Song of the Nile

by Fielding, Hannah

  ‘Nervous, chérie?’

  ‘Just a little,’ she whispered, grateful that he had put her silence down to nervousness rather than guessing the true cause of her hesitation and confusion.

  The priest and the chanting shammamsa, deacons, led the way into the cathedral. Stepping across the threshold, she began her slow walk up the aisle towards the altar on Phares’s arm, followed by her elegant cortège of bridesmaids. As she did so, Aida felt certain that no other Pharaony bride could have entered into marriage with the same amount of dread and bitterness in her heart. The accompanying vocal music interspersed with cymbals and the triangle had always reminded her of the chorus of a pagan procession in the temples of Ancient Egypt as the pharaohs proceeded to worship their sun god. Today was no different, and its eerie, majestic sound gave her the unreal impression that this was all taking place in a dream.

  The oak pews decorated with bouquets of white roses and tuberoses were crammed to capacity with locals who had known her since childhood, who were familiar with the scandal that had touched her father, who had for the most part condemned him, and whom she felt resented this marriage more than ever because they regarded Aida, being half British, as a foreigner. Not only this, but with that cloud still hanging over her because of the old scandal, they deemed her unsuitable to be the wife of one of the prize catches in the Coptic community. They looked at her with surreptitious curiosity, she knew; she could feel their eyes boring into her back as she moved along, wondering, surmising, their heads turning to gaze at her as she passed, and then quickly, almost guiltily, looking away, in case she read the disapproval in their eyes. As for her own eyes, she kept them fixed steadily on the great clusters of blooms massed at either side of the altar, her face set in a tight mask that betrayed not even a flicker of emotion.

  The dying sun shone through the arched windows of the grand old cathedral with its coral pillars and Byzantine panelling. As Aida approached the altar steps, a last ray of sunshine began moving across the very stained-glass panel she had donated to the church before leaving for England eight years ago. It was one of many coloured panels gifted over the years by members of the rich Coptic families of Luxor to replace damaged ones. The orange light played upon Phares’s head so that his dark hair took on the appearance of a fiery crown. Then, as she stood quaking by his side waiting for the ceremony to begin, the light progressed steadily across the inscribed glass, picking out each jewel-bright word etched on the pane so they felt seared upon her forehead: Honi soit qui mal y pense – Evil be to him who evil thinks.

  She stared at it, transfixed. Was she not doing to Phares what these people had done to her father – judging him on the basis of questionable proof without giving him a chance to defend himself? Was she not letting her pride and jealousy gain the upper hand over her reasoning? ‘The wanderer’s tale awaits his arrival,’ was a proverb that her wise Dada Amina often used to quote to her as a girl whenever Aida criticised a person behind their back without knowing the whole story.

  Time moved in a series of impressions while the priest and chanting deacons blessed and celebrated the holy matrimony of the bride and groom in a royal manner. Everything had a mystique about it, from the azure haze of acacia wood incense and flickering candlelight to the opulent golden icons and statues of Jesus and Mary looking down on them.

  As was customary, the ceremony of this two-thousand-year-old sacramental rite was conducted in Coptic and Ancient Greek. Abouna Youssef placed the priestly vestment over Phares – a reminder that the young doctor was now the priest in his own house, responsible for the spiritual wellbeing of his new family. Then he laid hands on Aida and Phares’s heads, praying all envy, temptation and evil be cast away from them, thus making them one. Following this, he anointed them with holy olive oil and rings were exchanged, their right hands joined to secure their union. Finally, placing on each of them a crown fashioned from fine golden leather, which symbolised that they were now king and queen of their own small kingdom, Abouna Youssef gently pushed their heads together, indicating their mutual submission to each other.

  Aida felt Phares’s dark gaze upon her as they listened to the priest speak of submission of the wife to her husband, already presupposing the absolute love of the husband for his wife. Another wave of doubt shivered through her heart. These were profound words filled with meaning for couples whose hearts clamoured to be joined in holy wedlock and Aida wondered if those lovely ancient words had a significance for Phares or whether he was thinking they could never apply in their case, since his heart already belonged to someone else.

  She suffered the rest of the ceremony in a state of limbo, detached as a newly departed spirit hovering above the heads of mourners at her bedside. Even Phares’s kiss made scant impression upon lips frozen into the semblance of a smile. Had she been sure of his love, she would have felt differently. Still, now that they were officially man and wife, Aida threaded her arm through the crook of his and as the bridal procession moved slowly back down the aisle towards the cathedral entrance, to the sound of another hymn from the congregation, she returned those stares, full of prejudice, with defiance. It was not until they left the church and were being driven back to Hathor that she was shocked back to reality by Phares’s breezy acceptance of a situation she was suddenly finding intolerable.

  ‘Tired?’ he asked, as the silence stretched between them.

  The smile Aida gave him in reply was slightly strained.

  ‘Why don’t you lay your head on the back of the seat and close your eyes? I’m afraid we still have a long night in front of us before we are able to relax.’ His eyes twinkled as they swept over her face tenderly. ‘I can’t wait to be alone with you, chérie.’

  ‘Where are we spending the night? At Hathor?’

  Phares lifted a brow. ‘What on earth would make you think that I would want to spend our first night together at the house, eh?’

  She blinked with surprise. He was right, it would have been out of character for him – Phares was all about adventure, new places, surprises.

  ‘Everything has happened so quickly, I didn’t think you would have had the time to organise anything.’

  He grinned and bent his head towards her. ‘Only a phone call to the Winter Palace Hotel. I’ve reserved their Emperor’s suite, chérie, for our first night together. As for our honeymoon, that’s a surprise. Just think, days and nights of surprises …’

  Phares stretched out his hand and covered hers, then lifting it to his lips he turned it over and placed his mouth in the centre of her palm so that she felt the warm pressure of his kiss on her skin. At the hot brush of his tongue, a thousand emotions assailed her and a deep, coiling sensation erupted in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘You’re trembling,’ he murmured hoarsely, his eyes holding hers in some sort of spell. He glanced towards the chauffeur who was driving them back to Hathor. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping an octave as it caressed her ear like dark velvet. ‘I wish we were alone. I’ve missed you … I’ve dreamt of you every night. You do things to me I thought I was far too experienced to feel.’

  The knowledge that Phares wanted her physically was like a heady wine, too tempting for Aida to resist. He made her feel so feminine. The longing welled in her: the desire to be in his arms, to make love with him. And like someone listening to a hypnotist, she murmured huskily, ‘I want you too …’ and she truly did, but how could that be when she was so hurt and angry?

  They finally arrived at Hathor, where guns were fired into the sky in celebration as the car glided through the open gates and they were met with exultant rhythms from drums and tambourines combined with trumpets. Aida couldn’t help but be swept up in the excitement and jubilant noise as the beat of traditional wedding songs became punctuated by joyful, trilling ululations from the women: the famous zaghareet Al Farah, announcing the couple was back and that the wedding reception was about to begin. Aida and Phares were deposited at the front door to take part in the Zaffa, the tradition
al wedding procession. Golden light streamed from the house as doors and windows were flung wide, and a cheery hum of voices and the tinkle of glasses filled the air.

  The Zaffa assembled at the front door and proceeded down the red carpet towards the siwan, a large tent with embroidered panels that had been erected in the front garden for the reception. First came the musicians – two parallel rows of young men dressed in traditional Egyptian kaftans playing the Middle-Eastern bendir drums, mizmars, bagpipes and horns – dancing, twirling and singing to the cacophonic and distinctive rhythm of the music. They were followed by Camelia and the young bridesmaids with their long candles adorned with ribbons and flowers, and then by the Shamadan, a belly dancer in a brightly coloured costume, balancing a candelabra on top of her head, swaying her hips and rotating to the music in front of Aida and Phares.

  As the colourful, musical procession moved down the red carpet and approached the entrance of the tent where guests and family were waiting for the bride and groom, Aida felt as though she was part of some lavish film, swept up in the joyous spectacle, but almost detached, as though all of it was happening to someone else. She took a deep breath and must have gripped Phares’s arm a little more tightly as he turned his head, his gaze lingering on her, smiling tenderly as they entered the siwan. Inside the tent was lavishly decorated with tuberoses and acacias, and lined with tables groaning beneath silver platters of roast turkey, frilled hams, pigeons in aspic, foie gras, caviar, Russian salad and other elaborate dishes, cakes from Groppi’s trimmed with Egypt’s national colours, together with fantastically shaped pastries and ices, while waiters were already circulating among the guests with glasses of champagne, lemonade and rose sharbat.

  Aida could see the place was packed to suffocation with a heaving crowd. How beautifully dressed the women were, she thought, most of them in full-length gowns of brocade and silk, bejewelled with priceless accessories. Among the glamorous outfits, she recognised some of the dresses that had been modelled at Shams Sakr El Din’s fashion show, a memory she quashed, preferring not to think of the prince tonight. The couple took their places in the reception line at the entrance of the tent to greet each guest, and the shaking of hands took so long, Aida wondered if people were going round and round again, there seemed so many. With half of them, she was aware of their fixed smiles and the scrutiny of their gaze upon her and could only imagine the hushed conversations that ensued as they left the line to gossip about her over the champagne and mezzeh. In those cases, she simply lifted her chin higher and smiled even more brightly.

  Aida gave an inward sigh of relief on shaking the final guest’s hand, and leaving her talking to Phares, she made her way across the lawn, heading for the cloakroom inside the house. She had only gone a few steps when Aunt Halima accosted her, regarding her coldly with shrewd, small black eyes. Whatever goodwill she might have found for Aida the evening before, it had now clearly vanished.

  ‘Do try and look as if you are a bride, not a mourner.’ She spoke drily, her mouth curling contemptuously. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are. I really can’t understand what my nephew sees in you, a washed-out khawagaya, foreign woman, with a heart of ice.’ And then, without waiting for Aida’s answer, she turned on her heels and walked away.

  Aida felt the colour storm into her cheeks. She hurried into the house, biting her bottom lip to stop the tears that were welling up and clenching her fists until her fingernails dug into her flesh. She wanted to cry until there were no tears left, but held her head high as she made her way to the cloakroom. Finally, she was alone. She sat down on one of the stools and glanced at herself in the mirror. True, her expression was more like that of a mourner than a bride.

  Buck up! Where is your self-confidence, your pride? Why are you giving satisfaction to these envious women who are so eager to sow discord between you and Phares? They’ll only start rumours about you.

  She splashed cold water over her face and freshened her make-up. There, she looked presentable now. With one last glance in the mirror and a deep sigh, she left the room to join her new husband, who by now, she thought, must be wondering where she was.

  The reception was in full swing when Aida joined Phares. He was surrounded by his friends, most of whom she had never met, who were congratulating him on the beauty of the young woman he had chosen to be his lifelong companion. He seemed to be taking advantage of this opportunity to show her off and was full of enthusiasm as he introduced her to his friends. Aida couldn’t help but notice that he was glowing with happiness, proud as a peacock as he took her from group to group. To see him like this, she could have sworn that Phares was deeply in love with her and it made her wonder if she’d been mistaken all this time. Or was he simply an accomplished actor? She gazed at him with an inward sigh, wishing more than anything that it might be true.

  There were no speeches – it was not the custom at Egyptian weddings. At length the buffet was open, during which the happy couple circulated from table to table. They would have an intimate dinner later on, behind closed doors, the prospect of which sent tiny flutters whirling inside Aida’s stomach.

  Once the buffet was cleared of all foods, the beautiful wedding cake decorated with doves, a horseshoe and bells was wheeled in amid the sound of bravos, Allah ye barek, mabrouks and the clamour of the zaghareet.

  ‘Cut the cake!’ everyone chorused.

  With an ambiguous smile, Phares placed his hand over Aida’s on the hilt of Gamil Pharaony’s sword – the very one that had run through Prince Shams’ ancestor – and plunged it into the white icing of Groppi’s enormous five-tiered wedding cake. At this, there were congratulatory cheers, the clink of champagne glasses and laughter from the throng of guests.

  As Aida looked up, her eyes caught those of Isis Geratly, who was standing among the crowd of well-wishers. There was so much venom in them that it was obvious that felicitations were far from the young anaesthetist’s mind. No doubt she would gladly have hurled the cake to the floor and trampled to pieces every silver ornament that topped it. And it was at that moment that Aida knew without a doubt it had been Isis who had sent the vitriolic note she’d received moments before the ceremony. What had she hoped to achieve? Did she know something Aida didn’t, or was she simply trying to drive a wedge between her and Phares?

  At last came the moment for Aida to go upstairs and change for the honeymoon journey. Camelia showed her to one of the guest rooms, where a beautiful purple silk-shantung dress and a parure of purple diamonds had been laid out for her.

  ‘Phares looks happier than I’ve ever seen him! I’m so glad for you both, I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful life together.’

  Aida’s teeth bit sharply into a trembling bottom lip as she fought against a misery of tears. She opened her clutch bag, took out the crumpled note she’d received before the ceremony and handed it to her friend. With that, finally, the battle she had been staunchly fighting all evening came to an end and she burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Aida, what is it? Don’t cry.’ Camelia placed an arm around her shoulders, looking curiously at the piece of paper. ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be that serious. Wait, let me read it.’

  Having scrutinised the message, Camelia lifted her head and sighed. ‘This has been written by a vicious, jealous woman, habibti. It doesn’t surprise me, there have been so many women after Phares. You might not see him that way, but my brother is a good catch. Besides,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘the woman who marries my brother won’t have a mother-in-law … always a plus in our society.’ She nudged Aida and chuckled. ‘Although Tante Halima is much worse than any mother-in-law.’

  Aida dried her eyes and gave a shaky laugh. ‘I know, I don’t think she likes me much. She told me off at the reception because she thought I looked more like a mourner than a bride.’

  ‘You did seem rather quiet. I thought you were just tired, but now that I’ve read this, I understand why.’

  Aida looked her friend squarely in the eyes. ‘Was Phares in Luxor
last night?’

  ‘No, he came home this morning on the first plane,’ Camelia admitted. ‘He was at the hospital … some patient on whom he’d performed a difficult operation a couple of weeks ago had an embolism. I think it was very serious, I mean deadly, and he spent the last two nights at the Anglo. He was catching up on his sleep right up until when he had to get ready for the wedding.’

  Aida glanced away. ‘I see.’

  Camelia gripped her arm. ‘Look here, Aida, you either trust Phares or you don’t, and if you don’t, I can’t understand why you married him. Surely you wouldn’t tie your life to someone in whom you don’t have total confidence? I know you love him, you always have, even if your pride sometimes made you deny it. And Phares adores you. I wouldn’t have let you marry him if I’d thought for a minute that he wasn’t totally committed to you. Try and relax, and stop questioning everything all the time.’

  But Aida was still tormented by doubt. ‘He’s so charming, so handsome, and he has a roving eye, you can’t deny that.’

  Camelia smiled and shook her head. ‘That was before you came back. As long as you love him, and are not shy about showing it, he will be putty in your hands. All he wants is to make the people he loves happy.’

  Aida let out a long sigh. ‘I think the message was from Isis.’

  ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past her,’ Camelia said with a shrug. ‘But that’s not the point. From now on, you must ignore all rumours and nasty tittle-tattle that fills Luxor’s drawing rooms because these women have nothing better to do. Don’t let anybody come between the two of you. Mounir and I never let the sun go down on an argument, we always made peace before nightfall. That’s a good way to keep your marriage happy, because when you’re angry, hurtful thoughts continue to simmer until they reach boiling point. You know the saying, dabbuur zann aala kharab essu, through its buzzing, a wasp only ends up bringing about the destruction of its own nest. That’s what you’re in danger of doing, but if you stay true to your love and trust each other, there’s no reason for Phares to stray.’