Under his intense look, Aida felt a pink hue rising to her cheeks.
They soon reached the tangle of labyrinthine bypaths wherein one could be lost for hours: the Musky. Aida loved the exotic scents, veiled light and smothered footfalls. The colour and strangeness of this Oriental bazaar had always fascinated her. In the past, she had spent many an hour rambling among its stalls, buying silks and bottles of scent and bits of beaten brass and silver. After the dazzling, sun-flooded streets, the Musky was dim, filled with flickering lights and shadows. After the noisy bustle outside it was quiet, mysterious, the only sounds the slip and patter of heelless shoes, the guttural low voices of the stallholders. Incense and perfumes, the smell of leather and coffee and spices and less delectable smells made the air heavy and exotic.
Phares and Aida threaded their way through the maze in the flickering shadows of the dim, mysterious aisles. They went past tiny shops offering exquisite items of inlaid work and mosaic. The bazaar was a delightful beehive: some were blowing glass, others were weaving linen; even the lame and the blind seemed to be working. A bench was set in front of almost every shop where sat a venerable and turbaned patriarch, pulling industriously at his narghileh.
To her delight, Phares let Aida do the bargaining, causing much sonorous laughter among the stallholders. He found the process tiresome and she was a master at that game. The shopkeeper as a rule demanded more than he expected to receive and it was up to Aida to declare the price exorbitant, offering half the sum, which was of course rejected, but resulted in him lowering his price and both buyer and seller were satisfied. She loved this dance of negotiation that had been the way of things for thousands of years.
Aida bought a rug, a beautiful silver-encrusted black Bedouin kaftan and one of those baskets woven with palm leaves that Phares had talked to her about. Next, they stopped at a shop where youths were renovating tarbooshes using a machine that looked like a brass stove adorned with huge, brazen dinnerbells. Using an inner mould, Aida watched them press the red fezzes into smart and effective shapes. Phares finished paying for a new fez and they took their leave of the shopkeeper.
As they left the shop, he took her arm, directing her down a shadowed alleyway. Plainly he knew where he was going. He guided her through yet another labyrinth of narrow streets, some built with original bricks from which the earlier town had been constructed.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Aida asked, intrigued, as they reached a large green gate opening on to a dark and aromatic alley where cloaked figures shuffled silently past them and the exotic fragrances of Arabia filled the air.
Phares chuckled. ‘Not to the slave market, if that’s what you think, Aida. Oh yes, don’t look so surprised. They still have them in some remote oases, where white women are sold into the ruler’s harem.’ A wide grin split his face. ‘But don’t worry, there’s nothing of that sort around here. The police are vigilant.’
She shuddered, glad of his tall presence at her side.
They walked through the spice domain and its incense-laden atmosphere to the scent bazaar – the most delectable in Cairo, Phares told her.
‘Sandal! Sandal!’ called the merchants. ‘Very rare, modom! Very cheap!’ They spoke in broken English, obviously taking Aida for a tourist, asking her if she needed powdered baby crocodile skin to rub on warts or a bag of herbs to assure safe delivery of a child. But Phares answered them in Arabic and immediately they gave a charming, sheepish laugh and backed off.
Eventually, Phares turned into an open doorway. Suleiman Abdel Hadi, maker and vendor of perfumes, sat at a desk just inside the entrance to his shop. Incense was burning in a tiny crucible at his left hand, sending up thin blue aromatic smoke, which impregnated the air around him. A bony individual, he had a single eye and toothless jaws that broke into a smile as he recognised Phares.
‘Salam aleykom.’ He stood and stretched out a welcoming hand.
Phares nodded. ‘Wa aleykom el salam.’
‘How can I help today?’
When her eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness in the shop Aida saw that there were pyramids of spices and herbs, petals, crooked twigs and roots displayed in orderly fashion in open jute sacks. The shelves were stacked with bottles and boxes and the air was redolent with cedarwood, ambergris, sandalwood and other less familiar scents she couldn’t quite recognise.
Phares whispered something to the old man, whose dried-walnut face again split into a broad, toothless smile.
‘Come,’ he said, signalling to Aida. ‘Your beauty is that of the rose before it opens fully … a bud which has not yet blossomed. But once open, the flower becomes warm and sensuous, and so it must be with your perfume.’
Aida lifted her blushing face to Phares with enquiring eyes.
‘Suleiman is going to concoct a scent for you.’ He smiled, his eyes becoming caressing black velvet. ‘It will be your special fragrance, which will be redolent of you, only you,’ he murmured.
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘That’s very kind, Phares, but shouldn’t I smell it first? I’m not sure his idea of a nice fragrance and mine will correspond.’
‘Trust me, chérie,’ he said, an edge of amusement in his voice. ‘Suleiman has mixed the most fabulous scents for famous actresses, princesses, and beautiful socialites. Did he not describe you correctly?’ He leant forward, bending his head close. ‘Are you not still an unopened flower?’ he murmured huskily, close enough that she could feel his breath warm on her neck. She flushed, embarrassed, under the intensity of his stare as if she were standing naked before him, and only just stopped herself giving a flippant retort to hide her discomfort. She prayed that she wouldn’t say or do something to rekindle that spark of discord, which thankfully seemed to have evaporated today, but which usually smouldered between them. They sat on rickety wooden chairs and drank cups of spiced black coffee, which a boy was sent out to fetch, in that age-old tradition born of the shopkeeper’s desire to keep the customer in the shop a little longer, giving him time to look over all the merchandise.
While they were waiting, Suleiman rummaged among his wares, reaching with exquisite airs and graces towards an array of gummy bottles, measuring and pouring, sniffing occasionally, adding a pinch of this and a squeeze of that. Aida caught the elusive scent of lavender, of rose, and then a more subtle, spicy bouquet. The old man pounded something in a wooden bowl with a small pestle and the warm fragrance of carnations drenched the air. Finally, he went back to his place and asked Aida to take a seat opposite him. ‘Give me your wrist. Let me smear it with the perfume of Arabia.’
She held out her wrist hesitantly, and the old man smeared it with the oil he had concocted, asking her to wait a few seconds and then sniff it, which she did. The delicious fragrance filled her nostrils with full-blown roses, sweet almonds, airy musks, but also golden amber and sultry sandalwood, ending with the heady scent of carnation. Fresh, but also delicately warm. She sniffed again, then looked up at Phares before turning to the old man. ‘Mmm … I love it. Thank you.’
‘I can smell it from here,’ Phares told her, ‘although he has only smeared a tiny amount on your wrist. It portrays fresh innocence well, but also undercurrents of rebellion and passion.’ The black velvet caress in his eyes deepened into ardent black coals.
Aida flushed, embarrassed under their intensity as if she were standing naked before him. Clearing her throat, she turned to Suleiman: ‘Does the scent last? It seems quite potent.’
The old man threw up his hands. ‘Wash as energetically as Lady Macbeth and you shall not remove that aroma from the back of your wrist for days. Suleiman Abdel Hadi is a great parfumier!’
‘What is it called?’
Old Suleiman’s eyes travelled from Aida to Phares, and he smiled. ‘Nasmet El Aroussa, Fragrance of a Bride.’
Aida blushed a deeper red, feeling rather embarrassed at what he was obviously implying, but the fragrance really suited her. ‘I’ll buy it,’ she told the man. ‘It’s lovely, thank you.�
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‘I’ll buy it,’ Phares cut in, taking out his wallet, his tone indicating that he would not stand for any argument.
Remembering her earlier prayer to avoid the confrontation that so often seemed to spark between them, she kept silent.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
They left the shop and went back the way they had come.
‘I need to have Camelia’s pearl necklace restrung,’ said Phares as they threaded their way through the scent bazaar. ‘It might take some time and I’ll have to sit there while it is being done to make sure the pearls are not swapped. Would you like to come with me, or would you prefer to browse and we’ll meet back here in twenty minutes?’
‘I’d like to browse if you don’t mind.’
They agreed to meet at El Malik, a restaurant serving the best in Egyptian specialities, which, although tucked in a side street close to the main gateway to the Musky, was very easy to find. Phares took his leave and Aida made her way to the candle shop. She wanted to buy some fragrant religious candles to put in front of the Virgin’s statue in the garden where her father was burried. For Aida, as for most Copts, the fragrant wax and the labour of the bee, which dies when its work is accomplished, had a mystic significance. Drawn from the nectar of flowers, the wax was deemed the most worthy material for offerings.
As Aida entered the shop her eyes fell on the huge, pillar-like candles. She smiled. Custom dictated that a Coptic bridegroom must send a bouquet and wax candle to his bride the night before she left her father’s home. The candle must be as tall as the bride, big enough to burn throughout the night in her bedroom. Would Phares send her a candle on the night before they were married? she wondered, a wistful smile on her lips.
Leaving the candle shop, she glanced at her watch. She had just enough time to get to the restaurant. It was two o’clock, the hour at which shops closed for the afternoon. Everywhere, doors were being closed against the heat and the lane was deserted.
She had almost reached El Malik when she caught the sound of footsteps coming towards her, a quick decided ringing on the cobbles, and a tall form emerged from the shadows, revealing itself as Prince Shams Sakr El Din. He was dressed in white, from his silk shirt and linen suit to impeccable leather moccasins, and looked as though he’d stepped right out of a fashion magazine.
Aida paled. He was the last person she wanted to meet today. She knew the antipathy Phares felt towards the prince. Not only that, she herself had her reservations – there was still something about him that made her feel uncomfortable.
‘What a delightful surprise! The beautiful Aida El Masri in person,’ he exclaimed, flashing a bright smile as he took her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘I knew this would be my lucky day when I woke up this morning and you see, I was right.’
Was it a delightful surprise? Not for Aida. Quite the reverse, actually. She trembled inside, hoping desperately that Phares wouldn’t arrive now. Their day had been wonderful so far and she knew him well enough to realise that an encounter with Shams Sakr El Din would be a mood changer.
The prince’s eyes rested intently upon her face. ‘What’s wrong? Are you not glad to see me? Are we not friends anymore?’
‘Of course we’re friends,’ she protested, swallowing the dryness in her throat, ‘but …’
His pale gaze glittered. ‘But you are waiting for someone … your friend, Phares Pharaony, I think. I saw you both earlier, coming out of the aattar, the perfumery.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know why that man hates me. Maybe it’s because I employ his young lady friend. It is common knowledge he’s lost his head over her. I am told that despite their social differences they are completely …’ he lifted two fingers and crossed them ‘… inseparable.’
He looked penetratingly into her face, as Aida felt the flush rise from her throat. Still she said nothing and simply lifted her eyebrows nonchalantly but he wouldn’t let it drop.
‘You know, that young Armenian model, Nairy Paplosian. She’s my top mannequin. Very beautiful, of course.’
Aida felt a cold hand grip her heart, but from somewhere she dredged up enough poise to shrug, managing to feign ignorance. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘No doubt you will see her at the fashion show tonight. You are coming, aren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ she replied, adding, ‘I’m sorry, but I have to rush. I’ll be late for Phares.’
‘No problem. Bon appétit. And remember, don’t be late tonight. It’s very much on a first come, first served basis. Though it is by invitation, many guests have asked to bring friends, and who am I to turn potential customers away? I’ve made sure to reserve a table for you and the Pharaonys but come early – half the entertainment in these shows is to see and be seen. I’m sure you’ll be more beautiful than any woman in the audience. Or on the catwalk, for that matter.’
His knowing stare made her flush and she found it hard to meet his eyes. ‘Thank you. You’re always very gallant.’
He inclined his head. ‘I only tell the truth.’
He took Aida’s hand and held it to his lips just as Phares turned the corner at the end of the alley. She saw him accelerate his step and as he reached them in a few swift strides, the glow in his black eyes reminded her of coals flung from a furnace. Aida felt the blood leave her face. He made no attempt to shake hands with Sakr El Din and the prince’s lips curled faintly.
‘Phares Bey! How opportune we should meet again,’ he said suavely with a smile that did not reach his yellow eyes, which had narrowed to slits. ‘You left rather promptly after the tournament the other day and I didn’t have a chance to speak to you about tonight. With all the well-known Parisian names in couture taking part in the show, the response has been overwhelming. I was just telling Aida that I have reserved a table for your party next to the catwalk, which will afford you the best view.’
‘That’s very thoughtful, Prince. Thank you,’ Phares’s jaw tightened, and for an instant, Aida thought he was about to say something more, but then good sense seemed to assert itself. He forced a smile to his hard mouth, although the veins that stood out on his neck bore witness to his extreme state of tension.
The Bedouin’s gaze flickered over Phares speculatively, and then he gave his attention to Aida. ‘I hope you will be joining the party coming to my palace, Kasr El Nawafeer, the day after tomorrow. There’ll be a camel race and an interesting couple of shows.’
Aida smiled nervously. ‘Unfortunately, I’m going back to Luxor that day. I’ve already reserved my seat on the plane.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to change it. It will give me so much pleasure to show you around my oasis. There will be …’
‘I think you’ve heard Aida’s response, Prince,’ Phares cut in drily and Aida saw his fists clench slowly at his sides. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to insist.’
‘Well, it’s my loss,’ Sakr El Din answered, his lips stretched into a thin, horizontal line. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been unable to convince you, mademoiselle.’
Phares took hold of Aida’s arm. ‘Come on, chérie. We’ll never get a place at the restaurant if we don’t hurry. It’s already two-thirty … Prince …’ He bowed to the Bedouin, then marched Aida off at a brisk pace.
El Malik was a truly authentic Egyptian eating place. Although it was utterly unlike the restaurants of the West, its popularity with both Egyptians and foreigners meant it was packed at all times of day and night. The cooking was done next to the entrance – an excellent tradition, Aida’s father had always said, because not only are the odours wafted into the street, but the customer can see the food before it is cooked. In this way one was able to judge not only the quality of the raw ingredients but also the skill of the cook and the state of his utensils.
The place was teeming with people of all nationalities. A hubbub of laughter and different languages filled the room, which was furnished in a traditional Egyptian way. Guests sat on the floor on plush
, brightly coloured cushions around a circular brass tray raised upon a wooden stool inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell. Disk-shaped cakes of bread cut in half were placed round the tray, served with sliced limes. An ebony spoon was set for each person and large bread loaves served as plates.
Phares had almost dragged Aida to the restaurant, tight-lipped, with a face like thunder. Only once they were seated next to each other on the large embroidered plumped-up cushions did he finally speak.
‘One day I will knock that smug smile off His Highness’s royal face.’
Aida glanced at him. ‘Why do you resent him so much? He’s not particularly likable, I admit, but he’s always friendly and polite.’
‘You know nothing, Aida,’ Phares snapped. ‘He has the personality of a fox and tiger combined. You’d do well to stay away from him.’
Although she sensed an undercurrent of threat in his advice to her, which usually would have made her prickle, Aida decided to keep the peace and ignore it. She smiled sweetly. ‘He is too suave for my taste. Oily, if you know what I mean.’
‘We’re not going to spend the whole lunch analysing Shams Sakr El Din’s personality,’ Phares said gruffly. ‘Let’s order.’ He signalled to one of the waiters, who came rushing over. ‘What would you like to eat?’
‘I’ll have the kofta and kebab. I seem to remember they’re renowned for them here.’
Phares’s face suddenly relaxed. He let out a low chuckle, having regained his good humour. ‘You haven’t forgotten a thing, chérie. Don’t ever tell me that you’ll leave Egypt one day to live abroad.’
‘I was very happy here,’ she said, refraining from adding, until my father died. Instead, she kept her attention on the meal and smiled. ‘What will you have, Phares?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ll order some mezzeh for us to start off with and I’ll have hamam bil ferik to follow. Apparently, the pigeon and the green wheat sauce is delicious. They make it differently to our cook, Osta Anwar. His is always a little too heavy … too much onion, I think.’
Song of the Nile Page 34
