They were riding along the Corniche in a British consulate car, a uniformed Egyptian chauffeur at the wheel.
“And, of course,” Margaret went on, “one trouble with Alex is that there are so many fascinating things one can’t see, simply because they’ve vanished.” “The famous lighthouse,” Amira volunteered, to show that she wasn’t totally ignorant of local lore.
“The lighthouse. Apparently, it symbolized the city to the whole ancient world, much as the Eiffel Tower for Paris, or the Empire State Building for New York City. You could ask Charles about the technical side of it. The lantern—the thing that shone the light out to sea—was some sort of magic lens or mirror. One could look into it and see ships a hundred miles away. Not only that, but it could focus the sun’s rays on enemy vessels and set them afire. Or so the legend goes.”
“What happened to it?”
“The lighthouse? Oh, the usual thing: time. The Muslims who took the city had no interest in Greek science. Someone told the local ruler that there was treasure buried under the lighthouse. The digging caused the lantern to fall. A few centuries later, an earthquake knocked down the tower itself.”
A large, rather worn-looking building loomed up on the left, overlooking the Corniche and the harbor. “That’s our hotel,” said Margaret. “Normally, we’d be at the consulate, but—well, actually, the Cecil is where Charles and I spent our honeymoon, twenty-five years ago.”
“But that’s so romantic!”
“Ah, well. Of course, in the midst of it, Charles is off on some business or other—as your man is.”
The evaluating gray eyes seemed to demand a response.
“I never ask Ali about business matters,” said Amira. “Almost never.” “Quite.” The little smile. “In any case, let’s begin our tour. Hamza, take Sharia Nebi Daniel.”
The driver turned off the Corniche onto a narrower and poorer street teeming with pedestrians.
“Daniel,” Margaret informed Amira, “like Abraham and Moses, is a prophet in both our religions. A remarkable fate for Jews. That mosque just ahead is the Mosque of Daniel. It’s said that the remains of Alexander the Great rest somewhere in the cellars. Naturally, no one knows for sure.” “El Iskanderieh,” said Amira. It was the Arabic name for the city. “Iskander” was Alexander.
“Cleopatra is also supposed to be buried near here,” Margaret continued. “More invisible history. Like the great library of Alexandria. This is where it was—all around us. A university as much as a library. The intellectual center of the world for hundreds of years.”
“It burned.” Amira remembered from her lessons with Miss Vanderbeek. “All that knowledge lost.”
“It didn’t burn by accident,” said Margaret. “The Christian monks who ran the city in those days burned it. They thought the books pagan. The same crowd killed Hypatia.”
“Hypatia?” Amira had never heard the name.
“A philosopher and professor of mathematics whose ideas displeased the monks. Somewhere just along here, in the year A.D. 415, a mob caught her walking home from a lecture and tore her to pieces with shards of building tiles.”
“Her? A woman?”
“Odd, isn’t it, when young women in this part of the world are struggling simply to be allowed into university, to think that a woman was a professor here sixteen hundred years ago? Ras el Tin Palace, please, Hamza.”
Ras el Tin was impressive even to Amira, who, after all, lived in a palace. Built when the Turks ruled Egypt, and last occupied by Farouk, it rose amid formal gardens on the harbor peninsula, the Mediterranean on one side, the city on the other. Its magnificent chambers dazzled the senses: the throne room, seemingly as large as a soccer field, the floor inlaid with ivory and rare woods in peacock-tail designs; the mirrored ballroom, windows two stories tall overlooking the gardens and the brilliant blue sea, the thirty-foot ceiling kaleidoscopic with stained-glass patterns, upstaging the multicolored marble dance floor; the chandelier room, its namesake fixture a ten-thousand-pound galaxy of glittering crystal and gold.
Amid all the opulence, the most poignant object was one of the least spectacular: Farouk’s diary, open to July 26, 1952—the day the aging, obese, childish, despised king abdicated. According to a khaki-uniformed guide, the monarch misspelled his own name on the paper by which he surrendered the throne.
They walked through the gardens before leaving. Out to sea, an ocean liner plied westward, a pretty toy ship against the horizon.
Following Amira’s gaze, Margaret said, “I believe that’s the Azonia. She cruises between here and Marseilles, four days each way. How nice to be aboard, eh?” Amira realized that it was just what she had been thinking.
Margaret insisted on buying lunch. She chose a seaside restaurant called Aboukir, a single large room, glass walls all around. Fish of a dozen species swam in tanks, awaiting the customer’s choice. “You can’t get fresher than that,” Margaret observed, “but I think I’ll have the soubia. It’s excellent here.”
“I’ll have that, too,” Amira told the waiter.
Soubia turned out to be tiny octopus cooked in olive oil. She braved a first bite. Delicious.
“Did you notice the so-called shortcut we took getting here?” asked Margaret.
“I noticed we went through a rather rough-looking neighborhood.”
“That was a corner of the Mina, the old port. I imagine Hamza was hoping to catch a glimpse of a loose woman. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeming to know, but we passed right by Madame Heloise’s, the most notorious brothel still doing business. The whole area was once the fleshpot of all fleshpots, catering to any and all predilections, one hears. It still has a certain reputation—nothing like in the old days, of course. Today, the clientele is mainly oil Arabs. No offense—certainly, our chaps had their innings.”
Amira shrugged. Why should she be offended? Everyone knew what men could be like away from home.
The afternoon was devoted to another place, the Muntaza, a pinkish sand-castle fantasy set in a park of eucalyptus and pepper trees on a cool-breezed hill above a lovely beach. Amira recalled Jihan’s stories about the Muntaza, but nowhere did she see the pool where Farouk’s naked bathing beauties cavorted. Perhaps it had been filled in, forgotten.
After touring the building and grounds, she and Margaret walked barefoot on the shore, Hamza accompanying them so that there would be no difficulty. It was a public beach but lined with cabanas—comfortable little houses, really—for private rental. Elderly men crisscrossed the sand offering coffee or lemonade to families basking in the blue-and-gold afternoon.
The last stop was the British consulate in Roushdy, scarcely a mile from home, for an elaborate tea. Amira had been in London once; this little corner of Egypt seemed far more English. As the setting sun threw long shadows across the combed lawns, she found herself wishing she could push it higher in the sky to keep the day from ending. It was Margaret, she realized, who made her feel that way.
Amira had been truly close to three women: Laila, Miss Vanderbeek, and Jihan. All were gone. Now, out of nowhere in this foreign place, she had found a little of each of them—the adventurous companion, the teacher, the mother—in Margaret Edwin.
It was time to go. Margaret had sent for the car. They stood at the door making small talk. Yes, Amira might be free tomorrow; she would ask Ali. Good. Perhaps they could see the museum after all.
Then, unexpectedly, Margaret said, “Charles and I had a daughter.
She died in a sailing accident when she was twelve. She would have been just your age. We were talking about it last night, after we met you. Charles said you had a lovely smile, but your eyes seemed sad. I know I’m being pre- sumptuous, but if you need someone to talk with, I’m here—for a few days, at any rate.”
“Thank you.” Amira didn’t know what else to say. Again, it was as if the older woman had read her thoughts.
O
Ali was lounging by the pool, a tall drink in hand. “Home is the explor
er!” he said cheerfully. “Go put on your suit. Take a dip with me.”
It was an easy order to obey. When she came down in her suit, he was splashing happily, a fresh drink on the pool’s edge.
“You’re not going into the city tonight, dear heart?”
“Hmm? I don’t know. Maybe give the old town a rest. Make an early night of it.”
A pleasant surprise. After a swim, they sat by the pool, stars coming out in the delightful evening. Ali mixed another drink and poured a soda for Amira. “So tell me about your day,” he smiled. “Did you discover the remains of Cleopatra?”
She told him about the palaces, the soubia, the ultra-Britishness of the consulate. He laughed, asked little questions, made jokes. He was drinking too much, but what did that matter? He was here; at least that was a start.
The change came without warning. Amira was relating what Margaret had said about the Mina. Ali’s face had darkened. He stood up unsteadily. “I don’t want you to see that woman again.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I forbid it. Sitting in a public place talking about whore- houses!”
“But, Ali, dearest—”
“Don’t argue with me. Maybe your family has no reputation to worry about, but mine does.”
“But it was only—”
“Will you sit there and dispute your husband? I tell you I forbid it!” He stalked into the house. She sat in the growing darkness, too shocked to cry. When, much later, she went inside, he was gone.
Margaret called in the morning. She was devastated, blaming herself when Amira told her what had happened. They talked for a long time, Amira trying to explain that it was no one’s fault. God’s will. Nothing to be done about it. What choice did she have but to obey her husband? “I understand,” said Margaret, but Amira could tell that she didn’t, not really.
“Good luck, my dear. Good-bye.” Those were the last words Amira heard from her new friend.
“God’s peace,” she said, but the line was already dead.
O
Again she had the pool, her books, and nothing else. “Ali, I want to go home.”
“Home? But why? It’s beautiful here. Aren’t you happy?” “No. I came here to be with you, but you are never here.” “I’m here right now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean. I know that my business in this city is not your business. I know that this trip was your idea. I know that I spent a for- tune to buy this place that you don’t enjoy. But I don’t know what you mean.”
A little later, she heard the car leaving.
There was nothing she could do. Her idea had failed terribly. Things were worse here than in al-Remal. That night, for the first time, the sea air and the sound of the waves did not lull her quickly to sleep. She paced in her room, won- dering what was going to happen to her.
If there were no more love, no more children, would Ali divorce her? She almost hoped for it. She was still young, still had time to make a good match. But what would happen to Karim? Besides, Ali wouldn’t divorce her—he had said so more than once, not out of love, but out of vindictiveness, when they were arguing. She would be relegated to some back room of the palace to wither while he fathered children on new wives.
She looked at Karim, asleep in his crib. In a few years, he would go off to the men’s quarters; then he would be grown. If she were lucky, he might have lunch with her once or twice a week.
She tried to tell herself that it was all God’s will, but the words didn’t help. What did it matter whose will it was? If a shooting star fell from the sky and crushed her bones, that would clearly be God’s will, but would it hurt any less? If only there were someone to talk to. Philippe. Or Malik. She thought of the Azonia. It would be back from Marseilles in another day or two. What if she took Karim and her passport, climbed aboard, bribed the purser? That was madness. Even if they gave her passage, Ali would be waiting at the dock in France.
She curled up on the bed. Mama, where are you, she whimpered. Stop it. Jihan was in paradise. Wasn’t she? Was Laila there, too? What made her think of Laila? She got up and went through the house to the cabinet where Ali kept his liquor. Without looking at the label, she opened the first bottle and took a swallow. It was like drinking fire. She gagged, held it down, took another gulp. Maybe now she could sleep. Ali slept like the dead. The sleep of the righteous? She climbed the stairs. They seemed to be swaying. When she lay down, the room whirled. She went to the bathroom and vomited, then, exhausted, crawled back into bed, her hand reaching out in the darkness to touch her sleeping child.
O
The moon was high and bright, flooding the room, hurting her eyes. Where was she? Oh yes: Alexandria. What time was it? No idea. Her head hurt. Something had wakened her. Karim? No. Sleeping peacefully. Voices outside. Ali. Who was he talking to? A servant? He sounded angry.
She slipped from the bed and out onto the balcony. In the moonlight below, by the pool, Ali in his swimming trunks was facing a young man whose clothes testified to poverty.
“Excellency,” the man implored in a voice that just carried to Amira, “I mention only your promise. You said you would take care of me. But the money hasn’t come.”
To Amira’s astonishment, Ali hit the man with a hard backhanded slap. “How dare you come to my home! I warned you never to set foot here. You know where to meet me. There, and only there!”
“Excellency, please listen. My mother is sick. We need money for a doc- tor, for medicine. I beg you. If I don’t please you any longer, let me send my brother. You’ve seen him, Excellency. He’s only thirteen, very beautiful, very pure. You would be the first, as you were with me.”
In the warm Alexandrian night, Amira felt as if she had turned to ice. Suddenly, it was all clear: Ali’s indifference, his moods and unpredictability. His anger that time when she tried to coax him into making love. Her fingers were tingling, her head light. Don’t faint, she told herself. Not here, not now.
“Please, Excellency, just a few pounds.”
“Listen, dog, you lose everything by coming here. Get to your kennel!” But now the young man’s cringing attitude changed subtly, a hint of threat in it. Amira realized that he was larger and more muscular than Ali. “Excellency, I never meant for it to come to this, but I have pictures. Perhaps some- one would buy them for a few pounds, just enough to pay the doctor. Please don’t force me to do such a thing.”
Ali’s hands actually reached for the man’s throat. Then he let them drop. “You’re lying, of course,” he said in his most aristocratic manner, “but I won’t waste more time on this nonsense. Even such a fool as you must know that I don’t carry money in my swimming trunks. Wait here.” He turned and disappeared from view, into the house. The young man’s eyes followed him— yes, like a dog’s, Amira thought. Dully, she pictured herself sunning by the pool tomorrow, Ali coming down bleary-eyed. What would she say to him?
He reappeared below, and she unconsciously shrank back into a shadow. Ali held out a wad of bills in his left hand—an insult, but the young man was not here to boost his pride. Bubbling gratitude, he reached for the money. Ali hit him again, this time in the chest. The young man grunted, sank to his knees, sprawled on his back. Only then did Amira see the knife. “No!” she screamed, the word tiny in the vast night.
Ali turned to find her, his eyes wild. “You’re there? One more word, Amira. One word—do you understand?’’
There was no need to answer.
Ali clasped the body by the feet and dragged it down the lawn toward the sea. Amira stood shivering. It occurred to her that this was all a nightmare. In the morning, it would vanish.
Ali returned, breathing heavily. He splashed water onto the blood beside the pool, then dived into the pool himself, climbed out, and walked into the house. That was all.
He’ll be caught, thought Amira. He’s a murderer, and he’ll be caught. But then it came to her that she was being stupid—perhaps it was t
he liquor she’d drunk. Ali had nothing to fear. Even if the police found him with the knife in his hand and the corpse at his feet, he was a prince of al- Remal, and the dead man had been an intruder. Any difficult questions could be answered with money and, if necessary, the transfer of the questioner to some outpost in the Sahara.
All the same, they returned to al-Remal the next day. On the long flight, not one word was said between them.
Part
Five
Fear
“You’re a whore, aren’t you, a dirty whore. Admit it.” “Ali, please—”
“Say it!”
He pulled her head back by the hair. The pain was bad, but the fear was worse.
“All right, yes, I’m a whore. Please.”
“You want it, don’t you? You want it here!”
Fingers of his left hand prodded, stabbed painfully into her. “Oh. Don’t, Ali. I’m begging you—”
“Say it!”
Her scalp felt as if it would tear from her skull.
“All right, for God’s sake, yes, I want it there. Please just do it.”
He moved against her, and she braced for more pain. But nothing happened. He growled in frustration and shoved her face hard into the pillow. She couldn’t breathe. Am I going to die now? she wondered. She envisioned Karim’s dark eyes looking into hers.
Suddenly, the weight lifted from her head, and she heard Ali lurch from the room. She gulped air as his steps receded unsteadily down the hall. He was going to drink more. Good. If he sucked greedily enough at the bottle, he would pass out. But he might take more pills, too—the evil black pills that kept him awake all night. If he did that, he might come back, even more of a madman.
She knew this from hard experience. The two months since Alexandria had been a deepening hell. Ali had never shown the slightest remorse for the kill- ing. Instead, he seethed with anger. The liquor amplified it—the liquor and the pills. (Had he been taking them before? Had she simply not known?) He could still present a smiling, unruffled appearance to the world, but alone with Amira, things were different.
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