“I’ve submitted my resignation, as a matter of fact.”
“Forget about that trifling job—it practically paralyzed you. I’ve come to offer you grander employment, perhaps the greatest occupation in southern Egypt. You’re still young, but I think you’re the best man for the job.”
In spite of myself, I began to attend to his words. He started telling me about the Egyptian Department of Antiquities, the first agency of its kind in the world, founded in 1858 by the scholar Auguste Mariette, the man who composed the scenario for the opera Aida. He wished to preserve the artifacts from those who would plunder them, but the agency was unable to assume its role as guardian of Egypt’s antiquities—it remained weak, for want of funding support. Its mission was to conserve the existing artifacts, to grant permission for excavations that set out to unearth more, and to take its share of the discoveries. This goal was not adequately fulfilled, and this displeased the current head of operations, who wanted greater authority for the administration, with more control over the vast wealth to be had. So he undertook to divide Egypt into two regions: one extending from Cairo to the city of Qus, and the other from Qus southward as far as the first cataract. Naville had decided that I should be the inspector for the antiquities of the southernmost territory. All these sprawling archaeological sites covering more than five hundred kilometers would be under my jurisdiction, and my salary would be four hundred pounds a year—which is to say that my modest wages as a copyist of ancient art would suddenly increase sevenfold.
I sincerely hated the man, but he had come to me offering the opportunity of a lifetime. In spite of myself, I would have to go with him to Cairo to meet Gaston Maspero, one of the most famous scholars of Egyptian antiquities, to whom everyone referred with reverence and respect. I had not yet recovered sufficient strength for such a long journey, but the offer was very tempting. I wondered, was I truly in love with Rosa, or had I attached myself to her because she represented the only possibility open to me in this fierce desert? Abdel Rasul brought us cups of mint tea, helped me pack my case, and insisted upon taking us in his boat across the river to the east bank.
The ship, which served Cook’s Tours, was nearly empty. The only passengers onboard were employees, and some tourists fleeing the heat; Egyptians were not permitted to travel on this ship unless they were servants or cleaners. There was a long journey ahead of us, with much time to be spent in each other’s company. The Nile was still dyed red from the floods. We did not speak seriously, Naville and I, until we had traveled together for some time. The ship turned with the Nile before Qena, and there were the peaks of the mountains, appearing to stop the flow of the river, the course of the currents, for the ship had reversed direction, as if to make its way back southward again. We were standing at the ship’s rail, gazing at the rows of palm and Jerusalem thorn and sycamore. He drew a metal flask from his back pocket, curved so as to fit easily into that part of his trousers. He drank from it thirstily, wiping his moustache and belching in between gulps. He offered me the flask, but I declined. I wanted to keep my wits about me until I knew what sort of game he was playing with me.
All at once I heard him say, “We’ve split up. My wife found out about us and raised a great fuss. She had to go away, and my wife decided to accompany me from now on, for as long as the excavations continue.”
I said, barely able to get the words out, “Were the two of you making fun of me?”
Waving the flask, he replied, “You mustn’t think that. She was in love with you as well. She wished she had met you under other circumstances. But what was between us was passionate. I myself am not yet over losing her.”
“Is that why you’ve designated me for this position—as some kind of compensation?”
“Don’t be absurd. I don’t owe you anything. You’ll be a great help to me, and you’ll facilitate the excavation works that fall within my remit—that’s all there is to it. All I want is for you to provide me with some protection against theft and other such inconveniences; I shall take care of the rest.”
My only mistake had been in not knowing he was in the way. How could I have stood any chance against him in a contest for her affections?
My meeting with Gaston Maspero went well—or at least I managed to sign a contract for employment according to the conditions Naville had conveyed to me. Maspero was surprised at how young I was, but even more so by the energy I had demonstrated and the experience I had acquired in the course of those few years. I was to preserve the opened tombs, as well as those that were targets for looters on a daily basis, and I was to sort out the work among the diggers, who were all vying to be assigned to the excavation at Thebes. I was, moreover, to take on all the thieves, be they peasants or museum curators or the specious scholars who hung about on the eastern bank, awaiting their chance.
“You’ve just become king of the city of the dead. You have your private palace within the halls of Medinet Habu, as well as your own private zoo.”
So spoke Emilia Andrews when she visited me in my new house. The dahabeah that brought her and the other wealthy Americans had returned to Luxor with the start of the new season. I had no palace, just a modestly furnished government rest house, overlooked by the columns of the ancient temple, which lent it a certain grandeur. There was no zoo, but there was a small open space in front of the house that was filled with flowers; there was also a racehorse called Sultan, a donkey called San Aten, and a small gazelle. It was Abdel Rasul, who had become my preferred assistant, who had caught the gazelle in his net and brought it back to the house.
Was this a satisfactory solution? Had I returned victorious to Thebes? Abdel Rasul always prodded me with such questions when he brought me my mint tea with sugar every morning. Was this the paradise I had dreamt of? Each day I pondered the winged serpent incised on the front of the gate to Habu, wondering where, in my paradise, the serpent lay hidden. My heart was still tender; I had to reestablish Naville’s friendship once more; I had to treat myself as a person of importance, an essential part of wealthy society—those who frequented the region for their own pleasure in its warm winters and its vivid legends. I chose my garments well, partook of my meals in a civilized manner, and spoke engagingly to matrons and young ladies. I shed the skin of the solitary rustic, and became once again an English gentleman who enjoyed his position and the privileges of his race.
My task, however, was more difficult than I had foreseen. The areas were vast, the tombs exposed, the temples unprotected, and the watchmen who undertook to guard them few and often in league with the thieves. It was my objective to erect iron fences around the temples and at the doorways to the tombs, to oversee the diggers who were doing the excavations at each site, and to inspect the sacks of manure transported by the donkeys to ensure that none contained smuggled goods. The place was rich—indeed, bloated—with treasure, but quite desperately deprived of all means of protection.
I rode my horse, Sultan, galloping in every direction, and I traveled by boat to the temples dispersed around Luxor, but I sometimes felt as if the business was beyond my capabilities. Old friends I reckoned had forgotten I existed descended upon me. Newberry turned up, carrying a permit to dig. He was able to make an excavation at one of the outermost sections of the valley, where he stumbled across four rare gold plates with the Apis bull inscribed upon them. The agreement was that he should take half—two plates only—and that the other two plates should go to the Egyptian Museum, but as he was an old friend I trusted him more than I should have, and deceit was part and parcel with t
he game of hunting for artifacts. I was enraged, but there was nothing I could do.
I knew a number of immensely wealthy swindlers, who invited me to their parties, such as Theodore Davis, whose assistant, Emilia, had secret connections to smugglers and thieves. How great was my astonishment when he offered a donation toward installing the iron gates to fortify some of the tombs; but my surprise dissipated when I realized that he, too, had got a license to dig in the Valley of Thebes.
Even Lord Amherst himself, my erstwhile benefactor—his daughter came by herself from England to try her hand on a dig; she had inherited from her father an infatuation with Egyptian relics, and she wanted to have her own private collection. I advised her to get well away from the already congested Valley of Thebes. She went south to dig for relics and, at Qubbat al-Hawa, near Aswan, she happened upon some rare papyrus manuscripts. They could not be divided, and she was an upright woman, who would not stoop to maneuvering behind my back. I gave her a statue that had been discovered at the Ramesseum, taking in exchange for it the rare papyri. I promised her I would draw up a copy of the originals for her.
Not everyone, however, was as conscientious as this lady. I was not equal to all those high-and-mighty types—it would have required more energy than I possessed to oppose them. All I could do was to apprehend some of the peasants, who would hide little figurines and scarabs inside the loads of manure they were transporting on the backs of their donkeys. I turned them over to the police and the courts, but the courts did no more than fine them a mere fifteen piasters. They were the least of the problem, and they were the only ones to meet with punishment, though the penalties were inconsequential. The law, however, was weaker than all of them, and the thieves were everywhere, all around me, closer to me than they had any business being.
A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Page 20