A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  Once more he lifted his claw-like fingers and said in that same all too familiar tone of British world-weariness, “No more of these endless documents. You have one month from today to wrap up this whole operation.”

  As he got to his feet, I protested, “I just need a bit of time.”

  He did not reply, but only held me in his dull-eyed gaze. I could hear nothing but the sound of his breathing. “In that case,” I said defiantly, “I shall continue the work at my own expense.”

  “For how long? A month? Two? A year? Believe me, Howard—it’s all used up, this valley.”

  Where had I heard this sort of talk before? Who had been repeating it in the old man’s ear until he believed it? Lady Evelyn appeared at the door of the room and stared at me in cold silence, accusing me in her own way of being about to drain off the last dregs of her father’s strength. Why did she maintain such a cold demeanor toward me when for all these years she had not even noticed me? I had no alternative but to rise, nod my head at the two of them, and take my leave, without even having touched my drink—not that I’d been about to drink anything in any case. I descended the stairs, breathing hard, feeling that no one gave a damn about me. I sat on the terrace, thinking. Would there be any point in going back to him one more time, to make him see how great was the loss he was setting us both up for? Would it do any good to beg him? I was certain that I was very near to my discovery, so certain that I was not going to plead with anyone—I would keep digging at my own expense. I would not go back to those vagabond days again.

  The felucca took us, casualties of a lost battle, back to the western shore. The donkey was the only happy one among us, for he had eaten a satisfying meal of fresh clover. Abdel Aal was miserable, for I had refused to purchase many of the things we needed—tea and sugar in particular—the very stuff of life, as far as he was concerned. I was wretched, and the tedious minutiae of shopping would have made me feel still worse. On the other side of the river I saw Abdel Rasul making his way along, leaning upon his staff and leaving the prints of his bare feet upon the sand. He didn’t turn in my direction, but I knew he saw me. He was watching for the moment when I would leave the valley. I walked beside the skinny donkey—perhaps walking would help me to relax. I saw the holes I had dug, the rocks I had turned over, and the valley that continued to withhold its secrets from me. They knew more of such secrets than I did—I might go on slaving over my excavations for years on end, while they would discover all the hidden sites with devastating ease. They could read the symbols and decipher the coded mysteries by some means we had not yet achieved. How could I possibly keep pace with them and evade Abdel Rasul’s control over this valley?

  Aisha stood waiting for him on the balcony, looking pale. This was the last refuge for both of them alike. As Abdel Aal led the donkey to the annex at the back of the house, she found herself hurrying toward Howard. She embraced him and gave him a sisterly kiss, sprung from an access of fearfulness and need. Then she drew back quickly. Howard took off his hat and threw himself wearily into a chair. She sat before him on the floor and fixed her honey-colored eyes upon him. Her long lashes fluttered like a butterfly’s wings, and as he looked into her eyes he found that he felt quite passionate toward her—there was no one else left for him in all the wide world.

  “What is it?” she said. “You look so sad.”

  Feeling sorry for himself as he did, he was unable to conceal the furious anger he harbored. “It’s all over,” he said. “That old man, Lord Carnarvon, has given me only one month’s reprieve. After that, there will be no more funding.”

  She drew a sharp breath, dismayed. “And what is to become of us?” she asked.

  They knew their destinies were interdependent, and that the end of his work in the valley would mean the end of their relationship, the end of his connection to this strange country. In an effort to reassure her, he said, “I won’t give up, Aisha. I’ll keep digging at my own expense . . . I’ll find some other funding, I’ll . . .”

  He didn’t know how he would accomplish any of this, but he sensed that she badly needed to hear these words and the false comfort they offered. He could have wept. Aisha got up from the floor and sat beside him. She cradled his face between her hands and wiped away a tear that had escaped his eye. They stayed like that, sitting close together, hands clasped.

  This, in truth, was the first of the days of madness. Howard barely slept at night, waking at the first light of dawn and leading his group of diggers, with a load of baskets and waterskins, aimlessly over the rocky, hilly, debris-strewn terrain, penetrating the uncharted reaches of Dar Abu al-Naja, which had taken on a brittle, corrugated appearance. No sooner would they begin to dig than he would change his mind, dashing about over rocks and trenches, only to repeat the same routine at another site. He no longer attached any importance to completing diagrams of the trenches he had made, nor did he distinguish among any of the places where he had already dug. Where he saw a spot still untouched by the mattock, he shouted at the workers. They could not understand him, and did not carry out his instructions. They always went on digging in the wrong place, producing nothing for him but more lifeless rocks, when what he wanted was stones that spoke in glyphs, revealing their secrets. The workers stared stupidly at him, not knowing which of his contradictory orders to obey.

  The search had become a nightmare that pursued him waking and sleeping. He scarcely touched any food, and for long hours, day and night, left Aisha not knowing where he had gone, always returning weary, listless, and begrimed with black dust. And all the while, Abdel Rasul traversed the valley, appearing before her leaning on his staff, a constant warning of she knew not what. She craved Howard’s help, but she had no idea how to get it, for she knew that if matters went on in this way he would collapse. He grew thinner and thinner, his moustache was bedraggled, and he no longer troubled to wash away the dirt that covered him. She wished then that this ghastly month would come to an end, and they could go away from here—perhaps they could have a new start in some other place.

  One morning she awoke to find him already up. He was a new person, the aura of lunacy suddenly gone. He was calm, clean-shaven, washed, and animated. From the way he was dressed, it appeared that he did not intend to pursue the digging on this day. “We’ll go together to Luxor today,” was all he told her.

  She didn’t know what to say. He gazed at her, making her understand how badly he needed her presence. She was afraid to face the ever-watchful eyes always fixed upon the eastern shore, but now he began urging her to put on those peculiar garments he’d had her wear before, and go out with him, her face uncovered. In some way or other, he wanted to acknowledge her publicly, wanted everyone to see her at his side. And she could not deny her pleasure at his having regained his ease and composure, or his taking her out in public, unveiled.

  Abdel Aal was waiting for them with the odd-colored donkey. Aisha rode, and Howard walked beside her. At the riverside, a felucca came and collected all the passengers. Abdel Aal was carrying a sack carefully over his shoulder. Aisha observed that it was partially filled, and Howard looked insouciantly happy. She didn’t know precisely what he had in mind, but she noted the conspiratorial glances that passed between him and Abdel Aal. As soon as the boat reached the eastern shore, he asked Abdel Aal to take the donkey and go far from the curious eyes of the onlookers inside the hotel, and to settle the animal down with a large helping of clover. He led Aisha to the Winter Palace’s terrace, which was crowded with the morning’s customers. She looked fearfully about her, irresolute. The men were dressed with impeccable elegance, while the women were all in white and protected from the sun by wide-brimmed hats. A waiter set cold drinks before Howard and Aisha, and Howard asked him to bring all the available newspapers, English and Egyptian. The waiter placed a pile of them on the table.

  “Wait for me here,” Howard said to Aisha. “I shan’t be gone long. You can amuse yourself by leafing through the papers and watching these fools—I shall re
turn directly.”

  He left her then and went out to the street. She watched him until he vanished from sight. She was ill at ease, looking anxiously at the waiters in expectation of being asked to leave, since Howard had departed. She dared not even browse through the pile of newspapers, although no one approached her.

  I left Aisha and went to the road that extended along the riverbank, where Abdel Aal was still waiting for me beside the donkey, which was absorbed in its meal of clover. I gave him all my instructions, pointing out to him the dahabeah with the American flag raised above it. He was to take the sack with him, pretending to be a vegetable seller, and board the dahabeah. There he was to wait for me without speaking to anyone. After he’d gone, I stood rooted in place, peering all along the street, in case I should catch sight of any of Weigall’s men—I knew them all, for they had previously been my own men. Once I had made certain that the coast was clear, I set off myself. The Nubian servant lowered his head before me as he informed me that Mr. Davis was still asleep. No doubt he had staged one of his boisterous parties, which never ended before dawn, and had drunk a lot of bad American whiskey. I enjoined the servant in no uncertain terms to rouse his master, for I hadn’t time to wait. I took the sack from Abdel Aal and told him to return to the donkey.

  It was some time before Davis appeared, rubbing his eyes, reeking of wine and cigarettes. He was surprised to see me at such an early hour, puzzled at my tense and rigid aspect. He gestured for me to sit down facing him, ordered the servant to bring cold beer, and bade me make myself comfortable until he had a chance to come more fully awake.

  I spoke at once. “I’ve come to sell you something,” I said directly.

  He raised his eyebrows quizzically. “Don’t tell me you’ve found something in that empty tomb,” he murmured.

  “It was inevitable that I would find something—I can’t bear all the ridicule I’ve been getting from everyone on this subject.”

  I didn’t mention that I had not been content to accept my initial defeat. I had been determined to go on my own to examine anew the empty tomb, feverishly intent upon challenging both my own disposition and the luck that had forsaken me. Davis sensed that I was onto something, that the earnestness I evinced was not without substance, and that it behooved him to refrain from further sarcasm. Suddenly amiable, he held out a bottle of beer and offered it to me. I declined, although I could have used it. I knew what a wealthy man Davis was—perhaps the very wealthiest of men—but he was aware that, despite the ill luck that had clung to me, I was always one step ahead of him.

  “And what,” he said, “have you brought me now?”

  “Are you sure you wish to make a purchase?” I asked him.

  “I’ll buy anything you care to sell me,” he replied.

  I emptied out the contents of the sack and spread them before him. I had to shake off the sand that still clung to them, but for all that the gold sandal had not lost its luster; there was a green cosmetics pot that still held the remains of fine powdered kohl; a scarab of bluish quartz that, although scratched and cracked, was nevertheless whole and magnificent; and a shining amber necklace missing only two of its beads. I saw the amazement plainly in Davis’s eyes—he would not have imagined that I could have happened upon this treasure and kept silent about it, without anyone’s finding out.

  “What is all this?” he said. “In which tomb did you come across these objects?”

  Confidently and without hesitation, I replied, “They belonged to an Asiatic wife of Ramses II.”

  He didn’t bat an eye. He just kept staring, openmouthed, unable to contradict me. Then he asked uncertainly, “Have you told Lord Carnarvon about this?”

  “It’s nothing to do with him. All you need to know is that I discovered these things in an area outside his jurisdiction, and by rights they are mine alone.”

  In this I was sincere. I had put my life on the line for the sake of these objects, returning on my own to the empty tomb several times. I had thrust my hand into every crack, risking snakebite and the scorpion’s sting, and sat for long hours heedless of the wolves. What else could a desperate man such as I do? And at last I had happened upon this cache—it was in one of the deeper cracks, bundled in linen wrappings—maybe some priest, or perhaps thieves, had shoved it in there and forgotten where it was.

  “Naturally, I shall take these things,” said Davis, “but you do understand . . . I’ll have to contact the Metropolitan Museum.”

  “I’ll wait while you place the call.”

  I knew that all means of overseas communication were available on this dahabeah. I wrote down my asking price. It wouldn’t take long, and it was not in his interest to delay matters. He left the room. I gave him the opportunity to look over the pieces and make certain they were genuine; the most important thing was that he would not be able to come up with anything corresponding to a tale of Asiatic wives. After this it was necessary that I get back to Aisha: she was the talisman bearing the luck I had at last encountered.

  Howard came back, dashed up the stairs and made his way among the tables, then sat down across from her. He was in a good mood, although sadness lingered in his eyes. “I’ve made a little bargain,” he said, “and now I can carry on digging for a while.”

  The waiter brought breakfast—white cheese, toast, butter, and eggs, with plenty of fruit juices and milk. Howard pushed aside the bundle of newspapers. “Tomorrow,” he said, “there will be talk of me in all of these papers.”

  Aisha smiled at him. She was growing accustomed to her surroundings. As they ate, the dining area filled up with people. A number of them clapped Howard on the shoulder and congratulated him. An elderly rebaba player sat on the steps outside and began to sing a dreadful song about a brother who killed his sister for the sake of honor—the waiter hurried over and drove him off, but he kept coming back. A cool breeze wafted in off the river, and Howard took a deep breath, expanding his chest as if he wanted to contain the breeze inside it.

  “Why are you so attached to this place?” Aisha asked him, puzzled. “I long to get away from it.”

  “I feel,” Howard replied, “as if my arteries had filled up with this country’s sand. When I go to Swaffham, and the fog there surrounds me, the air is so saturated with the smell of rain that it nearly strangles me. The only way for me to go on with life is to stay here.”

  An elderly man and a pale-faced woman passed by their table. The man stopped, overcome with astonishment, but the woman shot them a venomous look and proceeded on her way. Howard rose and extended his hand to the old man, unhurriedly and with no show of eagerness, as if he had been expecting this moment.

  “Good morning, my lord,” he said. “Lovely to see you enjoying this warm weather.”

  Aisha observed that the woman, who had stopped a short distance away, was still glowering hatefully at them. The “lord” gestured toward Aisha and said, “Lovely to see you enjoying yourself as well, Howard. Won’t you introduce me to your pretty friend?”

  “She is a pharaonic princess,” said Howard. “I discovered her on the western shore.”

  The man laughed, then said succinctly, “Then all these years haven’t been in vain. This is perhaps the most splendid of your discoveries.”

  With that he nodded and went on to join the angry-looking lady. Aisha needed no explanation—she knew that these were Lord Carnarvon and his daughter. A bitter taste rose in her throat. “Was it so that those two would see me with you that you brought me here?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Howard replied bluntly. “I wanted to show them that I have a stake in this place I won’t easily forgo.”

  She looked at him in consternation. Had he really brought her here to defend his presence in the country, or had it been to provoke the jealousy of that pallid woman? “His daughter . . .” she said. “Were you hoping to make her jealous?”

  “I doubt she sees anything but her own face in the mirror, anyhow.”

  Aisha realized that it was she who
felt jealous, and the feeling had spilled over, trespassing on the neutral zone she had set up in self-defense, which she had forbidden herself to approach.

  “Well,” she said, “you succeeded conveying your message to them: you’re not alone.”

  They walked together through the city, conversing with the Saïdis they met in the streets. They drank fruit juices—sugarcane and pomegranate. He bought her a red velvet shawl, and she put it over her shoulders, fingering its soft fringe. Howard saw her face, how it had bloomed, and insisted upon buying her a gold necklace that looked exactly like the one worn by Hatshepsut. He placed it around her neck, and she laughed, feeling actually happy. No one had ever indulged her this way, and she felt like a true queen. They sat in a little restaurant, where they ate hot kebabs and lentil soup made with marrowbones and sipped strong tea. They walked between two rows of statues depicting rams, until they entered the maze of columns at the Temple of Karnak. They proceeded among the columns, which towered loftily above them, numbering 122 in all, then on through the rest of the temple—the altars, the Holy of Holies. He read the inscriptions to her and interpreted the kings’ cartouches. She had begun to learn from him how to read the vocabulary of this strange language. They sat by the edge of the sacred lake. On the other side of the river, the façade of the Temple of Deir al-Bahri could be seen, surrounded by an aura that made him melancholy. With a hand on her shoulder, he drew her a little closer. She shivered, but gave herself over to his touch. She felt possessed by a rare moment of heart’s ease, of freedom from fear. Her spirit, long since broken, craved healing. She wanted to unburden herself of all the weary secrets she harbored.

  In a tremulous voice, she talked to him, revealing for the first time all the sufferings she had endured for so long, omitting no hidden detail. She remembered the night on which she had told Mukhtar the beginning of the tale, how he had kissed her eyes and clasped her to him. But that had been an innocent time, when she had not felt such bodily shame. She drew back her sleeve and showed him the mark of the cross. She explained that her mother had tried to ensure that she would elude the trap set by her uncle, but she had fallen into it anyway—had her own volition taken any part in this? It was mortifying to admit the desires that dwelt deep within. But her uncle had raped her and broken her spirit, robbed her of her original body and left her the one Howard now saw before him. Her cells had quickened in spite of her, carrying the residue of that violation. She felt utterly defiled, and this in the end had led her to the house in the red-light district.