Camelia’s car and driver were waiting outside Shepheard’s front entrance and as they left the hotel together, Aida wondered uneasily how it would be to return to the Pharaonys’ house in Gizeh after all these years – and what she would see in the eyes of Kamel Pharaony when she saw him again.
Chapter 4
Kasr El Ghoroub was situated high up on the edge of the desert only six miles southwest of the bustling centre of Cairo. Settled in the shadow of the pharaohs, facing five and a half millennia of history, the house itself crested one of the few hills dotted around the landscape, where the land changed suddenly from sand to lush green vegetation.
The grand house, whose high walls ran parallel to one of the main canals, was approached by a long drive, flanked by majestic palm groves. It had been built in white marble by a French architect at the turn of the century and though European in design, its spirit was that of Ancient Egypt.
It was surrounded by extensive grounds, carefully planned and kept watered by pumped irrigation, and divided into a variety of sections, encompassing orchards of pomegranate, mango and citrus trees, and great gemmayz, the sycamore figs so popular with the Ancient Egyptians. Tall, elegant acacias with their huge twisted trunks loomed gracefully amid the red-berried indigenous withania shrubs, large ponds planted with delicate white and blue lotus lilies, and beds of chrysanthemums, chamomile, irises and poppies.
Elsewhere, more conventional flowers had been planted. At one side of the house a riot of gold and red climbing roses and white jasmine tumbled over a gazebo, and at night, the gentle fragrance of those cascades floated up into the cool air, making the atmosphere balmy and sweet smelling. The elegant fusion of the mansion, the grounds and the stunning setting contributed to an overwhelming sense of serene luxury.
The big gate of the walled entrance was bolted and barred, but a hoot from the approaching Bentley’s motor horn brought two Arabs in grey robes and turbans on their heads speedily to the spot. As the car glided through the opening, Aida gazed out of the window from the back seat as she sat beside Camelia. Her eyes traced the outline of spiky birds of paradise lining the drive in thick, exotic shrubs, the sight of their orange and indigo flowers reminding her of the times she had spent in these beautiful gardens when she was younger. Memories rushed back and with them, pain. It was not surprising. This place held bittersweet associations.
Against the cloudless blue sky, the house on its eminence presented breathtaking views, especially at sunset. All the main rooms, pillared balconies and terraces overlooked the garden, the canal, the three great pyramids and the far-reaching desert beyond, with its illimitable leagues of sand humped into fantastic mounds and chains of low hills, the lonely monotony broken here and there by tiny oases of palm trees and tamarisk bushes.
The sumptuous drawing rooms, carpeted and filled with plants, the beautiful paintings and bas-reliefs framed in the walls, the heavily sculpted ceilings from which hung handsome chandeliers, the luxuriously decorated corridors that ran from one end of the house to the other, and the beautiful parquet floors inlaid with intricate designs of rosewood, all contributed to an impression of exquisite taste and elegant opulence that could intimidate a stranger – but not so Aida. For many years she had been almost part of the Pharaony family, regarding Kasr El Shorouk more or less as her second home. During the past eight years, she had tried to erase from her mind the wonderful childhood and adolescent memories attached to these people and places; she had done her best to ruthlessly smother any warmth that subsisted in her heart from those mellow, carefree days. Yet, as the Bentley stopped in front of the sweep of stairs that led to the main entrance of the house, and even before she had stepped out of the car, a surge of nostalgia brought a lump to Aida’s throat, and she knew that nothing had been erased … nothing had been completely smothered or squashed – it all remained dormant but alive in the recesses of her mind, ready to arise at the first opportunity.
Kasr El Ghoroub was as imposing as she remembered, the carved stone framework of the entrance holding wooden double doors in belle époque style, each with ornate dark glass and wrought-iron panels. As she crossed the threshold, Aida welcomed the contrasting coolness of the interior on her skin.
‘Isn’t this wonderful, being here together again!’ exclaimed Camelia, regarding her friend with brilliant eyes as they went through the palatial hall and up the broad marble staircase to the top floor, which was given over to guest bedrooms and a vast library. ‘Exactly like the old days!’
‘Yes, like the old days,’ Aida murmured, an underlying sadness in her smile.
‘With the difference that this time we won’t be sharing a room. You’ll have the privilege of using one of our guest bedrooms overlooking the canal and the pyramids.’ Camelia paused on the landing next to Aida. ‘Do you remember how we used to be in awe of those sumptuous bedrooms and dream that one day, once we were married, we’d be invited to some stately home and be allocated such a room? Personally, I find them rather overdone and a little gaudy now.’
The servants had already brought up the luggage via the back staircase and the door to the room Aida had been given was wide open, the place bathed in late afternoon sunlight. Its pale pink walls and friezes were delicately painted with representations of Ancient Egyptian mythology. One in particular had always fascinated Aida. It was an image of Hathor, the sky goddess of love, beauty and motherhood, bending over the horizon, a sycamore tree on either side swallowing and giving birth to the sun.
‘Oh, my favourite room,’ Aida breathed, gazing through the door. ‘You remembered!’
Camelia strode past her into the room and turned back, looking pleased with herself. ‘Of course – how could I forget? You used to insist on visiting this room every time you came to stay, just to look at this painting.’ She eyed her friend with amusement. ‘You never said why this bedroom was so special – it’s neither the larger, nor the prettiest – but I always knew the reason.’
Faint colour suffused Aida’s cheeks, but she said nothing. She too recalled why she favoured this room and this painting over the many others in the house. It had been a late afternoon, and the light shining through the tall French windows was very much like today. She had been standing outside the room with Camelia talking to Karima the maid, who was airing it for the guests who were due to turn up for the weekend, when Phares had come out of the library. He had commented on the painting and had likened Aida’s profile to that of Hathor, adding that the Ancient Greeks identified the Egyptian goddess with Aphrodite and the Romans with Venus. After that, the three of them had gone riding in the desert to watch the sunset behind the pyramids and Phares had been particularly friendly towards Aida. From then on, Hathor’s painting had remained dear to her heart.
‘My father hasn’t arrived yet, but he’ll be here for supper,’ Camelia said. ‘I’ll leave you now. It’s been a long day and I’m sure you want to freshen up. We’ll meet downstairs in an hour on the terrace outside the dining room.’
At the door, she paused, smiling warmly at her friend. ‘I’m so happy you’ve come back, Aida.’
* * *
Aida bathed, washed and dried her hair, applied a hint of make-up on her cheeks and lips, going through the motions like an automaton. Since she had set foot on the Kasr El Ghoroub Estate, a whole raft of emotions had assailed her, leaving her confused and troubled. In one sense, being back in a place that held so many wonderful memories should have made her happy … but now she was going to come face to face again with Kamel Pharaony. She was going to eat his food … sleep under his roof … be civil, polite, pretend … For so long she had nurtured a hatred for this man, imagining how one day she would unmask him as the liar and traitor that he was. The man who had, to all intents and purposes, killed her father. In her eyes his cowardly refusal to admit that he was the one who had brought the antique Nefertari statue to be authenticated by Ayoub was as condemning as if he had planted a knife in his friend’s heart.
Yet a kernel of doub
t had lodged in her mind. If only she could talk to Souma Hassanein again. Knowing that her father hadn’t trusted the maid was too important to ignore. Not that it was enough to erase her anger and distrust of Kamel Pharaony. It had resided in her for too long.
Damn it, she resented being in this awkward situation.
Still, she would remain detached. It was what had carried her through the past eight years, and it would do the same for her now. Besides, once the ice was broken, she could avoid Kamel and spend her time in Cairo with Camelia.
Cairo … Phares’s hospital was in Cairo.
The painting of Hathor caught her eye again and the memory of Phares’s dark, curious gaze just days before shimmered in her mind. Would he suddenly appear at the house while she was staying? Nervous excitement fluttered in her stomach but she breathed it away, annoyed at her body’s involuntary reaction to the merest thought of him.
Aida crossed to the wardrobe. She took a deep breath; for now, she needed to focus on the evening ahead. As the Pharaony family always dressed for dinner, whether in Cairo, Alexandria or Luxor, Aida chose a black velvet dress with green tulip taffeta sleeves and a square neckline. The formality of it was an added help to her this evening. She slipped into classic black suede narrow-heeled shoes and went down to the terrace.
Crossing to the balustrade, she paused to gather herself. A deep silence reigned over everything. Outside, in the soft dusk of the evening, the whitewashed house gleamed brightly against the lush green of the garden. The birds were settling to sleep in the tall trees, the flowers drooped their heads drowsily as they stood in their brilliant rows. Beyond the walls of the estate, where the clear sky met the sand, the crimson light of a desert sunset lay upon the horizon, reflecting in the canal and casting a mystical glow over the hoary remains of antiquity that heightened their melancholy grandeur.
‘Aida? Aida, ya binti, welcome back – how wonderful to see you again!’
The young woman recognised the deep voice that sounded so much like Phares’s. She turned to face Kamel, every muscle of her small figure braced for the encounter. For a moment she said nothing. She felt suddenly as though her whole body had been plunged into an icy bath and she needed a moment to recover her breath after the immersion.
Before Aida could speak, Kamel had advanced towards her, coming quite close, as if he meant to take her arm to draw her nearer to him. Aida, with an uncontrollable instinct, drew away. Suddenly the scene that had occurred all those years ago replayed in her mind for the hundredth time. With it came the sense of impotence, of dreadful, helpless despair, that had seized her on that afternoon at Karawan House when she had stood there watching as her father was taken away like a common thief. Ayoub El Masri – the kindest, most honourable and principled of men – framed by two policemen.
Noticing her recoil, Kamel frowned slightly. ‘Why, what’s the matter Aida, ya binti? Don’t you recognise your uncle Kamel?’ He gave a low, uneasy laugh as though taken aback by Aida’s cool reception. ‘It’s true, my hair has grown white and there are a few wrinkles on my face that were not there before, but I hope I haven’t aged to the point of being unrecognisable. You, on the other hand, have turned into a beautiful young lady.’
Aida flushed quickly, struggling to meet his eyes, despite her previous resolve. ‘Good evening, Uncle Kamel. I … you startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.’
Kamel smiled complacently, restored to good humour. ‘Ah yes, you were far away in your thoughts. Still the dreamer, eh?’
Aida kept her expression bland, though inwardly her emotions were writhing. ‘Without dreams, we reach nothing.’
She became aware of the clicking hum of cicadas which had begun their nightly chorus in the gardens beyond.
‘Camelia told me that you are a qualified nurse now.’
‘Yes.’
‘It must have been hard during the war in England.’
‘It was.’
‘Were you located in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, you worked in the London hospitals? Quite horrendous for a young woman, I assume.’
‘Yes, it was.’ The turmoil Aida felt inside her somewhat paralysed her, and the monosyllablic answers were the best she could manage at the moment.
‘Phares also worked in the hospitals during the war, mainly in Alexandria. He never spoke much about the horrors he saw there, but we, his family, knew how distressing he found it. We saw it in his eyes – they were always veiled with sadness.’
An awkward silence hung between them, filled only by the night sounds of the garden. Aida looked out at the oncoming twilight, unable to engage on such a personal topic with him. Just being here almost felt like a betrayal of her father.
Oh, why had she agreed to come?
In the eastern sky, where the daylight lingered, a young moon hung, a thin fairy sickle in heaven’s pale-green fields, and one silver star peeped forth shyly to bear her company.
Kamel continued smoothly, as if he wasn’t aware of her reticence. ‘I am very happy that you ran into Camelia. You know she lost her husband shortly after they were married?’ Sighing, he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He leaned against the balustrade, joining her in contemplating the darkening sky.
‘Yes, she did tell me. How did it happen?’ Aida didn’t want to engage him further with the question but couldn’t help herself; Camelia hadn’t gone into details about Mounir’s death.
‘It was at dusk. Mounir was coming back from Alexandria on the desert road. Some half-witted truck driver tried passing without seeing what was coming in the opposite direction. A hill concealed the oncoming traffic and the truck ran into Mounir’s car, travelling towards it in the opposite direction. The collision was fatal. Mounir died on the spot.’
Instinctively, Aida turned to look at him. The dark eyes that met hers were oddly without guile, simply sad. She answered falteringly, ‘Poor Camelia, what a terrible shock.’
Kamel gave a quiet smile, which reminded her of Phares’s so that for a moment she forgot her grievance, and said, ‘I am determined to help my daughter regain her joy in living. I have a feeling you can help me in so doing.’
She looked wary. ‘Me?’
‘I saw her briefly just now when I came in. The transformation is extraordinary. Sympathy is all very well, but she has been receiving too much of it and it was making a martyr of her. Believe me, Aida, ya binti, she has never been so lively. You are a breath of fresh air, I can see it already. Phares will be happy, too, that you’ve come back … er, to stay, I hope …’ He glanced at her, adding in the same breath, ‘You know, he has never married.’
Aida stiffened, but she hadn’t time to answer as Camelia erupted on to the terrace, followed by a suffragi carrying three glasses of Egyptian wine. ‘I thought it a good idea to open a bottle of our best Gianaclis to celebrate Aida’s return.’ Camelia clasped her friend’s arm and gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek.
‘Thank you, Camelia, that’s very sweet of you.’ Aida smiled awkwardly and accepted the glass of wine. It was a welcome distraction, and she needed something to ease her nerves.
Kamel shot Aida a smile, as if to say, ‘I told you so’, before looking warmly at his daughter. ‘Kheir ma amalty ya binti, you did well, my child.’
He ushered them towards a cluster of comfortable rattan armchairs, where glass lamps, which had been lit on a low table, emitted a soft glow in the fading light. Aida soaked in the familiarity of this corner of the terrace where she and Camelia had often run about as children; many Pharaony soirées had also begun here with music and the bubbling chatter of a cosmopolitan crowd that included Egyptian families, Greeks, Italians, Armenians, and French and British ex-pats.
To Aida’s relief the evening continued more easily than she’d expected, if only because the conversation had not immediately slid into more personal matters, which spared them all from wandering into the troublesome territory of the past. The three of them sat under the stars, br
eathing in the air of a balmy night and sipping their wine as they discussed the upheavals occurring in the world after the war. In fact, Egypt itself was looking at a new era – uncertain though it was – with the proposal of the Labour government in England to finally withdraw British troops from the country, alongside the disintegration of the Wafd – the traditional national party – which had been in power for so long. The Pharaony family had always been interested in politics and supported the monarchy, so it was natural that when at least two members of the family were present in the same room the conversation inevitably centred around those subjects.
Egyptian politics was in turmoil, they all agreed, giving militant nationalism the chance to harness the general discontent of a rapidly growing working class. Only a few months earlier, Kamel told Aida, riots and demonstrations by students and workers in Cairo had resulted in British service clubs being torched.
Aida listened with growing fascination. Of course, she had seen the Pathé News reports and followed what was going on in Egypt in the newspapers, but to hear about these events first-hand was compelling.
‘British people were attacked and killed. It was a terrible business,’ Kamel declared with a frown.
Camelia interjected. ‘And our king is too busy gallivanting around to pay attention to negotiations with the British, or to look at the social conditions of his own people.’
Kamel’s mouth curved laconically as he glanced at Aida. ‘Now my daughter has started on her soapbox, we’ll never hear the end of it.’
Aida regarded Camelia with surprised curiosity. Her friend had certainly shown little interest in politics when they were teenagers. ‘Isn’t it true though that Farouk isn’t loved like the boy king he was a decade ago?’
Song of the Nile Page 13
