Little Fortress

by Laisha Rosnau

  I brought the horse to a gallop and the desert stretched out in every direction, the men somewhere behind me, where I was determined to keep them. I rode toward the hills beyond the dunes. We crested a dune and distance did strange things. First, there was a caravan of camels far enough away that I saw them as if in silhouette, and then I was pulling the reins to stop the horse from plowing into them. I saw the brightly patterned cloths against the camels, the rough sacks they carried, men in white robes.

  I pulled the horse back in time, with Mr. Brandt and Onkel not far behind me. The horse snorted in exertion, puffs of condensation hitting the dry air. The camels kept moving by us but some of the men had stopped, were pointing at me and yelling. Onkel pulled his horse between the men and mine and yelled back in their language. The men glared toward me, but they were silent as they moved their camels past us.

  “What did they say?”

  “Oh, it hardly matters,” said Onkel. “I know enough Arabic to tell them to mind their own concerns. That in some matters, Europeans are always right.”

  “And they accept that?”

  “Perhaps more accurately, businessmen are always right. Everyone understands that, don’t they, Bror? Even silly little me.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Mr. Brandt had brought his horse up beside me. “I think people attribute more power to businessmen than we have.” He said this as though he were speaking to me directly. I didn’t know what to read into his statement.

  “Wishful thinking, Bror. If the war they’re predicting arrives, we’ll discover just how much power we do or don’t have.” Onkel now rode on the other side of me.

  “We are not bringing that up, though you just did.” Mr. Brandt spoke over me to his brother.

  When we’d been riding, I’d been outside of this, beyond the banter between brothers, the business of being a man in a foreign country, the reality of being a woman. I could feel the heat bearing down as well as the warmth of the animal pushing up through me. My clothes felt heavy, restrictive, my hat so enormous that it seemed to block my breathing. I lifted it off my head and let it fall to my back. I put my hand on my chest and took a deep breath, closed my eyes. The men were still talking; I could hear their voices though no words until Mr. Brandt said, “Miss Jüül?”

  My eyes were still closed. I swallowed and reached out my arm to indicate that I needed a moment before I could speak. Mr. Brandt misunderstood. I heard him dismount, felt his hands on me, pulling me down from the horse. I opened my eyes and pushed away from him. The ground was both so hard and so unsteady beneath me. The sun seemed to reflect off the sand and hit me full in the face. I moved away from the men, wanting nothing more than for them to remain quiet, not question me. “Miss Jüül?” Onkel asked.

  “Leave her,” I heard Mr. Brandt say, and for this I was thankful. I looked for shade, a place to sit, and saw nothing. I stood, one hand on my chest again, one on my stomach, and breathed. I concentrated on the sound of my breath, the movement of my stomach in and out. I told myself it would pass. I turned back toward the men. I may have even attempted a weak smile.

  Mr. Brandt came toward me, his arm held out. I didn’t take it, but he stood beside me. “It’s likely heat exhaustion.”

  Onkel looked pale himself. He held back, behind his brother. I could tell then that he wasn’t someone who dealt with illness well. I nodded toward Mr. Brandt. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You will.”

  “We pushed you too hard,” Onkel said.

  “No, you didn’t. It was my own fault.”

  I wanted to say more but Mr. Brandt interjected. “We should have warned you about the heat.”

  “I’m not that new to Egypt.” Though Mr. Brandt knew exactly how long I’d been there, I didn’t want to seem inexperienced.

  “No, but it can sneak up on any of us.”

  “We should get back.” Onkel’s joviality was gone. Had I disappointed him?

  “Are you all right to get on your horse?” Mr. Brandt asked.

  I took a breath, placed my hat back on my head. “Yes.”

  I mounted my horse to ride back to the stables, which now seemed a great distance away. I felt unsteady, my stomach heavy with unease, the rest of my body so light I felt like I could slip off the horse. I held tight the reins, clenched my thighs, swallowed and swallowed against the nausea, willed my eyes to focus.

  “Miss Jüül, you don’t look well. Are you still able to ride? Come with me. I can rein your horse to mine.”

  “No, no, I am fine. I can make it back.”

  When we got back to the riding club, I vomited in the ladies’ room. I rinsed my mouth and splashed water on my face, tried to pretend I was fine when I rejoined Mr. Brandt and his brother. “Miss Jüül, you look awful,” Onkel said as soon as he saw me. “Doesn’t she?”

  “You don’t look well,” said Mr. Brandt. “We’ll get you back.”

  This was not the way it was supposed to be. I was staff; I was not to be taken care of by my employers. That night, before I fell asleep, I thought of Mrs. Brandt telling me before she left for Denmark, “Mr. Brandt is a wonderful father, but he doesn’t deal well with illness. Not only will it be better for Sven, no doubt, to get proper medical care, it will be easier on Mr. Brandt.”

  When we were back in Cairo, my fever mounted. I spent days in bed, the high ceilings and tiled borders going in and out of focus. It felt like we were alone in the villa. The other staff were there, of course, but no one came to me to ask for instruction. Later I would find out that Mr. Brandt was keeping the staff and their questions from me, letting me rest.

  He came to me, often it seemed. How much time passed? At first, he stood at the door and spoke to me from the arched frame, then, I’m not sure how much later, I woke to him sitting on the side of the bed. Toward the end of that time – had it been two or three days or more? – Mr. Brandt had reached out and placed his hand on my forehead. I remembered how he had tried to help me on my horse, his hands on my waist so briefly. In my illness, I regretted having moved away. I rolled my head and his hand left my forehead, moved along my cheekbone, my jaw. My fever broke, but I could still feel his hand there.

  Thirty-Two

  One afternoon when I was well again, Mr. Brandt asked, “Miss Jüül, where do you usually eat?”

  “In the kitchen with the girls.” He must have known that.

  “Dine with me tonight. I’m getting bored of my own company. It’s time to bore someone else with it, I suppose.” His smile was tight, uncomfortable.

  “If you like, I can invite someone for dinner – a business associate, perhaps?” This was something I’d done often when Mrs. Brandt was in Cairo, arranged dinner company for them, whether at their villa or out with others.

  “No, that’s fine. I’d just like someone to talk with about home.”

  “Home?”

  “Denmark. Do you miss it?”

  I missed the climate. Here, I felt like heat was a parasite inhabiting my body.

  “Wait.” He held out his hand. “Don’t answer, we’ll talk at dinner.”

  That night, the conversation began forced, flat. Mr. Brandt talked about Copenhagen. I wasn’t sure how much I could add. I’d spent most of my time in the city between a dress shop and the library, later in the homes of the ambassador and other government officials. The conversation faltered as one of the kitchen girls cleared away the soup bowls, set down plates of beef and potatoes. I smiled at her but she didn’t look at me directly.

  Mr. Brandt began cutting into his meat. “Where did you learn to ride?”

  I kept my hands on either side of my plate, not picking up my utensils. “I grew up on a farm in Jutland. We rode a lot there.”

  Mr. Brandt nodded and looked up. “Gudum, yes?”

  Of course, my employers would have my papers, my birthplace wouldn’t be a secret from them, but
it seemed strange. What else of my past might he know? “You’ve heard of it?”

  “My family’s from Klitmøller – now, have you heard of that?”

  “I have. I’ve an uncle, a fisherman, who told me how fierce the waves were there.” I felt more at ease, began cutting my beef. “Is your family still there?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “You don’t keep in contact with them?”

  “They weren’t happy that I didn’t want to take over our fishing fleet, tiny and feeble as it was. It’s what our family had always done. Once I left, they made it clear if I wasn’t part of that, I wasn’t part of the family.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “Not necessarily.” Mr. Brandt raised his water glass toward me then took a drink. “We should have something more than this. I’ll have them bring in some wine.”

  “Oh no. I can’t – wine doesn’t agree with me.” It was no more appropriate to drink wine with Mr. Brandt while his wife was out of the country than it had been to have whisky with him and his brother. I’d convinced myself that a meal and conversation with him were fine.

  “Your own family?” he asked. “Are you still close?”

  “Close, no, not close. There’s no estrangement, though, I suppose.”

  “No, I would guess not. You still receive letters from them, don’t you?”

  I looked at Mr. Brandt instead of answering, but his attention was on his plate. I’d little idea that my presence in the household was so noted. Was I being monitored in some way?

  He looked up, a piece of meat on his fork. “They must miss you.”

  “They write that they do, but I don’t think I’m missed in any real way.”

  “I have a hard time believing that could be true.”

  I didn’t know if he was speaking about me, personally, or in a general way about family members, distance and time. Before I could respond, the kitchen girl came in again, and as she was refilling my water, I faltered, tipped my glass, soaking both the tablecloth and my skirt. I jumped up and knocked my cutlery clattering off my plate.

  * * *

  Because of Mr. Brandt’s schedule, we didn’t have dinner again for another week. I thought about things we could talk about, topics that might make me seem more interesting. I had decided to tell him about my time at the lighthouse on the island. Not about how I’d been rejected by a man I didn’t love and taken in by another who wanted more than I could give him, but about the wind, the dark stain of night, how I’d had some control over the light flashing through it. I was going to make it sound intriguing, adventurous, but as I was about to speak, the bell rang at the front door. A few minutes later, the butler came to the dining room. “Excuse me, sir. It is important.” Mr. Brandt left the room and I waited without eating.

  When he came back, Mr. Brandt sat for a moment, leaned his forehead into the heel of his palm before he straightened, reached for his spoon. He took a mouthful of soup and I did the same. When he put down his spoon, I did mine. He looked across the table at me. “Russia’s mobilizing along Serbia’s border.” I blinked back at him. “Word is the British will be the ones who declare war, but the others won’t be far behind.”

  We’d known it was coming, I suppose. My brothers kept telling me so in letters.

  “They’ll have to stay.”

  I wasn’t sure about whom he was speaking.

  “Mrs. Brandt and the boy. They’ll have to stay in Copenhagen. It won’t be safe enough to travel, especially with Sven still not well.”

  I remembered the conversation I’d overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Brandt as she’d prepared to leave. “Will you go to them?”

  “No. The time’s passed when I could have left. Business will change – the ports will be restricted – and I’ll have to stay, do what I can. It may arrive sooner than we expect – there are so many stakes here: the British, of course, but also the Russians, the Germans. They’ll be here eventually.”

  It didn’t seem to me like war would reach North Africa. It was as though we occupied a different world, one encased in heat and the strange sounds it held, and I could hardly imagine Europe’s war affecting us.

  Neither of us ate. Mr. Brandt turned silverware over in his fingers. “There may be a way to get you out, if we do so soon.” He stopped fiddling. “All travel will become limited, but there will be a window now of expats returning home.”

  To what would I be returning? Likely a train out of Copenhagen, back to the farm to do my brothers’ work once they left for the front. Rations, perhaps. But if I stayed? I’d be a single woman far from the protection of my own country. My world was already circumscribed in Cairo; how much more so would it become? I felt, in that moment, as though it could get as small as that villa, that room, that table. I was not going to scare that easily, especially since I’d little idea of what I would be avoiding, to what I’d be running. “I’ll consider what to do.”

  “Would you like to wire your family?”

  “I would, but I don’t need to immediately. I can wait until tomorrow.” I had so little sense of urgency then – or perhaps so much. I knew as soon as I wired my family, they would implore me to come home – why wouldn’t they? It was reckless to stay, and perhaps unnecessary as well. Mrs. Brandt and Sven were gone, and if the war did come to Egypt, staff would be lessened by necessity. I didn’t want to think of any of that. I knew things would change in ways I could not control – of course they would. They always did, war or not. I wanted to sit at that table, eat slowly, draw out conversation, awkward as it was, as though my own words and actions could slow time or forge new paths into it, my desire casting a fluid line of my own future out in front of me.

  Thirty-Three

  War came to Egypt sooner than I had expected. I’d wired my family in the first days of the war to let them know that I was safe and I was needed by the household in Egypt. This was untrue, but I’d made up my mind to stay in Egypt nonetheless. Mr. Brandt had me cut back on staff and their hours. With Mrs. Brandt and Sven not returning, less household help was needed, but decreasing his staff was more a matter of safety. “War brings out the worst in some, that goes without saying, but you never know who it will turn, and how.”

  Sitto rang the bell of the villa one morning. I hadn’t seen her since Marta had been relocated. “Sitto!” I greeted her as though she were a beloved old friend.

  “Miss.” She bowed slightly, seeming stiff, almost formal. I offered her tea and she declined. “There is something I must tell you, miss.”

  “Yes?”

  “Some people, they listening to bad things about war.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They thinking British bad, Allies bad. You are in some danger.”

  “But they know that we – that Mr. Brandt has little to do with the actual conflict?”

  “They know Mr. Brandt do business with British. I come here to tell you be careful.”

  “Careful of what? What should I tell Mr. Brandt?”

  “Tell him, yes. A warning.”

  That was all I could get from Sitto. She backed away from me, looking both ways as she did, turned quickly and left the courtyard. I was alone again with the house girls in the villa. One or two of the groundskeepers would be outside. I’d felt safe with those young men around, as though they could protect us. Now, I felt nervous.

  “There’s something bothering you,” Mr. Brandt said at dinner before I could tell him about Sitto’s visit. We were eating dinner together most nights. We’d lost some awkwardness and formality with each other, though I told myself, often, to not become too comfortable.

  “Sitto came by today.”

  Mr. Brandt waited for me to continue.

  “She had a kind of warning for me – for us, rather.”

  He tightened his jaw and looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yes, I’ve heard s
ome rumblings.” He looked wary, tired.

  “You don’t think we’re in any danger, do you?”

  Mr. Brandt moved his hands off the table. He glanced toward his lap, his face a mask of exhaustion, and then toward me. “Miss Jüül, do you know what our company does?”

  “Imports and exports.” I’d heard this from Mrs. Brandt. I hadn’t asked for any details beyond that.

  “We purchase sulphur and saltpetre in North Africa and the Middle East and import it into Denmark.” He said this in a rote way, as though he’d done so several times, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as he did. “In Denmark, we manufacture bullets and casings, then export ammunition into the rest of Europe – and back into Africa and Asia.”

  I blinked against the sudden pain behind my eyes, the high-pitched knell in my ears.

  Mr. Brandt looked directly at me when he continued in a voice that was a beat slower, more hushed. “I am not going to assure you that this business is completely neutral. It’s far too complicated for that.”

  “I don’t feel safe, knowing this.”

  “And you may have reason not to.” Tension stitched between his brows. “I’m sorry, Miss Jüül. I should have told you earlier. I assumed you knew, but I should have told you.”

  I didn’t say anything in response.

  “I can still arrange passage home for you.”

  “You weren’t concerned enough about my safety to do so a few days ago, but you are now?”

  “It was selfish of me. I was only thinking of myself – I didn’t want you to go.”