Having returned to her room, Aida found that there was a young Bedouin woman awaiting her in the bathroom. Although she knew that the custom of a servant drawing a bath existed in rich homes and palaces, she had been brought up by a Western mother, who had stopped helping her with her bath when she was five. Dada Amina had never understood this and had at first taken umbrage, jumping to the conclusion that in being denied her bathroom duties, they presumably didn’t trust her.
Aida did not send the girl away, knowing full well that she would be reprimanded in a way that didn’t bear thinking about. In these outlandish places it was not unheard of for recalcitrance to be met by whipping. Although Sakr El Din himself was an educated, seemingly civilised man, Aida had a sneaking suspicion that down here at Wahat El Nakheel, he operated very differently.
Having had her bath, she returned to the bedroom, where the young servant, whose name was Abla, waited to help her dress. Aida had brought with her an evening gown in heavy silk, not too revealing, which had horizontal gold and black stripes on the skirt and a plain black bodice with matching detailing on the cuffs of the three-quarter sleeves.
Abla deftly gathered her hair on the crown of her head and put on her pharaonic gold necklace, bought by Ayoub at auction the year before he died. Once she had donned a pair of matching gold earrings, giving the last touch to her elegant outfit, Aida looked positively regal. Before leaving the room, she slipped a couple of Egyptian silver coins into the girl’s hand. She refused to take them at first, but at Aida’s insistence, she accepted the tip gratefully, showering her benefactress with a deluge of blessings.
Night had fallen. It was warm, and dinner was to be served outside under the stars. The dining table was placed in the middle of a walled-in courtyard open to the sky, set round with dozens of tubs of orange trees and wonderful dwarf rose bushes, the fruit and blossoms imbuing the air with a wild and heavenly sweetness. The saffron glow of the lamps, around which moths clustered, brought out the luxurious soft sheen of the mellow carpets, cushions, hangings and copper ornaments. Overhead, the sky blazed with brilliant stars, and their light mingled with that of the lamps, which illuminated the table with its bowls of roses.
The prince had changed his afternoon clothes for magnificent silken robes of a wonderful creamy yellow, in which he looked a regal, very attractive figure. Something of the afternoon’s glow seemed to linger about him still; his white teeth shone, and his eyes, which for the first time seemed darker tonight, glittered beneath the elaborate turban crowning his head. He talked easily with his guests and poured them glasses of ruby-coloured karkadeeh, made from the petals of the hibiscus grown in the palace’s own garden. A small group of Bedouin musicians played in the background, and a singer was pouring his heart out in a sad Arabic lament that told of his lost sweetheart: ‘She is like a gazelle emitting the fragrance of amber. She is like the sweet-smelling flower growing by the pond …’
At dinner, once again the prince did not seat himself next to Aida, but took a seat beside Simone, who seemed totally entranced with her host. The music drifted across the courtyard, and Aida glanced towards him, noting the alert, almost violent expression of his face, even in repose … the curl of his lip, the intent, eager look in his bold eyes. She had never seen a countenance like it – fierce, hawk-like, cruel. Like the desert itself. He was a part of all this, as indigenous as the falcons, or the golden sand cats that lurked among the sandstone rocks. And yet, as she looked at him, Aida was bound to admit that the width of the brow meant, surely, that there was a keen intellect there; and once, during the singer’s perfectly rendered solo, an expression of pleasure crossed his face, as though the beautiful soft wailing of the music appealed to some touch of artistic spirituality within him. She glanced over at Simone, who was drunk with elation at the prince’s conferring on her his mesmerising attentions. Aida disliked Shams Sakr El Din, but she had to admit that he was an interesting and charismatic figure, a fascinating man for whose love some women would scrap over like desert vixens.
The meal was unduly prolonged and the subject revolved around the gymkhana they’d watched. The group never seemed to tire of questioning the prince as to the meaning of this or that manoeuvre within the tournament. And Sakr El Din was only too ready to answer them all, turning courteously from one to another as he explained various points to them with an obliging smile.
‘The camels will be leaving for Cairo early in the morning,’ he told his guests as they left the table to return to their rooms for the night. ‘Breakfast will be brought up to your room at six o’clock. You should be on your way by seven-thirty. It was my honour to have your company for the weekend and I hope you have enjoyed your time at Kasr El Nawafeer.’ He bade them goodnight, and Aida heaved a sigh of relief that the day had gone by without incident.
* * *
That night, Aida was violently ill. Until dawn, she had been going backwards and forwards to the bathroom at regular intervals as strong bouts of nausea assailed her. Was this a touch of gastric flu or had she been poisoned? She wondered how the rest of the party were feeling. Did the prince have a hand in this? After his cloying attentions, she no longer trusted his motives in bringing her here.
She must have dozed off because she thought she was swimming in the sea in Alexandria. The water was deliciously cold, and Dada Amina stood on the shore under the swaying pine trees calling to Aida, and she was anxious because she couldn’t make out her words.
When she opened her eyes, she found Abla standing beside her bed, holding the breakfast tray and calling her. Almost at once, she closed them again, raising a hand to shield them from the glare of the lamp that the servant had turned on when entering the room. Weak and dizzy, it was as if a vice was squeezing her head, and from time to time, an acute pain shot across her closed eyelids. She tried to lift herself up, but fell back immediately on her pillows with a whimper. She hadn’t known the human body could sink so rapidly into a revolting mass of nausea and pain.
Abla hurried off and came back with the prince and Mrs Saunders.
‘She’s not in a fit state to travel, especially by camel.’ Sakr El Din’s voice penetrated the febrile haze in Aida’s mind.
‘She needs a doctor,’ affirmed Mrs Saunders.
‘We have some of the best-trained physicians at the palace. I’ll call for one immediately, but I think it’s only a touch of sun. I’m sure Miss El Masri will be perfectly well enough to travel in the morning.’
Mrs Saunders sounded doubtful. ‘But …’
‘Please don’t worry yourself. I’ll take her back to Cairo in my private plane or deliver her to Luxor myself, if needs be.’
‘I am loath to leave her here on her own.’
‘My dear Mrs Saunders, she is not on her own here. Do not fret, I will look after her as if she were my own flesh and blood.’
The tone of the other’s voice relaxed a little. ‘In that case, Your Highness …’
Before Aida could rouse herself properly to protest, they had left the room and Abla was back with an ice pack, which she placed on the young woman’s burning forehead.
Curled up on her side, hugging a cushion for comfort, Aida was so worn out that she drifted off to sleep, and although too drowsy to raise her head or speak, she was aware of people coming and going around her like figures on a screen.
When she awoke the next morning, she found herself in a different room, under a carved-wood ceiling, surrounded by walls of mosaic tiles and lace-like plasterwork. She was lying on an enormous carved bed, its brilliant blue silk coverlet reaching to the floor and canopied with spotless white net mosquito drapes, tied back with beautiful sashes. In one corner of the room was a large, modern-looking dressing table on which numerous toilet accessories were laid out, looking strangely out of place in the big Moorish room.
Puzzled at first, Aida ran dazed eyes around, an odd feeling sweeping over her as she realised that the large room, unlike the one in which she had gone to sleep, was utterly Eastern. Magni
ficent velvet hangings adorned the walls, embroidered with fabulous birds and beasts; a fine mesh of carved, silvery wood screened the long lattice-work windows, at the top of which featured a row of coloured-glass flowers and peacocks. Tinted lamps shed their light over the ivory and pearl inlays of the mashrabiya furniture standing on the splendid Turkish and Persian carpets that lay on the marble-tiled floor. She could smell a sensuous scent emanating from incense twigs burning in a copper brazier, sending up spirals of fragranced smoke.
What day was it? How long had she been asleep?
Aida shivered and hugged herself while a dark suspicion began to infiltrate her mind. Leaping to her feet, she ran to the heavy wooden door and wrenched at the handle, pulling it open. The doorway’s beautifully carved arch framed a pair of eunuchs in long robes, their dark inscrutable eyes and black faces expressing no emotion. Reality suddenly sunk in: she was in Sakr El Din’s harem.
Fury rushed through her. ‘Where’s the prince? I need to see him immediately!’
Silently, one of the men reached forward and with slow deliberation, his eyes fixed inscrutably on Aida, closed the door in her face.
Aghast, she gazed at the door, cold sweat running down her spine. She banged and kicked at it, but no one came to help her. With a sickening lurch she realised that she could scream the palace down and still there would be no one to hear her.
Aida looked round her. Noticing a heavily curtained recess, she sprang towards it and tore the drapes aside. She found herself facing a half-open door which led, she discovered, to another room laid out as an Eastern dining room, very much like the one in which she’d had lunch the day before, but much smaller and more intimate. The room was ornamented with several beautifully carved tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl, on which were placed pottery bowls full of roses. At the far end of the room was another door, but this was locked too.
She went back to the smaller room and gazed up eagerly at the mashrabiya windows which projected out from the room, overhanging the ground below. They were too high for her to be able to see out, so she hastily pulled up a chair against the wall and stood on it, peering through the slits below the carved wood latticework panels. Disappointment awaited her there too. No escape possible that way: the window looked out over a paved courtyard and was at least twenty feet above the ground. The drop, if she were to attempt it, would break her neck. Aida had to acknowledge finally, with a sense of foreboding, that there was no way she could escape unaided from these rooms.
The others had gone back to Cairo without her and would assume she was being looked after by Sakr El Din. She shuddered. What was in store for her? Now that the full impact of her situation hit her, most bitterly did she regret her folly in accepting the prince’s invitation.
Aida was pacing restlessly up and down when suddenly the heavy door opened, making her almost jump out of her skin. She swung round, her eyes filled with alarm, fearing that it would be Sakr El Din. Instead, an old woman stood in the archway, dressed all in black, a heavy silver ring hanging from one of her thick, fleshy ears. She was not unattractive, though her coffee-coloured face was covered with innumerable wrinkles, out of which her black eyes gleamed brightly. Behind her came two young girls in robes, of whom one was Abla, carrying some beautiful clothes.
Aida’s blue eyes flashed with apprehension. ‘Who are you? What do you want? Where is Prince Shams Sakr El Din?’
The older woman looked at her blankly. ‘I am Khadija, the prince’s aunt.’
‘Where is he?’ Aida demanded haughtily.
‘His Highness is awaiting you for the evening meal. He has chosen these garments for you and would be grateful if you wore them tonight instead of your Western clothes.’
Panicked, Aida ignored her response, instead saying, ‘Why am I imprisoned in this room? I need to go back to Cairo, my family will be worried.’
The woman looked surprised. ‘You are not a prisoner here, you are His Highness’s guest.’
‘He promised to fly me back to the city once I was better, and now I am fine.’
‘The khamseen is on its way. It is neither possible for you to leave by land nor by air.’
Aida knew that the khamseen desert wind could be ferocious but she wondered if the prince’s aunt was merely colluding with her nephew to keep her here. She looked at Khadija blankly then asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I have said. Now, please, would you let Abla and Zuleika attend to your toilet?’ the old woman asked, taking Aida by the arm and pulling her towards the bathroom.
But Aida thrust her aside. ‘Let me go, let me go!’
The prince’s aunt signalled to the two young girls, busy spreading the sumptuous garments out on the divan, and immediately they stopped what they were doing and rushed to catch hold of Aida.
She disentangled herself, panting angrily. Trying to remain calm, she told Khadija, ‘Please tell them to go away. I can manage perfectly well on my own.’
Silently, the girls disappeared into the bathroom and went about filling the bath. Khadija’s black eyes peered curiously at the young woman. ‘It is the custom—’
‘I don’t care what your customs are,’ Aida cut in, raising her voice once more. ‘They aren’t mine, and I won’t have an audience while I take a bath.’
‘His Highness’s desires are paramount. These young girls are trained to follow his wishes in every regard.’
In the midst of the affray, the door to the dining area was pushed open and the prince himself entered the room.
‘Let her go,’ he ordered, ‘and leave us.’
Khadija’s expression grew conciliatory as she looked up at him. ‘Release the roumia, foreigner, from your house, dear nephew. She is more trouble than she’s worth. You don’t need this wild animal among your peaceful kingdom. She is not even beautiful …’
The prince looked calmly at her, though his voice held an edge. ‘Go now, Khadija, and thank you. I will take care of Miss El Masri.’
‘I have only your welfare at heart, my nephew.’ The old woman looked sideways at Aida. ‘This blue-eyed roumia will bring only bad luck on you and your kingdom.’
‘It is for me to say if she stays and when she leaves,’ the prince replied drily. ‘Since when do I take advice from a woman? Leave now! Have I not said that I will deal with this?’
‘As you wish, dear nephew.’ Khadija turned dark eyes laden with contempt on Aida, before pulling open the heavy door and breezing out, followed by Abla and Zuleika.
When the three women had left, an uncomfortable silence filled the room.
‘Prince Shams Sakr El Din,’ Aida said, mustering a dignified calm as she faced him, ‘I feel perfectly all right now. If you will kindly arrange for a camel to be brought, I will take my leave.’
His yellow eyes were hooded as he replied quietly, ‘What? Now? At night and with raging khamseen winds racing at one hundred kilometres an hour? I would be failing mightily in my host’s duties if I let you leave. You are under my protection here.’
The fact that Aida felt about as protected as a hare in a snare was neither here nor there.
‘Will the wind storm have passed by the morning?’ she asked.
‘The khamseen comes and goes, as I’m sure you are aware. Rarely more than once a week and lasting only a few hours at a time. Let’s hope the storm will be over by morning, then I can fly you back to Luxor.’
In spite of her uneasiness, Aida had to admit that his words made sense, but then it didn’t explain why he had moved her from the Western side of the palace. Why had he placed guards at her door? Everything indicated that she was Sakr El Din’s prisoner.
‘And now, habibti, will you do me the honour of having dinner with me?’
She eyed him warily. ‘One more question.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why have I been brought to this part of the palace?’
He gave a saturnine smile. ‘It is the most luxurious part of Kasr El Nawafeer.’
‘Your hare
m, no doubt … Did you think I’d be flattered to be here?’
‘I brought you to my harem because that is where I knew you would be properly cared for. My women are not allowed to circulate freely in the palace. I only wanted you to be comfortable and well looked after.’
He seemed so sincere that Aida began to doubt her fears, telling herself that it was absurd, ridiculous to be so fanciful.
‘Very well, I will have dinner with you, but tomorrow we leave for Luxor,’ she told him.
He inclined his head. ‘In shah Allah, God willing. And now, if you will step into the bathroom next door, you will find various requisites for a bath. I will go myself to bathe in my quarters as I have a fondness of a hot soak and a scrub, being not entirely the barbarian you seem to think I am. It would please me if you wore the garments I have provided for you, which are much more suited for this part of the palace than your Western clothes.’
His eyes swept over her from head to toe. It was a look that seemed to strip Aida’s nightshirt from her body, a look that took in her soft skin and hidden curves, and all the self-control he seemed to be deploying couldn’t hide the flame in his eyes.
She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Very well then, I will comply with your wishes. The gown is magnificent. I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything as luxurious. Thank you.’
With a subtle smile that could have meant anything, the prince pressed long, lean brown fingers to his eyes, his lips and his heart. ‘Salam aleykom, my dear Miss El Masri, I will return in an hour and we will dine next door.’
A strange unsettled feeling came over Aida as he left the room. Despite his reassuring words, there lurked within her a most persistent feeling of dread at the thought of the desert prince. She went into the bathroom. A beautiful sunken lotus-shaped tub lined with blue mosaic tiles was set in the centre, filled to the brim with scented steaming water, which charged the air with its herbal balm. On a low cane table stood jars, soaps and a loofah; next to it on a stool was piled a stack of soft, fluffy towels.
Song of the Nile Page 41
