Song of the Nile

by Fielding, Hannah

  At Aida’s table were seated Simone Villiencourt, a young socialite whom she had often seen at the Club, looking very French in her pale pink organdie, her narrow face animated by big brown eyes that were so dark that it was difficult to tell whether they were brown or black; Eva Delamere, an Italian, golden-skinned beauty with a tumble of black curls and a ready smile who was gracious to everyone; her husband Nigel, the youngest English Consul, a rather stiff young man who didn’t speak much; Sonia, a white Russian working at the British Embassy as secretary to one of the consuls, who was seated next to Alan Wendt, a handsome American army man who couldn’t take his eyes off Aida; and James and Mrs Saunders, who were discoursing at length on the upcoming bazaar for the English church. Conversation moved freely and briskly back and forth among them all, and it would have been hard to find a more delightful and happy gathering.

  Just as Aida was starting on her second gin, a silver Rolls-Royce stopped in front of the hotel, out of which stepped a tall man in a heavy white silk gown covered by a black burnous, on his head a white turban bound by camel-hair cords. He was followed by Prince Shams Sakr El Din in his usual immaculate white suit. Their deep conversation was broken suddenly when the prince noticed the group of foreigners at the table.

  He stopped short, a broad grin lighting his face, then said something to the other man before the pair swiftly made their way over. Aida noted that the other man was as strikingly handsome as the prince and bore a strong resemblance to Shams, though the older man’s hawk-like face was leaner and deeply lined.

  Their arrival at the café had not gone unnoticed. Aida felt a stir in the group as most of the woman at her table, and even those seated at others, turned predatory eyes to look at the prince, who was his usual dashing self.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Simone Villiencourt.

  ‘Prince Shams Sakr El Din, scion of an old and distinguished Bedouin family. Immensely rich, charming and a wonderful host … a rattling fine fellow,’ Sonia told her.

  The prince held out his hands, smiling with delight. ‘Ah, my friends, how lovely to see you. May I present my uncle, Sheikh Mahmoud Salah Sakr El Din.’

  Introductions were made all around. Sheikh Mahmoud spoke excellent English with just a trace of an accent and the occasional unusual phrasing, both a little stilted and entirely charming. He appeared pleased to meet his nephew’s friends and his loud voice boomed like a great bell, punctuated by full-throated and infectious laughter.

  ‘Will you join us?’ Alastair asked.

  ‘My uncle and I are on our way to visit a sick friend who lives down the road, but it would give us great pleasure to join you for a little while,’ replied the prince.

  At Alastair’s signal, an attentive suffragi brought two extra chairs, one of which he placed at Aida’s side of the table. The prince immediately took it and squeezed it between Alastair and Aida, his grey eyes half merry, half rueful at having inveigled his way in. ‘Etnein asseer lemoon, two lemonades,’ he told the suffragi awaiting his order.

  Turning to Aida, he took her hand in both of his.

  ‘So, we meet again, my dear,’ he said, scrutinising her face with a keen, intelligent look.

  She smiled demurely. ‘Cairo is a small place.’

  ‘Indeed it is, though the Parisiana is the last place I would have thought to see you.’

  ‘Aida’s friends have had to go back to Luxor urgently,’ supplied Mrs Saunders.

  Sakr El Din’s eyes lit up with quick interest. ‘Ah, some respite from your watchdog.’

  ‘My plane ticket is for tomorrow,’ Aida explained, refusing to be baited by the prince’s provocative remark.

  ‘Ah yes, I remember. That’s why you said you couldn’t make it to my oasis.’

  ‘Correct.’

  His pale hawk eyes darkened almost to hazel, boring into her blue ones. ‘Are you sure you have to leave? Is there no way I can tempt you?’ His thin lips stretched into a quizzical smile.

  ‘Of course she’ll join us,’ piped up Mrs Saunders. ‘I’m sure we can all squeeze on to the bus that Your Highness has so generously organised for us.’

  ‘Come on, Aida, you can change your ticket for the Monday or Tuesday of next week, ce n’est pas la mer à boire,’ threw in Simone. ‘It’s not that complicated, non?’

  ‘When would you have such a great opportunity again to visit an oasis in the desert?’ enthused Mrs Saunders once more. ‘Besides, Wahat El Nakheel is famous for its beauty. In life, one must grab these lucky chances with both hands.’

  Sakr El Din’s gaze settled on Simone. ‘I hope that you will be free to join your friends on this excursion tomorrow, mademoiselle.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you, Your Highness. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I’ve heard that it’s Eden on earth. Ah, le désert, quel rêve!’ she gushed, hugging herself coquettishly.

  The prince inclined his head. ‘Those are very kind words, thank you.’

  Aida was tempted. After all, nothing was forcing her to go back to Luxor the next day. She hadn’t yet told Dada Amina of her return, and Phares was too busy with his redhead mistress to care, she thought bitterly, although another part of her did wonder what would be his reaction when he discovered that the bird had flown the nest. He wasn’t to know that she had seen him with Nairy at the hospital; already she must have offended his masculine pride by not turning up for lunch, perhaps concluding the reason for her absence was that she had decided not to marry him after all. Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought.

  The only one who might become worried by her sudden departure would be Camelia, and Aida decided she would ring her tonight and explain.

  She glanced up at the prince. All through the argument he had kept quiet, letting the others fight his corner. His eyes watched Aida’s face steadily between the straight, narrow lids, and though they looked full at her, she could make nothing of that look.

  Aida suddenly wondered what would be so bad in accepting his invitation. Apart perhaps from the two pink gins she had drunk on an empty stomach, which may have clouded her judgement, she couldn’t say what had prompted her change of heart. Was it the fear of appearing unfriendly and ungrateful in front of her peers? Or could it be that she was surprised and slightly disappointed that the prince had remained silent and had not pressurised her himself? Aida had never considered herself a flirt, but was she slightly miffed that he might have lost interest in her? Had it made her want to rekindle his admiration?

  She had to confess that her reaction was most likely an immediate consequence of the scene she had witnessed at the hospital, prompting in her a secret pleasure in doing something she knew perfectly well would anger Phares.

  Whatever the answers, Aida turned to him with a demure smile and heard herself say: ‘On second thoughts, Prince, I’d be delighted to accept your very kind invitation.’

  ‘You are doing me the greatest possible honour,’ he smiled, with a charming gravity that had a hint of mysteriousness.

  ‘It’s all my pleasure, really.’

  ‘I will always wonder at the moods of women, changeable as those of the sea and the sands of the desert.’

  Aida registered the glint of humour in his eyes. Was his amusement at her expense? Had he guessed the reason for her sudden change of heart? Did he think that somehow the callous hint he had made about Nairy and Phares’s relationship had manipulated her into agreeing to join the excursion?

  Glancing at Alastair, she noticed his expression was guarded. He was the only one who had not rushed to encourage her to join the excursion. He sat back watching the proceedings, lighting a cigarette. Did he disapprove of her going? Or perhaps he was being protective of her, as he had been at Princess Nazek’s ball.

  She shrugged mentally. To hell with all these men. It was hurting her head to think this much. From now on she would just concentrate on seizing every opportunity to have a good time, as per Mrs Saunders’ wise advice.

  The prince beckoned to the suffragi and paid his bill plus t
hose of the two tables, under a shower of protests. ‘As arranged, the bus will be waiting for you in front of the British Embassy in Garden City at seven-thirty sharp,’ he announced.

  Turning to Aida, he informed her in a quieter voice, ‘I will have my driver pick you up ten minutes before. You’ll join the bus at the Embassy as you will be going in convoy. Unfortunately, I will not have the pleasure of driving you myself as I must return to the oasis tonight to make sure the preparations are carried out properly.’

  Aida’s eyes widened, uneasy that he’d singled her out for preferential treatment. ‘But …’

  ‘Please, allow me this pleasure.’ His voice was warm and vibrant, low-pitched, without harshness. ‘My driver will bring you back at the end of the weekend as I will be staying on at Kasr El Nawafeer for some time.’ That gracious bearing, that silken tongue, that perfect courtesy masked a determination that Aida, although recognising it, couldn’t be bothered to combat tonight.

  She nodded, contriving a pale smile. ‘I’ll be ready. Thank you.’

  ‘Wear something comfortable and bring a hat,’ he suggested, his gaze still lingering on her face although he was on the point of leaving. ‘The desert is very hot, and I have planned some outside entertainment.’

  As soon as the two men were out of earshot, the gossiping about the prince began again. Aida was tired now; it had been a long day. She was bruised, and all she wanted was to be alone in the sanctuary of her room. She’d need an early night if she was to be up early in the morning. She parted company with the jolly little crowd, who by now were quite sozzled, and made her way back inside the hotel.

  It was already eight o’clock and she wanted to put in a call to Kasr El Ghoroub, but the hotel telephones were out of order. They would be repaired in the next two hours, she was told by the concierge. She asked if room service could bring up a large bottle of cold Evian water, a ham omelette and some fruit, and went up to her room, where she turned on the wireless. The news wasn’t good. There had been further demonstrations; more people arrested. She wondered if they were friends of Camelia’s.

  Aida sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the open window, listening to the noise of the street below. Phares was probably with Nairy, she thought gloomily. After her father’s death she’d presumed nothing would have the power to shock her again, but seeing the pair together had upset Aida more than she’d imagined possible. All day she had been numb, the pain dormant deep inside her, but now a bitter jealousy gripped her as she imagined them together in his cosy love nest next to the hospital. She hated herself for being so weak, for wallowing in unrequited love like a foolish teenager.

  Room service brought up her order, but Aida had no appetite and could hardly swallow anything. Once again, she tried to ring Camelia, but there was no answer. Sighing heavily, she climbed into bed, deciding that it was probably best to try ringing again tomorrow from the oasis. Surely there would be every facility at the palace, and she was certain her host wouldn’t mind.

  * * *

  It was with a sense of fatality that Aida dressed herself that morning to join the group that were going to spend the day at Wahat El Nakheel.

  Despite her grievance against Phares, she knew she was acting impulsively just to spite him. Admittedly, deep down she herself didn’t much like the prince, though something about him spoke to a darker side of her that she dared not scrutinise … but it would be an adventure, she told herself, trying to rouse all the enthusiasm she could muster.

  On the positive side, it would be the first time Aida had visited an oasis, and the party she was joining were a fun lot. Ever since she had returned to Egypt she had felt the pressure to be a good Egyptian girl, and she was growing heartily sick of it. She didn’t want to be branded a wet blanket; she’d never thought herself a bore – quite the reverse, she’d always been the life and soul of a party.

  Aida chose a practical pair of roomy navy trousers and a matching cotton shirt with long sleeves, which she thought suitable for the expedition. If she was going to be riding a camel, she should be comfortable. Clipping her hair back from her ears in two smooth waves, she donned a wide straw hat with white ribbons to protect her from the sun.

  The prince’s driver arrived punctually in a smart burgundy newly inaugurated model of the new Willys Overland Station Wagon, and by seven-thirty, they had joined the bus waiting outside the British Embassy. By now, Aida was taking a guilty pleasure in the luxurious treatment that Sakr El Din was bestowing on her. To know she would be travelling in such comfort in convoy with the bus made her a little self-conscious. She remained in the station wagon instead of getting out to chat with her travelling companions, giving a friendly wave towards the group as they climbed on to the bus, all the while hoping they didn’t think she was lording it over them.

  The road led straight to the west between illimitable green fields, cut by flashing channels of water, where the fellahin were working, their long gowns tucked up about their waists. Here and there, built upon high stilts or in the branches of a lonely tree, she spotted a rickety platform upon which an armed man was standing, keeping watch over the crops in a vigil that would last through the night.

  They drove out along a canal bank, the station wagon taking the lead, then struck into the desert on a dirt road. As the car bumped across the rubble, swaying perilously in the soft sand, Aida’s eyes were riveted to the barren scenery rolling by. The miles were coming towards her, sliding beneath her, stretching out behind her. She was conscious of space and distance as never before and had plenty of time to reflect on the wisdom or otherwise of the step she was taking. Whatever risks or regrets that might arise, it was too late now.

  It was another hour before they reached a flat plateau where camels awaited them, reclining and ruminating in the shadow of a clump of palms. The sun was already high, even though it was not yet nine o’clock.

  ‘This is where we stop,’ the driver told Aida. ‘His Highness’s men will take you from here. The rest of the journey will be by camel as the terrain is awkward for a car. The oasis is not too far.’

  Even though she had grown up in Egypt, Aida had only ever ridden a camel once before, as a young teenager, and had not liked the experience at all. Still, that was years ago and doubtless it was time to give it another go, she told herself gamely. Suddenly forgetting for a moment her woes, she welcomed the novelty of it all and felt the excitement rise in her at the idea of this new adventure.

  She got out of the car and donned her sunglasses as the driver approached three tall figures in large white turbans whom Aida assumed were the prince’s dragomen. Bright-eyed, with hawk-like features, they wore long, spotless white coats and brown sandals, and she wondered how they were able to keep their robes so clean out in the desert. As her driver took his leave, one of the men approached her with a long, leisurely stride and bowed. ‘Miss El Masri, it is our honour to escort you to Wahat El Nakheel, His Highness Prince Shams Sakr El Din’s oasis. It is a short journey and we have plenty of water.’ He smiled broadly, revealing a gap between his teeth, and gestured to the bus as it pulled up alongside them. ‘And now you can join your companions.’

  Tumult and joyous noise burst from the bus as its doors opened and the group disembarked. They made their way towards the desert transporters, laughing and joking, and quickly surrounded Aida, who was introduced to Marica, a redheaded Greek whose flaming mane brought out the freckles on her face, and her green-eyed friend Norma, an Armenian, both of whom Aida knew by sight from the Gezireh Sporting Club. Once she had endured the inevitable questions and teasing about her chauffeured car, she soon entered into the spirit of the day’s expedition, a new wild, reckless mood taking her over. Even Alastair Carlisle, who had seemed circumspect about her coming, now smiled broadly, saying, ‘Stick close to me, Aida. This is certainly going to be an experience and a half.’

  The noise of the small crowd awakened the camels and for a few minutes much rumbling and grunting went on. With its hanging lower lip
and large yellow teeth, drooping eyes and long lashes, and its ridiculous wisp of a tail, this large desert animal could never be described as a handsome creature, despite the decorative blue beads threaded in its trappings to ward off the evil eye. Aida wrinkled her nose; she didn’t much like its smell either.

  Alastair, who seemed to be an expert at camel riding, moved to help Aida on to her camel, which was still crouching on the ground.

  ‘The worst part of every camel ride is the beginning and the ending,’ he told her with mock seriousness. ‘The sitting-down and getting-up bit is a complicated process at best. Try to seat yourself firmly in one go. These wretched animals have a habit of rising suddenly, before you’re seated properly, and flinging you about.’

  Great! Aida thought as she scrambled as nimbly as she could on to her camel’s extreme summit. The beast rose with a forward lurch.

  ‘Lean back!’ commanded Alastair.

  Aida did as she was told.

  ‘Look out!’ the consul called out as the camel strained his front legs, lurching backwards and almost unseating her.

  ‘Lean to the front to counter the movement.’

  Aida complied. The camel finally stood straight and she was aloft – at the top of the world, she thought, looking around her. At this height, if the animal were to become refractory, what could she do? She was sitting far too high to be able to steady herself with her calves, as she would on horseback. Aida soon realised that the bridle was of no use, having little influence on the beast, however hard she pulled on it.

  ‘You look a bit doubtful, Aida,’ Alastair called to her. ‘Do you feel all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, don’t worry,’ she replied gamely. ‘I’ll soon get the hang of it.’

  He showed her how to cross her legs in front of the saddletree like the Bedouins and communicate her wishes to the camel by drumming with her heels on its withers, or with the single rope attached to the halter around its nose. Yes, that was better, Aida thought with satisfaction, she felt more secure now.