As Phares and Aida approached the camp, a woman who had been seated at a table enjoying a shisha, a turquoise hubble-bubble, came towards them. Aida guessed she was in her fifties, although she could have been younger as the ghajar often aged quickly owing to their lifestyle and the unfriendly desert sun.
The ghajareya’s face was carefully painted, her eyes large, deep-set, savage, sensual – their bewitching expression rendered more striking by the kohl that blackened the edge of the eyelids, both above and below the eye. Her nose was slightly flat and adorned with a gold nose-ring with a blue charm to keep away the evil eye. Her lips were full, her hair a deep, glossy black, which hung on each side of her face in thick plaits. Her nails and toenails were stained the deep orange of henna, regarded by many Egyptians as a sacred embellishment. A blue thin vertical line straddled by two blue dots was tattooed on her chin. She wore a golden pair of very wide trousers, the shintiyán, made of cotton with a full, multicoloured striped shirt that stopped just above the knee. An embroidered kerchief, doubled over diagonally, encircled her waist loosely. Around her neck and on her arms were chains of gold and precious stone amulets that clanked like a country cart as she moved. Doubtless all her riches, Aida thought as she watched the woman stroll nonchalantly towards them.
‘Salam aleykom, peace be on you,’ she said as she reached the couple.
‘Wa aleykom el salam, and on you,’ Phares answered.
The woman’s shrewd eyes moved from him to Aida. ‘How can I help you?’
‘We were just passing when we fell upon your camp.’
‘Marhaba, welcome. My name is Ghalya. It faddalou, join us,’ she said, before calling out, ‘Hind, prepare a shisha for the Bey and a glass of sharbat for the hanem.’
Aida nudged Phares and whispered sharply, ‘Let’s go.’
To her irritation, Phares ignored her and smiled at Ghalya, turning on the charm. ‘Shukran, that’s very kind of you. I have never seen you around here before. Do you often pass this way?’
‘We come by once every four or five months, depending on the weather. We’re originally from Ras Gharib on the Red Sea.’
‘That’s a long way away.’
‘Yes, ya Bey, and the desert is ghaddar, treacherous, as you know,’ she smiled back, enigmatically.
‘How long will you be staying there?’
‘It depends on the weather. The season of El Khamaseen sandstorms will be here in a week, so we will be going back soon. We need them to be behind us, ya Bey. Waiting for these gales of dust to pass would take too long. Our cousins from the Beni Gharib tribe will come tomorrow, then we will decide.’
Aida watched the exchange uneasily. Why did she have the strange impression she was de trop? She nudged Phares’s elbow, but the gypsy woman turned towards her with a sly look. ‘Why are you afraid, ya bonaya, my child? Why are you in such a hurry to leave us?’ Her black, kohl-lined eyes glittered. ‘Maybe I can help you in your uncertainty … I tell the fortune, past, present and future.’
Aida knew that the ghajareya was trying to reel her in and would use any argument to manipulate her into parting with some money. Having grown up in Upper Egypt, she fell into the familiar way of speaking that Dada Amina had always used with the ghawazy and Bedouins, echoing her phrases: ‘I am not afraid, and shukran, there is nothing to help. Past, present and future are in the gheeb, the unknown, and in the hands of Allah,’ she retorted coolly.
They had reached the campfire. The air was thick with the acid tinge of hashish, familiar to Aida because she had often smelt it in Cairo bazaars, like the Khan Khalili. A younger woman appeared with the hubble-bubble for Phares and a glass of rose cordial for Aida. A much younger version of Ghalya, the girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen, with unruly black hair pulled straight back on each side of her forehead in small braids, joined together behind her head. Around her neck, wrists, ears and ankles she wore her dowry, made up of a triple necklace of large, hollow gold beads, gold disk earrings decorated with gold granules, and two bands of gold with snake heads, twisted together and interlaced as a bracelet and anklet. Her enormous dark eyes, bordered with kohl, immediately settled on Phares.
Ghalya made the introduction. ‘This is Hind, my daughter.’ Then, turning to the young girl, she ordered, ‘Dance for the Bey.’
‘No need for that,’ Phares protested, but the group of musicians began to play, while Hind, tying a scarf around her hips without delay, had already started her undulating dance.
Ghalya pulled Aida by the arm. ‘Come, ya bonaya. Let’s sit in the sand, here next to the fire. I’ll tell you el ghayeb will maktoom, the unknown, and what is written.’
‘I’m not interested to know the future.’ Aida tried to draw away. ‘My life is quite straightforward and I don’t believe in destiny, thank you.’
‘I can see a lot of turbulence in your heart and events as strong as an earthquake awaiting you.’
Irritated, Aida snapped, ‘I really don’t understand what you are talking about. As I’ve said, I’m the one in control of my life. Anyhow, Allah is there to show me the way if I get lost.’
The ghajareya laughed. ‘El maktoob alal guibeen lazim te shofou’l ein, what is written on the forehead must be read by the eyes. That which is destined to be will be fulfilled.’ She lifted her face to the sky, pointing at it with one finger. ‘You cannot escape what Allah has written for you in the heavens.’
Not quite knowing how it happened, Aida found herself sitting on a large red woven cloth spread out on the ground next to the fire with the gypsy woman seated opposite her, cross-legged.
A strange little shudder ran through her. She really had a bad feeling about this. Her eyes strayed towards Phares in the hope that he would rescue her from this ordeal, but like everyone else, his gaze was drawn to the swirling figure of Hind. Even Aida couldn’t help but be riveted by the young ghazeya, as if held in a charm that she could not fight, like a moth to a flame.
The hypnotic allure of the ghawazy was famous. Egypt’s most traditional dancers, their name meant ‘conquerors’ as they were said to invade the hearts of their audience. The dance of a ghazeya was earthy, exotic, abandoned, and the ghawazy were often paid to perform in courtyards, coffee houses and streets, and even at weddings and village celebrations. No man would dare marry a ghazeya but many a young man in the small villages of Upper Egypt had been initiated into the joys of sex by these bewitching dancers.
The gypsy’s daughter was no less provocative a sight. The bright semi-transparent fuchsia body stocking below Hind’s tight bodice revealed no actual flesh, but it clung to every curve, accentuated by the low shawl she had wrapped about her hips, which exposed bare thighs as she moved. She had undone the braids and part of her hair was fastened back over one small ear by a bunch of yellow jasmine. The rest cascaded on to her beautiful bare shoulders: rich, black and glossy. Her dark, luminous eyes flashed and her body, undulating like a snake with a lowering and raising of one hip only, moved in a kind of a rhythmic, gyrating hip walk, to the rattle of the small brass castanets in her hands.
A group of A’l’mehs, female singers, had appeared, also wearing dresses of vivid colours though much thicker in texture and not as clinging. They egged her on with clapping, singing, and zaghareet – those shrill, quavering cries of joy which in Egypt accompany happy events. A bottle of palm wine and some sort of goat’s cheese and bread had been brought out to Phares. He was getting a king’s welcome and Aida could see that he was enjoying himself immensely.
‘If you are so enamoured with the Bey, why are you resisting him?’
Aida swung round and met the great dark eyes of the fortune teller watching her intently, a mischievous smile animating her wide mouth.
‘I don’t understand.’
The gypsy woman reached for a gazelle skin by the side of the fire and drew a large square in the sand with a stick. ‘El Bey raydaki fil halal, the Bey wants you. Why do you rebuff him?’ She jiggled the bag before throwing its contents on t
o the square in front of her. ‘I don’t need these to tell me how you feel about him. Your eyes are enough, they devour him.’
‘Nonsense!’ Aida protested vehemently. ‘He’s like a brother to me.’
‘Brother, is it?’ Ghalya let out a low, rusty chuckle. ‘Already I can see you are lying … not only to me, but to yourself. Irmy bayadik, cross my palm with silver so I can tell you more.’
‘I don’t want to know more.’
‘Hal heya horreya am eindan yahwee ila dammar, is it freedom or a stubbornness that drops one into destruction?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Throw your silver coins among my shells and I will tell you the meaning in the sands.’
Reluctantly, Aida took out a couple of ten-piastre silver coins and tossed them on to the square.
Ghalya studied the shells and gave Aida a cat-like stare; there was a curious glint behind the dark lashes that she couldn’t quite interpret. ‘I see anger … so much anger. You are like the blind man who shuts his eyes and scorns.’ As she spoke, the darabukeh throbbed, and the monotonous rebabahs furnished a soft but piercing bass. Smoke rose up and veiled the blue flames of the fire. ‘There is no darkness like ignorance. El zaher lena, wal khafy alal Allah, what is manifest is for us, and what is concealed, for God.’
The hidden meaning in the fortune teller’s words was not lost on Aida. Ghalya was surely referring to the betrayal of her father. The young woman’s gaze was drawn to the square in the sand and, though she told herself that this was all trickery and superstition, for some reason she feared what the ghajareya had to say. Her instincts told her to flee, but her body was held transfixed by an invisible power emanating from the square, where the various shells and stones lay gleaming in the firelight as though they had a secret life of their own.
‘Man zara’a ar rih, hasada al asifa, he who sows the wind harvests the storm.’
Aida glanced up, confused. ‘The storm happened a long time ago. I am just searching for the real culprit.’
The fortune teller shook her head, her black eyes boring into Aida. ‘No, that is not the storm I am seeing here. This one lies ahead of you. Ma Kul maawoog arraqaba jamal, not everything with a crooked neck is a camel, and there is none more blind than he who doesn’t want to see. The Nabi Mohamed alayhi as-salām, peace be upon him, said, “Beware of suspicion, for suspicion is the worst of false tales.” And I am telling you, beware of impulsiveness or you might end up like a blind person swimming in the sea.’
Aida stiffened, her face hardening. ‘I have no proof, but I will find it. I will do whatever it takes to find the truth.’
‘It is true that he who takes revenge erases shame but you must choose your battles carefully and not jump to conclusions. Al nar wala al aar, rather be touched by fire than by dishonour.’
Aida frowned. ‘You don’t need to tell me that. I know it already and I don’t see what it has to do with my quest.’
The fortune teller shook her head once more and mumbled, as if to herself, ‘I tell her “It’s a bull”, she says “Milk it”.’ She was staring long and hard at Aida as though to convey her message without uttering words.
Ghalya kept silent for a long while, toying with the shells, picking them up and throwing them back on to the sand. The flames danced, throwing shadows on her lined face, which in the half-light took a sinister mien, her eyes looking darker and enormous, her brows jet black and thick, her nostrils open and wide.
Far away, a jackal gave its weird cry, tearing the night as it hunted its prey.
At length the ghajareya looked up. ‘The doors of luck are almost closed for you. Winds do not always blow as the vessels wish … evil is at work. I can almost hear ibleess, the devil, laughing as he dares the power of Allah to bring peace in your heart and around you. I will not hide from you that there is great danger ahead, but I can also see a glimmer of hope … Then maybe, if you’re lucky and if God wills, you will have a last chance for happiness. My final advice to you is to strike the deal in the field rather than dispute on the threshing floor. It’s not too late yet. The heart is an astrologer that always divines the truth … Remember, forewarned is forearmed.’ Collecting her shells, she tidied them back into the gazelle skin and rose to her feet.
Aida remained seated for a short moment, trying to hold on to the cryptic words of the ghajareya, then got up and followed Ghalya to where Phares was sitting.
The dance, which had begun with some degree of decorum, soon deteriorated into a provocative, almost lascivious, show, with Hind shooting lustful glances at her male audience and making indecent gestures as the music took on a more rapid cadence. Sometimes she uttered a shrill cry, as though to spur the zeal of her musicians, while between her fingers her noisy castanets clacked unceasingly.
With an increased motion of her nimble frame, clicking her finger cymbals in time with every shake and shudder of her hips, she now came close to Phares, holding out her arms, shaking them from shoulder to wrist with an imperceptible quivering, moving them apart with soft, quick motions like those of the wings of a hovering eagle. Presently she was bending over him completely, then backwards, shoulders in a stiffened pose, her whole body slightly arched, flesh rippling into bronze ridges, the back of her head almost touching Phares’s lap as she gyrated her belly.
Aida’s gaze fixed on Phares, watching for his reaction. He seemed perfectly at ease with this display. She couldn’t help her mind filling with images she tried instantly to push away. Could it be, as a teenager, Phares had experienced his rite of passage with such a girl?
Her eyes followed the young ghazeya with an aching heart until, in a sudden torment, she turned away, no longer able to stand the sight of the sleek, rose-coloured body circled around Phares. She had the galling knowledge that it was jealousy that was making it impossible for her to watch the dance to its conclusion. Yes, she had been jealous of Nairy Paplosian the day before, and of Isis Geratly this morning, and now this. It seared her like a red-hot poker. Had her puppy love for this man turned into something deeper? Allowing the painful truth to surface, unlocked from its prison deep inside her, she took a half-frightened breath and held a hand to her heart, which pounded with the desperation of something trapped. For Aida, in that moment, the moonlit desert was a place of horror, the yellow moon a leering goblin whose mocking eye seemed to lay bare the shameful secret of her own heart. She felt the ardent gaze of the fortune teller and turned to face her.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Ghalya murmured. ‘Love hurts. The pain you are feeling now is meant to wake you up. Take heed before it’s too late.’ Detaching a beautiful talisman from around her neck, she handed it to Aida. ‘This aqiq, carnelian, will protect you and keep you from wellad el haram, the sons of evil. Always have it around your neck, for not even el jin el ahmar, the red genie, will be able to help you if you get separated from it.’
Aida hesitated before thanking the woman and taking the amulet. She flushed and her eyes went from Ghalya to her daughter. In an accelerated collision of her brass castanets, Hind was swinging around Phares, ending in a deep curtsey which had her almost prostrated at his feet, and Aida couldn’t help the slight shiver that ran through her once again.
Only then did Phares fling a look in her direction, slanting her a lazy smile as he stood up. Hind had disappeared into one of the tents and Phares came towards Ghalya. He reached for his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and took out a couple of Egyptian notes, which he slipped into her hand.
‘Thank you for your hospitality. Your daughter is a wonderful dancer and your palm wine was very good.’
‘We aim to please, ya Bey.’
Turning to Aida, Phares took her hand. ‘Come on, chérie, let’s go.’
As they were about to leave, the fortune teller fixed Phares with her eloquent, enormous eyes, for a moment holding his mesmerised velvet dark gaze in her grip. ‘Sahib al-haq lahu maquam wa lahu maqal, the man who is in the right has both stature and the last word.’
A glorious smile spontaneously curved Phares’s full mouth. ‘Thank you for your vote of confidence. Maa al salama.’
‘Allah maak, God be with you,’ she replied, handing him a short chain with a small, golden charm. ‘You are a man of the desert. You will understand the message.’
Phares grinned. ‘Ummal, of course. Shukran.’
‘Afwan, you’re welcome.’
When they were far enough away not to be in earshot of the camp, Aida asked, ‘What did she mean?’
‘About the charm?’
‘Yes.’
He handed her the chain. ‘You’ll notice that the charm is a carved camel.’
She examined it. ‘Yes, so what?’
‘The story goes that because the camel has such patience and endurance he is the only infidel admitted into paradise.’
She gave the charm back. ‘I don’t like these people,’ she said moodily. ‘They tell you things that stick in your mind and influence your judgement.’
‘Maybe … but the way they live, with nothing else to distract them but the sand and the sky, often makes them wise.’
They went back by a different route. The moon had risen to its full splendour by now, illuminating ancient brick mounds of some forgotten city, with palm trees and fragments of arched foundations, and a wall and doorway here and there. An old vulture, asleep on the rim of a lotus capital under a twisted sycamore, woke up in great consternation as they went by; he winged his way along a dark colonnade of a ruined temple into the silvery moonlight, and finally settled on the peak of a glossy obelisk. The sky was flooded with light, against which the tall date palms stood out as though etched upon their background by some fairy hand. The scene was one of enchantment again: a symphony in silver and black that set Aida’s sensitive blood racing with its suggestion of infinity and mystery. There were no stars visible in that brilliant radiance, only a great white moon hanging there, a serene and lovely goddess, in the exquisite heavens.
Song of the Nile Page 25
