Sphinx

by T. S. Learner

  I looked around the room, assessing my options. The instrument had to be hidden, but where? After the attempted break-in here and the ransacking of my flat in London, the villa itself felt unsafe as a hiding place. Besides, there were too many people, staff and the like, walking through daily. It had to be concealed somewhere unexpected, too unusual for a seasoned thief to consider. I went to the balcony, pulled aside the blind and stared down into the garden. On Ibrihim’s side of the house there was a makeshift yard where Tinnin the Alsatian was kept. Muslims regarded dogs as unclean, but recent events had forced Ibrihim to tolerate Tinnin’s presence because he was a good guard dog. There was a kennel there, large enough for something to be buried at the back of it.

  Later, after shouting a quick goodbye to Ibrihim as I left, I took a walk along the Corniche. Battling the gusts of wind coming off the Mediterranean, I crossed the road and sat on the sea wall. The scent of roasting chestnuts floated from a brazier nearby, reminding me incongruously of Oxford Street at Christmas. Courting couples, some in traditional dress, others in Western clothes, strolled past, the wind making sails of their garments. The women were beautiful, vivacious, luxuriant in their flesh; the men thin-faced and earnest. Their intimacy suddenly made the absence of Isabella painfully apparent. I was reminded of a walk I’d taken with her only months before. I looked out over the sea. To the right was the islet upon which had once stood that great wonder of the ancient world - the Pharos. Isabella had taken me there, describing the lighthouse in detail, as if she had lived through that era herself. The lighthouse had been built during Ptolemaic times to protect the increasing number of trading ships from being wrecked in the harbour. Isabella told me that the Pharos would have appeared to defy gravity in its soaring height and, for the religious pilgrims of the era, the tower must have been a spiritually transcendent vision with its flaming beacon burning day and night. As she stared out at the site that day, I remembered being struck by how convincing her description sounded.

  In the Café Athenios the old men had begun to congregate for the evening, chatting over hookah pipes, small cups of thick black coffee and baklava. I sat at a table outside and ordered a coffee. I needed to put my scattered thoughts into some kind of order.

  The police had mentioned that the Ba hieroglyph was the symbol of an illegal organisation. The fact that Isabella and Hugh Wollington both had a Ba tattoo suggested there was a stronger connection between them than I’d first suspected. Were the people in that photograph from Behbeit el-Hagar involved? Perhaps Enrico Silvio was a part of it too. But what kind of organisation was it?

  The printed image on the front of the menu caught my eye. The drawing of a woman with snakes for hair somehow resonated. Then I remembered the head of Medusa that Isabella had pointed to in my dream. There had been a fish and a bull scratched onto the cell wall too. Where would one find those three images together? I forced my thoughts back to the illegal organisation. Would Hermes—

  ‘Mr Warnock?’

  Startled, I looked up. Aadeel, Francesca’s housekeeper, stood at my table, looking flustered.

  ‘I went to the villa in Roushdy - your housekeeper told me you would probably be here.’ He looked at the cut above my eyebrow and lowered his voice. ‘You have been questioned again?’

  I nodded. ‘It was unpleasant but it could have been far worse. I suspect I got preferential treatment as a European.’ Aadeel glanced nervously behind him, and I had the sense that he was worried about being seen with me. He indicated that we needed to get going.

  ‘Please, we need to move. I fear the grief is destroying Madame Brambilla. She is losing her mind. Please, you must come now.’

  Francesca was sitting in the drawing room, the French doors thrown open to the garden. Despite the warmth of the afternoon she was wearing a blanket around her shoulders. Terrified by my appearance, she clutched at my arm.

  ‘So you have finally come to take my house?’

  I sat down on the sofa beside her chair. Her grand authority had been replaced by a childlike bewilderment. It was devastating to witness. ‘I’m not going to take anything or send you anywhere, Francesca. You’re safe here.’ Trying to reassure her, I stroked her hand.

  ‘It was my fault, Oliver, I killed her. It was that woman. I knew Giovanni was a fool to trust her. Do you hear that, Giovanni?’ she cried, addressing the empty space in front of her. ‘Do you hear?’

  She appeared to be slipping in and out of a mild dementia.

  ‘Which woman?’ I asked gently.

  ‘The English woman, the one who helped Isabella go to Oxford. She was always scheming.’

  ‘Amelia Lynhurst?’

  ‘Giovanni chose her to be his high priestess . . . they had so much power together, then she wasted it, all of it . . .’ Francesca began rocking herself in the chair. ‘The body always lets us down so what does it matter? The poor child was already dead.’

  I assumed she was talking about Isabella’s missing organs. I leaned forward, trying to hold her gaze and pin her to some semblance of lucidity.

  ‘Francesca, who took Isabella’s body to the mortuary?’

  ‘The men who work for our church, that was what I arranged. I didn’t want the autopsy but the police insisted.’

  ‘And how long did the priests have her?’

  Again Francesca appeared to lapse into dementia. ‘A Brambilla has never been cremated. We are always buried, like the great kings of Egypt. We are immortalised by our ancestry.’ She grasped my hand. ‘Isabella was born on a very auspicious day. She was destined for greatness. She was chosen, you know. My husband had her astrological chart calculated; he believed in such matters.’

  Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out the photograph of the group that had been shot at the Behbeit el-Hagar dig. ‘Do you recognise any of the others in this photo?’ I asked.

  Francesca pointed to Hugh Wollington. ‘This man, he visited here a few times as a student. I didn’t like him, but he worshipped Giovanni. A good wife never asks her husband certain questions. Marriage is a mutually agreed conspiracy. Sometimes it is a travesty,’ she finished bitterly. ‘Come, it is time you met my husband.’

  She reached for her cane, then hobbled towards an archway. I followed, a little apprehensively. Where was she going to take me? We arrived at a small door covered by a curtain. She pulled the curtain across, then lifted a key hanging off a chain around her neck and inserted it into the lock. I pushed the heavy door open for her.

  ‘This was Giovanni’s study. Only a privileged few were allowed to enter. Nothing has been altered since his death.’

  The large room was filled with antique furniture. A Napoleon campaign desk sat at one end, in front of a bay window. On top of it was an oval portrait of a middle-aged man in his fifties wearing the uniform of the Italian Fascist Party, a falcon perched on his outstretched arm. Next to it was a photograph of the same man with a young King Farouk, looking remarkably slim and handsome; the two were shaking hands. A stuffed falcon peered down from a ceiling corner, its glass eyes glinting. A scaled-down model of what appeared to be the family cotton factory, made from balsa wood and matchsticks, stood under a dusty bell jar on a stand to the right of the desk. At the opposite end of the room was a small camp bed made up with sheets and a blanket, set discreetly behind a sofa. It was a poignant sight.

  Catching my gaze, Francesca remarked defensively, ‘I sleep with the ghosts of my family. They make me safe. But I wanted to show you these . . .’

  She led me to a wall covered in framed pictures and pointed to a row of group shots, all men. The photographs were dated in neat inked script from 1910 through to 1954. I noticed that the war years, 1939 to 1945, were missing. All appeared to be taken at the same spot, on the shore of Lake Mariout, an area where many wealthy Alexandrians used to hunt duck and other waterfowl. In one of the latter photographs, dated 1954, a small girl stood proudly beside a middle-aged man who was sporting a moustache and was dressed in a hunting jacket and hat. He had a f
alcon on his outstretched arm and the child’s concentration on the bird transported the viewer straight into the moment: I could almost hear the cries of the disturbed herons as they flapped out of the rushes, the rustling wind in the swaying palms. I recognised Isabella in the child immediately.

  ‘There she is,’ Francesca said, ‘five years old and already hunting with her father and grandfather. That is Paolo, my son, with the falcon. The other men had hunting dogs, but Paolo had birds of prey. Our family have always kept falcons - since the sixteenth century in Abruzzo. My granddaughter loved that bird.’

  She pointed to the stuffed bird hanging from the ceiling. ‘That is it there; that ridiculous creature lived longer than my son. That is life: full of banal surprises. After his death, Isabella would take the falcon out herself. “Nonna,” she used to say, “why don’t I have wings?” She should never have left Egypt; she should never have studied abroad. She would be alive now.’

  ‘How do you mean, Francesca?’

  ‘Basta! It is all meaningless now. The line is finished.’ Angrily, she hit the leg of an armchair with her cane.

  I walked over to a low bookcase and kneeled to look at the titles: Ancient Astrology, The Ancient Art of Mummification, The Egyptian Book of the Dead: Spells and Incantations, Nectanebo II - Magician or Politician?, Moses - the Magus, The Writings of Hermes Trismegistus as interpreted by Toz Graecus.

  The old woman shuffled up behind me. ‘Giovanni’s tomes - they travelled everywhere with him. At first I humoured him. I even joined in with his little re-enactments, but then it got serious . . .’ She faltered, as if she had revealed too much. Re-enactments? Could this have been the performances that Cecilia had spoken about? The officer’s words about the ‘sect’ came to mind.

  ‘Serious how?’ I asked the question casually, to preserve Francesca’s fragile connection to reality.

  Her face closed over. ‘You can’t stop the men,’ she said bitterly.

  I pulled out a book entitled Popular Stories of Ancient Egypt by Gaston Maspero - a name I knew from Isabella’s bookshelves. The book fell open at a page relating the dream of Nectanebo, the one that Amelia Lynhurst had described in her thesis. A pressed flower slipped onto the floor. Despite its desiccated state, an exquisite scent flooded the room. I picked up the flower - it was a dried blue lotus, the colour of the petals still faintly visible. I knew it was a sacred flower and was regularly depicted on the walls of the temples and in scenes with members of the Egyptian court poised elegantly over the blossom. Isabella had told me it was an hallucinogen.

  ‘Was Giovanni researching Nectanebo II?’ I asked.

  ‘The Pharaoh was his obsession. Giovanni was fascinated by the notion of racial purity and Nectanebo II was the last truly Egyptian ruler. Those that followed, my husband described as colonial impostors - the Persians, then the Arabs, then the Turks, French and English. Ironically the next Egyptian ruler was Nasser, but that didn’t stop Giovanni’s fascination with the pharaoh.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as racial purity,’ I said, slightly absent-mindedly. I was still looking at the flower, my mind scrambling to try and make the right connections.

  ‘The 1930s were a different time - people looked for certainty then, it made them feel secure. You must understand that we were all desperate, especially here in Egypt. We Italians wanted to belong. Giovanni knew there was change coming; he wanted to secure his family’s future, to ensure we would not lose everything.’ My ears perked up at the ominous note of her last words.

  ‘Just how did he think he was going to achieve that?’

  Francesca’s head snapped up and she finally looked me in the eye, as if suddenly realising that she had already given away too much. ‘Enough! I have told you too much already; I will not betray my husband!’

  ‘I’m not asking you to betray your husband, just to save your granddaughter.’ My tone matched hers as we glowered at each other.

  ‘It is too late for that, Oliver. We have lost her, don’t you understand? We have both lost her.’

  ‘But is she at peace, Francesca?’

  ‘At peace? Don’t be an idiot. Look around you - I am surrounded by the dead, all screaming for retribution. When I die it will be the same.’

  I slipped the book back onto the shelf. ‘I need to know the name of the priest who handled Isabella’s funeral,’ I ventured, more carefully now, unsure whether I’d lost her trust altogether.

  To my relief Francesca answered my question. ‘Father Carlotto, at St Catherine’s. The parish has served the family for years.’

  Her hand was a collision of delicate bones resting on my arm as I escorted her back to the study door. Once we were in the corridor, she locked the door and turned to me.

  ‘You cannot visit him tonight; tonight your duty is to me. You must accompany me to the opera house. The Bolshoi Ballet is visiting and they are putting on a production of Stravinsky’s Orpheus.’

  Disturbed by her sudden fey tone of voice I thought she might have slipped back into the memory of some past event, but just then Aadeel appeared in the shadows. ‘Madame Brambilla would be most indebted if you could accompany her,’ he said. ‘Truly, it is the event of the year - everyone who matters in Alexandria will be there. And Madame must attend for the sake of the family’s reputation. ’

  I fingered the cut on my forehead thoughtfully. There were advantages to being seen so publicly - it would be a defiant gesture to my pursuers and might force them out into the open. It occurred to me, somewhat disturbingly, that in this attempt to transform myself from the pursued to the pursuer, I was resorting to using myself as bait. A dangerous ploy but one that just might work.

  29

  The Sayed Darwish Theatre, known as the Mohammed Ali in its colonial heyday, was a small but ostentatious neoclassical building adorned with great sweeps of gold paint and peeling plaster. From the mid-nineteenth century until 1952, the European diaspora had kept it vibrant with visiting orchestras, ballets and singers. It had been one of the cultural centres of old Alexandria. But since the revolution, the venue had lost much of its original audience and had become a cultural anachronism in the newly affluent Arab-dominated society.

  The orchestra struck up and I glanced down the row in which Francesca and I were sitting: it was an eclectic congregation - various European dignitaries, several Egyptian officials and a smattering of tourists. In the row in front of us sat Henries and his wife. Sensing my gaze, the consul turned and tried unsuccessfully to hide his displeasure at my presence.

  I felt awkward squeezed into the tuxedo, starched shirt and cummerbund that Francesca had insisted I wear; all had once belonged to Giovanni Brambilla. The shirt prickled the back of my neck, the satin necktie knotted expertly by Aadeel pressed tight against my Adam’s apple. And it was hard not to be uncomfortably conscious of the cuts and bruises that still marked my face, drawing stares from members of the audience. I felt very conspicuous, but I guess that’s what I’d intended.

  On stage, Orpheus, clad in a painted body stocking, sat before Hades and Persephone, the King and Queen of the Underworld, and plucked at a golden lyre. His solo of pirouettes and leaps - a desperate plea to allow him to lead his wife Eurydice out of Hades - was starkly emotional, full of grief and longing, and especially poignant for me.

  A rustling to my left distracted me - Amelia Lynhurst, making a late entrance, whispered apologies as she pushed past those already seated to the empty space in my row. Thinking about my pursuers, I was more inclined to fear Mosry and, perhaps, Wollington, but Amelia Lynhurst was a wild card. And maybe her claiming the seat close to me was a sign that she was a force to be reckoned with. I had never trusted her after Isabella’s doubts, which were then confirmed by Hermes’s comments that she had ‘dangerous aspirations’ and possibly believed herself to be a reincarnation of Isis. There was the story of the key to the astrarium, too - how Amelia had found it and Enrico Silvio had stolen it from her. And Francesca obviously didn’t trust Amelia either - her di
sdainful words ‘scheming woman’ still rang in my head. I noticed the matriarch tensing up as she watched the approaching Egyptologist - a flitter of fear crossing her face before she turned rigidly back to the stage. Nevertheless, I knew I had to confront Amelia. During our conversation at Isabella’s funeral she had made it clear that she believed I had the astrarium; more importantly, she’d seemed to know a lot more about it than I did, even after my conversations with Hermes, Wollington and Silvio. Her opinion could be an equally significant piece in the puzzle, something that might bring me further towards a solution for the astrarium. But I needed to gain information from her without giving too much away, the mistake I had made with Hugh Wollington.

  A musical crescendo interrupted my musings. Eurydice, clad in a diaphanous veil and echoing Orpheus’s dance steps with heartbreaking grace, followed her husband to the entrance of the cave that led out of the Underworld and into the living world beyond. Orpheus’s frantic yearning to turn and see his wife was evident in the half-spins he made, almost turning but not quite, the choreography teasing out the suspense, the terrible knowledge that if the poet did surrender to temptation he would condemn his wife to a second death and lose her all over again.

  My whole body knotted in empathy, his longing mirroring my own desire to have Isabella alive again. And then, with a teasingly slow spin, Orpheus turned, arms outstretched, to embrace his wife as she stood on tiptoe, arched like a willow tree, at the portal between death and a second life - and so he lost her.

  Embarrassing to admit, but I actually cried out loud when Eurydice collapsed lifeless again under the gaze of her husband. Mortified by my outburst, I watched on in silence while Orpheus, destroyed by his own desire, traced out his distress in a series of agonised leaps.

  There was a reception being held in the foyer. I looked across the sea of people. Amelia was at the far side of the hall at the foot of a majestic marble stairway, half concealed by an aspidistra. I made my way past several Russian ballerinas who were mingling now with local dignitaries, past a table covered with brochures advertising package holidays to the Soviet Union. Without preamble I tapped the Egyptologist on her shoulder.