The lamplight dimmed, and soot began to creep up the glass chimney. The shadows deepened until they hid his face and nothing could be seen but the gleam of his eyes. Uncertain whether she understood precisely what he was trying to say, she continued to gaze at him in silence, until he resumed speaking. “Come with me to Thebes,” he said. “Stay by my side while I pursue this mad digging. I need you to impart to me the lucky touch that has altogether deserted me. You are the pharaonic totem I’ve been looking for.”
Drained of energy, he fell silent. She heard him draw breath with difficulty. It was strange to hear such words from him so soon after their meeting again. There were no promises here: merely a half-chance in a darkened room. “I don’t know whether I can,” she said hesitantly. “We are from two different worlds, united by nothing more than three blind coincidences. How can we join together? I couldn’t endure another cruel ordeal.”
“And I, likewise, would not be able to stand another failure. Come with me to the Valley of Thebes, and I’ll guard you with my life.”
A vague, rhetorical promise he offered her—nothing more than that. It had grown late, and neither of them could see the other clearly any longer. She rose and said, “You’d better get some sleep. I’ll go to bed as well—I’ll share quarters with the other girls.”
“You haven’t given me an answer.”
“Just now you are suffering the effects of a blow to the head. Let us talk in the morning.”
She went out into the hall, and went to Nabawiyya’s room. The house was quiet, and the hanging lamps were about to go out. She felt her way to the bed, then squeezed in beside Nabawiyya, who turned over, muttering, “Did you sleep with him? Was he strong enough for that?”
Aisha gave her a kick, and did not answer, but turned her back. Remembering his pale face and hollow eyes, she let out the breath she had been holding back in her chest. Nabawiyya spoke again. “You’re in love with him, then?”
“He is a man I’ve met only twice before—this is the third time. And in spite of that, he’s asking me to follow him to the other side of the country.”
9Thebes
EVER SINCE THE FIRST TIME he had come to the station at Luxor, Howard Carter had hated the facsimiles of pharaonic art displayed on its walls. He always hoped he might be given the chance to do them over, but this had never come to pass. He reminded himself each time he alighted from the train there, but this time he had someone else he could tell. She was walking beside him, an elderly porter behind them gasping hoarsely under their baggage.
They found their transportation waiting for them before the entrance to the station: four whitish-gray donkeys, two of them with saddles upon their backs, made of decoratively incised leather, and each of the four with a red rose on its head. Abdel Aal, who was also waiting for them, hastened to take their cases and load them onto the donkeys that were not saddled, but Howard insisted upon carrying the metal cage in which was a yellow canary. Preoccupied though Abdel Aal was, he did not neglect to throw Aisha a searching glance. She wore a hijab that concealed her face, not daring to go unveiled before either the glare of Luxor’s sun or the eyes of its people. Howard helped her onto her donkey and the procession made its way to the banks of the Nile, where a felucca was moored, which would convey them to the western shore.
It seemed to Aisha that she had been transported suddenly to an alien world, whereas Howard behaved with the zeal and spontaneity of someone who had returned at long last to a place that belonged to him. The mud-brick houses concealed among the palms reminded her of Beni Khalaf, but here rose the stone columns of the temples, deep yellow, and the more awe-inspiring for the dust that coated them. In the distance the Nile appeared, tranquil and crimson the way it was when it was about to flood. It occurred to Aisha that, having allowed herself to come so far, if she now crossed the river there would be no turning back.
In the street parallel to the river appeared ranks of shops selling antiquities and relics—narrow, dark little places, crammed with merchandise. The shopkeepers emerged from them on spotting a procession of donkeys approaching, squinting as their eyes adjusted to the sunlight. All of them gave off an odor of decay. They exclaimed in jubilation when they saw that it was Howard who was coming. They were a mixture of nationalities: Egyptians, clad in gallabiyas and turbans; and foreigners—Greeks, for the most part—wearing short pants and straw hats. They surrounded Howard, shaking his hand and clapping him jovially on the shoulder. They had been waiting for him, as if his arrival marked the beginning of the season for them. They all exclaimed over the canary he was carrying, saying, “You’ve brought a golden bird—you’ll have good luck, and find a treasure of gold!” He smiled in reply. No one seemed to notice Aisha, cloaked in black and sitting upon her donkey: an anonymous and featureless shape.
The merchants vied for attention, exhibiting to Howard the latest acquisitions added to their wares: marble vessels, greenish-colored brass figurines, damaged plates, and little broken scarabs. They crowded around him, asking him to examine the pieces. He offered a few words of commentary, but rejected many of the pieces with brusque gestures. Aisha watched him, wide-eyed with surprise. Certainly he wasn’t putting on this performance to impress her—he was behaving quite naturally. She heard a voice beside her say, “See how clever he is—he can tell in a single glance whether a piece is genuine or counterfeit.”
It was Abdel Aal who spoke. He was studying her, trying to penetrate with his gaze the veil concealing her face. “And you, miss?” he continued. “Who are you, and where do you come from?”
She turned her face away. Why did she think no one saw her or was aware of her presence? Her unexplained appearance must have stirred up everyone’s curiosity, but they were ignoring her for now—it was only this man who openly questioned her. Howard was trying to back up and extricate himself from the circle of tradesmen without letting go of his smile. He waved to them, promising he’d be back, and he and Aisha once more resumed their progress toward the riverbank. The river was thronged with small craft and boats with white sails. Tied up along the beach were the grand dahabeahs in which the wealthy spent the winter, each dahabeah displaying the flag of the country from which its owner hailed. The whole city was celebrating the new winter season. Howard stopped, and gazed upon the long row of dahabeahs.
I saw the American flag fluttering above the dahabeah I used to know so well. I turned to Abdel Aal and inquired, “Has Mr. Theodore Davis returned?” He replied offhandedly, “He’s been here at least a month.” My heart pounded. Here was my old rival, come back early—a full month before the start of the season. Would he take up digging once more? He had appropriated for himself the right to the choicest sites in the valley for twelve whole years, never giving a chance to anyone else. Only when at last he got bored with it had Lord Carnarvon and I managed to find a way in. Had he come now aiming to reclaim his prerogative? Would he engage someone to compete with me—there in that narrow strip of land—someone who would claim a share of my final opportunity? Perhaps he had heard about my failures over the years. Did he know something of Rosa? News of her no longer reached me.
I remembered those painful moments that had taken me by storm and knocked me off balance. I looked at Aisha, who sat astride her donkey, noting with surprise my confusion and hesitation. I felt that Davis’s presence had punctured the joy of my return to the valley, and it was essential that I confirm my doubts and misgivings. “Wait for me here,” I told her. “I’ll be back shortly.” I hastened away, without waiting for her reply. I climbed the stairs leading to the opulent dahabeah. Its deck was covered with a dusty plum-colored carpet. I passed among the cabins and along the corridors without encountering anyone. As I expected, I found him on the side of the ship directly overlooking the western shore, stretched out on a bench, sunbathing. The thick hair upon his chest had gone gray, but his wrinkles were still disguised by the mask of his suntan. He wore short pants and appeared so relaxed and at ease that he didn’t move when he saw me,
but only smiled. I couldn’t tell whether it was an ironic smile or a welcoming one. Emilia was not by his side as she had ordinarily used to be. Which of them, I wondered, had left the other?
“Hello, Carter,” he said. “You’re just the same as you ever were—you never give up hope.”
I stood there before him, at a loss. It always confounded me, dealing with this wealthy American. “Have you come to take up digging again?” I asked bluntly.
He raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “My God,” he said. “Certainly not—this valley is worn out from all the digging, my boy. It’s useless for you to keep searching.”
Trying to maintain my composure, I replied, “So said Belzoni, some hundred years ago, and yet the discovery of at least half the valley was undertaken afterward. That Italian vagabond was the first beneficiary of this valley. He got permission to dig from the great Pasha, Muhammad Ali, but he was really a thief—he plundered the virgin valley of everything he happened upon. He shipped off to Europe many tons of artifacts, which the great Pasha thought were nothing but worthless rocks. In the meantime, the markets of Europe were rapacious consumers of such treasures, while the Pasha was captivated by the plates of spaghetti and the gold nargilehs that Belzoni presented to him.”
Davis chuckled. “That man,” he said, “was so greedy he didn’t really take the trouble to look. We, on the other hand, have done everything in our power. Go on, son—try searching again. I, for my part, shall enjoy this magnificent sunshine, and anything you discover I’ll buy from you.”
He treated me with such casual indifference that all at once I was furious with myself. He left me bewildered, as if I was back where I had started from—just standing there.
The felucca bore its cargo of people and donkeys to the other side of the river, while water birds circled repeatedly overhead, as if trying to discover who the newcomers were. The boat furled its sails as it approached the beach, and mooring lines were cast ashore, where people hurried to haul them in and secure them. Aisha gazed uneasily at the rocky shore, which struck her as inordinately dry and inhospitable; Howard, on the other hand, quivered with anticipation, scenting the hot wind that blew down from the sandy hills. He drew a full breath and sighed deeply, as if he wished he could draw the whole valley into his lungs. Taking her by the hand, he led her across the sand, to where emptiness and silence surrounded them on all sides. One thing was certain: there was no comparison between this and the red-light district. They stopped before two massive statues of Agamemnon. Hearing the sound of the wind as it penetrated the crevices among the rocks, Aisha felt afraid.
Why had she followed him to such a place? Had she really been that desperate? Or had she been taken in by his urgent insistence? He had left the house in the red-light district after that first night, but returned once more, and again after that. He became a constant “customer,” even though work had come to a standstill. The return of the Madam from her travels did not stop him from coming. He gave her whatever money she demanded in exchange for the privilege of sitting with Aisha at his leisure. He continued to press her: “Why do you stay here? Your very scent is different from theirs. All the women of the night, the world over, smell the same, wear the same colors on their faces, and even have the same way of talking, no matter the language. None of this is true of you . . .”
She had listened to him, her expression grave and sad, knowing that, however she might try to resist, she would not for much longer be able to keep herself separate from the business of that house. The moment would come when she would lose her footing, and the fragile refuge she had once more constructed for herself would collapse in ruins. But the alternative he offered her was no less perilous: a venture into the unknown. Long hours he had continued to urge his cause with her, delaying his return to Luxor day after day. He was afraid of failure, and afraid to face it alone—or perhaps he wanted to draw solace from another’s defeat. “Don’t go with him,” said the Madam. “Those foreigners have never done anything for us but lie to us and laugh in our faces.”
One morning Nabawiyya had left the house, carrying a bundle of clothes, happy and full of hope. She swore to them all that she would return only when she held her child in her arms. Not ten days passed, though, before she came back, battered, humiliated, and penniless. The husband had stolen her money and spent it on hashish, then reviled her for being nothing but a whore. Aisha had wiped away her tears, as well as the traces of blood that mingled with them on her face. She was more and more fearful of Howard’s honeyed words. And yet, truly, she did not want to be one of the girls.
At this moment someone appeared from between the two statues: a fellah, tall and thin, wearing only a pair of under trousers, a vest with its buttons undone, and a turban on his head. He had a thick, white moustache, and huge bare feet that planted themselves in the sand; in his hand was a great staff, with which he struck the earth. He had a penetrating stare, but he did not trouble to look at Howard—rather he bent upon Aisha an unsettling gaze, as if he were perturbed by her presence here. For a moment, Aisha imagined that the peculiar noises that filled the valley had issued from his own chest. Exchanging not a single word with the man, Howard took her arm and drew her away from there. They met up with Abdel Aal, who was coming from the direction of the shore, driving his donkey. He followed them at a distance.
“Who was that man?” said Aisha, shivering. “He frightened me.”
“That’s Abdel Rasul,” Howard replied. “I told you about him.”
“I thought the two of you were friends.”
“So we were. But since I returned to the valley and took up digging once more, he has come to hate me.”
They made their way across a flat expanse filled with heaps of rocks and tomb-openings. The heat of the day had subsided, and they were assailed by drafts of cool air from the hills. They came to a broad, open space, more pocked with trenches and strewn with rock piles than any other. Howard beckoned to Aisha. “This,” he told her, “is the area designated to me. It is called Dar Abu al-Naja. I’ve turned over every stone here and stirred up every grain of sand, without achieving my dream. Luck is still against me.”
Aisha turned and studied the place. It was full of worthless rocks. How could he have wasted so many years of his life in such a desolate spot? How was it that his passion for this was not yet spent? She was exhausted from the long journey, while he, in his exuberance, did not feel the distance at all. A great stone building rose up before them, protected by a long, thick wall.
“This,” he said, “is Medinet Habu. Our little house is right next to its walls—Carter’s Fortress.”
She looked at the spot he was indicating. There was a modest, whitewashed house, surmounted by a small dome, like an isolated saint’s shrine. With fond enthusiasm, he began telling her about the house. “It was I who designed it,” he said. “The breeze penetrates it from all sides, and its balconies open out onto Medinet Habu. You can sit there and contemplate the river. It has four rooms . . .”
He went on rapturously as they approached the house. He felt the house was what would establish him in the valley, without anyone’s being able to uproot him. He didn’t usher her inside right away, but took her hand and led her around the outside of it. He pointed out the stones that formed the exterior wall, and she examined them closely. Each stone had an inscription: Latin letters altered in such a way as to create an impression of hieroglyphic writing. Aisha read, “Made in Bretby, England, at the behest of Howard Carter, Thebes, Egypt.” She looked at him questioningly, and he laughed with delight.
“Indeed,” he said, “these stones were manufactured in Bretby, in Derbyshire, at a brick factory owned by Lord Carnarvon. They were created and shipped especially for me. Now I, too, have inscriptions bearing my name in this valley, just like the Pharaohs of old!”
She smiled—what could she do but join him in his childish glee? Abdel Aal began removing their baggage from the donkeys’ backs and taking it into the house, all the while castin
g furtive glances at her, unable to contain his curiosity.
Inside, the house did seem altogether splendid, with its windows looking out on the fat columns of the temple, and the dome that crowned it, which facilitated the circulation of air and kept it constantly moist. Then there was the capacious balcony, liberally endowed with wicker chairs, and commanding a view of the Nile, which flowed in front of it.
“Take whichever room you like,” said Howard. “All the doors lock from the inside, so you’ll be quite safe.”
Aisha sighed with relief. So far, he had been no bother to her. Of more immediate concern was Abdel Aal, who was all ears. He stood at the ready until she pointed to one of the rooms, and then he picked up her case and conveyed it there. Entering and locking the door behind her, she felt somewhat secure.
She woke to the sound of an insistent rapping on the door. For a moment she thought she was still at the house in the red-light district—a sudden darkness had engulfed everything. She was still wearing the same dusty clothes, and the whole house was sunk in shadow. Various sounds came to her from outside: drumbeats, singing, and laughter, and light entered the house from out of doors. She peeped out through the window, which was secured, to see that a bonfire had been built in the forecourt of the house. Howard was there, sitting in the midst of a number of fellahin—she couldn’t tell how many. Some of them had set up drums in a circle around the fire, and were testing them to see whether the skins had become taut. Presently, they took them up and beat upon them with joyful enthusiasm. The rest stood in a line before them, in their long trousers, colorful little skullcaps upon their heads, and laughter lighting up their brown faces. In the middle of them stood Howard. He placed his hand on the shoulder of one man, while another put his own hand on Howard’s shoulder, and so on until they formed a single contiguous line. The first man in line raised his arm high, snapped his fingers, and cried, “Begin!” At once they all began to move in time to the rhythm of the drums, their bare feet treading lightly upon the sand. As Howard tripped and stumbled, unable to keep up with them, they called out to him, laughing, to bring him into step with them. He was befuddled and happy as a child. Gradually he managed to co-ordinate his feet with theirs. They all raised their heads and breathed in deep draughts of air, dancing in a circle around the drummers. They sang boisterous songs Aisha was unable to recognize, as the atmosphere grew saturated with a certain kind of masculine merriment, and the sweat poured down their faces.
A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore Page 34