The smell of his warm skin, of soap and fresh tobacco and maleness made her head spin. He was shockingly handsome in the moonlight as it fell upon his jet-black hair and proud features, haughty, arrogant and utterly mesmerising. Feeling his arousal hard against her, heat rushed down her body, pooling between her thighs. She wanted to give in to her desire for him right there and then but that would not make her situation any easier.
She inhaled raggedly. ‘No, Phares. You’ve got it wrong. The last thing I want is to marry Prince Shams Sakr El Din. Besides, how could I? He’s Muslim, you know that.’ Aida was shocked by the unthinkable suggestion. ‘It’s just that I need more time,’ she whispered. ‘Give me more time … This is a lifelong commitment you’re asking me to make.’
Staring back at him, Aida was aware of the hot and urgent desire flashing out at her, barely controlled. She knew how sorely she had tried his patience, how frustrated he must be in still finding her elusive. A flush of guilt pulsed into her cheeks and she looked down, struggling to justify her determination to follow her own instincts instead of considering his feelings.
Phares studied her face as though weighing up her answer and finally relaxed his hold on her. ‘Whatever you want, Aida,’ he conceded gruffly. ‘You’re like a hobby lantern, you know that?’
Aida understood perfectly what Phares meant. Those atmospheric ghost lights were like mirages seen by travellers at night, especially over swamps, resembling a flickering lamp. It was said to recede if approached, drawing anyone who came near it away from the safe paths. She could not afford to keep him waiting too long without running the risk of forfeiting everything if he turned away from her to Isis.
Her gaze flew back to his. ‘I know I’m sounding so selfish.’
‘It’s your prerogative, you owe me nothing.’
Saying nothing more, he brushed the back of his hand to her cheek tenderly, his expression scorching but sad. There was something in his look that made her almost ready to agree to whatever he wanted even if she was not convinced that it was wise. She smiled gently. ‘I promise to give you my answer before going back to Luxor.’
‘And I will wait patiently.’ His eyes glowed with anticipation. ‘Let’s go back now. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning for Luxor. I’ll be back in a couple of days for the fashion show.’
They walked back to the Sphinx, where the horses were tied together. Phares helped her back on to Bint El Nil, then swung himself into the saddle, looking more than ever a dashing figure, as if he and his mount were one.
As they cantered back across the hard sand they spoke little, not because Aida had run out of conversation, but because she had the feeling that Phares was pensive and tired, wanting only to be left to his own thoughts.
As they reached the top of the hill, Aida suddenly found her saddle slipping, its girth strap having come loose. With it, she felt herself sliding sideways. The startled mare broke into a frantic gallop; Aida was falling and could not free her right foot from its stirrup. An instant of panic … the terrified thought of being dragged … the thunder of hooves behind her. The next moment she was caught, her foot miraculously freed, then somehow on Phares’s horse, held fast and safe before him.
Aida turned to look up at him: ‘Thank you.’ Already breathless, the look in Phares’s eyes, the clasp of his arm, rendered her more so. Looking ahead, she tried to laugh. ‘How did you do it? …’ Her voice died away.
His voice was low and gravelly near her ear. ‘I did nothing. It is no extraordinary feat, trust me. No more than any Bedouin youth could have accomplished.’
‘What about Bint El Nil?’
‘She’ll be fine. Our horses are trained to find their way back to our stables. She’s young and won’t go far. We’ll probably find her back at Kasr El Shorouk on our return.’
Phares held her against his strong chest, his arm like a band about her, his muscular thighs bracketing her own.
‘You seem to know the desert well, too. But how?’ she managed to ask, although it was hard to keep her voice level while her whole body was being assailed by tiny jolts of excitement.
‘The desert is what you make of it, chérie. You dream it, you have hopes about it, embellish it, and one day you discover it and you don’t know what to think or say. It intimidates us into silence. You watch the sunset, you marvel at the subtlety of colours, and then you return to your inner self, to your thoughts. But the desert only makes sense if you take the time to stay in it. If not, it gives nothing. It remains a postcard, the image of a lacklustre memory.’
‘Have you ever lived in the desert like the Bedouins?’
‘No, but I’d like to.’
‘But how could you ever? You’re a civilised man, a well-educated surgeon.’
‘You have no idea how seductive the desert can be on the senses, especially at night when all is silent and the stars flood the sky. It is like a woman,’ he murmured, ‘alluring and challenging, with depths in which a man might get lost forever. I have known it in all moods, yet each time I ride, its sweeping spaces offer something new.’
‘You do love the desert, don’t you?’
‘Of course. The wild is a necessity for man’s spirit and as vital to our lives as bread and water. Believe it or not, the way the Bedouins live is healthy: a regime of dates and water and sleeping under the stars. You will find that most of them have a serene expression, and they’re rarely overweight. Some live to a hundred. They are much more attuned to nature than those in what we call the civilised world. I can assure you that on horseback you’ll see, feel and enjoy more in one mile than you would in a hundred sitting in a car.’
‘But the desert seems so wild. Unyielding … cruel.’
‘The soft and tender things are never as exciting as the more primitive ones. The hard-shelled passion fruit is more delicious than the peach once its shell is broken open. The dragonfly that eats the moth is magnificent in colour. The cactus, which we call the cruel flower, holds water for the man lost in the desert.’ The arm around her tightened. ‘I would have thought you of all people would understand this with your adventurous nature.’
He was right. How well he knew her. In turn, she wanted to discover more about this man to whom she was becoming increasingly drawn by the minute. His breath was warm against her neck as he leaned a fraction forward. ‘There is a place to which I ride sometimes when the moon is full or when the dawn rises. It’s all veined with blue and gold, the lapis lazuli blue of your eyes and the gold of your hair. I call it the Moonstone Oasis, because of the dreamy atmosphere that inhabits it, and never on this earth was there a place lovelier, or lonelier. Would you like to ride there with me one day, chérie?’ His voice became a husky caress. ‘I can imagine making love to you on its silvery sands.’
Phares had set her senses tingling unbearably. She looked back at her rescuer. Though his dark eyes blazed, raking over her feverishly, he remained silent as he turned Bourkan towards the shadows of the high, barren cliffs and mountains outlined on the horizon.
Phares now urged his horse into a canter. While the Arabian horse’s gait was fluid, moving smoothly under Phares’s command, Aida still had to adjust herself to its faster motion, aligning her back snugly against Phares’s hard chest as he instinctively held her tight against him. Together, their bodies moved rhythmically as one. She felt his thigh muscles flex around her and the pleasurable hot ache that spread rapidly through her body was almost painful. Yet added to this familiar physical yearning was something more profound and serious within her, something of which she had so far been only vaguely conscious. Now, Aida responded with a drumming of pulses that made her dizzy – this was different to the stirring excitement of desire.
For a crazy instant, giving herself to the fresh breeze and the swift motion while he had spurred Bourkan on, something had tugged at Aida’s heartstrings. Something directly opposed to the dark memories which she so stubbornly encouraged. She wished Phares was running away with her, forcing her to make up her mind
, forcing her to admit to her true feelings for him.
At that moment Aida felt a sudden yearning to be free – free of old bitterness and resentments, from the taint of hatred which had gripped her and to which she had deliberately clung. She had prided herself on her refusal to forget, had believed herself incapable of doing so, her pain biting deep into her soul, and she’d been convinced it had left a permanent, unhealable scar.
Still, held like this in Phares’s strong arms against his beating heart, upon a racing Arab galloping off into the desert, love, like a velvet fist, reached out and struck through her skin to her very heart and gripped her. All of a sudden, she realised what love and passion could be, coming alive as she had never done before. With a thrilling realisation she thought – Oh yes, there is nothing in life I want more than to be Phares’s wife. Yet for now she would keep her secret warm in her heart until she could choose the right moment to tell him of her decision.
Soon they were back at Kasr El Shorouk. With slow steps they rode through the moonlit garden; overhead the starry sky and all around the tranquil night with its sleeping flowers and the incessant breathing of nature in the undergrowth and trees. As they made their way to the stables in silence, a golden beam flashed swiftly across the sky, and Aida pointed upwards to it with her whip.
‘See there, quickly! Phares, a falling star! Wish something now before it vanishes!’
‘The saying goes that it is a glistening flame thrown by one of the angels,’ Phares answered, steering Bourkan towards the stables, ‘that pursues an evil djin who crept into heaven to listen to the secrets of the future.’
‘I prefer to think that it’s the sign of the passing of a soul, and if we quickly make a wish, it will carry it to the throne of God,’ Aida said with a crystalline little laugh, while a curious exhilaration ran through her because she knew her wish – or rather her prayer – was safe with God. Things would come right – she was sure of it now.
Later that night she stayed up for a long time, unable to sleep, reflecting on the sudden decision that seemed to have landed upon her out of the blue and thinking longingly about the life she would have with Phares.
They would travel, but her real home would be upon a cultivated strip between the Nile and the Western Desert, an exotic estate growing wonderful crops, guarded by brave ghoufara. She loved Egypt, and had assumed before her father’s death that she would remain for the rest of her life here. In those days she had never wondered about her English roots, never really given thought to her dual nationality, even while at boarding school. She had been comfortable in both places. It was only after the scandal and the hardships of war in England that she had been aware of her Englishness. Back in Egypt now, she felt torn between her two bloods.
Aida sat on the balcony outside her room in a warm and sheltered corner, looking out across the rooftops and trees to the line of glinting gold which was the desert. She thought of Phares and how he had told her that he occasionally went out there, far into that vast emptiness, alone. She too loved the desert: she had tramped enough of it with her father, looking for buried tombs and undiscovered temples. Still, she had to admit that she loved it as a stranger, a visitor, an excavator. To her it was exotic, something wonderful to see, a place where she had camped with her father a few times, but which still held a lot of mystery. But to Phares, those sandy wastes were a part of his existence. That great family could have been descended from the pharaohs themselves: the desert was in their blood.
* * *
For the next two days Aida was walking on clouds. Her mind was made up; she was no longer torn by doubts. Something had happened to her in the desert with Phares two nights ago that couldn’t be wholly accounted for by the romantic, whimsical moment on Bourkan when she wished they would escape together into the desert and she had glimpsed a new horizon. There was an unprecedented calm deep inside her as though at last she had found the centre around which all else must revolve.
Even so, she jealously kept her secret, not breathing a word even to Camelia although they spent all their time together, having breakfast on the terrace, lazing at the pool at the Gezireh Sporting Club, lunching at Mena House, or simply sitting in the garden in the evening, listening to the cicadas, chatting while drinking cold karkadeeh.
On one of those leisurely days they decided on a shopping afternoon in downtown Cairo, where, between Cherif and Fouad Streets, a wide variety of shops lined the pavements, selling antiques and art, expensive jewellery – the latter mostly owned by Armenians who were known to be the best artisans – and fashion items. These luxury boutiques brought in the latest fashions from France, but also offered silk and cotton fabrics in an array of rainbow colours.
She and Camelia made sure to visit the large department stores like Cicurel, Sidnawi, Challons and Gategno, all of which showcased the finest wares manufactured by the Italian, Greek and Jewish communities. Coming back through the dark winding alleys of the Musky bazaar, where every arch glowed with lanterns on crowded stalls and the aroma of coffeehouses suffused the air, they came upon a large open siwan, a tent-like room where a zar was taking place. Aida had often heard about this kind of religious ceremony which used drumming and dancing to bring on a trance to cure an illness thought to be caused by a demon, but she had never seen one in real life, only at the cinema.
She grabbed her friend’s arm. ‘Oh, Camelia, let’s stop and watch! It’s just starting.’
Camelia looked sceptical. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. You look foreign and we’ll stand out like sore thumbs.’
‘Look, there are foreigners standing around. Please, Camelia, don’t be a wet blanket. I’ve always been curious about this ceremony. Dada Amina is a great believer in it and I’m fascinated to know what she sees in these things.’
Camelia gave her a wry look. ‘All right, but not for long. It’s getting late. Really, Aida, you surprise me. It’s such a primitive, ignorant custom, unworthy of an intelligent woman like you.’
Aida shook her head. ‘Look, I know it’s a healing cult and the poor people who come to these ceremonies suffering some kind of mental trauma need proper psychiatriatic help. I’m just curious to know what it’s all about, that’s all.’
Lanterns flared yellow along the walls of the siwan. Men turned their turbaned heads to eye the two young women from the tops of their bare heads down to their bare legs. In the centre of the room stood an altar made from a round brass tray placed on a tall bench. It was covered with a white cloth and laden with piles of nuts and dried fruits. A woman in a milaya-laf, that flowing black cloak which Egyptian women have worn for centuries, spooned a whitish powder from a small clay pot on to a saucer of smouldering charcoal. After she placed the saucer on the brass tray, smoke rose from it and a thick sweet scent of incense rose into the air.
The place was filling with people. Near Aida and Camelia, a plump woman dressed entirely in white was beating a tar, a sort of tambourine, while another was banging a tabla, a skin drum, with the flat of her hand. As they did so, a row of similarly dressed women had risen to form a line in front of the drummer.
A tall man in a white kaftan and a skullcap pleated and puffed like a miniature baker’s hat was walking towards the row of white-clad women through the quieting crowd of onlookers, growing larger by the minute, who turned and bobbed respectfully. A moment later, the man paused in front of a figure Aida hadn’t noticed before, who was seated behind the white-clad women, facing the wall. It was the cocoon-like figure of a woman, wrapped tightly in a white kaftan, her hands and feet covered in henna, eyes lined with thick kohl. Women were applying to her skin what Aida concluded must be the special zar fragrances Dada Amina had told her about, said to purify the soul as they are inhaled, and used as offerings to the zar spirits, especially frankincense. And a few minutes later, as the ceremony began, an aromatic thurible was passed among the audience so that they too might purify themselves.
Now the room was starting to divide itself in two: the sheikh and the
musicians occupying one side of the siwan, the rest of the
participants on the other. Aida looked on, fascinated. ‘She must be the patient, and he’s the sheikh who will lead the zar,’ she whispered to the frowning Camelia, who, unlike Aida, was obviously hating every minute of this strange ceremony.
The sheikh turned his back on his patient and, clapping his hands, set a faster beat for the drum. Incense was filling the place now. People started to clap and Aida followed suit, while Camelia kept her hands folded tightly against her.
Slowly, the sheikh began to pivot slowly on the heel of his brown slipper, marking out a small circle; one of the clapping women in white followed his lead. He was turning rather slowly, his face blank yet serene, arms outstretched like wings. Aida could see this man had a real rapport with his audience. He was gradually drawing all the women in white into his ever-widening circle, leaving the immobile wrapped-up figure visible to everyone, hunched defenceless and alone while her friends and relatives circled to the drumbeat to help her in her sorrow.
If I’d had a nervous breakdown, would I want a crowd of people hovering while I went through the cure? Aida wondered.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Still more drums joined the measured beat, and the clapping rang out in a long, sharp sound. Fresh incense had been added to the saucer. White skirts and veils of the twirling women caught the air, clouds of cloth below those of the incense which rose, adding a pungent thickness to the air.
The patient now appeared standing, eyes half closed, abandoning herself completely. Her movements were increasing in intensity with the drumming, taking her in circles around the altar, as though freeing her body from the inside out. The rhythm of the beating drums focused every eye on what was happening and Aida felt herself being slowly drawn into the ambience.
Camelia nudged her. ‘Let’s go, Aida. You’re getting too involved.’
Song of the Nile Page 31
