* * *
Aida was awakened next morning by the sound of Phares’s murmuring voice below her window. She had forgotten to close her shutters the night before and the sunlight was pouring in bright against the walls of her bedroom and sprawling like a golden cloak across her bed.
Heart pounding, she leapt out of bed and ran to the window to make sure it was him. As she looked down, Phares, who was talking to the gardener, lifted his face up and waved at her.
‘Good morning, chérie. How about I take you to the Khan Khalili this morning? Camelia has asked me to take her pearl necklace to be restrung. We’ll have lunch at the El Malik restaurant just around the corner from there.’
‘That sounds a wonderful idea,’ Aida called back, unable to conceal her smile. ‘I haven’t been there for years. But aren’t you going to the hospital today?’
‘Today is my Sunday off. I took an early plane.’
‘Give me half an hour to get ready and I’ll be down.’
He nodded and waved. ‘I’ll be on the terrace having breakfast with Camelia.’
I’m in love with Phares, Aida said softly as she hurried to the bathroom. And he? He desired her, he had told her as much, but that was a far cry from being in love with her. No, she must not be so mad as to hope that Phares felt as she did.
Aida quickly chose a primrose crepe day dress, with dolman sleeves and a full skirt, printed with small sprays of wild flowers. She had bought it from Harrods in London on the eve of her departure and hadn’t had a chance to wear it. She loved the way the loose sleeves were cut in one piece with the body of the garment, and how good it looked with the narrow red, varnished belt with a horseshoe buckle that cinched her waist. She slipped on a red peep-toe sling-back sandal with a French heel that made her legs look even longer, and after checking herself for the last time in the tall mirror, she grabbed a red bag and ran downstairs to join Camelia and her brother.
‘You look radiant.’ On seeing Aida, Camelia, who was alone on the terrace, greeted her friend warmly and poured her a cup of coffee. ‘One would never guess that you were up half the night saving a life,’ she added, lowering her voice.
‘It’s such a beautiful day.’ Aida glanced around nervously before answering. ‘Did your friend get off safely?’
‘Yes, he was well enough to walk to the car with help. He didn’t ask who had saved his life and I didn’t tell him.’
Aida sat down, poured milk into her coffee, and after a few moments said warily, ‘Do you realise the risk you’re running?’
Camelia shrugged. ‘Yes, but there was nowhere else they could take him. They rang me to ask if Phares was at home to see to Sami. I said he wasn’t, but that I knew someone who I trusted to help.’ She gave Aida a rueful smile, ‘Thank goodness you were there when I needed you, habibti. I will be forever grateful.’
Aida sighed. ‘Well, at least Sami is out of danger.’ She paused a moment before asking, ‘Would Phares have helped?’
‘Yes, because a life was a risk. You know Phares. He’s not only a professional, but he’s kind. But then,’ she went on, ‘he would have lectured me and made me promise not to become involved in politics. He’d have stopped me seeing my friends and would have watched me like a hawk.’
‘Don’t you think you deserve a lecture?’
Camelia regarded Aida over her coffee cup. ‘Maybe, but one has to do what one has to do. I have a duty towards my country.’
‘What about your duty towards yourself and your family? I’m supposed to be the adventurous and impulsive one,’ Aida said wryly. ‘You’ve always been level-headed and reasonable.’
‘I’m not being impulsive.’ Camelia raised her hand emphatically. ‘On the contrary, I’ve given this much thought. I have a deep belief in the aims of this Nationalist Party. Listen, we need to liberate our country from imperialism and our impotent government. The system needs to be adjusted. This might take time and it will certainly claim lives, but it needs to be done for the good of Egypt and Egyptians. I can’t expect you to understand, habibti, you’ve been away from Egypt for too long.’
Although her friend spoke quietly, the passionate intonation in her voice was unmistakable. Aida knew it was useless to argue with her.
‘Don’t judge me too harshly, Aida, I …’ Camelia trailed off as Phares stepped on to the terrace.
‘What mustn’t Aida judge you too harshly about?’ he asked with a mischievous smile, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘You girls never stop nattering. Don’t you ever run out of subjects?’ His dark eyes settled on Aida appreciatively. ‘Good morning. You look beautiful, chérie. Yellow suits you.’ He came to sit down, trailing his hand discreetly across her back as he did so, which immediately created a familiar little tremor in her stomach. Then bending his head, he gave her a peck on the cheek. He was wearing a dark-blue shirt belted into his jeans, and his thatch of black hair was wet and tousled; he had obviously just come out of the shower.
‘You look quite fetching yourself this morning,’ she said, excitement welling up inside her.
His devilish smile glinted at her, whiter than ever. ‘Why only “quite fetching”?
‘Stop teasing her, Phares,’ his sister reproached.
‘I’ve always teased her. She doesn’t mind, do you, chérie?’ He winked at Aida.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m used to it by now.’
He gazed at her as if unable to tear his eyes away from her. Then remembering himself, he glanced at his watch: ‘If we want to get to the Musky, have lunch and return in time to get ready for the fashion show, we’d best leave now. Are you ready, Aida?’
Aida turned to Camelia, taking in that she was still wearing her dressing gown. ‘You’re not coming with us?’
‘No, thank you,’ she replied, a slight smile on her face. ‘It’s very hot and if I spend the whole day at the Musky, I’ll be wilting by tonight. I’ll leave you two brave people on your own, but promise not to scratch each other’s eyes out.’
Phares gave that infectious grin Aida had always found so appealing. ‘We’re doing rather well these days, aren’t we, habibti?’
Aida felt the pink hue warming her cheeks and she shrugged. ‘Come on, Phares, don’t be irritating.’
His lips pulled down in mock offence. ‘I’m very hurt.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re an incorrigible tease, that’s what you are,’ Aida replied laughingly as she stood up. She turned to Camelia: ‘You’re sure you don’t want to join us, even just for lunch?’
‘No, really. Go ahead.’
A wave of excitement washed over Aida.
A whole morning alone with Phares …
‘Come on, then,’ he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. Instinctively her pulse quickened as together they stepped down into the garden and made their way to the front drive, where his car was waiting.
Chapter 9
Cairo was humming like a great beehive beneath the clear blue sky. Aida and Phares crossed the thoroughly Europeanised west part of the city with its broad streets shaded by lebbek trees, and rows of great hotels, smart boutiques, churches, clubs and residences of the rich, where bougainvillea clambered in purple magnificence over porticoes. Dodging around the modern bulk of the opera house and the Turf Club, they skirted the Ezbekiyeh Gardens and, crossing the square where the various tram lines of the city met, they entered the real Cairo, the African Cairo, a totally new world which led to the bazaars and the Musky, or the Khan Khalili as it was known to Egyptians.
No more broad streets, no more fine buildings. It was one vast huddle of old structures, some of them rather fine examples of the architecture that prevailed in Cairo when the merchants were kings. Into the mass of close-packed houses was threaded a network of numberless deep, dark alleys and narrow lanes overhung with the pretty, wiry balconies of harems, almost meeting above the jostling crowds. They appeared secretive and mysterious; Aida wondered what lay behind them, her imagination conjuring up all sorts of romantic images.
The red tarbooshes and coloured turbans of the natives in a variety of costumes formed a bobbing sea on either side of the road lined with a brilliant assortment of sweetmeat shops, fabric stores and fruit sellers. Through the car’s open window, Aida watched the bright multitude thronging the streets in a motley picture of such effective colour schemes that never failed to enchant her eye. Her ears, too, were enthralled by the street cries and passing music, and the wailing prayers from the top of the tall minarets.
The old Turk who was setting up his cake stall in the recess of a sculpted doorway; the donkey-boy with his colourful caparisoned animal, waiting for customers; the beggar asleep on the steps of the mosque; the veiled woman filling her water jar at the public fountain – they all looked as if they had been put there expressly to be painted.
Phares parked the car in a side street not too far away from the main drag of the bazaar and he and Aida wended their way along the tortuous pavements lined with shops offering semi-precious stone necklaces arrayed in glittering splendour against a black background, stalls with engraved brasswork, and others that offered pearl inlayed items and mashrabiya carved woodwork.
At this time of day, the well-trodden route leading to the Musky was teaming with life. The sun was blazing, the sky an unbroken arc of blue, and there was a quality of magic in the atmosphere. Crowds were drifting to and fro, on and off the pavements, chattering and laughing in that happy-go-lucky way that Aida loved so much about the Egyptian people.
A man carrying on his head a tray of sugar plums and sweetmeat made of parched peas and sugar was singing rhythmically, ‘Mulabesseyeh! Homasseyeh!’ Another cried, ‘Figs, the food of sultans!’ while yet another with a great bottle was attracting attention by clapping together his brass cups as he sang, ‘Oh, here is the refresher of the body, O men!’
Many of the terms these sellers used to proclaim their wares were so vaguely poetic that it was almost impossible to guess what they were selling. ‘Assal wa sukar, ya assal! Honey and sugar! Oh, honey!’ repeated an old man, when, in fact, he was carrying nothing but carrots. ‘Raéhat el gannah, scents of paradise!’ called a young girl offering bunches of flowers. ‘Oh, how sweet is this little son of the river! Better than almonds!’ cried out a lupin seller. Aida loved the subtle psychology and charm with which these men and women laid out the qualities of their merchandise.
Phares’s voice sounded next to her. ‘Did you know that the origin of many of these handicrafts is clearly described in the pictures and hieroglyphics of the Ancient Egyptians?’ he asked Aida, clearly seeing her absorbed delight in the passing scene.
‘No, I’ve never given it any thought.’
‘Some of the articles shown on these murals are still so dear to us that we cannot be persuaded to set them aside. Take baskets, for example. When the digging of the Suez Canal began, many wheelbarrows were brought from France for the work but not a single Egyptian labourer would use them for their proper purpose. All the thousands of tons of earth were transported in their familiar baskets of soft palm leaf, carried on their head or shoulders, exactly as you see them pictured on the walls of the ancient tombs and monuments.’
‘Yes, look,’ Aida said, pointing at a peasant on the opposite pavement trying to cross the road. He was carrying a pair of geese by the wings in that peculiar Egyptian fashion that she’d witnessed every day in the villages around Luxor. ‘He might have stepped straight out of a painting in one of the old tombs. I see what you mean. The picture he makes is exact in every detail.’
Phares laughed. ‘This is portrayed a hundred times a day if you watch the scenes, whether in the city or the countryside. See that old sheikh hobbling in front of us? He’s supporting himself with a stick peculiar to the dervishes, which is always cut from an almond tree, with a particular crutch … There’s often exactly such a stick in the hands of the deities represented by the Ancient Egyptians.’
‘Oh, Phares, look!’ Aida murmured. ‘Shades of Scheherazade!’ They stopped a while to watch an old man who was manipulating with his toe a string on a bow of wood, miraculously producing mashrabiya, the carved wood screening that provided window coverings for the harem quarters in the time of Scheherazade, but was now used as screens and doors.
Opposite, on the sunny side of the street, the tentmakers sat, catching the clearest light in which to stitch on to their cotton those complex abstract designs in orange, red and blue that always covered the walls at funerals, weddings, and in festival tents alike.
One of Aida’s favourite streets was Souq El Dahab, the gold market. There were hundreds of pairs of earrings on show, crescents of heavy-worked gold and droplets of seed pearls. There were bracelets and gold beads, charms to hang about the necks of newborn babies, golden miniatures of the Koran that opened like lockets, crosses, and Coptic and pharaonic ‘key-of-life’ symbols swinging from delicate chains.
Phares stopped in front of a discreet shop with a front window displaying pieces of jewellery clearly in a different league to the gaudy offerings in the road. There was a gold pharaonic-shaped eye pendant with a blue bead in the centre which attracted Aida’s attention.
‘Let’s have a look inside,’ he said, and she wondered if Phares was so attuned to her thoughts that he read them.
There was a seat with velvet pads from which to admire the jewels on the counter at close range.
‘Ah, Pharaony Bey,’ exclaimed the shopkeeper, pushing up striped shirtsleeves held in place by arm bands. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you.’
‘Work … you know how it is, Monsieur Cohen.’
‘Ah yes!’ nodded the jeweller. ‘How can I help you?’ he added with a huge smile, coming quickly to the point.
‘You have a pretty pendant with a pharaonic eye displayed in your window.’
‘Ah yes, very beautiful, ya Bey. You have always had an eye for the best,’ continued Monsieur Cohen as he moved to the window. ‘Would you like to have a closer look at it?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘The stone, which you undoubtedly know is an AAAA turquoise, is of course of the highest quality. I bought it myself when I was in Tehran last month from a most reputable jeweller so I can guarantee its authenticity and value … A rare item of beauty.’ Monsieur Cohen took out the coveted pendant and placed it on a black velvet tray.
Phares picked it up and scrutinised it, then passed it to Aida. ‘What d’you think?’
The pendant was quite heavy, and the blue of the turquoise was deep, indicating optimum quality. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, handing it back.
‘It’s very rare,’ repeated the jeweller.
‘Turn around,’ Phares told Aida. ‘Let me see how it looks on you.’
Her gaze flew to his. ‘On me?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
She turned around and he fastened the chain around her neck. The sensuous movement of his thumb against the silkiness of her flesh caused a peculiar weakness that made her legs feel as though they were turning to jelly. Acutely conscious of the strength and heat of his fingers, she trembled internally under the deliberate provocation of his touch. She looked at herself in the table mirror on the counter and caught her breath. The gold and blue glowed magnificently against the rich texture of her honey-coloured skin.
‘You must admit that it is a spectacular piece, and on mademoiselle, it is even more striking,’ Monsieur Cohen encouraged.
‘I agree. It was made for you, chérie.’ Phares had not taken his eyes off her.
Aida hesitated, unsure what to think. ‘You mean this is for me?’
‘Who else?’
His powerful black eyes drew her into their caress.
‘But, Phares …’
He hesitated, and then said flatly, ‘Call it a brotherly gift.’
A brotherly gift! He didn’t honestly expect her to be able to treat him as a brother, did he?
Just being near him like this recalled all too well the occasions he had seemed unable to keep
his hands off her. Surely he was teasing her, giving her a taste of her own medicine? It was not so long ago that she had asked him to be a friend, a brother to her … How could she dismiss thoughts of his ardour, the feel of his skin against hers, the urgent hardening of his body and the passion which had swept her far beyond the limits of physical restrain? How could she forget the things he had taught her about herself? No, the link that bound them could not be put down to brotherly or sisterly affection …
Aida lifted her arms to detach the chain from around her neck.
Phares’s eyebrows rose. ‘I thought you liked it.’
‘I love it, Phares.’
‘Then keep it on. It will protect you from the evil eye.’ Turning to Monsieur Cohen, he asked, ‘Your best price?’
The jeweller fussed around them, stroking his head with its few remaining hairs brilliantined carefully to its bald surface. He spent a long time pretending to calculate the exact price he would accept for the pendant by gazing through the jeweller’s glass held to one dark, faded eye. Finally, he smiled.
‘Only for you, ya Bey, I will let the pendant and chain go for fifty pounds.’
‘Thirty,’ parried Phares.
‘You drive a hard bargain, sir.’ The man smiled. ‘Forty-five.’
‘I don’t want it,’ piped in Aida as she started to detach the chain from her neck.
The little man’s face fell and he smiled again. ‘For the mademoiselle here, I will let you have them for forty pounds.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Phares replied, taking out his wallet.
Monsieur Cohen accompanied his happy clients to the door. ‘Don’t stay away so long this time, ya Bey,’ he said as he shook their hands. ‘I have some beautiful Kashmiri blue-velvet sapphires arriving in ten days.’
‘I’ll be in touch very soon, Monsieur Cohen.’
‘Thank you, Phares,’ Aida whispered as they left the shop. ‘But you really shouldn’t have.’
His gaze locked with hers. ‘If you’d only let me, I’d cover you in jewels and silks.’ He paused a moment and his eyes travelled over her face, moving downwards to dwell on the open neck of her dress, a little lower than her collarbone where the pendant rested, glowing in the sunshine. ‘Many women would give their eye teeth for your skin. A man would never cease wanting to touch it.’
Song of the Nile Page 33
