‘Do you know much about the island?’ she asked, looking about her. Further up the shoreline, some fishing boats were moored and figures moved about slowly by the water’s edge. ‘The only thing I remember is that during pharaonic times it was known to be one of the burial places of Osiris, who became god of the afterlife.’
‘Exactly. It was called the Holy Island and became known as the Pearl of Egypt. The ground was so sacred, only priests and temple attendants were allowed to live there, though it was still a pagan temple to the cult of Isis long after Christianity arrived here,’ Phares told Aida as he helped her up the steep bank towards the monumental gateway of the great temple.
‘The Ancient Egyptians thought that the Nile ended at Philae,’ he went on. ‘The Coptic-derived name was Pilak, meaning “the end” or “remote place”, probably because it marked the boundary with Nubia. There are many legends connected to Philae, but the most famous one tells the story of how the almighty goddess Isis, wife of Osiris, found the heart of her husband here after he was murdered by his brother Seth. It was the last part of Osiris’s body she’d gathered up, after they’d been strewn about the earth, and so, with her renowned magical powers, she was able to restore his body to life.’
‘Perhaps that’s why the island is called Philae, Greek for “beloved”. Yes, I remember the story of Osiris’s murder, but I didn’t know there were others.’
‘Are you familiar with the tale of the Angry Eye who abandoned Egypt?’
‘No, whose eye was that?’
‘It was a very popular myth during Greco-Roman times. After the god creator Atum had produced Shu and Tefnut, they became lost in the watery darkness of the nun, the waters of chaos. Atum sent his eye, the eye of Ra, to find them, thereby giving light to darkness. The eye returned with Shu and Tefnut, but went into a rage when she saw that Atum had grown a new solar eye. She ran away to a faraway land, thought to be Nubia. There, the eye took the form of a fiery lion that stalked the desert, killing and eating the flesh of her enemies. Recovered by the wise god Thoth, she was immersed in the Nile at Philae to cool her rage.’
Standing by the high stone gateway, entranced by the view, Aida’s eyes were drawn to the still waters of the Nile, untroubled as they reflected the light blue of the sky. She didn’t care to hear tales of jealousy and rage; she’d had her fill of those turbulent emotions for a lifetime. Her gaze slid to Phares, who had wandered on ahead, scrutinising the remnants of two granite lions guarding the entrance. Watching him run a hand through his hair distractedly, his handsome brow furrowed in thought, her heart gave a wrench as she realised that part of her still ached with uncertainty. Surely I deserve a bit of happiness? she thought to herself. I only want Phares, nothing more. But even now, when he was at last hers, Aida could not help but wonder if the fates would pluck him from her.
Later, after they had wandered around the island, Phares and Aida sat down to rest on a stone bench on a terrace overlooking the Nile. From there, they could see where the great river was divided into several channels by other rocky islands and beyond were the desert and the great granite hills of Assuan.
Phares drew her attention back to the ruins of Philae. ‘These immense buildings have a certain solemn grandeur, don’t they?’
Aida nodded pensively. ‘When we walked through the Temple of Isis, I couldn’t help but feel that tramping these sacred places is somehow profane,’ she murmured. She glanced at the tall palms, their heavy branches seeming to bend over the ruins as though they were weeping, and gave a little shiver. ‘Do you believe in the curse of the pharaohs? Do you think that in disturbing the tombs of the ancients, they signed their own death warrant, or that the strange number of deaths were caused by the release of bacterial spores, or whatever scientists now think?’
Phares shrugged. ‘My father believes that Egyptian curses are a product of our superstitious culture and their psychological impact can be powerful. When you look at those curses, they were designed to strike terror into the hearts of tomb robbers. For example, there are some tombs where the pharaoh has inscribed a curse, like the one etched in the tomb of Khentika Ikhekhi, which reads something like: “Who ever shall enter my tomb will be judged … an end shall be made for him … I shall seize his neck like a bird … I shall cast the fear of myself into him.” I can’t remember the exact wording.’ He turned to Aida and smiled, catching hold of her hand. ‘Do you think we’ll be cursed for coming here, is that it, chérie?’
She laughed and shook her head, thinking of the Victorians and their plundering of the sacred tombs and temples of the island. Her English forebears perhaps deserved a curse or two to fall on their heads, she thought wryly.
‘The Temple of Philae was the last stronghold of the Ancient Egyptian priesthood, that’s for sure,’ continued Phares. ‘It has a power that none can deny, but I don’t think we’ll be judged for coming here.’ His gaze returned to the distant hills and Aida thought she caught a wistful undertone to his words.
It was as they were making their way down through the rocks at the foot of the temple complex to the dahabeyeh, which was moored further up the shoreline, that Aida noticed the Bedouin she had seen at Denderah. He sat smoking on one of the low boulders with a couple of fishermen, who were casting nets into the water. As they reached the river’s edge, he did not move, but from the corner of her eye Aida saw him throwing away his cigarette. Moments later, she was aware that he was following them.
‘There’s that Bedouin again,’ she told Phares.
His eyebrows drew together. ‘What Bedouin?’
‘You know, the man we saw at Denderah. The one who tried to sell you something.’
‘How do you know he’s the same man?’
‘I recognised him.’
Phares kept walking. ‘Don’t take any notice.’
When they reached the boat, the Bedouin was still behind them, standing a few feet away, watching them intently.
‘Wait here,’ Phares told Aida.
He went over to the man. Although Aida could not hear what they were saying, she could see that they were having an obviously heated conversation. Finally, Phares came back, seemingly having sent the Bedouin away with a flea in his ear.
‘What was all that about?’
Phares smiled, though there was something inscrutable in his eyes. ‘You were right, it was the same seller offering the same stuff. They never give up. Anyhow, I doubt he’ll bother us anymore. I told him if I saw him prowling around again, I would report him to the police.’ Catching her around the waist, he gently kissed her forehead. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, chérie, I promise you.’
The honeymoon was almost over, and as they climbed to the dahabeyeh, Aida felt a strange sense of foreboding, quite different to the sadness that comes upon one at the end of an idyllic trip – an inexplicable apprehension of what was to come.
Chapter 15
El Amal, Phares Pharaony’s hospital on the edge of Luxor, stood in its own grounds overlooking the Nile. It was an attractive, new building with semicircular wings, watered lawns, and wide windows giving on to balconies where the patients could sit in the sun and enjoy its strengthening rays, especially during winter and springtime, or in summer sit in the bowers of shade provided by cascading purple bougainvillea. Zinnias and dahlias made vivid splashes of colour against the white-painted timber, and clumps of Egyptian papyrus grass raised their graceful heads in the afternoon sunlight, while drowsy butterflies flitted lazily among the flowers in the gardens and crickets chirruped incessantly on the slope to the river’s edge.
This was Aida’s third week at the hospital since their return from honeymoon. On their many nights aboard the dahabeyeh, talking about their experiences of the war and Aida’s love of nursing, Phares had finally suggested that she come to work with him at El Amal. It was clear to him that Aida would never be happy simply running a household – she would need her own work and focus. He had no doubt at all that she would be a great asset to the hospital. After
all, during her wartime training, she had been confronted with situations that went far beyond anything she might have learned in peacetime.
Aida had been thrilled by his suggestion, and settled into her new job immediately, observing the way things were done and learning the ropes easily. Each hospital she had been seconded to during the war had had its own idiosyncratic organisation and so, for her, learning to adapt quickly was familiar territory. She knew her work and loved it, and had such a way with patients and staff that she rapidly charmed everyone around her. Within a few days she began to feel as if she already belonged.
Still, it was early days and she hadn’t yet started to work with Phares or any of the other surgeons. After her surgical nurse training in England, she knew that assisting in the operating theatre was where she really wanted to be, but she was in no hurry. Apart from anything, the theatre was a domain partially ruled over by Isis, and it hadn’t taken Aida long to discover that the anaesthetist was universally disliked. Although first class at her job, Isis had no patience with the nurses, or compassion for the sick who needed reassurance. Of course, not one member of the staff had actually complained about Isis’s behaviour – some of them even played up to her in a bid to gain her approval – but instinct told Aida that they were afraid of Isis and because they knew the anaesthetist was a personal friend of Phares’s, they hadn’t dared to be critical. Still, even if the nurses didn’t dare grumble, the patients talked frankly enough.
Camelia, with her unerring perspicacity, had hit the nail on the head when she’d made the observation that Isis lacked any real love of humanity – ‘I mean to say, how can someone be a healer without that? I think Phares has a blindness when it comes to that cold-hearted witch!’
It was clear to Aida from Isis’s body language that her thwarted rival was simmering with fury; she was behaving like a sulky beauty queen who had failed to win the title. Scarcely addressing a word to Aida, unless it was to criticise her work, the tight-faced anaesthetist pored over patients’ charts trying to find fault – some slip-up in the administering of medication or something that hadn’t been filled in according to hospital procedure. Aida made a point of never answering back, instead gritting her teeth and going about her business quietly. Keeping her distance was the wisest course of action for now. The last thing she wanted was to create problems for Phares. Although she was his wife – and a good nurse into the bargain – she knew that Isis was far more indispensable to the hospital. If Aida couldn’t make this work, then it was only right that she herself would have to go.
All the while Phares went about his business with a concentrated frown on his bronzed, handsome face, completely oblivious to Isis’s sour face, or indeed that he had the nurses falling for him like ninepins. They giggled and simpered whenever he was in view, but he seemed oblivious to their flirtation. Aida wished – how she wished – that it wouldn’t get to her, but occasionally she would sense a lump in her throat, her eyes misting. She couldn’t help but recall a remark she had overheard one morning as she walked past the staffroom, where the nurses were gossiping over cups of tea. One of them had said laughingly, ‘Dr Pharaony is one of those men who should be allowed a harem,’ and Aida had felt startled for a moment, before dismissing the remark from her mind. She knew how popular Phares was with the nurses. With all women, in fact … but in this regard she was not one to share, and with that thought, her shoulders drooped dejectedly.
That morning, in the third week of her new job, Aida was at last given the chance she had been secretly longing for. She was in the corridor, about to enter a ward, when Phares stopped her.
‘Nurse Pharaony, we have a crisis in the theatre. Nurse Younes has been taken ill and we have a young boy being brought in with an abdominal wound. It could be a case of peritonitis if we don’t act fast. The ambulance will be arriving in twenty minutes. Are you able to assist?’ He gave her a look that was both serious and encouraging.
‘Of course, Doctor,’ Aida replied without a moment’s hesitation. She had assisted with similar operations before and the prospect of being Phares’s third hand in the theatre didn’t faze her.
His mouth curved into a satisfied smile. ‘Can you please help get the theatre ready and check the equipment. The others will help you.’
She gave a decisive nod. ‘I’ll do it immediately.’
As she pulled a surgical gown over her uniform, Aida could hear Isis entering the adjacent theatre, her clipped voice issuing instructions to the orderlies and nursing staff. Even the thought of having to work with Isis couldn’t stop the glow of happiness surging through her. Now, in a matter of moments, she would be in her rightful place: beside Phares at the operating table, organising, supplying, placing the instruments in his hand at exactly the right moment, following the split-second timing with a rhythm that was beautifully exact. Yes, she would be his third hand. She would prove to him how good she was at her job. This was her chance to show her worth, not only to Phares but to Isis too. If she came through with flying colours, maybe he would be prepared to move her to theatre duties permanently.
She had no doubt that Phares would save the young boy’s life. Aida had come to appreciate his skill even more since working at El Amal, yet it was his humility that struck her most. He once told her when she praised him for the lives he had saved on the operating table, ‘I can perform the surgery, chérie, but only God can perform the miracle of healing.’
Well, she had better not let him – or God – down this morning.
Through the glass, she could see Phares scrubbing up next door in his white gown, alongside his assistant surgeon, Dr Makloof. He was working fast, yet beneath his swift, sure movements, Aida knew he was cultivating that inner calm he found essential to his work and blocking everything out except the emergency case he was about to tackle.
The theatre was very quiet, the only sounds the whirr of fans doing their best to dispel some of the heat, the small clink of instruments, the bubbling of the autoclave steriliser and the tiny swish of starched gowns.
A nurse came in, wheeling a young boy on a trolley – he couldn’t be more than six years old – and they lifted him on to the operating table.
In his cap and mask, Phares made a formidable figure, towering over the slight figure of the child. He extended his hands and thrust them into the rubber gloves held out for him by one of the assistant nurses.
‘You know what to watch for,’ Aida heard him murmur quietly to Isis, who gave a small nod. Then he raised his hand. Immediately Aida and the other white-gowned figures moved to their places, alert, silent. Someone exposed the small stomach, someone else swabbed quickly. Phares held out his hand without looking up and Aida firmly placed a scalpel in it. A thin red line appeared. The operation had begun and with it, the race to get the stomach cleaned out before the child’s whole system became poisoned. Aida performed with robotic precision, never faltering for a second in supplying the outstretched hand with everything it required. Phares, in turn, was merely a pair of hands in thin rubber gloves – she was aware of nothing else as his deft fingers worked with a sureness and speed it was difficult to follow. They cut and probed, working against the clock, for the peritoneum hadn’t ruptured quite yet, but it wasn’t far off.
Clamps, retractors, swab, clamps … swab again. The scalpel bit deeply into the small cavity, through the skin, fat and peritoneum.
A nurse wiped Phares’s forehead from behind, unobtrusively. His black eyes never left the cavity under his hands, and Isis’s sharp gaze was similarly fixed on the boy’s flushed face while her hand kept guard over the small, thread-like pulse.
There was a slight movement in the group around the table as the pus welled out, and though no one spoke it was like an exclamation of relief.
Swab, swab, drainage tubes inserted. Sutures passed through and drawn tight. Clamps and retractors released. Swab, suture. The wide incision flushed, swabbed, and closed. Phares stood back, watchful, as Dr Makloof applied the dressing and taped it neatl
y. Then he glanced at Isis, who nodded.
‘He’s all right.’
The stomach was covered, the sheet drawn up over the small body. Around the table, the group became at once untidy, breaking up to perform their various tasks. Used instruments were taken away for cleaning; the soiled linen thrown into bins containing disinfectant; the rubbish burned. The little boy was wheeled swiftly to the recovery room, Isis and Dr Makloof accompanying him through the swing doors.
Phares joined Aida in the changing room. She untied the tapes of his mask and gown, then turned around so that he could do the same for her. She felt unusually hot and slightly lightheaded but put this down to her nerves. Above all else, Aida couldn’t help but feel exhilarated.
‘Sixteen minutes,’ she said softly. ‘Congratulations, Phares, I’m so proud of you.’
‘I couldn’t have done it in that time without you,’ he replied soberly, and looked at her with a smile in his weary eyes. ‘If he survives, half the credit is yours. We were partners in a different way today, chérie.’
Aida felt it too. To hear Phares’s voice expressing the same thought filled her with pride. It seemed that today had brought them closer together.
* * *
In his plain but spacious office on the ground floor of El Amal, Phares sighed quietly to himself as he sat across the desk from Isis, contemplating her thunderous expression. She had asked to see him first thing and he had obliged, sensing the storm was something to do with Aida and wanting to deal with it as quickly as possible. Following the surgery on the child a couple of days ago, when Aida had stepped in at the last minute to assist, he’d seen no reason not to promote her permanently to theatre nurse. Her calm professionalism was just what was needed in the operating theatre, and when he’d seen just how thrilled Aida had been by the experience, he acted immediately, without consulting Isis first. This, he realised, had brought things to a head.
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