by Francis King
The chair creaked perilously as he lowered his powerful body into it.
‘So you arrived here safe and sound!’
‘Yes. We arrived here.’
‘I knew that you would. You had that sort of determination. And when are you going back?’
‘Oh, we’re not going back. We’re going forward.’ The moment that she had said it, she wished that she had not done so.
‘Forward! Where to?’ He was astonished.
‘We haven’t decided. We don’t yet know.’
Like every other explorer, wary of any rival, she was deliberately vague. It was she, not he or anyone else, who would find the Holy Grail. That determination was now the central pillar of her life.
‘Well, you’d better hurry up. Once the rainy season arrives, progress will be difficult.’
He began to question her about both the voyage on the steamer and about the overland trek that had followed it. When she spoke about her photographs, he at once said, ‘ Oh, I’d like to see those!’ Then he added: ‘But that’ll have to wait until I get back from my journey.’
‘Your journey? Where are you going?’ Could he be preceding her on the route that she herself was planning to take?
‘Oh, into the interior,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’ve heard of a cache of ivory. The price keeps soaring in Europe and America, thank God. It makes it worth all the discomfort – and danger.’ He leaned forward. ‘I do hope that you’re going to be careful – very careful. It’s one thing to make the journey as tourists from Cairo to here. It’s another to push on – yes, often literally to push on, through mangrove swamps and lianas and thorn bushes and God knows what else.’
‘I don’t think of ourselves as tourists,’ Alexine said, nettled.
‘Well, not quite. But according to all accounts, you had a cook from the French legation preparing food that wouldn’t have disgraced Shepheard’s – not to mention ice-boxes, carpets and commodes, and maids washing and ironing your frocks.’
‘I rarely wore a frock. Unless you call a jellaba a frock.’
He laughed, enjoying her combativeness. ‘What is all this I heard about your buying a slave?’
‘I didn’t buy a slave.’
‘Then who was the black boy I saw riding with you two or three days ago?’
So she had been right: it had been he whom she had seen mounted and in Arab costume with that party of Arabs.
‘I bought him, yes, but not to be my slave. I bought him to free him. He’s free now. I treat him as – as if he were my nephew. Or son. He has to do what I tell him, of course he does, because he can’t be more than twelve or thirteen. But he has his pocket money, just as my nephew or son would have it, and I treat him no differently than I’d treat them.’
‘All that may not be so easy when you return home.’
‘If I return home.’ At once she wondered: Why had she said that? Until that moment, she had never consciously thought that she might not return home and might instead opt to settle here in Africa.
‘Forgive me for offering some advice.’
‘Yes?’ The upward inflection was sharp.
‘I think you must be careful. The rumour has been – it’s even reached Cairo – that you bought yourself a slave. It’s all nonsense in my view but, as I’m sure you know, there’s this obsession with putting an end to slavery in Africa. When people are slaves to hunger, disease and the murderous caprices of their neighbours, slavery to foreigners is usually no worse and often an improvement. But that’s not how most civilized people’ – he put the last two words into ironic inverted commas – ‘ see it, I’m afraid. So – my advice is, be careful – be very careful. People talk, people exaggerate. Look what has happened to your host.’
‘Our host?’
‘Well, your landlord. That poor, pathetic ass Warburton.’
‘What has happened to him?’
‘He’s ruined himself, that’s what’s happened. You must know that. First he got in with some Arab rogues, who managed to fleece him. Then, to recoup, he started dealing in slaves. Transporting them through this area to the Gulf. Soon everyone knew what he was up to – it’s not easy to keep secrets in that business these days – and that finished him completely. A year ago he would have been at a party like this. Now no one wants him around – not, of course, for moral reasons, but for fear of guilt by association. So there you have it. You three must have been a godsend to that couple. Otherwise they’d have been on the next ship back to England – with no return ticket.’
She was shocked by the contempt with which he spoke.
‘We’ve become fond of them. I admire her.’
‘Admire her? With all those intellectual airs she gives herself? And that razor tongue of hers?’
‘She’s gallant. I admire gallantry.’
At that, Alexine decided to move off. But, before she could do so, she heard her mother’s voice behind her.
‘Alexine! I suppose that Fm regarded as the senior lady here, and so perhaps we ought to make a move.’
‘Yes, let’s do that.’
‘Good evening, Mr Fielding. I hadn’t noticed you before.’
‘Good evening, Madame Thinne. I’ve been hearing all about your adventures. And I gather that there are more to come.’
‘Yes. My daughter is greedy for more. I sometimes feel that I’ve had enough. And so does my sister.’ She turned: ‘Come, Alexine. Let’s get Addy.’
‘Then I’ll say goodbye to you two ladies. I hope we’ll meet again. As I said to you before, Miss Thinne, this is such a vast continent and yet people keep running into each other, as though it were a village.’
He bowed to them each in turn.
Monsieur Thibault accompanied them across the lawn and down some uneven steps to the barge. ‘ Take care, dear ladies! Don’t slip! Don’t fall!’ He put out a supporting hand but none of them took it. ‘My dear wife fell here only two or three weeks ago. We feared that she had broken a wrist but it proved to be only a sprain.’
‘I wish that we could have met her,’ Harriet said.
‘Yes, indeed, indeed. She was most disappointed. Apart from everything else she would have loved to inspect your magnificent dresses and jewellery. It’s so unfortunate that she’s so often prone to migraine.’
‘It was so kind of you to have us to such a delightful party,’ Addy said, as the barge edged alongside the jetty.
‘It was so kind of you to come. If there is anything that I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask. I flatter myself that, after some thirty years, I now know everyone in this city – or, at least, everyone who. is anyone.’
Impulsively Alexine stepped forward. ‘There is one thing, Monsieur Thibault.’
‘Anything, anything, dear lady! Big or small!’
‘Well, this is rather big.’
‘No matter. Tell me what it is.’
‘Soon we’ll be setting forth on the next stage of our journey. As you may have heard. And for that we need – we need a steamer.’
‘A steamer! But such a thing doesn’t exist in the Sudan. Surely you know that?’
‘We heard that the Governor-General has one.’
Monsieur Thibault was astonished. ‘ Well, yes. But that’s the only one here. It was transported here in sections. Some people – including a Scottish engineer – died in the process.’
‘Well, couldn’t we hire it?’
‘Hire it! But the Governor-General might need it.’
‘We could ask him.’
Monsieur Thibault shook his head and smiled indulgently. ‘My dear lady, the Governor-General is rarely here. At present he’s in Egypt. That’s where he spends most of his time.’
‘Then he’s much less likely to need his steamer. Who is deputizing for him?’
‘The Mudir. The Governor of Khartoum.’
‘Well, as we’re about to travel again in his barge, perhaps he’ll also allow us to travel in the Governor-General’s steamer.’
Harriet was shoc
ked by all this importunity: ‘Alexine, I really don’t think …’
‘I could arrange for you to meet the Mudir,’ Monsieur Thibault unexpectedly volunteered. ‘After that – it’s up to you. He may ask a large, a very large, price. If he’s prepared to agree, that is. To hire the only steamer in the country …’
‘Oh, we don’t care about the cost. But we do care about travelling in that steamer.’
‘Well, in that case …’ He gave an indulgent smile. ‘What a forceful character you are, mademoiselle.’ He laughed. ‘Almost as forceful as my wife.’
‘You promise me that you’ll try to arrange a meeting?’
‘My word is my bond.’
‘If there is anything we can do in return …’ Harriet said.
‘Well, yes, madame, since you mention it, there is. You accompanied my daughter, you heard her voice. It’s a beautiful instrument, as I’m sure you agree, but she has yet to learn to play on it properly. If you would be willing for her to visit you from time to time – to practise with you … Your remarkable musicality can only lead to an improvement.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘What do you say, Madame? Yes? Yes?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then I’ll speak to the Governor tomorrow. Once I have his reply, I’ll send Lola round to you with his answer.’
As the barge glided through the night, the six rowers grunting with each tug at their oars, Harriet and Addy laughed and chattered away together. What an extraordinary occasion! That house – it was a masterpiece of ostentatious vulgarity! Fancy allowing those three young girls to rouge their cheeks so obviously and to wear all that native jewellery! And that singing!
Alexine sat apart from them, gazing out to the glimmering bank opposite. She was still smarting from the mocking way in which Fielding had spoken to her. All too clearly he thought little of her as an explorer. To him she was merely yet another of the tourists who made their way from Cairo to Khartoum. The only things that differentiated her from them was that she was a woman and travelled so much more lavishly.
Odious man!
But, even while she had become increasingly angry with him during their conversation, she had, against her will, felt a more and more insistent tug of sexual attraction. She thought now of his strong hands, with the black hair on their backs, and their far from clean nails; of his luxuriant side-whiskers; of his hooked, powerful nose.
She told herself that she never wanted to see him again, but at the same time she could not bear the thought that she might never do so.
Chapter Eleven
ALEXINE WAS WAITING ON THE JETTY for the red and green barge once more to pick her up. She had told Osman that she wished him to accompany her on her visit to the Mudir, since Harriet, who was suffering from dysentery and so could not come herself, had insisted that she must have someone with her. But he had mysteriously disappeared, as he so often did, never asking for leave of absence and never explaining or apologizing when Harriet later took him to task. In consequence, it was Daan, dressed in a frock coat and top hat bought from the shop in the bazaar and his new pair of boots, who now stood beside her. He had, in the course of their travels, acquired a commanding dignity, so that anyone seeing him would assume that he was some newly-arrived member of the business community of Khartoum. To confirm this impression, he was, like Nanny Rose, becoming less and less subservient to his employers, often arguing with them, offering them his advice, unasked, or disregarding their instructions.
‘They have no sense of time, miss. Why don’t we go back to wait in the cool of the house?’
‘Oh, no, it’s lovely here. I wish I could take Flopsy with me. He loves the water. But my mother said that a Muslim wouldn’t like a dog brought into his house.’
‘There are lots of Christians who don’t like dogs in their houses.’ Daan did not like them there himself.
Before the arrival of the barge, Lucy joined them. ‘Roderick would have been only too happy to accompany you, but he didn’t think his presence would have helped things. Quite the reverse.’
‘It was wonderful to see him eat so much breakfast. And later I heard him whistling in the garden.’
‘You’re the one who cured him.’
An elderly, uniformed man with a bristling moustache and a large wart on a cheek, ushered Alexine and Daan into the Mudir’s house, followed by a straggling platoon of soldiers. He indicated a divan to them, but, whereas Alexine at once went over to it, Daan shook his head and walked across to a chair. The usher frowned. Time passed. Outside a window too high for Alexine to see anything beyond it, some men were talking in loud, vehement voices. A slave came in carrying a dented tin tray, on which two glasses, full of a pinkish juice, were set out. Alexine sipped, smiled, sipped again. ‘Pomegranate,’ she told Daan, who was staring down into his glass, wary of trying what was in it.
‘Oh, I can’t do with pomegranate. Now if it was a glass of really cold beer …’
Eventually, they were summoned into the Mudir’s presence. Once again, Alexine placed herself on the divan indicated, opposite the one on which the Mudir himself was lounging, and once again Daan opted for a chair.
The Mudir was a small, grey-haired man, with feverishly bright eyes and a sudden, high-pitched cackle. He spoke stilted French with an odd sibilance, spit showering from his mouth as he did so.
‘I am afraid that you must find this heat very tiring, mademoiselle.’
‘On the contrary, monsieur. Heat invigorates me. But my poor mother and aunt – they suffer, I’m afraid.’
He continued to talk of the weather in the Sudan. From the topic of conversation, one might imagine that one was in England, Alexine thought.
He broke off and pointed at Daan: ‘Your friend speaks French?’
Alexine did not reveal that Daan was not a friend but a servant. She shook her head. ‘Only Dutch.’
‘I thought that all people in your country speak French.’
She laughed. ‘No, no, by no means!’ Would they never get to the subject about which she had come?
‘Do you like this house?’
‘Yes. It’s even bigger than Monsieur Thibault’s. And this room is even larger than his drawing-room.’
‘It was built by an Italian bricklayer about fifteen years ago. Pietro Agati, that was his name. He was the first man to build a house of brick in Khartoum since the time of the Pharaohs. Yes, this was the first house of brick in the whole of Khartoum. Can you believe it? Now there are brick houses everywhere. Anyone who has any money has a brick house. But when I was a child every house was made of straw and mud.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Oh, yes, indeed. Very much so. Recently he built a new house for my harem.’ He crossed over to a window and then turned. ‘Come, please!’
Alexine got up from the divan and joined him.
He pointed. ‘ There it is.’
The long building, its regularly spaced windows fixed with iron bars, might have been the barracks of the slovenly soldiers who had lounged about, chattering to each other, picking their noses or teeth, or wandering restlessly hither and thither, in the anteroom in which she had waited.
He turned. ‘I have eleven wives.’ He smiled. ‘Muslim men are luckier than Christian ones.’
‘And Muslim women are unluckier.’
‘It is better to have a share in a good husband than a bad husband to oneself. That is one of our sayings. You have a husband?’
‘No. I’m single.’
‘Excuse the question, mademoiselle, but how is it that no man has married you?’
‘I’m only twenty-two. There’s plenty of time. There’s so much I want to do before I marry.’
‘Everyone here thinks that you are very beautiful.’
‘Not many do in my own country.’
‘Do you know what they call you here?’
Alexine shook her head.
‘They call you ‘‘The Daughter of the Queen’‘.’
‘How flattering! But
which queen is that?’
‘Queen Victoria, of course, the Queen of England. Everyone here who sees you in the street thinks that you are English. Few foreign women come here. Some French, some Italian, some English, some Greek, some German. No Dutch. Never.’
‘My father’s first wife was English.’
‘Ah! So he had two wives.’
‘Only one after the other. The first died.’
‘Do you wish to see my harem?’
She really wished to get to discussion of the hire of the boat, but she nodded. ‘ Thank you. Yes. That would be interesting.’
‘But – I am sorry – your friend’ – he indicated Daan – ‘must wait here. He is old, but even so …’
Alexine gave Daan a few words of explanation, and then followed the Mudir to the door opposite the one by which they had entered, at the far end of the room.
A pebbled pathway led to the harem. Half-way along it, the Mudir paused and turned. ‘My wives are not beautiful like you. Dark, dark skins. In my country we think fair skins more beautiful. Only one has fair skin and she is now old, too old. But …’ He shrugged. A moment later, he once more halted and turned. ‘Do you know Mrs Pullar?’
‘Mrs Pullar? You mean the explorer’s wife?’ Ever since their arrival in Khartoum people had been asking if they knew this woman, never if they knew her husband. Clearly, wherever she had gone, Mrs Pullar had made an impression. ‘I’m afraid not. I wish I did.’
‘She is not as beautiful as you. Much older. But she has a white skin and golden hair, hair like yours but longer. She wears her hair loose, down to her waist. Very unusual. Like a young girl.’ He laughed. ‘Charming! She and I became good friends. I lent her my barge many times.’
‘You were so kind to send your barge for me.’
‘I am always pleased to help a beautiful young lady.’
They had walked only a few more paces when he turned yet again. ‘She was a slave. Did you know that?’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Pullar. That is what they say. She is his second wife. A Circassian. He saw her in a slave-market and he bought her. Like you buying your black boy.’