Baker's Woman

by Tess Enroth

  “We are here now. Egypt is a country under our protection, and it has its own rulers. There are some French influences, as you’ll see, and the Turks remain here, though not in control.”

  “Shouldn’t a protectorate do something, protect somebody? I mean the poor people.”

  “Of course, one does what one can. People are poor in every part of the world. It’s one reason the British Empire tries to bring new ways to them. And we must keep and protect our own rights to a route to our colonies in the East.”

  “Are there many poor in England, too?”

  “The poor are always with us, my dear, as you know. Here we are at last!”

  The brougham stopped under dusty plane trees where a wide gravel path led to the veranda of a two-story stone building. A dark green awning was supported by iron spikes, real spears that may have once been wielded by Mamelukes. The louvered shutters were closed over the windows, making the place looked deserted, but when they reached the top step, two doormen in gallabiahs and turbans opened the double doors and bowed them into a lobby.

  Florence recalled the hall where she first saw Sam, but here brass was untarnished, colored glass in the lamps gleamed, and no pashas lolled on the brocade divans. As they crossed the thick carpet to the reception desk, her every step gave rise to specks that danced briefly in the light.

  “Look, Sam, dust motes rise when you step on the rug.”

  “Not dust, Florrie, fleas, sand fleas. Annoying little buggers until you get used to them.”

  “That’s what’s wrong! My legs itch and sting. It’s getting to be more than I can bear.”

  Under her skirts she rubbed one leg against the other, and the minute the door to their room closed, she lifted all the skirts and yanked her stockings down. A row of red welts had risen at her boot tops and behind her knees.

  “Oh, they’re awful!”

  “Try not to scratch.”

  “Not scratch!”

  “You’ll only infect them, and they’ll not itch any less.”

  She raked them with her nails, until thin, bloody lines appeared and relieved the pain. By the next morning blisters and welts clustered in her armpits and around her waist; at any place where a belt or fold impeded their progress, the tiny creatures had fed. Neither tincture of green soap nor bicarbonate paste eased the itch for long. She was not going to let herself whine about it, but Sam’s bland admonishments not to scratch irritated her, too.

  It was unfair that he seemed immune to their poison. But at least their sleeping room had no carpets or heavy drapes, and polished floors and filmy curtains harbored few fleas.

  The day after their arrival, they walked a few blocks to Government House where Sam would present their papers and travel plans to the British Consul. He explained to Florence that with no official sponsor for his expedition, he felt no need to reveal his private goals. He would declare that it was his purpose to hunt big game and catalog the wildlife of Upper Egypt.

  The British compound was empty at mid-morning, but a muddy circle around each shrub indicated gardeners had recently watered them. At the entrance, the iron portcullis had been raised, and a rotund black doorman in an immaculate white gallabiah opened double doors that bore the crest of the Empire.

  They were left in a long, dim room with windows shuttered against the sun. Sam paced and casually looked at portraits of English Consuls while Florence pulled off her white gloves and surreptitiously plucked at her close-fitting sleeves and shirtwaist.

  “Don’t scratch,” Sam hissed.

  “I’m not!”

  She pulled her gloves on again and looked composed as a door opened and closed silently behind a bony man in a white linen suit. His pink eyelids blinked rapidly as he addressed Sam in a reedy voice.

  “Mr. Baker, the Consul will see you tomorrow morning at this hour if you will be so good as to return.”

  He had emphasized ever so slightly the you and did not so much as dart an eye toward Florence. He then took small, quick steps to the door and inclined his head slightly, awaiting Sam’s response.

  “Whatever Sir Robert wishes. I am sure he is busy.”

  Although he kept the irony out of his voice, Sam’s eyes were sharp and cold, his face impassive, and Florence knew he was angry. She was annoyed, too, that he had completely ignored her. With lifted chin and straight back, she walked past the man without a glance.

  “Another nasty aide, Sam? Is it possible I am truly invisible?”

  “Florence, I am sorry. I believe we have both been snubbed, but Colquhin is a moody old hypochondriac. He may actually have been there and didn’t want to see anyone. His factotum, like every minor official, tends to be officious whenever he can. A real Malvolio.”

  “What is a factotum? A Malvolio?”

  “A factotum is a fancy name for an assistant. Malvolio is a character in a Shakespeare play, one who makes himself ridiculous by overestimating his own importance.” They walked in silence for a few minutes before Sam added, “I’ve an idea: let’s sit in the hotel gardens and have an English lesson – if I can locate our copy of ‘Twelfth Night.’“

  “So Malvolio – he was English, too?”

  “Yes, my dear,” Sam admitted, “he was, at least, the product of an English writer’s wit.”

  * * *

  When Sam did see Colquhin, the Consul apologized for having delayed Sam and declared himself ready to make amends and to cooperate fully. He would request the same courtesy from the Viceroy of Lower Egypt.

  “You will receive, through my offices, a firman from Said Pasha. It will grant you freedom to traverse lands controlled by Egyptians and their Turkish subordinates. You will need another for Upper Egypt, if you go that far.”

  “That would be in Khartoum, I suppose.”

  “Yes. There, they are even more suspicious of British motives. Moosa Pasha, the Governor General, is a despot who benefits from the slave trade. They’re slavers, one and all, either in the thick of the business or are being paid off. In passing through their territories, you will be regarded as a threat to their livelihood.” Sir Robert sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a bony forefinger. “However, even there, they do not directly challenge our power, and John Petherick, our Consul in Khartoum, is an excellent man.”

  “I appreciate your aid, Sir. I shall hire Nubian servants, for I understand they can be trusted. We will not create any disturbances.”

  “Yes, the Nubians scorn Arabs as well as Turks.”

  “So much the better.”

  “Baker, on other matters: I have two things to say.” The consul shifted uneasily in the high-backed chair and dabbed at the corners of his narrow mouth. “First and foremost, in regard to your companion: I advise you to be very discreet about being seen in public with her, and I warn you not to present her in official circles.”

  Sam shot up out of his chair and drew a breath that swelled his chest. With color rising to his face, he looked down at the Consul.

  “Sir Robert, were I you, I should say no more,” Sam said, but he did not sit down.

  “Oh, do sit down, Baker. Hear me out. I see your feelings are involved, in which case, you have an easy choice: marry her. If you remain away from England long enough, the rumors will die. Which brings me to an ancillary matter concerning your entire safari: I hope you have considered that the interior of this beastly continent is no place to take a woman, and certainly not one without the protection of your name.”

  “You’ve seen the travel documents. She is listed as my wife.”

  “Ah, yes, Ottoman documents.”

  “Is it possible, sir, that you suggest my name on a proper document will protect a woman from everything from gossip to tsetse flies?”

  “Hold on, Baker. I regret having angered you, but you have no call to sneer at my advice. Think what the fate of any woman would be out there if something were to happen to her protector.”

  “I have thought, sir, and will do my best to keep her safe from black savages as
well as Turks. As to the decision to take her with me, I did not force it. I counseled her – I painted the difficulties and perils blacker than I suppose them actually to be. She has chosen to be with me in this adventure. She comes freely, more freely than a woman bound by mere vows and duty, as are wives of some foreign service officers.’’ Sam bent in a token bow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do. Again, I thank you for securing the documents.”

  “I truly am sorry to have offended you,” Colquhin sighed wearily. “I hope you will think over what I’ve said.”

  He did appear genuinely sorry, and Sam’s anger abated. “I’m not a foolish man, Sir Robert. I go prepared for whatever dangers we may face. We won’t suffer constant hardship, for, in addition to our health and ingenuity, we take much more than bare essentials. We have the best equipment and provisions, and with reasonable effort and foresight, I am convinced we can live well any place.”

  The consul slowly shook his head and sighed. “I detest this whole land – primitive place, beastly climate. And by the way, my own wife freely chose not to come. But I wish you success, Sam Baker.” Sir Robert put out his hand. “May God be with you.”

  Sam did not discuss the conversation with Florence. While waiting for their papers to arrive, they visited mosques and ruins. They behaved as travelers do, but all the while Sam was thinking how easily they might make a home here. They could have a house built and furnished by the local craftsmen; he imagined tiled terraces with pools and plashing fountains, rooms with hand-wrought furnishings. His brother Val was right: Sam didn’t seem likely to settle in England for any length of time.

  * * *

  Walking the narrow paths of the Mousky looking at leather goods and copperware crafts, Florence felt, for the first time in her life, a hunger to own things just because they were intricate and unique to an exotic place. In open shops, boys in crocheted skull caps and long shirts sat cross-legged and intent as they engraved designs on metal trays and bowls amid displays of a hundred more. She peered into stalls where dozens of leather bags hung from walls and ceiling, and she thought of uses for the different sizes and shapes and bought several.

  “It’s a feeling I’m not used to, Sam. I’m greedy. I want things that will make Egypt my own.”

  “Your desires are very moderate. Wanting to own handsome, well-made objects isn’t greed.” He led her through the open door of a goldsmith’s shop. “Let’s find you something splendid.”

  The shop keeper greeted them with an offer of mint tea, and they sat beside a table only the size of the tray a boy placed before them. They sipped the tea from tiny cups while Sam and the merchant talked about gold and silver and semiprecious stones. When the boy took away the tea tray, he covered the table with a soft black cloth on which the jeweler laid gold necklaces, rings, and bracelets.

  “Now choose what you like best, Florence, and our host will tell you the meaning of its design.”

  She admired each piece and listened to the stories of their origins, a dynasty, tradition, or history. Then she selected an engraved oval brooch set with a single ruby.

  Sam insisted she also have an antique scarab pendant, a symbol of eternal life.

  Later when they stood under the delicate arches of Ibn Toulun Mosque, he took a little black silky bag from his pocket and showed Florence a gold ring. He reached for her hand, and she hesitated, thinking it like a wedding ring. Her eyes questioned his.

  “Please wear it, Florence. It is a gift of love, a symbol. “

  He glanced at the ancient pillars.

  She gave him her hand.

  “Allah is our witness.”

  One morning they were ferried across the Nile to the west bank to see the sphinx and the three pyramids. They rented a pair of Arabian horses from stables near the Great Pyramid and rode south twenty miles across the empty desert to the ziggurat at Saqqarah. All around lay nothing but sand and rock and a few scraggly palms. The guide and camels rested in the shade of the step pyramid while Florence and Sam circled its base, picking mummy beads from the sand. On their return they rode a little farther east and passed four white men talking in German as they laid out a dig, marking off squares in the sand with string and stakes. Florence questioned Sam about their work.

  “What you see them doing is about all I know of archeology,”

  Sam said, “Whereas in many sciences – botany, geology and so on—I am truly an amateur.”

  She took his words literally and found them puzzling. “You mean you haven’t come to love archeology?”

  “You’re quite right, an amateur loves being expert but not professional. I meant only that I claim no knowledge of this particular science and cannot answer your questions.”

  Florence realized she wished to know everything and that it was true of Sam, too. The many centuries of Egyptian dynasties were overwhelming her.

  At the Citadel as well as at Giza, while treading on the sands and poking about among tombs, she had shivered to think they were walking on thirty-some centuries of history.

  Days later in partially excavated Roman ruins, they were startled to see a man wearing the black cassock of a priest in a passageway. He smiled at them and using precise English, pointed out the intricacies of the vault’s groin and explained how to recognize Roman brick-laying. Sam thanked him for presenting such authoritative information and asked how he happened to be there that morning.

  “You are obviously a priest, not a tour conductor.”

  “Our abbey is located here, and we take our custodial duties seriously. We are Orthodox Christians, of course, and priests, like rabbis, are teachers. We enjoy meeting interested visitors. I believe you are both interested in ancient places, respect them, and you feel their spiritual power.”

  He spoke slowly, and his eyes, which were almost as black as his clothing and hair, glowed with warmth. He continued to look into their eyes and made no move to leave.

  “We are interested in history, Father, you’re right about that,” Sam said. “But I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of myself as spiritual.”

  “Perhaps, yet you are a thinker and a person of deep feelings, as is your partner.” He looked at Florence. “Madame, what would you say about your spiritual self? I see your soul in your eyes when you look at your husband.”

  “He has my heart and soul, Father.”

  “And you have his, and so your souls are one.” He turned to Sam. “Is that not true?”

  “We are not married, which, in an uncanny way, I think you know,” Sam replied. “Is that not true, too?”

  “Ah, but you have chosen to belong to one another, and God sees that.” He made the sign of the cross in the air. “May God’s blessings be upon you. Take care of one another in the difficult times ahead.”

  He turned and disappeared beyond a turn in the cavern, and Sam bent to kiss Florence gently on the lips. She felt she’d been hypnotized by the priest’s eyes and by his knowing her feelings. She hoped what he said about Sam’s was true, too.

  Chapter 12

  The Nile, April 1861

  At six a.m. on Monday, April 15, 1861, Florence walked across the planks to the deck of a dahabiah that was to be their new home. At each end of the broad-beamed boat two enormous sails were rigged like the lateens on fellucas that transported bales of cotton, baskets of dates, crates of fowl, and sometimes passengers on their decks. However, even with more than one sail, the dahabiah was too large and heavy to skim with the speed of the graceful fellucas. It maneuvered like a barge, Sam had told her, but its great hull enclosed ample living quarters as well as storage holds.

  She descended a narrow half-flight of steps and entered a passageway between the galley and servants’ quarters and living quarters she and Sam would occupy. Turning right, she entered the saloon, a cabin the full width of the boat and furnished with couches along the sides below the windows.

  A table and six chairs occupied the floor space between. Built-in shelves and drawers in the bulkheads flanked doors at
each end of the room, and Florence passed through to a passage leading to three cabins, one of them Sam’s office. In the largest cabin, she tossed her bonnet and gloves on a big bunk and stowed her small carry-all in the wardrobe. She saw there was a place where her hat belonged, just as there was for every other item brought to these quarters.

  Back on the main deck, she climbed a short ladder to their the roof and was on a deck with a white canvas stretched over it and rolled in drop-curtains on the sides, and shoved against a back wall were a small table, four rattan chairs, and a stack of blue cushions. Noticing that the deck provided a nearly 360’ view, she pulled two chairs to the starboard rail and plopped cushions on them, saying starboard aloud, conscious of her need to learn yet another vocabulary. She could see the landing and the main deck except for a part the pilot house obscured, and she sat down to watch Sam and his crew prepare for their departure.

  On the pier, his feet set wide apart and arms waving, their dragoman Mustafa shouted orders to the amaalas, who looked like boys of twelve. Their long garments were looped between their thighs like a baby’s diapers, and their legs were sinewy, their feet bare. They toted heavy, bulky loads up the plank and into the holds, and despite Mustafa’s surly shouts, they laughed and jostled one another playfully.

  Florence saw Achmed, the young Nubian they’d chosen to be their cook, coming up the ladder from the galley where he had probably been arranging equipment. He and the serving boys shared two cabins beside the galley.

  He saw her looking down at him, and he bowed politely, and his handsome square face broke into a wide grin. He moved gracefully, almost regally, among the crates. Florence suspected that while she was “training him” to meet Sam’s expectations, she would be learning more than Arabic.

  Tied up astern of the dahabiah were the two noggurs, barge­like boats Sam had named “Clumsy I and Clumsy II.” On the first were cargo holds and quarters for guards, sailors, and drovers. Clumsy II was loaded with the feed for the lambs, goats, and poultry, all now penned on or below its deck. Florence called it their barnyard.

  Across from the mooring lay Gezirah island where the river eddied and purled around its rocky shore in conflicting winds and currents. The setting sun glinted on the spires of mosques and on the rooftops of Zamalek, a community on the island’s south end. The pier was now cleared of trunks and cargo crates, and women and children pushed forward for last glimpses of their men who were on the decks coiling hawsers that had secured the boats. As the wind ruffled the big sails, women began their ululating farewell, and it rose and floated after them, fading as the boats passed Gezirah’s southern tip and picked up speed.