They went through the shop and scrambled up a stone staircase as steep as a ladder, entering through a doorway at the top. Phares drew in his breath in amazement as they stepped into a fantastic shop of curiosities, a veritable treasure trove that held a mixture of old and new objects. There were nick-nacks as well as expensive items: semi-precious stone jewellery; old earthenware vases draped with gaudy silk fabrics; brass Aladdin lamps and a scattering of tourist trinkets – eye of Horus pendants and hamsa keyrings with their open hand symbol, both of which supposedly offered protection against the evil eye.
A small, thin man, whose skin was so yellow and shrivelled it looked as if he’d been unwrapped from the swathed bandages of an ancient mummy, blinked his way forward expectantly. A few murmured greetings and whispered words from Atef, then his cousin Ahmad led Phares through a beaded curtain to a room at the back.
His eyes widened to see the wealth of objects of archaeological importance that any European or American museum would give thousands to possess. Here, indeed, was history rifled from the tombs, and by the looks of it, a thriving family business.
Phares picked up a painted wooden head, badly chipped but which might originally have rivalled Nefertiti’s bust, one of the beauties of the Berlin Museum. It lay among crude potsherds and a broken limestone carving. There were pieces of alabaster, scarabs, fragments of ivory and scraps of goldwork, all of which appeared genuine enough to Phares’s untutored eye. Still, he didn’t think this was the hiding place of the main cache.
They’d have a strongroom elsewhere, much harder to access, he thought.
‘The tomb robbers have been busy,’ Phares observed.
‘One must live, even at the cost of the dead,’ said the little man.
Phares was careful to disguise his distaste. ‘Are there many of you engaged in this profession?’
A smile crossed Ahmad’s wrinkled face. ‘You cannot blame us if we try to hide a few treasures beneath our kaftans, ya Bey. How is it different to the men who work the diamond fields or goldmines? The diggers who try to extricate a few stones for themselves? We are poor and this is our land. Aren’t we worthier of these small treasures than these khawagat, foreigners, who come to our country and gather our riches, just to take them back to their own?’
Phares thought it wise not to answer. He’d learned that the role of agent required a certain sangfroid to gain the trust of one’s target. It had already entailed months of slow, careful steps. He couldn’t blow it now if he was to have a hope of discovering the real hiding place for those larger, more important items, the likes of which he’d been used to handling since he had started work with the Embassy.
‘Is this shop where you sell this stuff?’
‘Laa, laa. No, no, ya Bey.’ The man shook his head violently. ‘The shop downstairs is purely for the sale of carpets. We don’t bring buyers here, it would only draw attention to ourselves.’
‘But then, how does this work? Surely, these nick-nacks, though of some value, are not the only things an expert like yourself would be selling?’
‘You tell me what you are looking for and I will do my best to find it for you, ya Bey.’
‘So, this is the way you always deal?’
‘Yes. We must be careful. If a whisper reached the Department of Antiquities …’ The trader shook his head, his fingers wiping the sweat from his swarthy face. ‘I only let you come here because of my cousin Atef. He tells me you are to be trusted, and now you have become known to the Bedouin dealers …’
‘Yes, indeed. You can rely on my discretion.’
‘Sometimes a buyer is troublesome, he begins to ask questions, and when that happens, we take him to our shop of fakes in Qena. Excellent copies …’
‘Don’t they recognise the good from the bad?’
The man grimaced. ‘Usually the buyers are men of much wealth but no knowledge. Occasionally we are found out, but then we claim ignorance, as if we had also been deceived.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘Better than getting caught, eh?’
Phares took a last glance at the room of deep shadows, where jumbled treasures of history were piled. He chose a gold rotatable seal ring with a lapis lazuli scarab, a symbol of the heart and the sun. The flat side was inscribed with the name of the owner, a man of an ancient race now consigned to the mists of time.
‘I will buy this,’ he told the man, turning the seal ring between his fingers. ‘Once I’ve had it authenticated by my antique dealer in the Musky, if it’s genuine as you claim, I will come back for a larger order.’
Having paid Ahmad the meagre sum of fifty Egyptian pounds for an item worth so much more, Phares took his leave of the two men and made his way down the stone staircase, through the carpet shop, and into the sunlight of Karnak. He had always known that tomb robbing in Luxor was a very profitable business but it never ceased to disturb him when he saw these undocumented riches for sale. Ahmad had hit the nail on the head when he compared this market with illicit diamond buying. Surely one couldn’t always depend on the honesty of the guards left in charge of important finds while the archaeologists spent their time in hotel bars and nightclubs at the end of the excavation day? Knowing only too well the value of the objects they were supposed to protect, it would be such an overwhelming temptation to seize an item or two.
Phares suddenly felt bone-tired. It seemed suddenly as if this illegal trade was too big for anyone – certainly him – to thwart. Even if he were to find out the identity of El Kébir, there would only be another man, just as ruthless, ready to take his place. Like the Hydra’s heads: if you cut them off, only more would grow back – in this case, stronger and cleverer than the ones before.
He drew a deep breath and thought of Aida. There was so much he was having to keep secret and it wore him down. How he longed to get back to her tender embrace. How happy she would be if only he could find out who it was that had framed her father. Sometimes, Phares wondered grimly if their marriage would stand or fall on his ability to do just that. He must keep going, he told himself, and continue this double life for a while longer, even if that meant he couldn’t be wholly truthful to Aida.
* * *
That same afternoon, Aida sat in the drawing room of Hathor sorting through the post and suddenly paled. In her hand was a small yellow envelope similar to the one that had been handed to her on her wedding day. It was addressed to her in the same spidery scrawl as the first letter. With trembling hands, she opened it:
‘It only takes one person to make a marriage fail. Your nemesis is here, in Luxor. Remember the immortal words of Molière: “One is easily fooled by that which one loves.”’
Like the previous note, it was left unsigned.
Aida scrunched it into a ball, her mind racing. Previously, she had suspected Isis of writing the letters, but would the anaesthetist really dare to stoop so low? She had nothing to gain, except to drive a wedge between Aida and Phares by deliberately making mischief. There was no divorce in the Coptic Church, so even if their marriage broke up, Isis would never have a chance to marry him.
Aida reread the note. Was Nairy actually in Luxor? She remembered suddenly the posters she had noticed in town announcing that Chiffons à la Mode was coming to Luxor for a fashion shoot for the new season’s catalogue at the Winter Palace.
She had been surprised, and relieved, that there was no word of Shams Sakr El Din. As far as Aida was aware, word hadn’t got out of what truly happened that weekend at Wahat El Nakheel, but it could well be that the prince was keeping a low profile while any unpleasant rumours concerning his behaviour at the oasis palace died down. Aida had wondered about him, though she couldn’t bring herself to mention his name to Phares. Since the wedding he had refused to talk any further about the prince, except to say that she herself had nothing to fear, and they had made no trips to Cairo where they might have seen him at the Gezireh Sporting Club.
Still, now in her mind the face of the model Nairy Paplosian swam painfully into focus. Her mouth went dry and
it felt as though someone was crushing her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
She picked up the telephone and rang the hotel. Yes, the receptionist at the Winter Palace confirmed, ten models from Chiffons à la Mode had arrived the day before for a fashion shoot at the Temple of Karnak and were staying at the hotel.
She had been feeling tired and nauseous all day and now a new sickening feeling rose up inside her, and with it, a dread of what she might discover in the days to come.
The queasiness and dizzy spells had started shortly after they had returned from their honeymoon. During that time, Aida had been able to hide her suspicions from Phares; she wanted to keep her pregnancy a surprise, giving him the good news only once she was sure. The day before, she’d had the confirmation she was waiting for and decided to stay at home because she had felt sick all night with a terrible migraine. Her father had told her that Eleanor had suffered migraines all through her pregnancy and the memory of their discussion was a bittersweet reminder that neither of her parents would be around to see their grandchild. With that thought, Aida felt suddenly alone.
She lay her head back on the cushion of the sofa and closed her eyes, trying to control the roller coaster of emotions rushing through her. Her mind returned to the poisonous letter. She trusted Phares, didn’t she? She had to find it in herself to do so or their marriage would never stand a chance. Why should she believe a poison pen letter over the assurances of her husband whom she loved? It must be the pregnancy making her emotions so volatile, she told herself.
The wait for Phares seemed endless. On tenterhooks, Aida stood on the veranda, gazing down blindly at the river, feeling in turns hot and cold, unsure when and how she would tell him that he was about to be a father. Excitement and delight warred with a dark sense of dread, and conflicting thoughts assailed her … Perhaps tonight might not be the right time to broach such an important subject. She wished Camelia was here, but the whole family had left immediately after the wedding to spend the summer at the Pharaonys’ house in Alexandria. Maybe her friend would have at least helped her put things in proportion.
Phares came in later than usual that evening. He looked tired and distracted, Aida thought.
‘How was your day?’
He shrugged. ‘Tiring.’
‘Difficult operations?’
‘Mmm …’ He rubbed his hands over his eyes.
‘Everybody’s away. We don’t need to have our dinner downstairs in the dining room. Shall we have it on the veranda up here? It’s a beautiful night.’
He said nothing, staring over her shoulder into the distance.
‘Phares …’
‘Mmm …?’
‘Didn’t you hear me? Shall we have dinner on the veranda?’
‘Whatever, chérie,’ he answered, absentmindedly caressing her hair.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Where have I been?’ he repeated, looking at Aida as if seeing her for the first time that evening.
In this pause, and what seemed to be an evasion of her question, Aida felt the sense of his betrayal rushing in on her, stifling her breath, making her dizzy with fear at what she might discover. She had to know if the warning in the letter had any foundation to it.
‘Nairy’s in town. Did you know?’
Phares turned away, frowning and walked over to the window. He lit a cigarette. ‘So, what of it?’ He wasn’t looking at her – she couldn’t see his eyes. Aida didn’t like not being able to see his eyes. What was he hiding?
She swallowed. ‘Did you know about it?’
Aida waited in silent agony, wondering why he wasn’t answering her immediately. She felt adrift on a shoreless sea; it was impossible for her to discipline her thoughts. Why was she still so haunted by uncertainty? She had overestimated her resolution never to question him like a jealous wife and cursed her own weakness. If she didn’t guard her emotions, she might find another kind of misery awaited her.
‘I saw the buses parked at the Winter Palace as I was coming home,’ he said eventually, still gazing out of the window. He offered nothing more but she felt the check behind his words and realised her questioning had brushed aside some of the usual enchantment they felt in each other’s company. Now she wished she had never said anything.
‘I’ll pour you a whisky,’ she said tentatively. ‘And then I’ll ask Gomaa to set the table on the veranda. It’s a beautiful evening.’
‘Yes, that’ll be nice. Thank you.’
She poured him out two fingers of whisky. Phares seemed lost in thought and though she sensed he didn’t want her to probe him, yet still she went on, trying to speak gently, but knowing she was driving him away.
‘Don’t quarrel with me tonight, Aida.’
‘I’m not quarrelling with you, Phares. But I’ve never seen you so preoccupied. Has anything happened at the hospital? I’m worried about you.’
Phares sighed. ‘Just trust me, chérie.’
He had smoked one Gitanes after another and hadn’t touched the drink she’d poured him, she noticed. They sat together at dinner scarcely speaking, and when they did, it was to discuss matters at the hospital or to engage in small talk about the family. Any sense of happiness seemed to be slipping away with every minute of those silences between them. Once they had finished dinner, having scarcely touched the delicious food that had been brought to them, Phares got up – ‘You’ll probably want to stay up a little longer, so I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, chérie.’ And, with that, he yawned and headed upstairs.
A little later, as she undressed, angry with both Phares and herself, Aida repressed the hot tears that burned behind her eyes. In bed, she lay still, watching the figure of her husband lying with his perfectly muscled back to her in bed, apparently asleep.
Sleep eluded her. Her mind could not tear itself away from the note she had received, nor from Phares’s closed expression all evening. She turned restlessly in bed and lay staring at the moonlight on the veranda. After plumping her pillows in an effort to get comfortable, she wondered why people wrote these cruel anonymous letters. What would they gain? She longed for the morning to come, hoping that the passing of the night would somehow drive away the turmoil in her mind.
Aida was just drifting off to sleep when the telephone on Phares’s bedside table rang. He sat up and reached out for the receiver immediately, as if waiting for the call.
‘Hello. Yes … yes … The cottage. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be there,’ Aida heard him whisper.
Phares slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he emerged and hesitated before leaving the room. He came over to the bed and through the lashes of her half-closed eyes, Aida could tell he was looking down at her. Then he turned and padded quietly to the door, closing it carefully behind him.
She sat up, her heart racing. So, he was going off to meet her … the beautiful Nairy. Now it seemed whoever had written those poisonous letters had rendered her a service after all.
On impulse, Aida leapt out of bed and quickly threw on some clothes, wrapping a black shawl around her head. She stole down the big staircase like a thief, looking around her to make sure no one had heard herself or Phares moving around. The stairs were in darkness but a shaded lamp burned in the great hall below. There was no one about. She crept through the hall and into a small morning room from where she slipped out on to the terrace. Phares had said he would be at the cottage in fifteen minutes. The Jeep was still parked outside, which meant he had gone on foot and had probably taken the shortcut. They had spent a couple of afternoons picnicking at the cottage on his days off, so she knew the path well.
A seductive slip of a moon revealed her presence in the canopy of dark-blue velvet. Silent as a spirit, she ran across the grass and started down the narrow path leading to the cottage, overhung with sycamore trees whose leaves barely moved in the still air.
Aida walked quickly over the beaten ground, driven by an uneasiness she could not quell. It was as thoug
h someone were speaking in her ear, urging her to hasten if she really wanted to find out what Phares was up to. Her vivid imagination began to torture her with images of her husband with another woman behaving in some culpably indiscreet manner that would break her heart. Still, she needed to know …
Now, as she reached the little house, the stars doming the night sky seemed to have increased in number, lighting up the silent spectral scene around her. The solitude was absolute. There were no lights filtering through the closed shutters of the cottage. Maybe Phares hasn’t arrived yet, she thought. Was there another cottage perhaps … another meeting place she didn’t know about?
Then, just as she was thinking of leaving this peaceful place, there was a movement. A group of thick-leaved shadowy trees, the rustle of a silken garment, footfall on the beaten sand of the path, and then moments later, a shadow detached itself from the dense blackness.
Another second of suspense, and a silhouette appeared. As moonlight fell on the figure, Aida realised that it was not Nairy’s shapely form, nor Phares’s tall frame that crept out from the darkness. It was the shadow of a man, one she recognised immediately as the Bedouin who had been stalking them at Denderah and then again at Philae. He was stooping as if carrying something heavy.
The Bedouin approached the cottage and knocked three times on the door.
Through the trees, Aida saw a light turn on behind the shutters. Phares was in there … She stood very still, staring at the light so faint and yet so piercing in the heavy darkness. As she shivered in her thin dress, she pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. What was happening?
The door opened and the man quickly entered the cottage. Aida’s heart was racing at a rate of knots as she ran quietly across the lawn to the shuttered window. It was a warmer night than usual, Phares must have opened the window. As she came nearer, whispering voices could be heard on the quiet night air. She pricked up her ears.
‘What brings you? I told you the other day not to get in touch with me unless I sent word to you …’ Phares spoke in a low tone.
Song of the Nile Page 58
