‘And that doesn’t apply to men?’
‘No, most men are first and foremost pragmatic. They look at a relationship as a whole, and either it suits or it doesn’t. Of course there’s always the odd exception, as with women.’ Phares flashed his devastating grin, doubly effective after so much arrogance.
‘You really believe that, don’t you?’ Then, with an annoyed toss of her head, she added, ‘I wish you’d take off those glasses.’
Phares obeyed. His jet-black eyes glittered over her face, startlingly candid. ‘In answer to your question, yes, I believe it.’
His velvet gaze slid across the rest of Aida’s body, light and knowing, in a way that completely robbed her of breath. Something odd and compelling stretched between them so that she had the strong premonition that if she touched him this evening, there would be no turning back. Just talking to him was loaded with a kind of unabated excitement. She was coming to realise he had a practised way with women. In fact, he was a past master at this game.
It was evident that he had brought her here for a reason. If Phares was in love with the notorious model Nairy Paplosian, and Isis Geratly was the obvious choice of wife for him, what did he want from her? Her body? Her land? Both? And where did that leave her?
‘But enough of my views on relationships.’ He went straight to the point: ‘How many love affairs?’ he asked crisply.
There was an ironic slant to her fine brows. ‘To my endless chagrin, I can’t actually lay claim to a real love affair.’
Phares shook his head slowly, his glance spiked with amusement. ‘You ask me to believe that? Women, the attractive ones, are always in love or not in love with someone. I haven’t met a single one able to resist the compulsive urge to complicate her private life. Are you telling me that you are different?’ His eyes moved over her with disconcerting thoroughness. ‘That with all the freedoms and promiscuity going on during the war, you took no part?’
Aida regarded him solemnly, her lips faintly parted with an unspoken protest that died on her lips. She shook her head. ‘No, as I said, work took over completely. Overtime was a way of life and I never seemed to stand still.’
‘So, you’re no puritan?’
‘No, I’m just not that type of woman. I accept that plenty of them want to express their freedom, just as men have always done – and yes, circumstances during the war made it acceptable – but I wanted my own kind of freedom, I suppose. It’s simply not in my nature to need the attention of men all the time. I enjoyed my work. It fulfilled me, and I didn’t want any distractions from it.’ Aida felt herself flooding with colour as she gave way to her frustration at making him understand. ‘I’m my own person, Phares!’
Her response earned an odd glance from him. His dark eyes flickered with amused satisfaction.
‘Yes, you certainly are, chérie.’
Aida avoided his penetrating stare. She returned her gaze fixedly to the passing scenery: a triad of shaggy black buffaloes up to their shoulders in the river and dozing as they stood; a spreading sycamore fig, in the shade of which lay a man and camel asleep; a fallen palm uprooted by the last inundation, its fibrous roots still clinging to the bank, its branches in the water.
As the felucca approached the shores of Luxor, broken pillars of temples were outlined against the horizon. Aida didn’t look up; she couldn’t face the expression in Phares’s eyes, nor risk him reading in her own how she felt about him. She continued to consider the landscape, ever rich in tropic beauty – the sweep of the majestic river, the eternal silence of the sand plains, and the desert hills that lay in the distance. Here, it was impossible to separate the Egypt of the past from the Egypt of today, she mused.
Dragging her eyes away, she turned towards him.
Phares was watching her. ‘Shall we go for a walk into the desert?’ he asked, his eyes shadowed with some knowledge she was finding increasingly irresistible. ‘The countryside is so peaceful and beautiful at this time of the day. There’s not a soul in sight – just the silent gaze of our ancestors. The sun will soon be going down and tonight is a full moon.’ His dark-timbred voice had dropped to an intimate undertone.
Oh, he was clever! An urbanely clever, dangerous man who knew exactly which of her buttons to press. His words were conjuring images, arousing sensations that made Aida feel exhilarated, keyed up like a child about to start out on a forbidden adventure. She slanted a glance at his straight profile, the faint curve of self-mockery to his shapely mouth. All at once she wanted to touch him, so badly she dared not think about it. She was feeling a sense of affinity as if she’d known Phares in some other lifetime. What a fool! He was right, she was completely ruled by her emotions.
The pre-sunset breeze on the Nile was cool and moist, stroking her skin and making her hair lift and fan around her face. She turned towards Phares, pleasure melting in her blue eyes, filled with an intense love for this wild, mysterious land. She couldn’t help the excitement tightening inside her like a closed fist and she heard herself whisper: ‘True, this is the best time of all!’
Phares spun his head as if she had thrown something at him, pinning her gaze. For a stricken minute she felt herself transparent. Every thought, every desire, everything she had ever felt and tried to hide, there for him to register.
‘Yes, the best,’ he said softly, in such a way and in such a voice that, if she could, she would have run from him as if he were the devil himself.
They moored on a deserted shore under a willow tree, a mile and a half from the Temple of Karnak. The sun was still high in the sky, but subdued. The atmosphere was so clear, the desert breeze so pure it seemed impossible that this could be the same land which at noonday was like a furnace of molten brass, upon which the sun, from a glaring, cloudless sky, rained its pitiless flood of scorching heat and blinding light. ‘There is something almost ethereal about the desert evening. It helps those who know its power of refreshment to live through the breathless day,’ Phares had remarked to Aida years ago when on one of their riding outings in the desert, and on this particular evening, the delicious freshness was almost divine.
Aida felt secure. He knew this part of the desert well. Ever since she could remember, he had been going for long hikes out here, on foot or horseback. He carried the two sweaters they’d brought with them. ‘The weather’s still mild,’ he said, ‘but by the time we make our way back, it’ll be cold. Desert nights can be freezing. I’ll leave the bottles of wine in the boat, we’ll be happy to have them when we return. The alcohol will keep us warm.’
There were almost no ruins of value here as they were too far from the great temple for that – only a few mounds of stone, two sets of broken columns with a pediment lying across them that must have been part of a lesser temple, although there were still inscriptions that could be seen on the three pieces. In her imagination Aida repopulated the scene with figures of priests and worshippers from far-off days, restoring the fallen temples to their former glory, and could almost think she saw the processions winding round the walls of their temple, hearing the trumpets, harps, and sacred hymns in honour of the great pharaohs.
They had not spoken since leaving the boat and now she broke the silence: ‘It was a great Sham El Nessim party. They were always lovely.’
‘Yes, Camelia organised it almost single-handed this year. This sort of thing gives her something to take her mind off Mounir’s passing. It’s been very hard for her.’
‘How very sad. It seems she loved her husband very much.’
‘Yes. And it shows it isn’t absolutely necessary to be in love to make a marriage work.’
Aida laughed. ‘But you’ve just said that Camelia was in love.’
‘No, I said she loved him, but I didn’t say she was in love with Mounir when she married him. For her, he ticked all the right boxes. She made a rational decision, knowing the main ingredients were there to make the marriage successful. I think it was one of your English Restoration rakes, the Duke of Buckingham, who said that
“all true love is founded on esteem”. Mounir was a great man. He was many years older than my sister but he was well established, wise, respected in the community and kind. There was mutual understanding, respect and admiration between them. The rest came later.’
Aida stole a glance at him. ‘So that’s the way you see marriage.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘How very unromantic.’ Before she could stop herself, she added, ‘Is that the way Isis Geratly sees it too?’ and wanted to bite off her tongue as soon as she had uttered those words.
‘I don’t know what Isis thinks. The subject has never occurred.’
Well … she might as well go on.
‘Oh, come on, Phares.’
‘What do you mean?’ he replied easily.
‘Rumour has it you are almost engaged to her.’
‘And you believed it, I suppose.’
‘The way she was hanging on to you today only confirmed the gossip. As for your behaviour … I won’t even bother to comment.’
Phares gazed at her for a moment, his expression ironical. ‘Do I detect an undercurrent of jealousy?’
She felt her cheeks warm. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I just find it outrageous that you can offer to marry me when you’ve already tied yourself to Isis Geratly.’
‘You’re such a bundle of contradictions, habibti.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Phares paused for a moment and his eyes seemed to change subtly from fire to velvet. They were cooler, clearer, and very frank. A half smile hovered around his mouth. ‘Come on, Aida, credit me with a little sense. Eight years ago, you had a crush on me. True, we had an awkward relationship, but we were almost engaged.’
Aida came to a halt next to a tall column, her eyes flashing with indignation. ‘Eight years ago, I was an overprotected child who didn’t know much about life, or about anything much, least of all about men. Today, I’m a woman.’
Phares stopped too and his gaze slid over her. ‘Yes, now you are a grown woman … but even back then you were aware enough to look at me the way a woman instinctively looks at a man … the way you still look at me when you think no one else is noticing. You haven’t been kissed very often before, have you, chérie? Yet in my arms you come to life, you …’
‘Stop right there!’ she exclaimed, almost unable to believe what he was saying, except it had a ring of truth about it. ‘If you think that just because I haven’t had much emotional experience you’re going to bamboozle me into your bed, you’re mistaken.’
Phares’s eyes became serious. ‘No, Aida. I have asked you to marry me. I am asking you again to be my wife.’
Though suddenly the very idea made her heart beat with a crazy quickness, her mind thrust a warning sign in front of her. ‘Nice try. Tell me, Phares, how many women are you leading on a string? Dangling the great juicy carrot of becoming Mrs Phares Pharaony, wife of the great surgeon, owner of thousands of feddans, not to mention all the other riches you will inherit once you are head of the family?’
He tossed her a glittering look. ‘I have never asked anyone to be my wife. Sure, I have always intended to marry some day. I am not the kind of man to lead a celibate life. Besides, someday I want children, the heirs to this estate that you mention so disparagingly, which employs a considerable number of people who count on it for their livelihoods.’
‘Have you not asked Isis to marry you?’
‘Never. Isis is a valued colleague whom I’ve known all my life. Our parents are friends and yes, to be honest, the idea did cross my mind at one time but as you can see, it never materialised.’
‘Why, because of your love for Nairy Paplosian?’ she blurted, and again bitterly regretted that she had let her mouth run away without thinking.
Phares drew a deep breath, his nostril tightening. The darkening of his narrowed eyes gave him both a sinister and sensual look. ‘I see you’ve been busy, chérie,’ he mocked. ‘My private life is none of your business. Still, I will do you the courtesy of indulging your curiosity. Nairy was my mistress at one time. There was never any question of marriage. We had an arrangement, you might say. A contract between two adults who were attracted to each other and understood full well what they were getting into. Like any contract, this one came to an end. About six months ago.’ He inclined his handsome head. ‘Satisfied?’
Aida stared at him, a small frown unconsciously creasing her brow, until he reached out a finger and smoothed it away. His own expression was uncertain as he searched her face.
‘Why don’t you say something?’ he asked.
What could she say? It was in the past and she should let it go. She turned away silently, loins melting with need of him. He was so beautiful, it hurt when he looked at her like that.
They had reached an elevated position in the desert which allowed a most enthralling panoramic view of the surroundings wrapped in a glory of hues in the light of the setting sun. Purple shadows were cast by the dunes and the far-off mountains. The sky had turned all red to the right, all pink to the left. The ochre and greys of sandstone, the dark granite and pale limestone cliffs blended exquisitely with the tawny yellow of the desert; the rich green of the banks and the blue of the river snaking away from them gave combinations and contrasts of colour in which Phares and Aida’s eyes revelled.
They stood transfixed as, at the edge of the horizon, a ripple of flame and liquid gold marked the sun’s course, lending colour to the growing twilight. In a few minutes the sky was melting from flaming red to purple, amethyst, golden yellow, soft pink, faded green, pale blue. And now the earth and the sky were suffused with a delicate pink tinge of the afterglow.
All the time Aida was conscious of the nearness of Phares’s lithe, muscled body, of the tang of his skin with its faint fragrance of some expensive aftershave, of the fire smouldering in her own body. A wish flared briefly that he didn’t have to be quite so ruggedly handsome, quite so outrageously masculine.
‘This is the most fairy-like and magical effect of colour I have ever seen …’ she murmured at last.
‘It is even more glorious at sunrise.’ His eyes were fixed on the breathtaking painting in front of him. ‘The peculiarity in Egypt,’ he murmured, ‘is that light and colour return after an interval of ashy grey, like the coming back to life of a corpse. Nowhere else would you witness such a miracle.’ He paused, his gaze still on the horizon. ‘Never leave this land, Aida. You are part of it, and it is part of you.’
She watched him, her heart thudding. Not for the first time she mused that he might well have been a descendant of some pharaonic prince. The distinct contours of his bold features, the dark eyes, the fineness of hands and wrists, the whole suppleness and easy muscular grace, showed breeding – the innate dignity of an ancient race. He belonged to the desert and yet his mantle of Western civilisation lent a touch of originality to the man on whom it rested.
A full golden moon was rising over the desert. Slowly, it swam into view, a great plate of gold as yet low down in the sky, entangled, or so it seemed, in the branches of the tall palm trees that dotted the land around them.
The air was soft and warm. From far away came the thin and reedy note of a native flute, piping one of the melancholy chants of the lovesick nomads of the desert; and the odd little tune, full of unhappy modulations, seemed somehow fitting to the wonderful black and gold of the night.
‘Listen,’ Phares said, suddenly attentive. ‘There must be a caravan of ghajar, gypsies, not far from here. Come, let’s follow the music.’
Aida shivered. ‘Why? My father always said they’re a thieving lot who like nothing better than to traffic antiquities.’
He shrugged. ‘They have that reputation, but they’re not the only thieves in the desert – especially around here. I’d be more inclined to fear the matareed, the outlaws that live up there.’ He pointed to the chain of mountains edging the horizon.
Aida frowned. ‘I don’t like the idea of going there,’ sh
e said pensively.
‘Don’t tell me you listen to all that rubbish about them having sorcerers who can give you the evil eye? You surprise me. A free-spirited, independent young woman like yourself having such superstitions?’
‘I never said that,’ she retorted, annoyed by his presumption. ‘What I do believe is if for some unknown reason they take against someone, they can be … unpleasant.’
Phares’s smile was ironic, teasing. ‘Come now, habibti, fancy being afraid when you have me to protect you!’
He seemed set on his idea of finding the gypsies and Aida followed him half-heartedly. There were no stars in the sky and with the sudden nightfall, despite the brilliant moon, the desert seemed a gloomy, haunted place. Instead of the tranquil atmosphere she had felt at sunset, there was a sort of restlessness, an electricity in the breath of the night.
They soon spotted the caravan under a clump of palm trees. By the looks of it the evening meal was being prepared and around the fire were grouped men and women, camels, donkeys, and a few black goats. The grunting camels sprawled on the ground, their burdens beside them, and each time one of them moved there sounded the clank of a bell.
Around the biggest fire and lit by its fitful flame, a group of musicians had gathered. The light fell on their painted lutes, darabukeh drums and tambourines, making their swarthy faces and glittering teeth seem to jump out of the darkness. Some played rebabahs, a kind of small, round long-necked violin with a metal spike that rested on the ground, and the high, warbling sound pierced the air like a human voice. As a night scene, nothing could be more picturesque than this group of turbaned Arabs sitting in a circle, cross-legged. In the midst of them a blind man sat singing with an old hag, and by his side was a boy playing a reed pipe, his eyes wide set in his music-haunted face. The blind singer was young and powerfully built, but very thin. As he sat there, his wasted form wrapped in a coarse cloth of striped yellow and crimson, he looked the embodiment of the musicians represented in sketches on the walls of temples and tombs of Ancient Egypt. He swayed while the musicians thrummed; the rest of the men and women softly clapped their hands in time, waiting their turn to chime in with the chorus.
Song of the Nile Page 24
