by Jane Jakeman
“Where does it come from?” asked Casterman, eyeing the long shape.
“Oh, it was found in some tomb or other, at Saqqara, near the pyramids — but the local Arabs would never tell me where exactly! If they have found a tomb, they keep it to themselves, and bring the best things to us, the connoisseurs, without revealing where they come from!”
He bent down as he spoke, and, placing his hands on either side of the headdress, slowly raised the top.
I half expected some mummified figure to lie inside, some skull-like features to peer out at me, and I confess to shrinking away as the lid came up, but the inside was empty, save a little dust and a few dried leaves. I could see now that the whole top of the coffin simply lifted off, like the lid of a box.
“It is made of wood,” said Mr. Morino. “Most of the ancient sarcophagi are made of stone, and weigh a ton or more, but this is very light. It would be quite easily shipped, if you were interested in purchasing it.”
“Well, I think it rather morbid!” said I. “I would not care to have such a thing lying round at Westmorland Park!”
The Italian gentleman seemed rather amused at this and we laughed together for a few moments. I thought he laughed rather excessively and did not quite care for this.
Then he turned to Mr. Casterman, and they began to talk business matters, and I returned to Mrs. Cornwallis and Jennet, and sat with them on the little gilt and velvet chairs. I believe Mrs. Cornwallis made some trifling purchase of a cornelian necklace for her daughter.
It was a quite unexceptional occasion, in many ways.
TWELVE
The fast-falling Egyptian dusk was coming down just as Mr. Casterman hurried downstairs one evening into the lobby of the hotel. It was a few days after the shopping expedition, and I had been invited to take tea in Rodah Gardens with the latest consignment of elderly ladies to arrive via the Alexandria coach. I was just entering the lobby and bidding farewell to my companions as Mr. Casterman spoke.
“Miss Lilian, you will find that I have already given orders for our removal to a house in the old part of the city — I assure you, it is most suitable for your accommodation.”
I was taken completely aback and protested accordingly.
“But Mr. Casterman, I have but this moment come back — I have been to visit the gardens on Rodah Island! I am not at all ready to pack and shift off to some other place at a moment’s notice!”
“You will find that your things have already been placed into trunks, Miss Lilian. I gave Mistress Jennet the necessary instructions whilst you were out.”
“But this is intolerable! Am I never to be consulted?”
“I am afraid you must tolerate it, Miss Lilian, for we shall surely lose our chance of getting this house if we do not establish ourselves in it immediately. The French merchant who had it has just vacated it and there are plenty more who would make good offers to lease it, I assure you. Mr. Morino has been good enough to use his influence with the owner and persuade him that we would make the most reliable tenants — but we cannot afford to delay!”
What could I say? I whirled away in anger and ran upstairs to my room, where I found Jennet in a positive tornado of packing, all the while issuing instructions to two porters who were collecting up baggage and piling it up on the landing. Occasionally she would signal to them to retrieve some trunk or case and dive within it, to emerge with a cloak or a pair of shoes or some mysterious mis-wrapped parcel tied up with string.
“Oh, Miss Lilian, why, whatever shall we do? Here old poxy-face has told me to get us packed, bag and baggage, and be ready to move to some heathen household where we’ll not have another Christian soul to speak to, I’ll be bound!”
All was hubbub and chaos. No one would listen to our questions. The porters were moving the luggage downstairs and I had found I had no choice but to follow my baggage, which contained everything I possessed in this alien land. Every traveller will know the disturbing experience of seeing one’s entire little store of possessions moving away from one strapped up in suitcases — and besides, I had not even any money to speak of — only a few piastres in my purse which I carried for baksheesh.
Outside the hotel, I was ushered straightaway into a shuttered conveyance, with tiny screens through which it was possible to see scraps of the vitality of the city as I was carried along through the streets. Here was a mamlouk, a mounted horseman, one of those soldiers who had started their careers as slaves. He was clad in magnificent scarlet and golden silk finery, and was brandishing the flat of his sword as he forced a way through the crowded streets. There was a lady hidden within flowing veils, mounted on a white mule and preceded by a servant who ran ahead on foot to clear a way through the throng. Now came a man wearing a strange rough-looking cloak of animal skins and wearing a tall hat decorated with a moon and stars. The crowd parted before him as if by some unspoken command, though he had no sign of wealth — indeed, his face looked thin to the point of beggary — and he carried no weapon.
All these were glimpsed briefly as we jostled along, bobbing and weaving through the crowds, along with great piles of oranges, gold-embroidered robes hanging on high racks, models of fairy-tale castles stuck all over with bits of mirror, dishes of porcelain so fine you could see your hand through them adorned the shop-fronts in narrow alleys. It was evening now and torches were lit against the coming darkness, so that the whole glittering spectacle appeared as if against a back-drop of violet-blue velvet. I was, in spite of my fears, still mesmerised by the sights and excitements of Cairo, the lively expressions of the people, who laughed and called out as they bartered and chaffed and thrust their way along.
We were climbing up a slope now, and moving steadily away from the direction of the Nile. Once or twice, above us, I glimpsed the great towers of the Citadel, the fortress built by Saladin to crown the city, and real fear arose that we might be making for its rough dark walls. Once inside the Citadel and nothing more might be heard of me ever again. Was there not a well which Crusader prisoners had been forced to dig till they dropped of exhaustion? Was that not the place where centuries ago the young Sultan Faraj, attacking his wife in a fit of insane jealousy, had chopped her to pieces, pursuing her as she fled from room to room? Or were these old travellers’ tales, told to frighten the innocent?
We did not seem, after all, to be ascending to the Citadel.
I could no longer see the occasional European face, red and sweaty in among the gold and brown complexions of Egypt, nor the red fez that betokened an Egyptian official. There were no more shops and stalls; the alleys grew ever narrower and we passed between tall houses, hidden from the world by elaborately carved window screens, from which an occasional patchwork of faint lamplight was cast into the street. There might be invisible eyes behind those screens; it was impossible to tell for sure, but I sensed that our little procession of porters, mules, and baggage was being carefully scrutinised.
It had become utterly dark, and still we were making our way into the very heart of the old city, twisting and turning through streets that grew ever tighter. The leaders of our party now carried flaming torches mounted on iron poles, and the wayward jumping of the flames made an unstable reddish illumination of the high walls on either side of the alleys, which seemed to seal us in as if we were winding our way through a maze. We had left the crowds behind, and the narrow ways along which we passed were now almost empty; here and there a dog lay sleeping in the street and was roused with kicks that a mule might pass.
As suddenly as we had left Hill’s Hotel, we turned into our new destination.
We were in a courtyard, surrounded by several storeys of rooms on all sides. In the centre of the courtyard was a fountain, whose water ran in a silvery sheet over a carved marble slab. I could sense the cool moisture in the air around it, and by the flickering lights of torches which were supported in rings around the walls, I saw arched galleries which ran around the first floor, and on the level above were latticed and shuttered projecting win
dows, remote and silent.
We had created some bustle in the courtyard. The baggage animals were being unloaded and taken to stabling. Looking round, I could see that the entrance through which we had come was a great timbered door barred with heavy iron, and with only a tiny wicker opening in it through which anything of the street might be espied. On a bench beside the doorway sat a large and powerful-looking turbaned figure, dressed in a long blue robe, and with a scimitar tucked into his belt.
Casterman was suddenly there, directing operations. I slid wearily out of the carrying-chair and made my way up a flight of steps which Casterman indicated. I paused and looked round for Jennet, but could not see her. I wanted to go and ask Casterman about it, but all initiative seemed to have deserted me; I felt disoriented and helpless, a stranger in an utterly strange land.
Entering a door at the top of the steps I found myself in a long room, inside those shuttered windows which overlooked the courtyard from a great height. It was a long, narrow room, lit by hanging lamps swinging gently in a tiny draught, casting moving and revolving shadows which increased my sense of confusion. Two women were moving towards me and gentle hands were plucking off my cloak. A tiny glass of hot scented tea was put between my fingers and as I drank my eyelids closed with a weariness which must have come from my exhausted feelings rather than from any physical weakness. The sights and sounds of the city, the strangeness of the place in which I found myself, and an overwhelming and unaccustomed feeling of helplessness had so tired me that I drifted off to sleep as I half sat, half lay on a couch which seemed softer by the moment.
*
There was a sharp sunlight filtering through the tiny apertures of the screen over the window; within the screen itself, a small opening allowed a patch of bright-yellow light to fall in a pool upon the floor.
I was in a long gallery, the room overlooking the courtyard. I had been brought coffee, eggs, bread, and a bowl of scented water to wash in, and my brief exploration suggested that these living quarters were luxurious. Looking round the room, I saw that the walls and ceilings were delicately painted with a faded design of roses and tulips. The soft carpets beneath my feet were of a thick and lustrous pile, with blue and red lozenges of jewel-like colour woven into dense patterns. The doors and window-screens were of some dark wood, intricately carved with starry inlay of mother-of-pearl and ivory. Low divans heaped with cushions and small brass tables stood about; there seemed to be no richness lacking.
But, after taking in my surroundings, my first reaction had been to go to the door at the end of the gallery and fling it open. Where was Casterman? And where was my dear Jennet? I felt a terrible anxiety about her welfare and about my own, I must confess!
As I stepped forward to cross the threshold, a bulky turbaned figure rose up to bar the way. He did not say anything: indeed, words were not necessary.
I was not going to be allowed to pass.
There was a soft plucking at my dress and I turned to see one of the two women who had been in the room on the previous evening, a slender girl with enormous dark-brown eyes beneath arched brows and a gentle expression on her face. Shaking her head sadly, as if to say, “It is useless,” the girl drew me away from the door.
As I turned to look fully at my new companion, I saw the most exotic being I had ever encountered. She was tall, with gleaming black skin; her hair was braided with silk cords and threaded with gold coins and ornaments, and upon her cheeks and arms were tattoos of blue stars. She wore a chemise of white and long trousers of crimson silk, with a loose flowing garment of crimson damask silk thrown over all. Her fingers were tipped with henna and her feet were thrust into velvet slippers intricately embroidered with gold.
She pointed to herself and said “Rahaba” several times over. I understood that to be her name, but could make out nothing of her speech.
Who was she? She was richly dressed and yet she did not appear to be part of the household, for over the next few days I realised that Rahaba and I were alike prisoners here. We could not leave these luxurious rooms, and like myself Rahaba saw no one but the other girl, she who had given me the little glass of tea upon my arrival and was plainly a servant here, or the scimitared keepers always on duty at the door, one by day and another by night.
And I knew something else: Rahaba was plainly unhappy. She spent much of the time peering down at the courtyard through the tiny lattices of the windows, as if watching and waiting for something or someone and from time to time she wept, softly.
It did not take long to understand that there was no means of escape for us. Beyond the gallery lay only some smaller chambers, furnished with necessities for making coffee and so forth, and a small cool hall with an exquisite sunken marble fountain. From these apartments in which Rahaba and I were confined there was no way out. I began to understand where we were. We were in the harem of the house and it was well-guarded.
I saw nothing of Casterman for the first two days of our imprisonment, as I gradually came to know our situation. Our captivity took on a certain routine, delightful enough if freedom had been among the luxuries we enjoyed. At noon and again at evening dishes were brought to the women’s quarters by the servant girl, who remained always silent. She carried in trays of food: soup with rice and lemon, pilaws of lamb, handfuls of raisins. The food was good but our appetites were poor and when she returned a while later, the trays were still heaped with food. From time to time we heard other occupants of the women’s quarters: the sounds of children’s voices, occasionally of a baby crying, filtered through from somewhere close at hand.
A number of times I stood at the windows, calling out Jennet’s name, hoping that there was some part of the house where my faithful friend was kept, but there came no response, save the occasional barking of a dog in the courtyard. When I broke down in tears at last, after all my cries had gone unanswered, Rahaba drew me gently back into the room, shaking her head as if to say, “Do not waste your breath! It is hopeless!”
We tried to speak to the girl who brought the food, but she would not reply, keeping absolutely silent all the time. She seemed timid and too frightened to respond to the Arabic which Rahaba sometimes poured out when she appeared. But I felt that the servant was looking somehow in a pitying way at Rahaba. The thought came into my head that she seemed to be seeing a future victim, a prisoner who would not long remain in this comfortable captivity.
But she did not look at me in the same way. She avoided looking at me whenever possible. I wondered if she thought I had the “evil eye.”
Casterman eventually appeared. He strode into our quarters, ignoring the terror of Rahaba. Making towards me along the length of the room, he ignored my plans for information and release, embarking immediately on a long tirade.
“Miss Lilian, you are here for your own safety, I assure you. There are rumours of all kinds about riots in the city — feeling against Europeans is running very high and little is needed to spark off trouble. It is even dangerous for any European face to appear in the streets. You run much less risk here than you would in Hill’s Hotel, where Franks, as they call us, are known to be gathered together — that makes it an obvious target for a mob attack. This is the old quarter of the city and you are well hidden, but you must really remain within these walls till the danger is past! Believe me, I am thinking of nothing but your own security from any insult or violence! And as for this young lady, Mademoiselle Rahaba, she, too, is sheltering here from danger, for her father is a very highly placed official suspected of bribery who likewise would be the target of a mob should he as much as venture into the streets of his own city of Cairo! He has asked me to find safe accommodation for his favourite daughter until the storm should blow over and his family can be safely reunited, so you see, Miss Lilian, that this is no tyranny on my part, as you seem to imagine.”
I was genuinely alarmed by this speech. What might become of me should I succeed in my efforts to venture outside this strange household? I was almost prepared to accept Cas
terman’s assessment of the situation. The man was so powerful a presence and put forward his arguments so eloquently with that mellifluous voice that I felt myself almost seduced into trusting him, though I observed that Rahaba still wept and cried as if she would never be comforted.
“But why may I not have Jennet here and communicate with my friends?” asked I. “With Mrs. Cornwallis, or the Hays? Could I not write to them and let them know where I am?”
Casterman smiled quite pleasantly. “But of course, my dear Miss Lilian! Mrs. Jennet returned to the hotel on the night of your arrival to fetch some more items which she believed you needed — I believe the good lady mentioned some medicines which she thought would not be obtainable in our somewhat Oriental household here — and of course I have been reluctant to convey her through the streets these last few days for fear of the crowds. But I will see that she is got out of danger as soon as possible and brought here to join you. And as for writing to your friends and letting them know your whereabouts, I must tell you that houses here do not have such neat directions and addresses as in the West End of London, but you may certainly write to your friends and I will undertake to have the letters delivered to them, I promise you. I will have pen and paper sent up to you and you may give me the letters directly, as soon as they are written! There, does that not make you feel a good deal happier — come, you must not be downcast, for you are in perfect safety, and I trust, quite comfortable! Is this not an Arabian Nights palace? I have rented it from a wealthy gold merchant, complete with his servants and his furniture!”
“It is a beautiful house,” I said, and meant it, but I knew it was also a golden cage.
Casterman sounded plausible enough, however. But still I held back from trusting him, for two reasons.
One was fairly straightforward and not difficult to explain. It was impossible not to think that he had led me into danger at the fort near Alexandria. I went over that incident time and time again in my mind and could not banish the thought of Casterman’s outstretched hand beckoning me on. Beckoning me until I would have stepped into an abyss.