He was still there when at last she saw Mukhtar coming, walking with the same long stride she had never been able to keep up with. He looked thinner and taller; his hair had grown longer, his beard thicker. He moved like a ghost treading upon an unearthly surface. Her heart pounded. She wished she could rush over to him and throw her arms about his neck. There was no one there to see him off—he was solitary, just as he had been when she saw him the first time. She was his last farewell. He stood upon the platform, in no hurry to board the train. He stood there looking at his ticket, casting glances around the platform, at a loss. Then he took a deep breath. She sensed how alone he was—this was her moment to approach. She would have to tell him everything, and he would have to bear his share of guilt with her: he had left her alone and defenseless—it was he who had cracked open the secret of her hiding place, where she had been protected, enabling Omran to penetrate it. If Mukhtar had stayed by her side, none of this would have happened. But now he climbed aboard the train and disappeared all at once from view. She hadn’t imagined that such would be her final moments with him. She saw the driver and his assistant rise from their seats in the café and head for the train. The time had come. She moved a few paces forward on the platform, wanting to touch the outside of the train that contained him, but she drew back when he surprised her by looking out of a window. He glanced to the right and to the left, studying the empty platform, and his expression grew still sadder. Was he looking for her?
There was a young girl walking along the platform. She wore a school uniform—perhaps she was a student at one of the French schools. She was clutching her satchel of books, her expression one of fear and confusion. Doubtless she had not told her family she was going to the station. Her face lit up when she spotted Mukhtar looking out of the window, and she began to hurry across the platform. Aisha’s heart fell—she would never have imagined that a new girl could come into his life so quickly, or that she would be so young. Was she his sweetheart, or merely an admirer? She stopped in front of his window, tossing her satchel onto the ground. Reaching up as high as she could, she clung to his neck and pulled him toward her, so that he nearly lost his balance. Weeping, she pressed her face against him, while Mukhtar caressed her back. He seemed very tender toward her, and did not attempt to extricate himself from her embrace. The train whistle sounded. The girl stood back a little and now they rapidly exchanged a few words. The train began to move, and the girl ran to try to keep up with it, but he had to content himself with waving to her. He wiped his face, and Aisha could not tell whether he was brushing away his own tears or traces of the girl’s. The train gathered speed, bearing Mukhtar away. Aisha and the schoolgirl remained behind, alone on the platform. The girl watched for a little while, through her tears. Standing only a slight distance apart from each other, Aisha and the girl wept over the same man. With a passing glance at Aisha, the girl picked up her school satchel, and each of them went her way, neither making any attempt to speak to the other.
Aisha’s heart quaked when she caught sight of the minaret of the Sayyida Zaynab Mosque. Her steps grew heavy as she walked along Khalig Street. She hadn’t imagined that she would ever dare to set foot in the shrine again. Nabawiyya took her arm, urging her along. Aisha remembered every paving stone of the way, the whinnying as the horse-drawn buses passed, the signs for shops selling sweets—such as the one where they were standing now—and the smells emanating from al-Rakib’s restaurant. All her bygone moments with Mukhtar came to life again within her. The sight of the station still pained her, throwing her into confusion, the yearning she’d harbored not yet extinguished. But the closer they got to the mosque, the more agitated she became. She felt unclean, as if filth and shame remained a part of her and it was unseemly for her to enter the inviolate shrine.
When Nabawiyya asked her to accompany her on this visit, she had flatly refused. She wanted to stay within the walls of the house—she could no longer bear to lay herself open to further trauma. But Nabawiyya had insisted. She said, “It’s the only way the saint can cleanse us of some portion of our sins.”
Aisha maintained her composure until they crossed the noisy square, but stood hesitating at the entrance to the shrine. Nabawiyya, however, began whispering to her, “The lady receives everyone. She makes no distinction between sinners and penitents.”
Aisha stumbled forward until she grasped the links of silvery metalwork encasing the shrine. There were dozens of black-clad women ceaselessly circumambulating the tomb of the saint, and the fragrance of incense rose up everywhere. She was startled to find that Nabawiyya had prostrated herself and was weeping piteously. Her sobs wracked her body, and her fingers clutched at the reeds in the mats spread upon the floor. Through her tears, she uttered indistinct prayers; the effect of her inconsolable weeping was contagious and spread among them all. Everyone there bore the weight of a particular sin. Aisha removed herself to a corner and began reciting the al-Fatiha, but her mind was unfocused. Nabawiyya crept toward her until she was sitting beside her, and the two of them went on reciting verses from the Qur’an, their voices muted, not daring to speak to each other. Aisha was tormented, for the saint had not answered her prayers, had not kept Mukhtar for her, nor granted her the strength to keep her body untainted.
Nabawiyya sat now, breathing hard, her tears were all but spent. Aisha said to her, “Let’s go,” for the narrow confines of the place pressed heavily upon her. They sat in front of the mosque, in the plaza overlooking the square, amidst dozens of men and women. All at once, Nabawiyya spoke. “I’ve been intending to leave the house,” she said. “After what happened, it’s no longer a safe place. I want to get married and have a child.” Aisha looked at her in astonishment, and tried to hold back her questions, but Nabawiyya read them in her face. “I know what you’ll say,” she went on. “But ‘every Majnoun has his Layla,’ as the proverb tells us. Well then—there’s a man who may be content with me. He knows all about me. He used to work as a carpenter in Ansiya Lane. I’ve known him for years. Like me, he wants to make a new start. He happened to run into a little trouble, lost his shop, and went to prison for a while. We can help each other. I have some money, and he has his profession—together we’ll start over.”
Aisha did not reply at first. What should she say? Nabawiyya’s words seemed to reveal a possible hidden agenda. Was there really a reciprocal advantage here? Or could one side be exploiting the other? “You’re taking a risk,” she said at last. “You’re going to give him everything you have. Can you really trust him so far as that?”
“I have no choice but to trust him. I just need half a chance—all the girls in the house need it. Don’t be fooled by the dancing and singing, or the men’s lust for us. The Madam is merciless—she wants her girls to be ever young. There are pimps who provide her with young girls from the countryside, and she is always replacing her inventory. She’ll evict us without pity when we get a little older—the day when she drives us from her door will come, without fail.”
Aisha let her gaze wander, so that Nabawiyya would not see her eyes brimming with tears. She pretended to be absorbed in the crowd milling about the square. She, too, needed half a chance—but where was it to be found?
From the far side of the square a loud commotion erupted: a group of students and men in Western attire, coming from Mubtadayan Street, shouting energetically and carrying signs. “It’s a demonstration,” Aisha murmured wistfully. “History always repeats itself, without hope, without change. They’re still calling for independence, the right to self-determination, the right to attend the League of Nations conference in Paris—new words and slogans have been added, but the half-chance hasn’t come yet. It’s always the police, with their billy clubs and their viciousness, that come instead.” Aisha felt she ought to get up now and join them, but still she sat there, immobile, clinging to the edge of the worn marble step upon which she sat. The rhythm of the demonstration changed abruptly—the students stopped chanting and stood fixed in place. Only on
e of them still called out, pointing to the middle of the square.
“Englishmen!”
Everyone turned and looked for them—Aisha was astounded that they could have come so quickly. And, indeed, the English were there, but only in the form of a solitary man who stood at the far side of the tramway station, before the booksellers with their old volumes for sale. He was absorbed in leafing through one of their books, oblivious to the demonstration, deaf to the shouting directed against him—and yet he had become the enemy. A contingent of the younger demonstrators made for him, while the rest stood still, neither taking part in the attack nor preventing it. At last the man, belatedly sensing what was going on around him, raised his head, and Aisha got a good look at his face. She cried out, and hastily sprang up from the stairs before the mosque. But the students were faster than she was. They picked up stones from the street and began pelting him with them. The man raised the book to shield his face. The booksellers shouted, trying to drive the attackers off, and became in their turn targets for the stones. Then a large rock sailed through the air and scored a direct hit against the man. He staggered and lost his balance, as the force of the blow knocked him to the ground. Aisha screamed and ran toward him. The students, alarmed, ran away and hid themselves among the ranks of demonstrators.
Aisha leaned over the man and raised his head, which was bleeding. His eyes were closed; she didn’t know whether he was dead, or whether he had merely lost consciousness. One of the booksellers said, “There is no strength or power, except in God. He was a good customer.”
Nabawiyya approached and tried to draw Aisha away. “Aisha,” she said, “let’s be off now. We mustn’t involve ourselves in this affair. The police will charge us with having had something to do with it.”
“Get a carriage, quickly,” Aisha said to her. “We’ve got to get him away from here.”
But it was one of the booksellers who hastened to summon a carriage, while the others picked up the man and carried him to it. They set him down on the leather seat, and Aisha climbed up and sat beside him. She could feel a pulse in his neck, and hear his faint breathing. Nabawiyya sat on the opposite seat. One of the booksellers brought a bundle of books tied with a length of twine and held it up, saying, “These are his books, miss. He paid for them before he was struck.”
The carriage set off. Aisha studied the man’s face, which looked tired and sad—as always. “Mr. Carter,” she said, “are you all right?”
“Let’s take him to hospital,” said Nabawiyya anxiously.
“There’s none near here,” replied Aisha, “apart from al-Houd al-Marsoud, and we’ll be interrogated if we go there. We’re taking him to the house.”
Nabawiyya beat her breast. “This is a disaster!” she cried. “The Madam will kill us!”
“She’s not there,” said Aisha. “Had you forgotten?”
They managed to get him to her room. Umm Zaghloul saw that his wound didn’t require sutures, merely a coffee poultice. Aisha kept watch by him, observing his face in repose, and the wrinkles that had begun to find their way into his features. He was tired to the point of exhaustion, his beard growing in, his moustache limp, and his hair beginning to go grey. What sort of hardships had the passing years dealt him? No doubt Lord Cromer had seen to it that all the doors were closed against him. This was visible in his appearance, for he had lost his former elegance—nothing remained of the gentleman of old but a shabby ghost with grains of desert sand still clinging to it. She pitied him, and herself—these years had been hard on everyone.
As the shadows grew longer, she lit the lantern and hung it upon the wall, then returned to her vigil. He had opened his eyes, and was looking at her in amazement, unable to tell whether what he beheld was real or a dream. He couldn’t get up, but he reached out his hand to her, entreating her to help him be sure of what he was seeing. She gave him her hand, and he gripped it firmly. Feeling the touch of her fingers, he was reassured of her actual presence, and his face lit up.
“Why it’s you—my princess!” he said.
She smiled ruefully at him. “I’m no longer a princess,” she replied. “And it’s plain that you are no longer a king.”
He tried to get up, but he got dizzy. She gestured for him to stay where he was. He looked about wonderingly. “Where am I, anyway?” he inquired. “Is this your house?”
She didn’t know what to tell him. She felt she would be unable to manage a lie. Abruptly she said, “This is one of the pleasure-houses in the red-light district.”
The smile faded from his face; it seemed clear enough that these few words had dealt him a shock. In a faltering voice he said, “Do you work here?”
“Certainly not,” she replied. “But I live here all the same.”
“I have no right to question you. I myself lived in the home of Abdel Rasul. The former director of the Antiquities Commission lives under the protection of the most notorious smuggler of artifacts. Sometimes circumstances compel us to throw ourselves upon the mercy of those we cannot abide.”
Softly, without letting go of his hand, Aisha said, “Perhaps one day I’ll explain my reasons to you. But I want to know what’s become of you all these years. Why did you stay here—why didn’t you return to your country?”
He stared at the ceiling, his face twitching with agitation. “I tried to go back,” he said. “I actually boarded the ship at Alexandria. As the ship gave its first whistle and its first puff of steam, I managed to hop ashore just before they pulled up the gangplank. I couldn’t leave behind my formative years; I had to complete the journey I commenced in this place at the age of eighteen. I returned once more to Luxor, to make it clear to everyone that I hadn’t been driven off. I had more freedom than before, and I settled in the Valley of the Kings, at Thebes, for there was no other place I so loved. I went back to painting, and produced a great many pictures of pharaonic civilization, most of them inventions of my own imagination. I began selling them to the wealthy people who live along the riverbank, in their ships. I was also a party to deals in the sale of artifacts, whether stolen or acquired legitimately, genuine pieces or forgeries—it didn’t matter anymore. These were long and discouraging years, during which my sole object was to avoid being sent away. I endeavored to keep out of sight of Cromer’s men. I crossed the river and lived in al-Qurna Village with Abdel Rasul, my former enemy. I knew this would damage my reputation, that they’d all think me a thief like him, or his accomplice at the very least. It wasn’t my reputation I was concerned about preserving, though, but rather my presence there.”
He fell silent, exhausted. The dizziness seemed to have overtaken him again. He touched the bandage that was wrapped around his head, murmuring, “What did you put on this beastly wound?”
Aisha smiled. She could not tell him, and so she held back. She wished she could speak the way he did, to unburden herself of the grief that pressed upon her heart. “Are you still a fugitive?” she said.
“Not exactly,” he replied. “The terms of my banishment have been lightened somewhat. I was able to cross to the east bank and make the acquaintance of Lord Carnarvon. He’s one of the foremost among England’s wealthy citizens. He’s a real Ariel—he was the victim of a car accident in Germany a number of years ago, and his health continued poor afterward. He makes a habit of coming to Egypt every year for the warm, dry weather, and his condition has actually improved, but he fell in love with Egyptian antiquities, and wanted to dig for them himself. It was a failed venture—he found nothing of any value, but he hasn’t given up. He has searched assiduously for someone with expertise in the field. This is how my former employer, Maspero, came to recommend me to him, and I was able to breathe easier again: I began working with a powerful man who could protect me from the tyranny of the authorities. More importantly, I resumed my real work—I acquired the right to do excavations once more, and to pursue the discovery I’d been dreaming of my whole life. You could say that my wandering days are over.”
Aisha smiled
again. He had regained some of his former charm and charisma. She tried to withdraw her hand from his, but he wouldn’t allow it. Discomfited, she said, “Well, you’re a bit better, at any rate.”
“Indeed. But up to now I haven’t discovered anything of importance, and my chances grow slimmer with the passing years. I’m still waiting for the magic touch that will lead me to the place I seek. There’s something missing—I know what I’m looking for, but I don’t know how to get to it.”
At last he let go her hand. His head was clearer now, and he was able to raise himself up onto the pillow and lean back against the wall, facing her. Hollow-eyed, he gazed at her. “Do you know,” he said slowly, “it’s no mere accident that we’ve met again this way—it’s fate. I don’t know what’s happened to you, but evidently it was terrible enough to have led you to this place. You need a new beginning, and I need inspiration. We need each other.”
A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Page 33