A Cloudy Day on the Western Shore

by Mohamed Mansi Qandil

  Howard held onto her hand, as she wept and trembled. He felt himself the unluckiest person in the world, and yet here was this pharaonic princess, who had emerged from her painting to tell him her horrifying tale. He drew her into his arms, stroked her back, and said, “We all pay a price, one way or another. This has been a cruel passage for us both.”

  She walked by his side, leaning against him, the earth still soft and the horizon pale. She wiped away her tears, to hide them from Abdel Aal, who was waiting for them by the riverbank, the donkey beside him. As the felucca bore them upon the surface of the river, a rough song could be heard coming from one of the fishing boats—a lone fisherman seemed to be serenading Aisha and Howard. The opposite bank loomed nearer, desolate and familiar. She leapt ashore, and the silence enveloped her from every side. She declined to ride the skinny donkey, but walked with Howard along a sandy path, Abdel Aal following behind them at some distance, and with him the donkey. She saw the fellahin coming from their fields, together with their livestock, ghost-like, engulfed by a haze of dust stirred up by their feet, heading for al-Qurna. Then the valley was empty, and the clouds changed from purple to gray.

  Howard began to speak, pointing out the rocks and the deep trenches amidst the undulations of the hills: stories and anecdotes about each spot—she had already heard them, but he talked on cheerfully. His voice lost its gaiety, however, as they approached Dar Abu al-Naja, the area on which he had expended so much effort, searching and delving, all to no avail. The rocks were grim and sharp-edged, as if they had emerged only reluctantly from the earth, the holes so deep that it seemed they must penetrate to the other side of the world. And all of it in vain.

  With a shudder he exclaimed, “I have dug here . . . and here . . . and here . . . until there was no place left to dig but under my own skin!”

  She reached out and brushed his face, hoping to soothe him as he had done for her. They were about to lose the last place left to them under the sun. The brief day’s happiness dissipated; a great heap of rocks was blocking their way, and there was nothing for it but to go around it and make their way to the house. In amazement, Aisha pointed to the rocks and asked, “Was it you who made this pile?”

  “I and everyone who came before me—all those who tried to dig, and came up empty-handed.”

  “Why did you not move it aside and dig beneath it?”

  “I could not—it was beyond my capacity.” He gestured toward a place obscured by shadows. “Here is the entrance to the tomb of Ramses II, which is visited daily by dozens of people. If I were to begin dropping rocks upon them, Weigall’s men would whet their talons and drive me from the valley.”

  “You should have driven them out first.”

  “It is a small, worthless triangle of ground, particularly as it lies close to a tomb that has in fact already been explored.”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when Aisha startled him by setting off, up the pile of rocks. Darkness had fallen upon them, and she wanted to look at the lights on the other side of the river. Before he knew it, Howard found himself following her. Abdel Aal sighed in exasperation, having no choice but to sit down and wait beside the donkey. Aisha kept climbing until she reached a level expanse composed of dust, pebbles, and little rocks, which covered the roof of the ancient tomb. The lights could be seen reflecting off the surface of the river: a tiny glimmer of hope amid the gathering darkness. Stepping up beside her, Howard put his arm about her waist, and they stood together as the evening chill descended.

  She slipped the velvet shawl off her shoulders and laid it upon the ground, and they sat down side by side. It looked like a clear night, now that the clouds had dispersed. The sky seemed more rich with stars than she had ever seen it.

  “I was hoping,” he whispered, “for a discovery that would ensure we could root ourselves here together . . . but I promise you, I won’t part from you wherever we are.”

  “Lord Carnarvon’s reprieve is not up yet,” she said, smiling. “And no one can tell what this land may hold in store for you.”

  Everything receded into the distance, leaving behind only the quiet of this moment. Painful memories, too, grew less acute, the sense of shame at having been raped. The night breathed upon them, combining heat from the sand and cold from the river. He reached out to cup her face in his palms, and she shivered, but tried not to pull away. His lips gently brushed hers, and there was no alarm or repugnance, but a warmth that pervaded her. His moustache was bristly against her nose; all fear had dissipated, replaced by a hungry passion. She could feel the pebbles pressing against her back through the fabric of the shawl, and it was painful at first, but the pain melted away when she felt herself enclosed within his embrace. His fingers found their way beneath her clothing, and she thought to herself, amazed, “My God—my body does not refuse him.” She wound her arms about his neck and drew his head down until she could feel the heat of his breath between her breasts. Warm through and through, she turned her head and sought his lips, pressing her own between them. She could feel the night breeze slip between her legs, and now she tried to restrain him, to prevent him from reaching the center of pain in her body, but to her astonishment there was no pain. She felt herself grow light as he moved rhythmically within her, and with an effort to fix her position on the ground she sank her nails into his back, holding back her cries, lest the wind carry them to the foot of the hill. Behind the horn of the mountain she spied a hesitant yellow moon looking down upon them. She had no need of it—a light had been born within her, as if the stars had found their way into her, driven out the darkness, and extinguished her thirst.

  From the base of the hill came Abdel Aal’s voice, shouting, “Hey, Englishman! Wolves!”

  Aisha started and extricated herself from his body’s warmth, gathering her clothing together and wrapping it around herself. They heard no howling, but the scrawny donkey had begun to bray in alarm. Once more Abdel Aal shouted, in mounting terror.

  “They’ve caught our scent—it’s too dangerous to stay here!”

  Howard gave her his hand and helped her to her feet, but her knees were too weak to support her. Breathlessly, they made their way down the hill. The moon spread its light across the sand to the edge of the river, but Abdel Aal pointed toward the dense shadows at the temple gates. “There they are,” he said, “keeping watch. They could attack us at any moment.”

  Aisha felt the warmth drain from her limbs. “They are behaving strangely,” said Howard. “They are not howling or making any movement—there is something out of the ordinary here.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Abdel Aal, “they could set upon us at any time.” He began to loosen the large cloth that was wrapped around his head, a long, odd-looking piece of fabric. From his pocket he drew a box of matches with which he began trying to set the edge of the cloth alight. His attempts were unsuccessful at first, but he went on striking matches until a flame ignited the hem of the fabric.

  Abdel Aal took the lead, waving the cloth in a circular motion, while the burning edge of the cloth began to blaze, and to scatter bits of itself, still alight, like luminous butterflies. “Follow me,” he cried, and they followed, clinging to each other. Still Abdel Aal waved the cloth in circles. “It is in case of situations like this one,” he told them, “that we wear these enormous turbans.” From afar, the wolves’ eyes glowed brightly, piercing the veils of darkness, guarding the gates of the dead.

  Howard and Aisha found it unbelievable that they had reached the house before the turban was entirely consumed. Abdel Aal refrained from looking them in the eye. He merely tossed what was left of the fabric onto the ground and quickly led the donkey toward the annex, without pausing to hear a word of thanks. The wolves took up a frenzied howling, which went on all through the night, until morning.

  I awoke early. I heard the voice of the muezzin coming from the direction of the temple. There was a cold wind, and the river birds circled ceaselessly, seeking their livelihood. Aisha was asleep,
the door to her room locked. It did not suit her that I should share her bed this night, despite all that had happened between us. She preferred to be alone, even though she was shivering, and the howling of the wolves would not let up. I saw Abdel Aal standing upright, facing the direction of the sunrise as he prayed upon the dew-moistened sand. The light was spreading slowly from behind the horn of the mountain—everything came from this direction, so why could my dream not be fulfilled in this place?

  I waited until Abdel Aal had finished praying—I could tell he was done when he turned his face first right, then left. I approached him and said, “Go and gather the men. We shall start our work early today.”

  “We haven’t had breakfast yet,” he replied in his gruff fashion, so familiar to me.

  “There isn’t time,” I told him. “Go, before they leave for the fields, or cross to the other side of the river.”

  I stood there until I saw him take the donkey out of its pen, straddle the beast, and head toward the village. I didn’t wait—I went on ahead of the rest and proceeded to the site where the rock pile was. It didn’t seem as grim as I had always been accustomed to finding it. It was taking on colors, absorbing all the tones of the light, as if new life were seeping into it. At that moment I realized that I had not waited in vain, that this king who had eluded me for so long was about to reveal himself. I climbed the rocks, as I had done the day before when following Aisha. The red shawl was still spread out upon the gravel. I picked it up in both hands and buried my nose in it—it bore her scent, and that of the lovemaking we had experienced together: a clear and unmistakable sign to me that I should begin in this spot.

  When I descended once more, the men had gathered at the bottom of the rocky slope, and were looking curiously at me. It was strange that we should gather in this place we had so long avoided. It was a massive heap of rocks, and it would be difficult to get through it, but it was our last chance.

  “We shall remove this pile and dig beneath it,” I said. They regarded me. I saw their eyes gleaming, their faces upon which the skin always appeared to be stretched taut, with no flesh to spare. They were accustomed to obeying orders, no matter how bizarre they might seem, knowing that our ways were often tortuous, even as the earth yielded up its riches to them as easily as if the treasures themselves had called out to them. They exchanged uncertain glances—it was a hard task—the rocks were heavy, their edges cuttingly sharp; their shoulders would crumple, their backs break.

  “What is the matter with you?” I shouted at them. “Why are you just standing there?”

  Al-Raïs Gregor stepped forward. Not daring to look me in the eye, he said, “We want a daily wage of five piasters for each of the men, and two for each of the boys.”

  “That is too much!” I exclaimed, surprised and incredulous. The war had driven prices up, to be sure, but not to this extent. “You are trying to take advantage of my position.”

  “Look at what you are asking of us, Englishman. These rocks will be the ruin of us. They’ve lain here so long they’ve fused together. It will be difficult, if not impossible, to dislodge them.”

  He was right. But I didn’t want to look like a soft touch, especially since I didn’t know how many days the operation would take. “I’ll pay four piasters,” I said.

  He turned to his men, who looked stonily back at him. Clearly they had entrusted him with speaking for them, and were reluctant to interfere.

  “That is too little, Englishman,” he said. “This could be the last work we ever do, and only a fool would risk his life for nothing!”

  He backed up until he stood with the men, as if he drew from them the strength to confront me. I was speechless with amazement at the stance they were taking. All these years I had counted upon the familiar bond I shared with them, but it seemed I had been mistaken—or perhaps I was closer to my goal than I knew, and all that stood between me and this king I sought was a few piasters. I could see the gleam in their eyes as they watched me—they were afraid, too, that I might refuse. In a matter of just a few minutes we had reached the point of no return. The men picked up their pickaxes, and the youngest among them took up the baskets, while the youths took the waterskins; I carried only my desperate dream, and an unexpected moment of love. I had to find a way to save face.

  “Very well,” I said. “Five piasters it is, then, but we’ll work without stopping until the call to evening prayer.”

  They breathed a sigh of relief, the crisis averted, and began to distribute themselves about the site according to their manner, so well-known to me—a method deeply ingrained in them, which they followed whether they were sowing seed, gathering the harvest, digging irrigation ditches, or building a house. It was the same process by which they had constructed these massive temples and forbidding pyramids, for the same trifling wages. The strongest among them began shaking the rocks loose, using only their hands, while the weaker availed themselves of the pickaxes’ blades. The shortest men carried baskets woven of palm leaves, and the boys filled the waterskins. They erected a tent for me beside the rocky hill, and some of their female relatives from the village came, set up a hearth, and began preparing bread. They brought tall earthenware jars filled with hunks of aged cheese and pickled turnips. The site came fully to life, and I knew that the rock pile would be removed, that nothing now would prevent this.

  The morning hours were passed in work without surcease. The antiquities inspectors came, glanced at us in passing, and went away again, feeling some malicious satisfaction, no doubt, that I had taken upon myself the removal of this pile. The way to the tomb of Ramses II would be cleared, and they would take all the credit for themselves, while I myself would succeed only in running up against the walls of an old gravesite.

  When the sun reached its apex, the men stopped work and took their first meal—perhaps the last as well, for this day. They broke the light, freshly baked loaves, laughing, slapping onion bulbs against their huge palms and devouring them with pleasure. They had aged cheese and pickled vegetables. They were experts in compensating for the salt they lost through sweating by consuming mineral salt. I could not share the food with them; I did not touch even the light meal Abdel Aal had brought for me.

  After eating, they went back to hauling rocks and digging in the dirt, and kept it up for the rest of the day. The hill did not look as if it had been diminished in the slightest, or that it would be possible to remove it.

  I returned to her at the end of the day, exhausted. She allowed me to kiss and caress her, but did not respond in kind. Did she regret having made love with me the night before, or was it the wretched Eastern taboo against forbidden things that had awoken in her? Would she feel less guilty if it had been rape, rather than a matter of mutual desire? I pointed out the pile of rocks lying in the forecourt of the house—I had tasked Abdel Aal with bringing the first of the rocks to be brought down by the men from the top of the hill, and these they had piled up in the shape of a small pyramid. I gave her the red shawl she had forgotten to pick up, and she smiled—a sad, distracted smile. I kissed her neck and her lips—she was unresisting, but not warm. At last she said, as if in apology, that the angry howling of the wolves had disturbed her all through the night, rousing terror in her heart. I sensed that the barriers between us had not yet fallen.

  The stack of newspapers we had brought from the eastern shore had not been touched. Some of my old paintings were spread out upon the table—had she spent her time in contemplation of them? Amidst the papers I spied a picture of a pharaonic cartouche, on which I had written in hieroglyphics the name of cold Lady Evelyn—could it be that Aisha had recognized the name? It did not matter. I tried to draw her toward my room for more lovemaking—I was certain that if we made love at leisure, in an intimate moment behind a locked door, much of this tension would dissipate. But she could not do it—her eyes filled with tears, and I was afraid she might turn away from me once more. I went to my room, frustrated—although thoroughly weary, I could not sleep. The ho
wling of the wolves was still at an angry pitch, coming from the direction of the temple. It was as if all the valley’s wolves had converged upon this spot near our house. What could have roused them so? After a few minutes, as I hovered between sleep and waking, I became aware that the door to my room was opening. Aisha entered and flung herself down beside me in the bed. I took her in my arms—she was in a state, her limbs trembling violently and her teeth chattering.

  “They’re watching me!” she whispered.

  “Who?” I asked, bewildered.

  “The wolves! For a moment it seemed to me that they would attack us . . . then they began fighting with one another, and they are still at it.”

  Was she imagining things? And yet their noise could still be heard. They did not sleep, and they upset my sleep as well.

  The days passed, long and wearisome: dry sand, burning sun, and endless layers of heaped-up rocks, ranks of workers who toiled without respite. The stones were transported from that stubborn hill to out-of-the-way places, so as not to impede the passage of visitors and inspectors. We filled up the holes we had dug before, and still the original surface of the ground was reluctant to show itself.