Song of the Nile

by Fielding, Hannah

  Phares had experienced enough of Isis’s tantrums in the past to know full well what he was up against. Looking at the stormy eyes glaring at him, he realised he would have to deal with her jealousy at some point, and better that it should be today – Aida was not at the hospital, having come down with the flu.

  Phares smiled at Isis, resolutely ignoring the storm signals in her face. ‘Shall I order some coffee?’

  ‘I’m not here to have coffee, Phares. I’m here to have a serious conversation about your unreasonable decision to promote Aida to theatre. She is untried and untested. How could you promote her like this?’

  ‘I experienced the way she handled that peritonitis operation.’

  ‘Has she been properly trained for this sort of job?’

  ‘Aida helped with much more traumatic situations in the hospitals in England during the war.’

  ‘You only have her word as confirmation of that.’

  His eyebrows shot up at this remark. ‘Of course, and I trust Aida completely. It’s quite clear from speaking to her, how deep her knowledge goes.’

  Isis pinned him with a searing look. ‘Look, Phares, we’ve worked together for years and you’ve always trusted my judgement. I think you’re taking an unjustifiable risk. One false move and we could lose a life. This time was an emergency. We had no one else to replace Nurse Younes, so I can understand why you used Aida. And hamdelellah, thank God, the operation went without any hitch.’

  Isis paused, and Phares took the opportunity to try and bring the discussion to a close. ‘Yes, it did. Now please, don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. And if you think I’m only promoting her because she’s my wife, you’d be wrong.’

  ‘I think you haven’t overseen her work as I have,’ Isis responded haughtily. ‘I have seen her on the wards and she is not always punctilious. In fact, she can be quite slapdash. Once or twice I’ve noticed irregularities in her charts and Nurse Soraya has told me that Aida has made mistakes administering medication. As you know, we use different names here in Egypt for some of the medicines and I think she gets confused.’

  Phares shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that. Aida is an intelligent woman and I’m sure she is well aware of all that.’

  Isis lifted her chin angrily. ‘She might be fit to work in hospitals in England, but she is quite lost here and certainly will not survive in theatre. The other day was nothing more than beginner’s luck.’

  Phares’s eyes flashed. ‘Well, as you know, I don’t believe in luck. What I saw there was skill and experience and sound judgement. Look, Aida has told me about some of the cases she handled during the war and trust me, they were no small thing.’

  Isis got up and walked impatiently about the room then turned to face Phares like a fighting bantam, her feathers ruffled.

  ‘If you persist with this, then I will not attend any operations when she is on duty.’

  Phares’s mouth tightened to a thin line. ‘Calm down, Isis. This helps no one. You know how much I count on your expertise … I trust you.’

  Isis stood her ground, hands behind her back, her voice harsh. ‘Yes, you trust me … you trust me … That’s all well and good, but I don’t feel secure entrusting a life to Aida when I know one small mistake could result in disaster. Not only would I feel responsible, but we would all be accountable if something untoward happened.’

  There was silence in the office. It was a beautiful end-of-July morning, with blackbirds and thrushes singing their hearts out in the shrubs outside the open windows. It should have been peaceful, Phares thought with exasperation, but there was no peace under that belligerent stare; and he was perfectly aware of Isis’s motives, she had been on Aida’s case from day one. He gave an inward sigh, knowing this couldn’t go on. Isis couldn’t possibly continue to work under the same roof as him and Aida bearing this scale of resentment. Besides, much had reached him on the grapevine about the high-handedness with which she treated both the nurses and patients. The situation was unacceptable.

  He flicked a Gitanes out of his cigarette pack and offered it to Isis, his face grave as he lit up for both of them. His best course of action was clear. ‘Isis, you’ve been one of the pillars holding up this hospital. I couldn’t have made it the success it is without you.’

  She sniffed huffily, very much on her dignity, then treated him to a cautious smile.

  ‘However …’ he went on ‘… I sense you’re unhappy …’

  Isis opened her mouth to speak, but Phares held up a hand to stay her. ‘As a friend and colleague, I think the best thing would be for you to try pastures new … spread your wings, go for a promotion at another hospital, even travel a bit. Every hospital in the world needs a good anaesthetist.’

  Isis’s eyes widened in shock, then narrowed as she read the full implications of his words. ‘Are you firing me? Has that wife of yours made you lose your mind?’ she spat in disbelief.

  At this, his mouth tightened. ‘I think it best if we leave Aida out of this. She’s said nothing to me, but this clearly isn’t working, Isis.’

  ‘So, you are asking me to leave. Go on, say it!’

  ‘Very well, I am inviting you to tender your resignation. If you want to work out a notice period while you find another position, that’s fine. We’ll discuss the details. I will be sure to organise a generous settlement, that goes without saying.’

  If Isis had broken down in tears Phares knew that it would have been a much tougher conversation for him, but she hadn’t, and the look of pure malevolence she shot him only served to make him even more certain that he had done the right thing. He trusted Aida implicitly. How could he have Isis trying to undermine that trust at every opportunity? It was untenable … not only bad for the hospital but ruinous to his marriage.

  The relief Phares felt must have been reflected in his eyes because Isis met his gaze one final time, then stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  It was on one of the days when Aida was off sick that the receptionist rang Phares to tell him there was a fellaha wanting to see him. Apparently, the woman had refused to see anybody but him.

  Perplexed, he told the receptionist to send her in.

  The woman was a baladi woman as opposed to a fellaha – most likely, she worked as a servant in a household rather than toiling in the fields. She was wearing the traditional baladi dress, a melaya liff – a cloth draped, sari-like, over her house dress, covering her hair and entire body, the ends of which were tucked under the arm. She immediately rushed over and bent forwards to kiss his hand, which he drew away quickly, not wishing to encourage the woman’s excessive servility.

  ‘May God protect you and protect your family and children, ya Bey,’ she whined. ‘May God give you everything your heart desires.’

  ‘Enough … enough. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I want your indulgence.’

  ‘Bottom line, please.’

  ‘You saved my son Mohamed’s life and I have come to thank you.’

  Phares smiled, realising she meant the six-year-old child with peritonitis. ‘You don’t need to thank me. I am a doctor and it is a doctor’s duty to save a life whenever God permits.’

  ‘I am not worthy of you, or of Sit Aida.’

  Phares frowned. ‘What has my wife got to do with this?’

  ‘I was told that she helped with the operation and then she looked after my boy.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s correct. She’s a very good nurse. Your son was in good hands.’

  Curiously, the baladi woman still looked anguished, gabbling her next words so that he could hardly follow what she said.

  ‘I was unable to come because I was at my mother’s funeral in Aswan. As soon as I could, I hurried here to see you, to thank you … and to tell you what must be said …’

  ‘That is very kind of you. What’s your name?’ Phares motioned for her to sit on the chair on the other side of his desk, but the woman merely stood, clasping her hands to
gether at her chest.

  ‘Your servant, Souma.’

  Souma … Phares stiffened. ‘Your full name,’ he demanded

  ‘Souma Hassanein, ya Bey.’ She began wringing her hands, her face a pitiful mask of anguish. ‘I have come to make amends for a wrong I did your two families many years ago.’

  Phares stared at her, for a moment nonplussed. This woman was the servant they had been looking for all this time, the one who, eight years before, had told Aida that it was his father who had brought the antique statue of Nefertari into Ayoub’s house for him to authenticate, then disappeared before the trial and had never been found again.

  ‘May God forgive me and bless you and your family with long life,’ Souma whimpered. ‘Ah, ya Bey, my conscience has been pricking me all this time. When I was told my son would have been taken from me if you hadn’t saved his life, I knew it was a sign from God that I should come to speak to you.’

  Phares fixed her with a stony look. ‘I know who you are and what you did. It was you who planted that statue in Ayoub El Masri’s house, was it not?’

  ‘Yes, ya Bey, may Allah spare me,’ the woman answered in a hoarse whisper, tears now gushing from her eyes.

  ‘Why did you lie about my father?’

  She shook her head miserably. ‘El Shitan, the Devil, ya Bey. Your father the pasha refused to give my brother Atef a job in his household …’ Souma wiped her eyes with the edge of her head covering. ‘I was angry, ya Bey, but God does not forget. He punished me for my sin, making my boy ill.’

  ‘Someone must have paid you. Who was it?’

  ‘They paid my brother Atef. These men … you have to do as they say, ya Bey. They threatened to kill me and my two daughters if I didn’t do as I was told.’

  ‘Who’s the one in charge?’

  ‘God only knows, ya Bey.’

  Phares frowned. ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth? What do you want from me?’

  Souma shook her head earnestly. ‘No, no … I want only your indulgence. And to prove to you my goodwill. My brother Atef, he will take you to a place that will interest you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Souma lowered her voice theatrically. ‘My brother sometimes works for these smugglers of antiquities … We are poor and need the money.’

  Phares gave nothing away in his expression. ‘Are you saying there’s some way he can undo some of the damage, prove that Ayoub El Masri was wrongly accused?’ he asked, adding sharply, ‘Though it’s not as if he can bring him back, is it?’

  ‘My brother can help you in other ways,’ she answered, a sly look in her eyes. ‘Atef, he knows that you and your English friends are interested in these smugglers, yes?’

  He raised an eyebrow sceptically. ‘May I remind you I’m a doctor, not a policeman.’

  Souma flapped her hand, protesting she thought no such thing. ‘And you’re a very good doctor, ya Bey … But I am telling you the truth. And there is nothing in it for us. This is out of the goodness of our hearts … Atef can help you, ya Bey. And in shah Allah, God willing, you will let him.’

  He considered her for a moment. ‘If I were to take an interest in this, what would you propose I do?’

  ‘My brother is prepared to take you to one of the hiding places of these people.’

  ‘Why is he being so helpful suddenly?

  ‘Because, he has the malignant illness, beeid anack, may you be preserved from it, ya Bey, and he wants to meet his maker with a clear conscience.’

  He nodded. For these people, cancer, like the devil, was a fearful thing to call by its name.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight, or tomorrow morning, if you want.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘But you must promise not have a kapsha, a police raid, at the place while my brother is there, or for a few days after, because if these people realise he has betrayed them …’ Souma’s eyes filled with genuine terror, ‘… ma be yerhamoush, they do not have any mercy. They will throw him to the wild dogs or they may burn him alive.’

  Phares knew that she was telling the truth about these smugglers. There had been instances when mangled or charred corpses had been found in the desert. The top man, El Kébir, was ruthless and his guards known to be sadists.

  ‘If I meet with your brother, be advised that there will be secret police watching me and if he tries any tricks, they will arrest him and you as well.’

  ‘Matkhafsh ya Bey, don’t be afraid, I swear as God is my witness that Atef will honour his side of it.’

  ‘Where shall we meet? I don’t want your brother to come to the hospital or my home.’

  ‘He’ll meet you at Karnak.’

  ‘Fine. At what time?’

  ‘After Salat al-zuhr, midday, after the sun passes its highest.’

  ‘Very well. You can tell Atef that I’ll be there but no stupid games, eh?’

  ‘Mafhoom, ya Bey, understood, ya Bey. God bless you, ya Bey.’

  After Souma left, Phares remained pensive. He debated whether or not to tell Aida about this strange visit, but decided that it was not the right time. First, he had to be sure this woman was telling the truth. Second, the authorities were very close to putting their hands on the head of the smuggling organisation and he was not yet at liberty to divulge to his new wife his role as secret agent. Tomorrow, he would go with Souma’s brother Atef to this smugglers’ den where they kept the loot and assess if what the woman had said was the truth, or whether she had an ulterior motive in telling her story.

  * * *

  At noon the next day, as Phares was getting out of his Jeep, he noticed a bus on which was written Chiffons à la Mode in large letters. There was obviously a fashion shoot at Karnak going on.

  Clearly, British intelligence and senior police chiefs had managed to keep the prince’s death a secret, even from his own company employees, or this event would have been pulled. They must have woven quite some cover story as to why Shams Sakr El Din was missing, Phares thought darkly.

  Nairy Paplosian was almost certainly one of the girls posing for photographs. He muttered an oath. This was the last thing he needed and he hoped he could avoid bumping into her. After swiftly scanning the area around the Temple of Karnak, he was relieved to see that a man who had been leaning against the wall at the entrance was now coming towards him with a furtive smile of recognition.

  Dressed in a faded galabeya, Souma’s brother, Atef, was tall and wiry, with eyes that darted this way and that as he approached. Beneath his tan, his colour was sallow, probably due to his illness, Phares surmised, and his narrow face looked drawn, accentuated by a long, dishevelled beard.

  He greeted Phares with the usual, salam aleykom. ‘My sister came to you, ya Bey.’

  ‘Where can we talk safely? It is best if we talk first, and I don’t want to be seen,’ said Phares quickly.

  ‘Come, there’s a restaurant I know. We can sit at the back. No one will see us there, ya Bey.’

  Atef led him to a traditional establishment, still quiet in these hours before lunch. Phares ordered coffee and forced himself to refrain from firing questions at his companion, whose eyes had lost none of their panicked expression. It was these nervous, darting glances above anything Souma had said that persuaded Phares that this was not a set-up – the man was too fearful. It seemed she and her brother were genuine in wanting to make amends for the damage they had done to the El Masri family.

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ Phares demanded, once two cups of Turkish coffee had been placed in front of them.

  ‘We had no choice, ya Bey. Souma did what she must. They said they would kill our family. What else could we do? She didn’t want to do it, to plant that temthal, statue.’ He wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘We had to do as they ordered,’ he added hoarsely.

  ‘I imagine money might have had something to do with it,’ Phares responded coolly.

  Atef glanced down at his hands. ‘They would have killed us all,’ he repea
ted, a plaintive whine creeping into his voice.

  ‘So, you’re still working with these smugglers … What do you know? Who is El Kébir?’

  Atef began to gabble, his words nervously tumbling over each other. ‘Wallahi, as God is my witness, I do not know. I have never seen him. No one sees him. I know nothing.’

  Phares had thought as much – Atef was such small fry, he would never be given access to the ring’s high command – but he’d wanted to check all the same. ‘So, who is your link man in the operation? Where do you meet?’

  ‘At Aysha the ghazeya’s coffee shop in Deir el-Medina, the workmen’s village on the West Bank of the Nile. Word comes to me and that is where we always meet. A tall man – Egyptian, but dressed like an effendi … suit … a tie … I don’t know his name, ya Bey. Wallahi, wallahi!’

  Again, Atef seemed to be telling the truth, as far as Phares could see. He drank the last of his coffee and slapped a few coins on the table, with a swift gesture to the proprietor who was making tea behind the counter to the jangling blare of a heavy wooden radio set.

  Phares stood, pushing back his chair. ‘Let’s not waste time, Atef. You’d better take me to your contact. Remember, all you know is that I’m a buyer. I’ll do the rest.’ Phares hoped that Souma’s brother would refrain from gabbling; he didn’t want the man’s nerves to give the game away.

  Outside, once more, Atef gathered his shabby galabeya about him and led the way with his long, loping stride. They walked in silence to the town’s edge and immediately plunged into a quarter riddled with narrow streets in which Phares felt lost in no time. At least no one will recognise me here, he thought grimly as they wound their way through garbage, stepped over goats and hens, threaded a route through a canyon of rundown houses, fought a plague of flies, and finally stopped before a shop where Oriental rugs were being woven.

  ‘This place is safe,’ said Atef. ‘It is owned by my cousin, Ahmad. You will find what you are looking for here.’

  Instinctively, Phares looked up. The crazy, white-painted Arab house with its projecting balconies, fretted windows and decorative excrescences appeared so top-heavy, it seemed as if it might to tumble into the street and engulf them at any moment.