Camelia brushed away the dampness on her cheek. ‘Well, let’s not talk about all that. Both of us should put our troubles behind us now. Happy days are ahead for you and we must concentrate on those.’
Aida smiled warmly. ‘I presume we’re having the henna party here tonight.’ Then, glancing at her watch, she exclaimed, ‘It’s already past ten. If I have to organise a dinner, it doesn’t leave me much time. How many women are coming?’
‘We’ll only be about ten or twelve ladies, and your five bridesmaids of course. But you mustn’t worry about dinner. Our cooks have been busy and everything will be delivered tonight.’ Camelia looked sheepish. ‘I’ve had to invite Isis Geratly. Phares insisted out of obligation. Our families have been friends for a long time and she is his best anaesthetist. I think Isis is very disappointed that Phares is not marrying her and frankly, he’s afraid she might make trouble at the hospital. Although he never promised her anything, there was a lot of gossip about them … you know how it is here.’
Aida sighed. ‘Yes, I know.’
How many women had been hoping that Phares would choose them to be his life’s companion? After all her procrastination and foolish behaviour, she was lucky that he still wanted her to be his wife.
‘It’s going to be quite a big wedding,’ Camelia continued. ‘We’ve been invited to so many over the years, and you know the saying, salaf wa dain, a debt to be paid. We’ll be about five hundred people in all.’
It suddenly hit home to Aida what a huge occasion it was going to be and her stomach fluttered nervously. ‘It’s amazing how you’ve been able to organise all this in less than a week.’
‘Well, Abouna Youssef has seen both you and Phares grow up, and he knows you well enough to be certain there are no surprises there. He’s a good man, and he adores Phares.’
‘How did you manage to invite everyone? Five hundred people is a large number.’
Kyrie Vassilis at the Musky had the printing of the invitation cards done in twenty-four hours and Osta Fathi distributed them in Cairo. As for the guests who live in Luxor, I made the telephone calls myself and everybody has accepted.’
‘I’m really touched, habibti. I don’t know what to say.’
Camelia laughed. ‘Then don’t say anything, my dear, and enjoy! Phares is going to be busy too, setting up a tent, siwan, for the servants. It’s a baraka … everyone will bless your union.’
‘You’ve thought of everything.’
‘It’s been exciting and fun. Besides, it has stopped me from brooding about Sami and the party.’
‘By the way, where is Phares?’
Camelia shrugged. ‘I’m not sure at the moment but one minute he’s in Luxor, the next he’s off to Cairo. It seems he can’t stay still. I think waiting for the wedding, and to see you, is driving him mad. He believes that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.’
Aida laughed softly, remembering their meeting in the garden only a few days before. ‘Yes, he intimated something of the kind the last time I saw him.’
Camelia stood up. ‘Well, I’d better leave you now. Do you need anything from me?’
‘No, nothing, thanks. You’ve done plenty.’
Aida accompanied her friend to her car and after waving her goodbye, went in search of the gardener in order to discuss which flowers he would pick for her to arrange in vases at the house. It was all very exciting, and she couldn’t wait to see Phares the next day. He had been constantly in Aida’s mind all week. In the early morning, when the air had a heavenly coolness and earth and sky were veiled in trembling white mist, he was there; and in the burning afternoons when the birds slept and the air shimmered under the sun he was there, as well as in the hushed and breathless evening when the leaves made fantastic shadows on the paths and the flowers stood white and motionless in the moonlight and the air was so sweet, every breath was a separate and distinct delight.
But it was mostly at night in her dreams that he came to her, a fascinating, naked Adonis, longing and hungry for her, his eyes sparkling wickedly. It was shameful how hot, how wet, she was for him each time, imagining him leaning on his arms above her, holding his weight tantalisingly away from her body, making her arch upwards and wriggle her hips towards his with her need to feel his strength, his hardness, his heat. Invariably she’d wake up gasping, still panting desperately in the midst of the sensual explosion that rocked her, tangled in a heap of bed linen, hugging her pillow.
Very soon now he would claim her, possess her. If only it might be as a man in love, and not only a lover experiencing simply that carnal desire.
Aida’s breast lifted on a sigh. Phares would enslave her, but never love her. Their intimacy would be ecstatic, but he would take her only for pleasure … and just for a second, her heart ached.
* * *
Aida spent a long time preparing for her henna night. As she bathed, she thought about the meaning of the ritual. It meant much more than any custom involved in a European hen night. She reminded herself that this was a marriage rite in which the bride symbolically left her identity as daughter in her father’s house behind, entering into a new life stage as a wife whose life revolves around her husband’s family. Furthermore, the red henna had an association with blood, her transformation from girlhood to womanhood, where her body became an object belonging to her husband. Aida did not much like the connotations behind the ritual, but she loved the theatrical quality of the ceremony and was looking forward to it. She didn’t want to think more deeply about ‘belonging’ to Phares – it would only cause a confusing division in her mind, between herself as a modern Westernised woman and the one born into these ancient traditions.
Wearing old clothes, Dada Amina sat quietly most of the morning in the covered courtyard behind the kitchen preparing the greenish paste from her own recipe, mixing the henna powder with herbs and oil of clove, while chips of sandalwood burning in a tiny earthenware bowl scented the place. Aida had noticed the inconspicuous little bush from which the henna was produced, rather like privet, in a corner of Dada Amina’s favourite courtyard. Without the paste applied to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her feet, no fellaha or Bedouin woman, no matter how poor, would feel properly dressed for her wedding day.
At six o’clock the belláneh, an expert in the art of sugaring, arrived at Karawan House. This method of waxing the larger as well as more sensitive parts of the body – the legs and arms, armpits and private parts – with a mixture of sugar, water and lemon was traditional in Egypt, especially before a wedding. Expertly exfoliated in this way, the skin becomes supremely smooth, soft and silken. Afterwards, perfumed oils were rubbed into the skin; no two fragrances ever alike as each woman made her own from pounded leaves and flowers, the recipes of which were a closely guarded secret. Aida had her own favourite scent, Elsa Schiaparelli’s Le Roy Soleil. The Baccarat crystal fragrance bottle placed in a shell-shaped golden casket had been designed by Salvador Dalí to celebrate the end of the war. It was one of the presents Phares had sent her during their week of separation, along with an exquisite Bedouin dress woven with gold silken threads and fine seed pearls, which she would also wear tonight.
It was custom that the woman would have her toenails painted and adorn her feet with anklets, but wear no shoes – symbolic of her not leaving the house, but remaining in the harem. Aida had a couple of authentic ancient Egyptian gold anklets adorned with lapis, moonstone and turquoise, which she donned for the first time. She loved the chiming sound the jingling charms and singing bells made as she trod the ground lightly on tiptoes.
Dada Amina insisted on kahalling Aida’s eyes, which she did by blackening the edge of the young woman’s eyelids, both above and below the eyes, with kohl, a black powder the nanny produced by burning the shells of almonds. She applied it with a small, tapering blunt-ended probe from a beautifully engraved ivory kohl vessel that had belonged to Aida’s grandmother.
By nine o’clock, Aida was ready to receive her guests. Despite her fai
rness and foreign looks, she could have stepped out of a famous Orientalist’s painting, one by Édouard Richter or Carl Haag perhaps, dazzling in the light of all the Venetian chandeliers, sparkling like iridescent jewels. Beautiful blooms from the garden vivified the rooms with splashes of colour here and there, and a mixture of incense and the fragrance of flowers suffused them.
From the drawing room, Aida heard the women arrive and walk in procession around the outside of the house three times, chanting and carrying the bowl of henna paste, which they had set with five large candles in accordance with the old saying ‘khamsa wa khumaysah’, ‘five fingers poked in the evil eye’.
On entering in their traditional kaftans, they were shown into the drawing room by Bekhit, the head servant. Aida breathed a sigh of relief, noticing immediately that Isis Geratly wasn’t among the guests that made up the procession – she didn’t want anything spoiling her enjoyment of the evening. It was with some relief too that she noticed that Aunt Halima did not have on her normally sour and miserable expression and instead was even pleasant to her, leading Aida to wonder whether Aunt Nabila had warned her to behave; still, she dearly hoped that Halima had had a change of heart and was now happy about this union.
Nabila started off the ritual by praying, while Aida sat as the young, unmarried virgin women walked in circles around her, holding candles. Once the prayers were over, everybody took a seat and Aunt Halima, who was taking Phares’s mother’s place for the ceremony, took some henna from a cup and tried to put it in Aida’s palm. Following tradition, Aida then went through the motions of refusing to open her hand, which was symbolic of her asking for a commitment from the groom’s family. The other then put a gold coin in her palm, communicating her acceptance of the responsibility to provide financial security for the new family. All this Aida conformed with willingly, accepting the coin and then the henna, and firmly putting aside in her head any of the modern implications of what these rituals symbolised.
Following this, the henna cup was passed from one guest to another, each of whom added a golden coin to the sticky paste and helped themselves to a lump of henna to colour their own palms. That being done, the guests sang folk songs and danced, and drank the delicate rose-petal sharbat ward cordial, while servants brought round plates of dried fruits, nuts and small plates of mezzeh.
While the guests indulged in the merriments, Nabawiya, Dada Amina’s cousin, painted Aida’s hands and feet with henna. Not wanting them to be overdone, Aida asked her to paint a sun on one hand and a moon on the other, and a couple of delicate geometric designs on her feet. While this was being done, she was fussed over by a bevy of young women, who busily provided her with small tidbits to eat and served her glasses of sharbat and lemonade. After Nabawiya had finished painting, Aida’s hands and feet were wrapped in linen, which would be removed the next morning to reveal the beauty of the designs.
Camelia sang love songs, her voice lovely and melodious, accompanied by their neighbour Mariam on the piano. The others clapped and acted as a choir, while Dada Amina’s neice, Magda, having tied her scarf tightly around her hips, performed a genteel version of the well-known Arabic belly dancing. Holding out a stick in front of her in both hands, she jerked her stomach up and down, her body rotating as she did so.
This joyous assembly continued their noisy merrymaking until the early hours when on Nabila’s signal, they took their leave reluctantly. Kisses, hugs, mabruks, congratulations, filled the room until, finally, Aida was able to retire to her bedroom, exhausted but radiant, her heart full of dreams and love for Phares.
Tomorrow, she would finally be his.
* * *
The day of the wedding had arrived – bright and glowing, a perfect example of that still, exquisite weather that characterised this time of year. The Luxor skies were clear over the glistening Nile as the intense heat of the afternoon sun waned; beyond the El Masri property, the green fields appeared richly verdant and even the nearby slumbering villages with their dilapidated mud houses looked romantic, bathed in sunshine.
Radiant, despite the revelry of the night before, Aida descended the marble steps of Karawan House, her feet and hands adorned with her cousin’s beautiful henna designs. She was surrounded by attendants: Uncle Naguib, who was to take the place of her father, her five bridesmaids, plus all the servants who wanted to wave her off. Just as she was about to get into the garlanded Bentley, a young effendi whom Aida had never seen before handed her a small yellow envelope. Perplexed, with a slightly strained look, she opened it. The scrawled message consisted of two lines.
‘Beware of the half-truths – you may have gotten hold of the wrong half. Ask Phares Pharaony where he spent these last two nights. It is no shame to be deceived, but it is if you are willing to stay with the deception.’
The note was unsigned. Aida felt herself pale and swallowed hard, forcing back the tears welling up. Raising her eyes, she was about to ask the young messenger who it was who had sent him, only to find that he had disappeared.
‘Anything wrong, habibti?’ enquired Uncle Naguib. ‘You’ve gone all pale. What was in that message?’
Although stunned by the contents of the note, Aida managed a weak smile and shook her head, refusing to let anything mar this day. ‘Nothing, nothing, just a congratulatory note,’ she murmured, disappearing quickly into the Bentley, which drove off immediately, leaving behind the zaghareet, the joyful trilling ululations from all the women.
A discreet phone call from Uncle Naguib to the Omda, Mayor of Luxor, had assured the closing off of certain streets leading to the cathedral. This was in keeping with the tradition that demanded the car carrying the bride should always turn to the right, thereby ensuring that she would always do the right thing after she was married.
The vehicle, escorted by a honking entourage of cars driven by Phares’s friends, weaved its way through the streets of Luxor. Inside, Aida felt a hot stinging in her cheeks as she absorbed the meaning of the words delivered by the cryptic message. The build-up of emotion was almost more than she could bear, and for a wild moment she wanted to grab the wheel and wrench the car into the kerb, caring nothing for the consequences. But instead she calmed her racing heart and picked up her bouquet, burying her face in the cool, ferny orchids and roses and inhaling their scent. A faint image of Phares’s concerned face as he scooped her up in his arms in the desert made her rationality return. The note had surely been written by someone who didn’t truly have her best interests at heart, otherwise why hadn’t they signed their name?
Still, the memory of Nairy Paplosian with Phares came rushing back to her in a series of vivid images: leaning over him at the fashion show; dancing with him later at Mina House, her body rubbing against his; and their kissing each other outside the hospital. Swift pain pierced through her, mingled with a melancholic sadness that made her want to scream and cry. The harrowing feelings remained locked up inside her, but it was as though all the dreamy excitement of the past week had been cruelly swiped away like a sudden thunderstorm on a beautiful summer’s day.
Aida had just a moment’s hesitation as she descended from the car. The priest Abouna Youssef appeared just then, coming forward to receive her from Uncle Naguib and deliver her to her future husband, as tradition dictated, in a symbolic gesture that mirrored God’s bringing of Eve to Adam. As he took her slightly trembling hand and led her the few short steps to Phares, Aida knew her life was about to change for ever.
Her bridegroom was waiting for her, resplendent in his well-cut dark suit, a Hermès navy-coloured tie knotted with perfect precision under the tailored stiff collar of his crisp white shirt, a delicate white rose in his buttonhole. Aida’s chest suddenly felt tight. Standing bronzed, tall and lithe, Phares looked nothing like the doctor he was. With his shock of black hair, slightly longer than usual, he had the appearance of one whom an artist would wish to immortalise in paint or marble. Was he nervous? Aida doubted it. Any fear and trepidation were hers and hers alone. But Camelia was the
re at the door, arranging Aida’s trailing veil and smiling her congratulations and encouragement as though she knew what was going through her friend’s head. Each carrying a candle, the five bridesmaids in their pink finery followed, symbols of the five wise virgins who had enough oil for their lamps as they processed at the wedding in Cana, Galilee.
Even if inside she did not feel as radiant as she should, at least Aida knew she looked the part. Her wedding dress was classic in style, superb in its detail, from the deep oval neckline down to the softly flowing skirt. The dress combined an acanthus leaf pattern with a four-and-a-half-yard scalloped antique lace train and veil, which she wore elegantly draped over her head. It was held in place by a Cartier orange-blossom tiara of small diamonds and pearls, given by Ayoub to Eleanor on their wedding day. The very perfection of the dress made Aida all the sadder for it was the kind of gown which any bride should be happy and eager to be married in.
A single strand of stunning pearls encircled her neck, a pair of baroque pearls adorned her ears, and the cascading bridal bouquet of stephanotis, white lace hydrangea, flannel flowers and white bougainvillea gave the final touch to the picture of innocence and purity that Aida portrayed as she stood for a few minutes before entering the cathedral while Camelia and the bridesmaids tidied up her fabulous train.
Her eyes finally met Phares’s and he smiled down at her, his face gleaming with pride. ‘You look stunning,’ he said softly, his eyes crinkling slightly at the edges, caressing her features with a mixture of passion and tenderness.
She felt the breath tighten in her throat and looked away. She was acutely aware of his tall frame as he walked beside her, of his hand on her arm, but she didn’t dare look back at him, keeping her eyes peeled to the entrance in front of her in case they gave away the turmoil within.
Song of the Nile Page 49
