by Ahdaf Soueif
And in Anna’s Thomas Cook I read:
The people who live in the desert have always been a favourite subject of romance, but a very short experience is sufficient to dispel such youthful delusions. The Bedouins, at least such of them as are found between Egypt and Palestine, are of a very prosaic character; rude, ignorant, lazy and greedy, they offer no points of attraction … the ordinary Arabs are destitute alike of grace and strength; their clothing is ragged, their feet are never furnished with shoes, and only occasionally with very rude sandals, and their hands and faces show very plainly that water is scarce … [They] are ignorant and careless of the advantages of civilised life; they constantly carry arms if they can obtain them; a man whose best garment is an untanned sheepskin, will wear a sword, or shoulder a gun, or both … Yet they are apparently a cheerful, contented race, very much like the American Negroes in their simplicity, thoughtlessness and good humour … None of them fails to understand the word baksheesh; it is the first word the young child learns, the last the old man utters.
19 March 1901
Oh how I wish it were possible to go without sleep entirely, or that the hours of each day would be doubled, that I might have time to see and to feel all there is to see and feel, and then still have time to reflect on it, to let the impressions wind their way through my mind, settling here and there in small, shining pools, or merging with other thoughts and progressing towards some great conclusion! And then again I would have time to write it all down, to record it all, for in that act, I have found my thoughts clarify themselves and what starts as an hysterical burbling of impressions resolves into a view, an image as lucid and present as a painting.
I have never cared for the paintings of the Sinai that I have seen, preferring to them the intricate interiors, the detailed portrayals of domestic life. The paintings with grander ambitions never seemed to come to life for me and now I understand why. I have found myself thinking of the wonderful Turners hanging in Petworth, for surely no lesser genius than his could do justice in watercolours to the magnificence of these landscapes. And in oils, of all the painters I can think of, perhaps Corot comes closest to the possibility of rendering these mountains — and yet a painting would do justice only to that spot it depicted, and the viewer would be mistaken in thinking that now he had an idea of the whole of the Sinai. For each day brings us to a different aspect of this amazing land, this conjunction of the two mighty continents of the Ancient World. One day it is a bare gravel plain stretching as far as the eye can see, and then you are surprised by a small stream and thorny acacias digging deep into the sand for the little water that will help them sustain the small life that is their lot; the next day you find yourself amid stupendous ranges of solid rock, some black, some purple, some red, and you are treading the same land in which the Ancient Egyptian laboured to extract copper and turquoise — indeed, you can see the remains of his excavations still. You then come out on an open plain by the Red Sea and there you are joined by huge flocks of birds, pausing, resting for the night on the shore where you are camped, and as the sun rises, while the men perform their morning prayers, the birds too rise. They soar and wheel and call out to each other and set off in a great swooping cloud across the sea and towards their summer homes in the North. And then, opening out among cliffs more than a thousand feet in height, a wadi lies before you and life is plentiful again, with gardens of tamarisk and apple trees and fields of wheat and barley. What one painting could even suggest all this?
Tonight we are camped a single day’s ride from the Monastery of St Catherine and in full view of the mountains of Sinai. We rode, Sharif Pasha and I, through the most spectacular pass, called the Nugb Hawa, so precipitous and narrow that camels cannot go through it but have to be sent the wider and more level route through Darb el-Sheikh. Sharif Pasha put the question to me: would I prefer the spectacular route or the easier one? And naturally I chose the first. He said, ‘It can only be done on horseback. And since we have only two horses, we would have to go alone.’
I said, ‘You will have to convince Sabir,’ and he smiled.
For the first time Sabir consented to leave my side, and Sharif Pasha and I broke off from our companions and rode off into the narrow pass of Nugb Hawa. The granite cliffs on either side of us rose to fifteen hundred feet or more and at times, by leaning slightly to one side or the other, I could have touched both walls of the pass with my hands. Sometimes it seemed that we were riding towards a solid rock face, but as we drew near, an opening would miraculously appear and we would turn into it. The incline meanwhile was for stretches so steep that only the most surefooted and even-tempered of horses would have climbed it without harm to his rider. Our mounts were willing and agile, however, and we rode on, mostly in single file with me at the front, but sometimes my companion drew abreast and with the briefest of looks satisfied himself that all was well with me.
It was on one of those occasions, and sensible that this was the first time we had had a possibility of private conversation, that I started to tell him how grateful I was for all he had done for me and assured him that I was well aware of the great inconvenience this must have caused. But he cut me short with ‘C’est rien. You would have made the journey anyway.’
‘I would have tried,’ I said, ‘but I think I would have met with a tour in Suez and travelled with them, and that would not have been the same thing at all.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, seeming surprised. ‘You would have travelled in comfort and without the necessity of disguise.’
‘I would have …’ I did not quite know how to put this. ‘I would have remained within the world I knew. I would have seen things through my companions’ eyes, and my mind would have been too occupied in resisting their impressions to establish its own —’
‘Have you always been like this?’ he asked.
‘Like what?’ I said, surprised in my turn.
‘So insistent on making up your own mind.’
‘You make me appear wilful.’
‘And are you not?’
‘I have not given free rein to my will before,’ I said. And with that the pass narrowed and he pulled in his horse and fell behind. He had not said it was no trouble, nor assured me that he did not find my company irksome, but I was not displeased with our exchange — and I was glad that I had thanked him.
Nugb Hawa ended as abruptly as it had begun and suddenly we emerged from the dark cool of the pass and into a bright open plain with the majestic mountains of Sinai in full view before us. We were rejoined by the men on camel-back and Sabir greeted me with smiles and with no evidence of any anxiety. I believe he now trusts that I am in safe hands. Indeed, as the days pass and we go deeper and deeper into Sinai, I am quite frightened (although I would not for the world admit this other than to my journal) to think that I tried to do this with only Sabir for company. I had not spoken falsely when I said to Sharif Pasha that I had thought I would meet with a company of Cook’s travellers in Suez and perhaps travel with them, but there was a strong part of me that did not wish to be in the company of my own kind here. As though I had an instinct that their conversation, their presence itself, would preclude my truly entering into the Sinai. And I know now that it would indeed have been so. The encompassing silence and the ease (or indifference) of my companions have left my soul free to contemplate, to drink in the wonder of this place. How fitting it is that it should have been here that Moses heard the word of God! For here, where Man — if he is to live — lives perforce so close to Nature and by her Grace, I feel so much closer to the entire mystery of Creation that it would not surprise me at all were I to be vouchsafed a vision or a revelation; indeed it would seem in the very order of things that such an epiphany would happen. I have found myself, every time the men stopped for prayer, offering up prayers of my own; simple offerings in praise of Him who fashioned all this and who sent me here that I might see it. I have also prayed for His mercy to be visited on the soul of my poor Edward, for I have fallen, from ti
me to time, to thinking that if he had come here as a pilgrim instead of going to the Soudan as a soldier, he might have been alive today and at peace.
21 March
It is afternoon and the monks have retired to prayer and we to our siesta.
We have been to the summit of Jebel Moussa and have watched the dawn break to the accompaniment of the melodious chant of the Muezzin calling for prayer.
The air is dry and light and its effect on the mind is similar to that of a glass of Champagne before dinner.
I have not written anything of this Monastery where we are lodged. The Father is very kind and — as the men are encamped outside the walls — Sharif Pasha has told him who I am on the grounds of it being wrong to accept hospitality under false pretences.
The building is rather like a mediaeval Castle and was established in the Sixth Century and soon afterwards, as the Moslem armies advanced Westwards from the Arabian Peninsula, somebody had the prescience to build a small Mosque in its courtyard to guard against it being burned or demolished. At the time of the Crusades it was the turn of the Monastery to protect the Mosque, and so it has been down the ages, each House of God extending its shelter to the other as opposing armies came and went.
Last night it was early when we all retired, and I thought to try on Layla’s gift. It is a lovely, loose gown of deep-green silk, and even though there is, naturally, no minor in my cell, I was happy to be wearing it.
I went out into the dark garden. I knew we would rise early, but the night was not much advanced and I thought there could be no harm in slipping out for a breath of air.
I saw him come out of the Chapel. He too had doffed his desert attire and was in plain trousers and a woollen jersey with his head uncovered to the night air.
I fancied he started when he saw me. He came towards me and I thought he would be angry that I had ventured out, and that in my woman’s dress with the kufiyya draped loosely about my shoulders. And indeed his first words were ‘Que faites vous ici?’ I said I needed air as my room was close and he said, ‘You should go in.’ But presently, when I did not move, he gestured towards the seat and upon my giving him leave he sat himself down beside me. That he was troubled I could tell without even looking into his face. We sat in silence but there was that about his posture, his air, that betokened a restlessness, a disquiet, and eventually I ventured:
‘Could you not sleep?’
‘I have not tried.’
‘You were in the Chapel,’ I said. And he heard the question in my voice.
‘I was looking at the monks. The old ones. The bones,’ he said, and his voice was harsh and bitter. He sat stooped forward, his elbows on his knees, gazing into the darkness.
I could think of nothing to say. Indeed, all I was conscious of was a desire to put out my hand and touch that arm that was so close to mine, to put my hand upon that troubled head — a desire that grew in intensity so that I folded my arms about myself. He turned.
‘You are cold?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘But you are shivering.’
‘No, not really.’
He studied me for a moment, then turned away. ‘What brought you to Egypt, Lady Anna?’ he said into the night air.
It was the first time he had said my name.
‘The paintings,’ I said. And when he turned to me I told him about the paintings in the South Kensington Museum, about their world of light and colour. I told him about my visits there when Edward was sick. When he was dying.
‘You have been very unhappy,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He did not need to die like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Troubled. Not at peace.’
‘But he did what he believed in, surely? He believed he should fight for his Empire.’
‘It was an unjust war.’
‘But he did not know that.’
‘I think — I believe he knew. But he knew too late. And it killed him.’
There was a silence. It was the first time I had said this to anyone. Perhaps it was the first time I had put the thought so clearly to myself. I was shivering in earnest now and had he put his arms around me I believe I would have allowed myself — but he stood up and said, ‘You must go in.’
‘No,’ I whispered, shaking my head, and with an impatient sound he strode off. I thought he was going away but he strode about the garden, then he came back to a stop in front of me and said:
‘So. Tell me. What do you think? Which is better? To take action and perhaps make a fatal mistake — or to take no action and die slowly anyway?’
I considered. I tried to consider, but it was hard with the trembling upon me and he standing tall in front of me, blocking my view of anything but himself. At last I said, ‘I believe you have to know yourself first — above all.’
‘So. She is wise, as well as beautiful and headstrong.’
I shook my head and kept my eyes on the ground. There was a mocking tone to his voice. But — ‘aussi que belle’ — he had called me ‘belle’.
‘What if you know yourself too well? What if you do not like what you know?’
I was silent.
Within moments he had collected himself: ‘Forgive me. It is all those skulls and bones in there. The dead monks. So —‘ He sat down again. ‘You came to look for that world you saw in your museum. And you have found it?’
‘In your house, monsieur,’ I said.
‘Ah, there are other houses like mine,’ he said dismissively. ‘We must arrange for you to see them.’
I did not know whether to be pleased or disappointed. He was sending me somewhere — but he was sending me away.
‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I did not mean to frighten you earlier. Forgive me.’
‘I am not frightened.’
‘Then why are you shaking?’
‘It is grown — rather cold.’
‘Then you must go inside. Now.’ He stood. ‘Will you go or shall I have to carry you?’
‘You are a bully, monsieur,’ I said. But I stood up.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have been told.’
At my door I held out my hand and he took it in both of his. ‘Will you be warm enough?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Then sleep well. Sleep well, Lady Anna who is never afraid,’ he said. He raised my hand and for a fleeting moment I felt on it the pressure of his lips. And even though I was warm, I cannot say that I slept well.
16
Our frailties are invincible, our virtues barren; the battle goes sore against us to the going down of the sun.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Cairo, 13 July 1997
An old story and plus ça change and all that. I too did not sleep well last night for I was in a magic garden of my own, in a London square one cool summer night, at the moment when a man I had met a few hours before took me in his arms and changed the course of my life. How could I at that moment have foreseen the desolate spaces we would later inhabit? And then the question I had for so long put aside: will there ever be another? Will there be time — will there be heart for another? Having lunch with Tareq Atiyya was the closest I had come in years to a man I could imagine fancying. But he was married — and thinking of doing business with the Israelis. I do not believe I am living in a time-warp, but I confess I find the events of a hundred years ago easier to deal with than the circumstances we are in today.
So when I let my mind wander, it wanders back to Anna. I see her in her shimmering silk gown, her golden hair loose on the kufiyya draped around her shoulders. She stands for a moment, half leaning against the door she has just closed behind her, her hand still glowing with the imprint of his kiss. She lies on her bed and lives again the scene that has just taken place. And she sees again another country where a man had sat helpless and dumb with misery. A man who could not be comforted. But tonight Sharif Pasha al-Baroudi had shaken himself free of his thought
s, walked about the garden, and come back to her. She thinks of his words, his tone, his aspect, how he has made her feel. What woman will at that moment think about signs and significations? Wonder ‘do we — by the same words — mean the same things?’ I think of Isabel and her confident cry: ‘If he cared for me as I care for him, I should not be hurt.’ And Isabel is determined to share my brother’s world. She shares the American one already — and now she wants this one. She wants to surprise him when she goes back by her grasp of things Egyptian. And I have arranged to take her to the Atelier. I have told people — yet again — that she is engaged to my brother, and also that she is doing a graduate project on how people here view the millennium. I’ve lied a bit and said she has been on a march to end the suffering of the women and children of Iraq.
15 July
In the Atelier am Ghazali, the waiter, spoons coarse sugar into the glasses of tea that he hands out. In a corner of the long, low room, its whitewashed walls coloured with the smoke of thousands of cigarettes, my old professor, Ramzi Yusuf, is once again conquering Mahgoub al-Tilmisani’s white army on the old chessboard. Deena al-Ulama sits with them, correcting the proofs of a set of papers for the Nasr Abu-Zeid case. They stand up to greet us and Mahgoub says:
‘Khalas ya Doctor?’
‘Mafish khalas,’ Ramzi Yusuf says. ‘You play to the end.’
‘But the guests?’
‘They will wait.’ He gestures round the room. ‘Sit and look. Experience the ambience. I will beat him in a minute,’ he says to Isabel. ‘You do not mind to wait, do you?’
When we sit, Deena stuffs her papers into a large bag and calls out to Ghazali to take our order.
‘So, is this your first visit to Egypt?’ Deena asks Isabel. Deena teaches mathematics at Cairo University and does a lot of volunteer work for the Teachers’ Union, the human-rights organisation, the Legal Aid Bureau and the Committee for the Support of the Palestinian people. She is in sandals, jeans and a loose, dark blue top. She looks tired. There is a general hubbub and people continually leaving or coming in or passing through looking for someone. A telephone rings incessantly. Two exhibitions of painting are showing: one in the gallery upstairs and one in the smaller room next door. One of the artists has just been placed under Administrative Detention for signing a statement against the land laws. The other from time to time joins the main group in the room.