Song of the Nile

by Fielding, Hannah

  Suddenly the idea of working with Phares threw Aida slightly off balance. Seeing their conversation was heading in a direction she would rather avoid, she took another sip of wine and asked: ‘Who do you think will be at the brunch tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, all of the big families in Luxor. Plus, the Williamses, the Lesters, the Carlisles and other British Embassy people from Cairo, I should think.’

  ‘Alastair Carlisle? Yes, I met him at Princess Nazek’s party. He’ll be a friendly face.’

  Aunt Nabila patted her hand. ‘Habibti, they’ll all be friendly, I’m sure. Everyone is pleased you’re back and wants to see you again. Come, there are more guests wanting to meet you. I’m sure they’re all wondering who this beautiful young woman is, and don’t realise it’s our little Aida come home again.’

  She laughed and kissed Nabila fondly on the cheek, dutifully accompanying her to a new group of cheerful guests, many of whom, she soon realised, had known her and Ayoub, and were keen to find out how Aida’s life had been in England. All without exception took the opportunity to commiserate with her about her father’s death, and although they did not dwell on what was such a painful subject for Aida, it was clear the Bisharas’ circle was united in declaring the whole business of Ayoub’s trial a fiasco. Aida was grateful to feel the warmth of this friendly, genuine crowd and they reminded her of all that she had missed about Egyptian family life.

  It was during lunch, while Aida was settled at one of the round tables in the garden, that Phares Pharaony’s name had arisen.

  ‘Have you been to his new hospital, El Amal?’ asked Samiha, one of the younger women, a neighbour of the Bisharas who had brought her three young children. She was addressing a plump woman with a hooked nose and shiny black eyes sitting opposite her.

  Aida pricked up her ears.

  ‘Yes, it’s wonderful. He’s done a really good job of it. All the equipment is state of the art. Isis Geratly showed me around. She’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘I agree, a brilliant doctor too, by all accounts. I’ve never heard of a female anaesthetist before.’

  ‘Yes, yes, very impressive. Times are certainly changing.’

  ‘Mind you, she must be almost thirty now, and not yet married. What a waste.’

  The plump woman leaned forward to take a large piece of mahallabeya, an Egyptian custard donut covered in syrup. ‘I’m told she’s had many suitors, but she’s turned them all down. Ghalia, the khatba, matchmaker, says that she’s jinxed. Someone has made her an aamal, cast an evil spell on her.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied Samiha. ‘She has her eye on Dr Phares, that’s all. She’s been in love with him for ever. Six months ago, there was talk of an engagement, but it seems to have gone quiet lately. Still, she’s ambitious in every way, if you know what I mean, so I wonder what’s going on there.’

  Aida’s spoon had paused in her fitir. Perhaps the women had forgotten that she was there, or that she had once been promised to Phares, in any case they continued merrily in their speculation.

  ‘Yes, I heard,’ said the other woman, munching on the mahallabeya enthusiastically. ‘I think it’s because of that Armenian girl. You know, Nairy Paplosian, the model. Apparently, a couple of years ago he wanted to marry her, but his father put a stop to it. I’m not surprised – imagine a Pharaony heir marrying a small-time Armenian jeweller’s daughter …’

  ‘A misalliance … unheard of in such a conservative family.’

  ‘Nairy is Phares’s grand amour, I’m sure of it. He still sees her when he goes to Cairo. I spotted them a few months ago in Gezireh, coming out of a building next to the Anglo-American Hospital. I think he keeps a garçonnière there.’

  ‘Have you finished gossiping, you two? Eib ya sitat, ya mohtarameen, shame on you, honourable ladies,’ said a rotund little man with a neat moustache, shaking his head as he got up from the table to go and inspect the buffet for a second time.

  Samiha laughed. ‘Don’t be a hypocrite, Botros. You enjoy a good gossip just as we do.’ Still, she quickly changed the subject to the more mundane topic of the soaring price of sugar.

  One of the reasons why Aida had been happy to leave Egypt was because of this type of gossip, which Ayoub had also deplored. ‘You can’t sneeze in Luxor without everybody knowing about it,’ he used to tell her. Aida knew these casual conversations concerning other people occurred in all societies, but the communities in Egypt were small. Before you knew it, one embroidered word had led to another, and a minor incident soon ended up blown way out of proportion.

  Although her foolish heart had been thumping so hard against her ribs she’d thought it would break, Aida had tried to assume a blank look throughout the women’s exchange. Anyway, they had been far too engrossed to notice her sitting at their table.

  So, Phares’s heart belonged Nairy Paplosian.

  Dismayed at the ungovernable manner in which her feelings had reacted to this news, Aida now suppressed them even more determinedly. The knowledge was bitter, but it was ridiculous to have been surprised that Phares had attachments, she told herself. Women always wilted under his charm.

  He had a presence, an aura that commanded attention wherever he went. Perhaps it was a product of his profession. Maybe he had cultivated that air of authority to inspire confidence in nervous patients looking for reassurance. Still, Aida had to admit, Phares had everything a woman desired: looks, wealth, position and a kind heart – even if a lot of the time he was arrogant and full of himself. It would be illogical for him to have still been free after eight years.

  Although she had never met Nairy Paplosian, Aida had seen photographs of the beautiful model plastered all over Egyptian glossy magazines like El Kawakib, and she had seen the fashion diva’s face on posters all over Cairo, advertising her forthcoming film.

  As for Isis Geratly, the elegant anaesthetist, Aida knew her well. Closer to Phares’s age, she had grown up as part of the same close circle of children whose parents owned estates around Luxor and the neighbouring villages. Aida had never liked her much. She had to confess that she had been jealous of Isis’s looks and confident behaviour, at a time when Phares viewed Aida as little more than an unsophisticated, rebellious butterball. An intelligent girl, Isis had always played up to him, pressing their shared interest in medicine, although hers was by no means driven by the same passion to improve the health of the fellahin. In fact, Aida often suspected that Isis had followed Phares into medicine partly as a way of staying close to him. It was no surprise therefore that she had joined him at his hospital.

  Still, thinking back now, she remembered her father saying that he wasn’t the least duped by Isis’s phony affectations. ‘She’s very much like her father,’ he used to say, ‘all puff and no consistency or weight.’ Ayoub had made his own assessment of Isis’s father, Adly Geratly, a noted historian. Geratly was a lecturer at Cairo University and a commentator on policy regarding heritage; in many ways he was considered ahead of his time, but according to Ayoub – who was a stickler for detail – he often based his arguments on inadequate research.

  Now, try as she might to reason with herself, the day seemed suddenly meaningless to Aida. She had found the food delicious up until then, relishing each delicacy which marked this special occasion; now she might have been eating sawdust from the way it stuck in her throat. How was it possible that in such a short time Phares’s handsome features had been carved on her heart, his magic touch stencilled upon every inch of her body, and the poetic words he’d uttered that night at the pyramids imprinted on her mind? He had stirred new emotions in her, set her senses on fire, and aroused the devil in parts of her she had no idea could spring to life. What a fool he’d made of her. He had even tried to persuade her to marry him … and all the time he had two other women in tow. Hell would freeze over before she’d let that son of a b— touch her, Aida vowed fiercely.

  It was a pity she had promised Camelia she would attend the Sham El Nessim party at Hathor the next day. Of course she could mak
e her excuses and say she was ill. She could blame the heavy food for giving her indigestion, but somehow Aida couldn’t escape the fact that she wanted to see Phares, needed to see him again, and she hated herself for her weakness.

  Still, Aida was a young woman of pride and independence and as she stole some time to herself by wandering through the gardens down to the orchards of mango and guava trees, she remembered that Phares held not one, but two hiding places where he could indulge in his carnal pleasures … Yet he had twice virtually abducted her, driven her to the pyramids and spoken to her of marriage, of caring for her, of treating her like a queen …

  The heavy disappointment in her heart gave way to a hot anger in her belly. How dare he treat her this way? Phares Pharaony, a born philanderer, had played on her inexperience with men. He had toyed with her senses and then made her feel as though she had been the one to blame for succumbing to him.

  Had he meant her to feel that way, pushing her to the limit, testing her to see how far she would be led into his game? If he was truly interested in making her his wife, perhaps he wanted to find out whether Aida’s years in England during the war had weakened her morals and turned her into a wholly unsuitable match. After all, he was an Egyptian man steeped in the traditional culture of his country and tribe. There was undoubtedly a darker side to him of which his sister was either unaware or ignored. The way he had treated Aida was cruel and heartless, and she pitied anybody who made the mistake of getting involved with Phares Pharaony. It was probably indicative of his chauvinistic attitude towards women that he wasn’t yet married, but judging by the conversation she had overheard today it was not for want of opportunity. She’d been a gullible fool, playing right into his hands, and it was a good thing that she had not the slightest intention of marrying him.

  Well, now he could carry on with both of his mistresses, damn him!

  With this renewed resolution, Aida endeavoured to smother the last spark of fire that had burned in her heart for Phares all these years.

  The meal dragged on until late afternoon. All the while, Aida pasted a smile on her face, taking part in the lively celebrations as best she could, not wanting to let the Bisharas down by brooding in a corner. When it was over, she took her leave, relieved to escape back to the sanctuary of Karawan House.

  She wished heartily that she had found happiness in England and had stayed away from Egypt altogether. Still, no matter how much she tried to convince herself that Phares wasn’t going to have any effect on her life, Aida had a disquieting premonition of change already looming on the horizon – and not change for the better, either.

  Chapter 6

  Sham El Nessim dawned as one of those mornings when one felt that life could not be sweeter. Karawan House, with its pink walls smothered in scarlet oleander and plumbago, looked over its green lawns shaded by heavy branches of cream bougainvillea, drowsing dreamily in the early golden sun. From its elevated position next to the Nile, the gilded rolling dunes of Thebes were clearly visible across the miles of sparkling water. In the sycamores, the birds burst forth in vociferous chirping, heralding the birth of spring.

  Aida had risen early. Dada Amina woke her up at the crack of dawn with a plate of spring onions that she encouraged Aida to inhale. This custom of breathing in onions was another ritual inherited from the Ancient Egyptians from a legend found on a papyrus, which told the story of a much-loved young prince who was struck down by an unknown disease and bedridden for years, during which time the people abstained from celebrating festivals in sympathy for the King Pharaoh and his son. The king summoned the archpriest of the Temple of Oun, who diagnosed the boy’s sickness as having been caused by evil spirits. The priest ordered that a ripe spring onion be placed under the patient’s head. He then sliced a second onion and put it on the boy’s nose so that he would breathe in the vapours. The prince soon recovered and festivities were held in the palace to mark the occasion, which coincided with the beginning of spring.

  Throughout Aida’s childhood, Ayoub had made sure that ancient rites such as this were observed, and it was with a nostalgic sentiment that the young woman had decided to keep them alive, much to the delight of Dada Amina, who went a step further and, like many modern Egyptians, hung bunches of spring onions at the front door to Karawan House ‘to keep the evil eye away’ and prevent envy.

  Although Aida had not slept well that night, on waking and going out to her terrace, the exciting freshness of a new day, all golden and smiling, had lifted her spirits. Having almost three hours before she was due at Hathor for the brunch party, she took her time preparing for the occasion, carefully going over the new clothes she had bought in Cairo.

  Finally, she decided upon a bright-blue polka dot summer dress with puffed sleeves and a full skirt caught up in a belt that hugged her wasp-waisted figure. The pearl buttons fastened all the way down, a practical style popularised by the fashionable Hollywood starlet Phyllis Brooks, and gratefully embraced by wartime women habitually in a rush. Aida’s feet were clad in a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo plaited raffia and cork wedge-sole peep-toes which, since the war, had been all the rage because of the restriction on raw materials. A small blue sapphire cross on a gold chain was the only jewellery she wore and with her honey-blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in sleek waves like a curtain of silk and just a hint of mascara and carmine lipstick, there was an untouched air about her that presented a picture of extreme youth with a provocative touch of elegance.

  Aida drove to Hathor. As she approached it, the sun filtering through trees threw torch-like beams on the lush green garden, which lay like a cultured diamond in the barbaric setting of the desert’s sand and rocks, with the Nile glittering at its feet.

  When she arrived, the wide heavy doorway was open to the villa. The interior was filled with roses and lilies, and guests were welcomed at the door by suffragis in blue-and-white striped shahi material kaftans and showed into the garden, where tables had been set out under a huge loggia covered in vines. Aida glanced up at the familiar blue stained-glass domed ceiling as she was led through the house and felt that same ripple of memories as when she had visited the Pharaonys’ house in Cairo. The very air here was flavoured with potent recollections of the past, and a grandeur that was unforgettable. She loved the sense of spacious elegance of the house, the cool beauty of silky Persian rugs on the polished hall floor, the walls against which family portraits glowed, the furniture and pedestals incredibly lovely in shape and design, the strange mingling of simplicity and wealth – and everywhere, flowers, their colour, their fragrance, invading shadowy corners.

  In the garden the sun spilled down on the crimson, violet, primrose and blue petals of flowers, brilliant beacons to the bees circling around. The air was filled with the sound of cicadas mingling fluidly with that of muted voices rising and falling, punctuated occasionally by soft feminine laughter as guests drifted around. Waiters hovered among them with trays of lemonade, wine and cordial. There were about seventy guests in all, mainly made up of families from large estates and a few noted foreigners from the diplomatic corps, chatting and drinking in small groups. A very different affair to the lunch she had attended the day before at the Bisharas. As a girl, Aida had been accustomed to the luxurious status of Hathor, but today she was inclined to see it anew through fresh eyes. Yes, she noted, there was a definite aroma of richness in the air, expensive cigars, exclusive scents and signé clothes – the war had definitely passed Luxor by.

  She stiffened when she caught sight of the unmistakable figure of Phares’s aunt coming towards her, clutching a glass of sharbat ward cordial. The eldest sister of Kamel Pharaony, and a spinster, Aunt Halima lived at Hathor, where she had acted as housekeeper since Camelia’s marriage to Mounir, five years before. Short and round, she had eyes of an extraordinary shade of brown, the only redeeming feature in a face that told a tale of regular displeasure. The occasional strand of her once black hair could still be seen though the lifeless grey nest of tight and somewhat f
rizzy curls that framed her round face.

  Aida knew Aunt Halima had always disliked her; nevertheless, she gamely fixed a smile on her face.

  ‘So, Aida El Masri is back, eh?’ Halima said, coming to a halt in front of her and looking Aida up and down sourly. ‘You had some flesh on you when you left but now you’ve turned scrawny. All that bad English food, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  As Halima herself had always reminded Aida of an angry fat pigeon, the young woman wasn’t surprised at such a remark but refrained from rising to the bait, knowing it would only invite more rancorous comments. ‘Aunty Halima, it’s been a long time. How are you?’

  ‘Well enough. Trying to look after what’s left of my family. I heard you didn’t find a husband in England so I suppose you’re back here to make eyes at my nephew again.’

  Aida’s nostrils flared with suppressed irritation. ‘I can assure you, Aunty, I have no intention of—’

  ‘Well, Phares has plenty of other respectable Coptic girls to consider,’ Halima interrupted, plucking a mezzeh from the tray of a passing waiter, ‘so you’d better set your sights lower. Isis Geratly is here with her father. A girl from a fine family. Phares gave her a job working side by side with him at his hospital. She has been a great help to him while he’s been building up his clinic.’ Aunt Halima clearly felt the need to say no more. She gave Aida a final sullen stare as she munched her falafel and marched off in the opposite direction.

  Poisonous old witch.

  Aida took a deep breath to calm herself down. She looked about her and spotted Phares immediately. He was standing a few feet away, engrossed in deep conversation with Alastair Carlisle and two other portly Egyptian men. His arm was lightly imprisoned in the grasp of a woman with her back to Aida, who wore a fashionable cream linen dress with broad bands of blue, red, green and yellow around the waist and flared skirt. Her thick black hair was coiled on the crown of her head in a braided chignon and as her classic profile turned towards Phares with a smile and a murmured comment, Aida saw that it was Isis. She noticed the young doctor’s mouth widen in easy response, his head slightly inclined, dark eyes resting on his companion’s upturned face with thoughtful appraisal. There seemed to be a definite rapport between the two of them.