She need not have worried about me. Feminine wiles were one social skill which my parents had neglected to inculcate in me. Yet without it I had had no chance in a marriage with a man like Yussef. Mervat had succeeded where I had only butted my head against a blank wall. I was sure she had transformed him into a dutiful husband and a doting father, and that she had even managed to get into the good graces of her in-laws.
The dancer reappeared, in an even more provocative outfit: a gauzy black sheath completely slit from shoulder to ankle, held together at strategic points with rhinestone clasps. I looked at my watch. It was past midnight. I leaned over and whispered in Tamer’s ear. ‘Can we leave after this number?’
He nodded.
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the houseboat, waiting for Tamer to fetch the car. He had parked half a block away. Even at one o’clock in the morning the well-lit Nile embankment was far from deserted.
‘Kleenex!’
The pedlar’s cry caught my attention and I looked down. At my feet a beggar on a skateboard held up a box of tissues. His legs were bare puckered stumps below the knees. This was not a child, as many beggars were, but a grown man with a moustache and sharp, angry eyes. I fumbled around in my handbag, found a pound, dropped it in his lap without looking and hurried after Tamer.
I caught up with him as he was pulling out of his parking spot. He opened the door for me and gave me a sidelong glance as I slipped in beside him. ‘Everything all right?’
I nodded but I was upset, not with the beggar but with myself for reacting to deformity as to blackmail. Many of these beggars were self-mutilated, or mutilated as children, in order to follow this profession. But what if the man were genuinely the victim of an accident? Should I have taken the box of tissues, at least allowing him to save face? The one trait I was most ashamed of was my squeamishness: the impulse to shrink from contact with deformity and desperation, as if they were contagious.
‘What’s wrong?’ Tamer insisted.
‘Oh, it’s just – there was this beggar. A cripple, with no legs. That’s what I’d forgotten about Egypt. The misery.’
‘Beggars aren’t the worst thing you could have.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Think, Gigi. It was a beggar, not a mugger or a rapist. In the States it could have been.’
‘That’s true, but in the States you don’t see misery like that!’
‘You don’t see it because you’re buffered from it in a hundred and one ways. Would you have liked the doorman at the restaurant to have kept this beggar out of the way?’
‘Of course not! Poor man.’
‘Some people would like to crack down on beggars and peddlers. They think it’s bad for business when tourists are exposed to disturbing encounters like that. They should get a controlled, packaged experience. Fly straight to Luxor or Hurghada and back out again.’
‘I’m not talking about tourists. I’m talking about people like us. How can you enjoy life when you look around and see how most people live?’
‘So which is better? To run away and live abroad or stay and try to make a difference?’
‘I don’t know, Tamer. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any future here. Like the man walking on water. Or the dervish spinning. How long can they keep it up?’
20
Luxor
The phone ringing woke me the next morning. It was Janet Glasser.
‘Hello, Gigi! Guess where I’m calling from? The Gezira Sheraton!’
‘Really? That’s wonderful! What are you doing in Cairo?’
‘Well, I’m here for the symposium on Francophone writers – didn’t I tell you about that? I presented my paper yesterday and the symposium ends today. Toussaint just flew in to Cairo today to join me.’ Janet paused, clearly relishing the effect of her bombshell. ‘I know this is rather sudden, but didn’t you have at least an inkling about Toussaint and me?’
‘No! Honestly.’
Apparently they had been seeing each other since his divorce, but had kept it very discreet in order to avoid the inevitable gossip in the department. But when he had decided to attend the symposium, they had seized the chance to take a trip together for the first time.
‘I almost told you the night of your party, Gigi, when you mentioned you would be in Egypt around then. But we were interrupted. I knew I could trust you not to let it get out.’
‘Of course, I won’t tell a soul. So that’s why you asked Luc for my phone number in Cairo!’
‘Right! Although I did nominate you to head the refreshments committee, I didn’t make that up.’
‘We’ll have to talk about that later. This is such a nice surprise! What would you like to see first in Cairo?’
‘That’s just it, we’re flying to Luxor tonight for five days. Can you come down for a day or two?’
‘I don’t know. Anyway, wouldn’t I be de trop? Isn’t the whole point for the two of you to be alone together?’
‘We’ll have plenty of time for that, and it would be great fun to be together in Luxor.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Where will you be staying?’
‘The Luxor Palace. We’re getting an incredible rate. I guess it’s because there aren’t many tourists this year.’
After she hung up I thought about it. I hadn’t been to Upper Egypt since I was at school. I knew Tarek had been once, on a school trip, at the age of ten. I was suddenly very tempted to go. If Tarek came along, then I could have him to myself for a while, and I wouldn’t feel like the proverbial third wheel around Toussaint and Janet.
I called Tarek.
‘Darling, how about spending the weekend with me in Luxor? We could fly down on Friday morning and fly back Saturday evening.’
‘Friday? But that’s tomorrow, Mummy.’
‘Right! Don’t pack a lot of stuff, it’s for one night only. Check with your father first, of course. I’ll pick you up around nine and we’ll take the eleven o’clock flight. We’ll be there a little after noon.’
Luxor. Already on the road from the airport to the hotel it is a different world. A world of primary colors: clear blue skies and clover-green fields, smiling dark faces and flapping white robes. I feel an instant release of tension and turn to look at Tarek. He smiles back at me.
The taxi pulls up in front of the Luxor Palace. In the lobby of the elegant turn-of the-century hotel, ‘Dreaming of a White Christmas’ is playing, an incongruous reminder of an American shopping mall. At the reception desk I need to provide identification to show that Tarek and I are related. Unrelated members of opposite gender are not supposed to share a room. I am reluctant to produce my American passport because I made the reservation as an Egyptian in order to take advantage of the lower rate for nationals. I succeed in convincing the receptionist that Tarek and I are indeed mother and son, and that he is only sixteen. There is a message from Janet and Toussaint that they will be back for dinner around eight. Tarek and I go up to our room and change into swimsuits for a quick dip in the pool before sundown.
The pool area is deserted but for a British family. The mother, lobster-pink in her bikini, is spread-eagled on a lounge chair. She has unhooked the strap of her top and when she raises her head to call to the two little boys in the pool she exposes more of her front than she realizes. Yet the waiter who serves her a drink seems oblivious. It occurs to me that this smiling Nubian with his serviceable English probably has a wife he keeps under close wraps at home. The natives of Upper Egypt seem blasé; it is nearly a century, after all, since their region became a mandatory stop on the itinerary of the European on a world tour. The Englishwoman calls to the boys and the family go into the hotel, leaving the pool area deserted but for Tarek and me. The terrorist threat has effectively flushed the tourists out of the country and the few diehard foreigners who do come are bargain-hunters.
We take a last dip in the pool and wrap ourselves in the thick towels. We lie back on the lounge chairs and look out across the Nile at the west bank, the
Valley of the Dead. Suddenly the sun dips behind a palm tree just as a felucca glides into view. The delicate sail and the palm fronds are silhouetted against the blood-orange orb for a breath-taking, postcard-perfect instant. Tarek jumps up.
‘Quick! Where’s the key? I want to get the camera.’
Even as he rushes upstairs to our room, towel around his shoulders, the felucca glides on past and the sun dips lower. I sigh. One day he will learn to enjoy the moment rather than to try to capture it. When he comes back to face a disappointing view I will console him with the promise that tomorrow we will be better prepared to take advantage of the minutes of magical light between the flat glare of full day and the swift dark of an Egyptian night. But since my return to Egypt I am beginning to realize myself that there never really is a tomorrow that repeats the lost moment of today. I draw the towel tighter around my shoulders as the temperature plummets with the abruptness peculiar to nightfall in southern deserts.
Saturday morning. The west bank is mercifully undeveloped; no hotels or restaurants, no cars but the few licensed taxis. Access is limited to the ferries or feluccas that shuttle back and forth from the east bank, that of the living, to the west bank, that of the dead. Even the bridge that was expressly built for the duration of the presentation of Verdi’s Aida at the Hatshepsut Temple in November has been dismantled.
The taxi we have hired for the day deposits us at the base of the plateau and the driver joins the other waiting taxi men. We stretch our legs in the cloudless sunshine. Janet is wearing dangling earrings and a caftan of the sort sold in souvenir shops; her new look suits her. Toussaint is wearing a hat, sun block, a video camera and the combative grin of the fearless adventurer. The objective of this preparedness becomes clear when he breaches the phalanx of souvenir stands selling everything from scarabs to sun visors.
Tarek stops at one of the stands to buy camera film and I move on with Toussaint and Janet. A few stands away the portly vendor holds out a display of scarabs. Toussaint is very business-like. He brings out a small wallet and makes a great show of displaying that it contains very little money.
‘Look, this is all the money I have with me today. Now I’m only going to spend five pounds on souvenirs because after I pay for the tickets that’s all I’ll have left over. So if you can find me a scarab for five pounds, fine. If not, I’ll try the next stand.’
‘Look around, take your time, I’m sure we’ll find something for you,’ the man smiles under his moustache.
‘Toussaint’s been pulling the same trick in every souvenir shop we’ve been,’ Janet whispers in my ear.
Tarek catches up with us and asks the vendor, in Arabic, the price of a tiny silver ankh, or key of life. I wonder if the pendant is destined for a girlfriend.
‘For you, twenty pounds.’ The vendor holds up the case for Tarek and adds in an aside, nodding towards Toussaint: ‘Have you seen this guy here? I’m giving him a special break, I swear to Allah, because he has two wives and seems to be hard up. Of course I have two wives myself but I can afford them. Not that I wouldn’t give up both of mine for one of these Frenjis, especially the one with the shorter hair, she’s like honey!’
‘That’s my mother!’ Tarek snaps.
The man is sincerely embarrassed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, but how was I to know she was your mother? Did she understand me?’
I find all this amusing, and am a little surprised by Tarek’s annoyance. Even at sixteen he already has the typical, male protective reflex towards a female relative. He was raised in Egypt, after all. It makes me aware of the distance the years have put between us.
Our first view of the Hatshepsut temple is disappointing, obscured as it is by the scaffolding and bleachers which have not been removed after the opera production in November. The approach to the funeral temple, designed to be an awe-inspiring ascent up broad steps and steep ramps, has been reduced to the backdrop for an opera set.
We wander around the temple, occasionally turning a corner to avoid a group of Japanese tourists who are the only visitors this morning. Janet has a book on the monuments of Luxor and reads out loud from it.
‘Although Hatshepsut was known to be a woman, as Egypt’s pharaoh she is portrayed in statues wearing a ceremonial fake beard held in place by loops over her ears…hmm, the equivalent of the modern power suit, I suppose.’
We have reached the top of the steps. Tarek aims the camera at the opposite shore.
‘I can’t get a clear view of the Karnak temple because of the scaffolding.’ He gives up in disgust.
I reach for his hand and draw him down beside me.
‘Bored?’
‘No. But I’m just thinking that I’ve got a test to study for when I get back.’
‘That reminds me. I need to get a transcript of your academic record to take with me when I leave. It’s high time to start applying to colleges for the fall.’
‘But I haven’t even sat for my baccalaureate exams yet.’
‘I know, but the system in the States is different.’ I give him a hug. ‘Everything is different. There’s so much for you to do there, you’ll love it.’
‘You’ve never seen ice sculptures, have you?’ Toussaint interposes with a smile. ‘The college students in the town where we live have this competition, they build ice sculptures. Whole houses, cars, people! It’s amazing. They make panes of ‘glass’ made of transparent sheets of ice.’
Janet and Toussaint disappear behind the columns. Tarek looks down at his feet and kicks up the dust.
‘Mummy, I don’t know.’
A minute ago I was warm, now I feel a chill.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m just not sure I want to go to the States. My friends are here, my life is here.’
‘But you’ll love it over there, you’ll see. I miss you so much, darling. Don’t you want us to be together at last?’
‘Sure, Mummy, I miss you too. But I could come visit in summer. Maybe you could come here more often.’
‘There you are.’ Janet comes up behind us, still holding her book. ‘It says here that the architect who built this temple for Hatshepsut was her lover and the father of her children. Romantic, isn’t it?’ She realizes by my forced smile that she is interrupting something and wanders off again. I turn back to Tarek.
‘But sweetheart, going to college there, it’s for your own good, for your future.’
‘I know. But I’m just not sure I’m ready yet. Maybe for my graduate degree, okay?’
Graduate degree. I groan. But I bite my lip and keep quiet. Perhaps I have been pushing too much, taking too much for granted. I have been treating him like a child with no mind of his own. I lean back, take a deep breath. I try not to sound as if the hope by which I have lived for ten years hangs on his decision. I will not blackmail him emotionally. I have no right.
‘All I’m asking you to do is to keep an open mind about this, darling, all right? You don’t have to make up your mind this minute. Okay?’
He nods, but he keeps his eyes on the ground.
Toussaint comes up, looking flushed and triumphant. ‘They have these signs posted everywhere: “No videotaping or camera flashes in the tombs”. But the guards just stand by and let you do as you like in exchange for bakshish. It’s amazing!’
Janet consults her book. ‘Do you know that Hatshepsut had this temple specifically built so that it would be in the direct line of the sun god Ra rising behind the Luxor temple? And now the view is obscured by all this scaffolding.’
‘That’s true,’ I nod. ‘Hatshepsut must be turning in her grave. If this sacrilege isn’t enough to bring down the wrath of Ra, I don’t know what is. Shall we head on down? You must be hungry, and I know Tarek is.’
As we make our way back through the persistent souvenir sellers and chirping children. Toussaint takes the lead. ‘Here, let me go ahead. I know how to make these people scatter. Yalla, imshi, yalla!’ He flourishes the wallet, open, upside down.
He is clearly
relishing the role of great white tourist. I realize that he is the sort of person who revels in exotic travel for all the wrong reasons: it gives him the occasion to rise above his real-world self and to feel his existence justified merely as a member of a taller, fairer, finer, altogether superior race. I cannot decide which I wish to disassociate myself from more urgently: Toussaint’s obnoxious sense of superiority, or the grinning vendors’ lack of self-restraint which fuels it.
21
The Visit of Condolences
I have been in Cairo almost three weeks now, and my life has settled into something perilously resembling a routine. I still cannot sleep through the night. On the other hand I feel more alive than I have in years. Perhaps it’s because I look forward to spending the weekends with Tarek, although the question of his plans for college remains unresolved. Perhaps it has to do with Tamer. I call him on the phone, late at night, and we talk. Sometimes we see each other.
Perhaps I can’t sleep because I hear the time ticking away. It seems hard to believe that I will be going back to the States soon. I could just stay. It has happened that way before. Looking back, I realize that the sea changes in my life have been sudden, and that at the time I thought they would be temporary. Five years in England came to an abrupt end in three hours of packing. I received a phone call that Papa had had a serious heart attack and I grabbed Tarek and some clothes and headed for the airport. Papa recovered that time, but I stayed. There seemed no point in going back to London when I had completed my studies and Yussef had nearly completed the work on his thesis.
When I left for France, I expected to be back in a few months. I never went back to Egypt to live. When Luc and I went to the States, it was with the idea of his accepting a temporary assignment as a correspondent. We ended up making New Hampshire our home, finding it easier to settle on territory that was neutral for both of us.
The Cairo House Page 22