by Francis King
‘Oh, I’m used to it. It’s often very hot in my native Sicily. And in any case, one gets used to everything in the end.’ Despite this declaration, she had been fanning herself vigorously throughout the conversation. Small beads of sweat were glistening under her heavily mascaraed eyes and in the creases of her neck.
As though she and Alexine were already close friends, she now began to speak of the absolute necessity of mosquito nets. Her only child, a little boy, had died two years ago of malaria. No, the Good Lord had given her no other child and now perhaps – perhaps it was too late to have any hope of one. She had her step-children but they were all older than she was and they were in Italy. She hardly knew them.
This frankness persuaded Alexine to be frank in her turn. Wasn’t it crazy, she asked, to dress as they were dressed – she indicated her own elaborate costume, layer on layer – in such a climate?
‘Yes. So it may seem. But it’s necessary to keep up standards. Surely? Otherwise – we become just like the natives.’
‘But these stays! They’re suffocating me. I can hardly breathe.’ Both women laughed, as Alexine pressed a hand to her midriff. ‘I’m not going to wear them again. I can’t. They’ll kill me.’
‘You’re not being serious?’
‘Of course. How can you bear to wear them yourself?’
Signora Rossetti thought for a moment. ‘They represent something. Small but important.’
‘And what’s that?’
Again Signora Rossetti paused in thought. ‘Discipline. The people here don’t know what it means. No discipline! You will learn that. Lazy, unreliable, dishonest. Oh, charming, charming, yes. But … If I didn’t wear stays, it would be the same as receiving my guests in curling-pins!’ Alexine laughed; but Signora Rossetti shook her head in admonition: ‘No, no. No joke. I’m being serious. Please – believe me. It’s the same with your skin.’ She put out her hand and tentatively touched Alexine’s cheek. ‘Beautiful. So white, smooth. You must keep that. Remember – always wear a hat, carry a parasol. My skin’ – now she touched her own cheek – ‘is born this way. Brown, coarse. But you – you must stay white, white. Fragile. Pure. Beautiful. European.’
Later Signor Rossetti led Addy down a long corridor, its once uniformly pink distemper peeling in grey and brown shreds from its walls, to show her his library. ‘I love books, but Egypt’s not the place for them. The insects eat them, and when it rains …’ Shelves reached up to the ceiling of the cavernous room, with only two skylights for windows. The colza oil lamp in his hand threw off huge, erratic shadows, as he walked from shelf to shelf to show her his treasures.
‘You’ve a wonderful collection.’ Then Addy’s often embarrassing devotion to the truth made her add: ‘But, to be frank with you, the age and physical condition of a book means nothing to me. I love books but only for what is printed on the page.’
He sighed. ‘You miss a lot. This is the collection of a lifetime. My first wife used to complain that I was wasting my money. And now my Maria does the same. A new frock from Paris is one thing, but a book …!’
He put down the lamp, fetched some library steps and, swaying perilously from side to side, mounted them. ‘ Take a look at this. Machiavelli. Il Principe. I know of no similar copy in existence.’
Gingerly, Addy took the book from the hand that he extended downward. There were tiny perforations in the stiff pages.
‘These pages …’
‘Yes, the insects have been at them.’ He gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘They like printer’s ink even more than human blood.’
She handed the book back to him. When he had replaced it, she put out a hand to help him down from the ladder. He took her hand, swayed, and finally jumped, all but toppling over as he landed. He laughed and began to brush the dust off the front of his jacket. ‘You should stay in Cairo for the winter, not go on this journey. Life here in the next few months will be truly diverting. We call it the season. People from all over the world, even from America. All sorts. Tourists, artists, botanists, archaeologists, sportsmen. A wonderful opportunity for a young girl to find a husband.’ His left eyelid flickered. It was almost a wink.
‘I’m afraid my niece has set her heart not on a husband but on a voyage of discovery. She’s a girl who always gets what she wants.’
‘Always to get what one wants is not good for anyone.’ Again he gave his high-pitched laugh. ‘ Why not rent a house here? I know of a beautiful one, in Ezbekiya Square. Near your hotel. I can get it for you at a bargain price. One of the finest houses in the city.’
Addy shook her head. ‘Bargains never appeal to my niece. She’s one of the most extravagant people in the world.’
‘But surely you and Madame Thinne must …?’
Addy smiled. ‘We have absolutely no control over her. We merely do her bidding. The money is hers,’ she added. ‘And money, as you will know, is power.’
In the drawing-room, a middle-aged man carried a stool over to where Alexine was sitting. ‘May I, mademoiselle?’ he asked in English, still holding the stool in both hands.
‘Please.’ Alexine turned away from Signora Rossetti to look up at the newcomer. With his heavy eyelids, lumbering walk, and slow, deep voice, he gave an impression of sated languor; but it was the languor of a tiger or panther, which at any moment can stir from its somnolence to leap on to its prey. His grey, untidy hair cascaded down from a head too large even for a body as powerful as his, to reach almost to his shoulders; his beard needed trimming; one of the sleeves of his jacket was frayed.
‘We were introduced, but we haven’t yet had the opportunity of talking.’ He bowed: ‘Tim Fielding. At your service, mademoiselle.’ There was something mocking in the formality of it.
She nodded. Earlier, Signora Rossetti, telling her about the other guests, had pointed out this man and then spoken at length about him. He clearly fascinated her. The youngest of eleven children of an Irish peer, who had gambled away most of the ancestral estates, he had arrived in Africa, virtually penniless, at the age of sixteen. Now, in his mid-forties, he was one of the richest men in Cairo. How had he made his money? In answer to Alexine’s question, Signora Rossetti had given a knowing smile: ‘Who knows? Doing many things. Trading in ivory and gold. Perhaps also in human bodies,’ she had added in a whisper. ‘ He has many Arab friends. They – work together.’
‘Do you mean he’s a slave-trader?’
Signora Rossetti had put a finger to her lips, screwed up her eyes, and then slowly nodded. Then, again in a whisper, a flush spreading up her neck, she had leaned forward to confide: ‘He has a terrible reputation. He once told my husband that the only way to understand Africa was to sleep with as many African women as possible. You know, in Cairo he has two houses. One, charming but modest, is for his European and American friends, gentlemen and ladies. The other … a palace. Out in Ghiza, near the Pyramids. People say he keeps many women there. All nationalities. Sometimes he invites his gentlemen friends. My husband says he was never invited. But even a girl as young as you knows that men are liars. Can I believe him?’
Having seated himself on the stool, Fielding leaned forward and asked: ‘You are one of the three ladies hell-bent on adventure. Am I right?’
Alexine nodded. ‘I don’t know why everyone’s so surprised. We’re only planning to do what many men have done before us.’
‘But I gather that you differ from your male predecessors in that no expense is to be spared?’
‘No reasonable expense.’
He again leaned forward. Fanatical about cleanliness as she was, she noticed, with distaste, that the overlong fingernails of his strong, sunburned hands had grime beneath them, and that there was a yellowish stain on his collar. ‘And what is the purpose of your – your exploration?’ He gave the last word a derisory emphasis. ‘Am I permitted to ask that?’
‘I don’t see why not. The truth is – I’m not yet sure of the purpose. Does that seem very naïve to you? Yes, I can see that it does. This is a
case of not knowing what one is setting out to find until one has begun to find it.’
He shook his head in amazement, then laughed out loud.
‘Yes, you’re right to laugh at us. What do you think should be our objective?’
He hesitated, head tilted to one side. ‘Well, I suppose you could undertake what every explorer is undertaking now. You could venturer up the White Nile. To find its source. That would be something. But I hardly think that for three ladies – without any gentlemen – however much money they are willing to spend …’
‘We have a Dutch male servant with us. And we’re going to engage; a number of men here.’
‘I said, ‘‘ Without any gentlemen.’’ Servants and Africans – and even Arabs – are something rather different.’ He leaned forward again, hands clasped. ‘Have you heard of the Dinka? You’ll have to travel among them.’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Well, all of them go around as naked as on the day they were bora.’
‘That’s not going to upset us. If it doesn’t upset white men to see naked black women, why should it upset white women to see naked black men?’
‘Good for you! That’s the spirit! … And when do you start out?’
‘In another two months or so. When it’s cooler. And when I’ve learned some more Arabic. We plan to sail down to Khartoum. Then … we’ll see.’
‘Arabic! You’re learning Arabic?’ Once again he was astonished. ‘There are women who’ve lived here for years and years and who speak hardly a word. Like our hostess.’
‘I started to learn in the Netherlands. Now Mr Shepheard of our hotel has recommended someone to teach me here.’
‘I bet it’s old Mahfouz.’
‘Yes. That’s the man.’
‘He taught me. An old scoundrel. But you couldn’t do better.’
‘Really? That’s good news. I start tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I wish I could come with you, to share your adventure! How I wish it! But I’m sure you wouldn’t want me. And in any case I have so much unfinished business here in Cairo – and elsewhere. But I feel certain that in the course of our travels we’re going to meet again. Africa is such a huge place and yet people keep bumping into each other.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, I’d like to bump into you.’
‘Who knows? We might even one day meet in the same cooking pot. Boiling away happily to make a cannibal stew.’
Chapter Two
AT HARRIET’S INSISTENCE, Daan accompanied Alexine to her first Arabic lesson. In thick black woollen trousers and jacket and a stove-pipe hat, all of which Alexine recognized as once having belonged to her father, he was sweating profusely as he sat opposite to her in the carriage. They had rented this vehicle, its leather hood cracked here and there to admit lances of brilliant sunlight, for their sole use during their stay. He kept his eyes lowered and his knees drawn in, as though embarrassed by such a close proximity. From time to time he raised a bony hand to wipe off a drop of sweat from the tip of his long, beaky nose, or gave a nervous little cough.
Because of the crowds which, heedless of the carriage, constantly blocked their progress, their journey took an age.
‘It would have been quicker to walk.’
‘Oh, no, miss! You couldn’t do that! Anything might happen.’
‘Anything? What would that be?’ She laughed, but, instead of joining in, he merely gazed out into the street, his mouth pursed.
At last they arrived at a grim, four-square house built of grey-brown stone. Tall, dusty, straggling trees surrounded it, their silvery leaves looking like shards of metal in the sun glinting off them. Alexine reached to open her parasol, as she prepared to step down from the carriage. The coachman put up a grimy hand to help her, but Daan, who had already scrambled out, forestalled him. ‘Please, miss! Please!’
Some elderly men were squatting round the entrance. They stopped their conversation when they saw this elaborately dressed white woman under her lace-fringed parasol, and stared at her. One of them addressed Daan, who shook his head and said: ‘ Sorry. No understand. No speakee.’ The coachman hurried over and said something, which caused everyone to laugh. Then the coachman accompanied Alexine and Daan up a flight of stone stairs to the quarters at the top of the building. Daan, stove-pipe hat in hand, became breathless with the climb. From time to time he would pause between one flight of stairs and the next, gulp for air and give his nervous little cough. ‘ Oh, lordy, lordy! Forgive me, miss. Old age,’ he apologized on the first of these occasions, to be reassured by Alexine: ‘No hurry. Everyone says the Egyptians have no idea of time.’
The door to the apartment was ajar. The coachman strode up to it and shouted out something. Someone within shouted back. Then there was the sound of bare feet slapping over stone, and an enormously fat man in a shabby, dirt-blotched jellaba came into view, swaying from side to side. ‘Mademoiselle Thinne?’
‘Yes. Good morning. I’ve come for my lesson.’
He bowed. He had a number of ornate rings on his fingers. A thick gold chain hung round his neck, with, at the end of it, an elaborate amulet which nestled in the hair between vast breasts.
‘I’m delighted. Please. Come in.’ He spoke in good French. Then he turned and said a few peremptory words to dismiss the coachman, who retreated down the stairs.
Books were piled everywhere, in tottering cairns. An enamel tray rested on a low table, with an empty coffee pot and cup on it. A long, narrow, orange-and-white striped cat, sleeping on the same table, opened its eyes briefly as Alexine walked past it to the chair indicated to her.
‘This is our manservant, Daan.’ She pointed. ‘ My mother thought he ought to accompany me.’
‘When a lady’s so young and beautiful, that’s a sensible precaution. Please, sir, come, come, sit here.’ Mahfouz indicated a straight-backed chair against a wall. Daan reluctantly crossed over to it and, back rigid and knees close together, sat down.
Mahfouz offered Alexine some coffee or tea. She refused either, but suggested that Daan might like some. ‘Oh, no, miss,’ he said in a startled, affronted tone.
The lesson began, pupil facing teacher across a table piled high, like the floor, with books. Mahfouz was amazed by how much Arabic she had already managed to learn. He was even more amazed by the speed with which she picked up everything he told her.
‘I’ve never had a pupil like you,’ he at last confessed in grudging admiration.
‘You mean you’ve never had a woman pupil?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve had a few women pupils. But I’ve never had a man or a woman who learned so quickly.’ Then he corrected himself: ‘No, there was one man. An Englishman. Many years ago.’
‘Mr Fielding?’ she asked, in a flash of intuition.
‘Yes. How do you know?’
‘I guessed. I met him last night. At the house of the Italian minister.’
‘Mr Rossetti? He was also my pupil. He was a dunce, a real dunce. His wife – beautiful lady!’ He laughed joyfully at the recollection of her.
Suddenly, as they were conversing in rudimentary Arabic, Mahfouz jumped up to take the cat in his arms. It let out a protesting squawk and then began to purr loudly. ‘I heard that you have five dogs with you,’ he said, gently running his forefinger up and down under the cat’s chin.
How, in a city so large, could he possibly have heard that? ‘Yes. Mr Shepheard told me it’s the first time the hotel has had so many animal guests.’
‘I hope you don’t have to pay for an animal guest what you pay for a human one.’
‘Almost as much.’ She laughed.
‘In Egypt we love cats. Dogs – we think dogs unclean.’ He pulled a face.
‘My dogs aren’t. We wash them almost every day.’
When the lesson ended, Mahfouz followed them down the stairs. He had now thrust his tiny, bare feet, so out of scale with his mountainous body, into brocaded slippers. ‘ Oh, you don’t have to come all the way down with us!’ Alexine
protested. But he insisted on doing so. As they approached the carriage, he touched her arms. ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle. How much do you pay this man?’ He indicated the coachman with a jerk of his head.
‘I’m not sure. He’s on a retainer from us. Mr Shepheard arranged it.’
‘I’m sure you’re paying too much. Mr Shepheard sees to it that everyone at his hotel pays too much. And this carriage is old. Not elegant enough for a fashionable and rich lady like yourself. I can find you a better – and cheaper – carriage.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you. But … well, we’ve now fixed things this way.’
His face darkened momentarily, then once again lightened. ‘ Then that is all right, mademoiselle. But if you change your mind – or if you require assistance in any other matter … Many people – Mr Fielding among them, I’m sure – will tell you that I’m entirely honest and that I can do all kinds of things that others are less able to do.’ He bowed. ‘Once again, I must congratulate you on your natural gift for our language. You have’ – he tapped one of his large ears, out of which black hair sprouted profusely – ‘a true ear. That’s rare, mademoiselle. I have such an ear, you have such an ear. We’re lucky.’
The carriage began to move off.
‘It was so hot there, under the roof. I should have asked if we might sit out on his terrace.’
‘I glimpsed some women out there, miss. Just a glimpse. Through the window. They were preparing food. Perhaps in such circumstances …’
‘Oh, I’d have been only too happy to meet them, whatever they were doing – and even to help them.’
‘But since I was there, a foreign man, miss …’
A silence followed. Alexine shifted uncomfortably in her heavy, voluminous clothes. Then she shifted again. ‘Can you remember the name of that dressmaker my mother went to?’
‘You mean yesterday? When I went with her?’
‘Yes.’
Daan thought for a while. ‘I don’t remember her name but it was in the Coptic quarter. I think I’d remember the way.’