Song of the Nile

by Fielding, Hannah

  There was much squealing and exclamation from the little gang before they got underway. They walked in a solemn and a silent string, in awe of the great magnificence of the scenery, each camel led by two boys shrouded in white. The air was so clear and delicious, the sun’s heat tempered by a wandering breeze, and the sand shone and sparkled.

  Aida had pictured this ride across the desert as one long, monotonous procession over the scorched brown sand. Yet she discovered that here was not merely a land of endless shifting dunes, but those sandhills were no more alike than mountain pastures or green fields, and in the enfolding silence she was filled with amazement at the alluring scenes unfurling before her eyes in the hot Egyptian sun. There were so many strange and wonderful sights to be seen along their route – ruined temples, colossal sphinx-like figures in groves of tufted palms at the edge of tiny mud villages, each boasting their own white-walled mosque and colourful bazaar.

  They swung on, some of them in continual danger of being thrown off, as one or two camels took no pains to make things pleasant for their riders, but Aida quickly got the hang of it. Soon, they left all signs of cultivation behind them and were crossing an expanse of golden sand, interspersed with patches of rubble, with no evidence of human habitation, no animals or even growing things, save the occasional low bush of camel thorn amid the huge dunes of sand that had been moulded by the winds into the semblance of sea waves.

  The desert atmosphere, Aida found, was deceptive. Here, she saw the first mirage of the day. It was like looking at a fairy-tale city through the bottom of a glass; there were strangely shaped houses and castles, seemingly solid, yet none of them turned out to have any substance. Reality clashed with illusion as these mirages shimmered about them, strange and beautiful like dreams but so tantalisingly material. And it wasn’t all cities and palaces: here and there, the vivid green of a watered plain leapt into sight, the river seeming almost within reach of the outstretched hand, only to vanish as if by enchantment as they seemed to get closer, leaving a burning yellow tint over everything.

  They went steeply up a chain of mountains and then down a hillside towards the plain in which the oasis Wahat El Nakheel lay. Now there was a clear path zigzagging on a sharp incline. Aida gave a gasp. On one side a yawning abyss; on the other, bush-covered slopes.

  Phares had been right. The desert, at first sight so alien and tedious, did develop its own magnetism after a while. This morning, Aida had discovered that the texture, colour and contours of its backdrop changed continually. Yes, she understood his fascination now. At the thought of him a knot formed in her throat … Even if she had wanted to forgive him and give him a second chance, by agreeing to spend a weekend at the Palace of Fountains, she had burned her boats where the young doctor was concerned.

  Suddenly Aida was distracted by the rapturous exclamations of the group. Coming out of her reverie she saw it: a fortress surrounded on all sides by a towering wall – a wall so high, only an agile Bedouin might scale it. At each corner was a white gate guarded by dark-skinned men, whose keen eyes ensured that no one got in or out without permission.

  Their camel train made for the main entrance, and as it approached, guards pulled the high gates back, allowing the camels to amble in.

  The oasis was nothing like the few single palms half buried in the sand that one imagines on hearing the word. Wahat El Nakheel fully deserved all Shams Sakr El Din had said of it. It lay in the midst of the burning waste like a green jewel – such a welcoming surprise after the expanse of golden sands they had trekked through for over an hour. At the top of a steep hill loomed Kasr El Nawafeer, the prince’s Palace of Fountains.

  ‘It’s so green,’ Aida exclaimed.

  ‘That’s because the oasis is fed with water via many springs,’ provided Alastair, who’d kept close to her throughout the journey.

  The houses were white and almost windowless. Their upper storeys were like closely barred cages: the world of the harem, the word in itself meaning prohibited. These quarters, where women with a slave mentality lived locked away from the civilised world, were sacred and inviolable: the master’s dearest treasure which must be guarded from profane glances and frivolous influences. The courtyard doors of the houses were decked out with beautiful ironwork. As the camel train passed by, it happened that one of these doors was open and Aida caught a glimpse of a garden and its palm trees.

  Everywhere, on ground not taken up with a road or a primitive house, a thick carpet of grass grew, dotted with brightly hued flowers.

  They passed by the bazaar. The narrow alleyways were roofed in, heavily barricaded. The great square, where the market stood, was very much like a circus; the hub of a deeply interesting throng of people and animals – a moving pattern of every vivid colour imaginable in that intense heat and clouds of rosy dust. Aida marvelled at the picturesque crowd whose costumes were a kaleidoscope of colours, including those yet to be invented, it seemed.

  There, under a medley of garish awnings, squatting on their haunches, were the storytellers, whose raucous, guttural voices rose and fell monotonously. Moving about among them were all the other entertainers: the jugglers, sword-swallowers, fortune tellers, magicians and fire-eaters. Pandemonium reigned.

  The noise was tremendous. Every conceivable sound in the world seemed rolled into one harsh, deafening clamour – a babel of cries, laughter, music and singing. Strings of strong-smelling, ragged-looking camels with hairless necks were being driven away from the market. Lean little donkeys, a halo of flies around their heads, struggled slowly forward, bearing bundles of wood or carpets. Veiled women carrying pitchers on their heads passed back and forth. There were groups of turbaned Bedouins smoking keef, drinking tea and playing dominoes. Others were doing nothing so perfectly that they appeared to the uninitiated to be doing something.

  At various vantage points closed sedan chairs had paused, inside of which veiled faces watched the scene, some with beautiful eyes. The tall, bearded black men who carried these litters guarded their female contents closely, trying as best they could to keep a clear space between them and the milling crowds.

  Simone wanted to stop to watch the snake charmer seated cross-legged and playing his pipe, his mournful gaze fixed on the snakes writhing to his music, but the dragomen pressed on. It seemed the guests were already late for His Highness.

  By now, the travellers were wilting. It may have felt like a short journey for the Bedouin dragomen but not so for this group. The last ten minutes spent climbing the hill had literally been the last straw. Even Aida, who as a girl had been accustomed to long horse rides in the desert fringes around Luxor, was beginning to feel weary and hungry, although gourds of water had been provided to slake their thirst on the journey. And so it was with great sighs of relief and smiles that the party finally approached a second gate leading to the palace.

  Kasr El Nawafeer was at the top of a hill, surrounded by a high wall topped with iron spikes. Guarded day and night, the fortified enclosure gave no promise of the paradise within. After the aridity of the desert, the verdant beauty of the scene that opened up in front of them was dazzling: nature in her humble brilliance.

  It was as if the place had been blessed with a gift from the sky: rain. A liquid magic that had washed the sand off a vibrant world that had always been there. Grass the shade of every dreamer’s meadow; trees of a thousand green hues that whispered softly in the wind; flowerbeds in a riot of colour, their yellow roses like buds of pure gold. Here and there were ponds, with singing fountains that joined with the happy chorus of birds in the trees.

  The palace itself, its many pointed towers giving it the look of an eccentric crown, was a strange mixture of architectural periods and styles: Arab, Moorish, Saracen, even Byzantine – each had its place in the scheme. In the fierce, lawless days of old it had changed hands frequently, as kinsman succeeded kinsman, with the result that many minds had gone into the fashioning and refashioning of the whole. Still, despite its mishmash and florid make-up, one
couldn’t deny its dignified magnificence.

  On three sides of the building was a garden full of splendid trees and shrubs, with beds whose glowing blooms of geraniums, antirrhinums and roses, among others, betokened endless care and a truly marvellous system of irrigation. The front of the palace gave on to a big courtyard, in the centre of which lay a beautiful folly surrounded by twelve small fountains set in a circle which played eternally, their silver drops falling with a musical splash into a great marble basin where small and shining fish swam languidly. Over every available inch of wall space bougainvillea hung like a purple mist, and snowy jasmine filled the air with an indescribably sweet and cloying fragrance.

  News of their arrival had already reached their host, who stood waiting in the doorway of the palace to receive them. Here in his desert home, Prince Shams Sakr El Din had discarded the European clothes in which Aida was accustomed to seeing him and he presented a truly regal figure as he greeted the group of foreigners.

  Over an elaborate robe of thick and creamy silk he wore a splendid kaftan of green satin, heavy with golden embroidery. On his head was a magnificent turban, on the front of which blazed an enormous emerald, and on his slim hands glowed other precious stones set with all the cunning of the goldsmith’s craft. A short, gold dagger was suspended from his shoulder by a silk cord tucked into his belt.

  Seen thus, in all the richness of his princely Bedouin attire, Prince Shams Sakr El Din was a very striking figure, and even Aida admitted to herself that the flowing garments and wonderful jewels gave him an air of almost barbaric splendour.

  Nothing could have exceeded the courtesy and stately sincerity of welcome the prince extended to his guests. As they entered the vast domed hall, Aida was reminded of some of the larger mosques she had visited long ago with her father. The walls had nooks and alcoves, each one featuring a spotlit antique treasure displayed in the most tasteful way. She had no time for a close survey, but from what she could tell, these statues and urns seemed to have their origins in Ancient Rome, Greece and Pharaonic Egypt. A wealth of museum-quality masterpieces displayed in this place of dim grandeur, with its marvellous mosaic floors, elegant pillars and frescoed walls. The whole was intoxicating in its lavishness and mystery.

  ‘Welcome to Wahat El Nakheel and Kasr El Nawafeer,’ the prince announced with evident pleasure. ‘I hope you haven’t been too tired by your journey. It’s a particularly hot day today.’

  ‘We’ve spent a most enjoyable time in the desert,’ Mrs Saunders declared staunchly.

  ‘Your dragomen were so thoughtful. They managed to spare us any undue fatigue,’ Aida added politely.

  Met with the graciousness of the prince’s behaviour and surroundings it wasn’t difficult to conceal her misgivings regarding her host. Her impulsiveness had brought her here, and it was only right to exercise good manners, even though she didn’t entirely trust him.

  ‘Splendid.’ His piercing eyes glittered as he inclined his head fleetingly towards her. ‘I’m sure you would like to refresh yourselves before lunch.’

  They came to an archway hung with priceless tapestries. The prince held aside a curtain for them to pass through and they found themselves in a long corridor, at the far end of which was a flight of marble steps adorned with bronze statues holding electric torches. An elderly Bedouin woman in a black garment with a heavy silver hoop hanging in one of her misshapen ears stood at the top of the staircase.

  The prince addressed the travellers: ‘If you will permit it, Eysha will show you to your apartments and we will regroup here in half an hour.’ He gave them an elegant bow, then disappeared back down the corridor while they climbed the stairs to greet the housekeeper.

  The landing at the top of the stairs was huge, its walls adorned with large mirrors interspersed with statues and palm trees in tubs, its floors covered with the finest Persian carpets. Eysha led the way, depositing the guests one by one at their various apartments. Aida was taken to hers last of all as her quarters were rather far from the rest, on the top floor of a tower.

  She walked through a heavy wooden door to find herself in a round room, the walls of which were dotted with small windows with a view of the palace gardens, the oasis and the far-off desert dunes. She had expected the furnishings of her apartment to be in Bedouin style: to sleep on a divan, to have simple bathroom facilities – certainly an absence of the luxurious baths she was used to – and to pile her clothes on a sofa or heap of cushions. But the rooms that had been prepared were purely European and in impeccable taste.

  The furniture was French, ornate, reminiscent in its lavish splendour of some big hotel in Paris. Indeed, Aida found herself transported to France as she beheld the magnificent satin curtains, velvet chairs, gilt mirror on the green walls, and heavily embroidered cushions and quilts.

  How startling, she thought. Paris in the desert!

  She showered quickly and changed into a lavender pair of pirate trousers in light cotton, with a matching top that had puffed, pleated sleeves. She had caught the sun: her eyes looked shiny, her cheeks and lips had a rosy glow. With her cloud of thick honey-blonde hair and her brilliant blue irises, she resembled a being from another world, far from this strange, glowing, languorous world of sun and sand.

  Shams Sakr El Din led his guests into the semi-shade of a patio, where large ceiling fans were working heavily, disturbing the hot atmosphere and giving an illusion of coolness. Here were giant palm trees whose leaves protruded above the roofless patio to stab the blue sky, together with orange trees in tubs and masses of purple bougainvillea overhanging the white walls, giving here and there splashes of bright colour. The mosaic-tiled floor of the square patio was also shaded by the verandas of the first-storey rooms, shutting out some of the glare. There were faint but teasing smells everywhere – sandalwood, charcoal fumes, jasmine flowers and attar of roses. Here, too, was a fountain that splashed and tinkled melodiously in its basin, the sound of dripping water music to the ears of a hot traveller, mouth parched by the sun and fine sand of a journey across the desert.

  The group sat on mattresses and cushions around a shared tray that reminded Aida of her lunch in the Musky with Phares. She couldn’t believe it had only been a couple of days ago. Feeling the sting of tears welling up in her eyes, she made a determined effort to smother the pain that gripped her heart.

  ‘I love the desert,’ Simone exclaimed. ‘There’s an alluring quality to it that I’d heard about, but which I completely understand now.’

  The prince lifted an amused eyebrow. ‘Do you, mademoiselle?’ He turned his head towards Aida. ‘How do you see it, Miss El Masri?’

  His question startled her from her private thoughts. ‘I find it awesome, but frightening,’ she replied after a moment’s hesitation. ‘It demands endurance and courage to approach its infinite spaces. It is beautiful and magnificent, yes, but also treacherous and cruel, and I don’t trust it.’ Unwittingly, her eyes locked with his as she spoke, and once more she had the feeling that she should not have come here.

  Shams Sakr El Din held her gaze for a moment, as if reading her innermost thoughts. ‘You are right to be wary of it, of course, because it is still an unknown entity to you. The desert can be brutal.’ He took a leather case from a pocket in his robe, selecting from it, and lighting, a dark-leaved cheroot which emitted a pungent smoke. ‘But, so can it be wondered at. It demands that man’s brain provides the needs for his body and, yes, without knowing what it has to offer, it can seem menacing. One must have the sagacity of the serpent for the desert’s fierce moods, and the gentleness of the dove for its tender moments.’ He blew out a controlled trail of smoke, regarding Aida unblinkingly. ‘And that, my dear, applies not only to its sands, but to the men who live upon it.’

  Was there a double entendre in his words, or was she being over-sensitive? Aida chose to ignore it, thinking instead of Phares’s love story with the desert … Oh, Phares. How she wished he were here with her now.

  ‘You seem to have a won
derful collection of antiquities,’ Mrs Saunders interjected enthusiastically, smiling at the prince.

  He turned to her, nodding. ‘Yes, it is the most magnificent collection, I must admit. It has been handed from father to son over many generations. Each new scion has done his best to add to it a few more curious and beautiful items.’ His glittering gaze slid back to Aida. ‘It comes from a craving for all that is beautiful, rare and valuable …’ His pale eyes were blazing, his whole being vibrant with emotion.

  Aida shuddered internally. She had no doubt that this last phrase had nothing to do with his collection of antiques. After a pause, he resumed his speech, his voice low and hoarse. ‘To obtain for myself some of the treasures of the world, I would commit any crime, endure any hardship, perform any sacrifice.’

  They drank karkadeeh, lemonade and mayat ward, pure well water flavoured with the petals of a certain rose only grown in the oasis, while servants brought big plates of large succulent dates, olives, purple figs and small-shelled nuts to the table.

  Although Aida made sure her eyes strayed as little as possible in the prince’s direction, he had seated himself next to her, and she was aware of his scrutiny, intense and smouldering, weighing on her all the while. She shivered with unease.

  ‘By Allah, you have such blue eyes, Aida … such a silky bow of a mouth …’ His whispered sigh wafted his breath over her face as he passed her a plate of stuffed dates. ‘A man would accept damnation just to lose himself for a moment in the deep sea pools of your irises and brush his lips against the soft fullness of your lips.’

  Flushing with embarrassment, she drew away from his display of open admiration, pressing herself into the far edge of her seat, anxious to escape his gaze. It was gleaming with an emotion that she recognised only too well, and as much as it thrilled her in Phares’s eyes, it repulsed her in this man. She felt as trapped as a butterfly under a glass jar.