The Twelve Rooms of the Nile (18 page)

With the sun fully risen, she made her way down the long ramp, half stepping, half glissading, enjoying the sudden slips and dips like a child. The sun was already strong on her shoulders, though by the time she reached the shore, some twenty minutes later, a breeze had picked up and herringbone clouds had scudded into place like threads on a giant loom, graying the light to a harsh glare. She reached the boat, climbed aboard, and passed the still-somnolent crew. Their hours had been irregular from the start—often they sailed at 4
A.M
.—dependent upon the tides and their employers’ whims. Only Paolo, puttering with pots and pans about the stern, acknowledged her with a wave of his hand.

“Buon giorno,”
she called, waving in return. “May I ask you a favor?”

He put aside the utensils and came toward her, inclining his head as he approached.

She withdrew the letter from her dress. “Could you deliver this to M. Flaubert for me?”

“Now,
signorina
?”

“Yes, please.” She inspected the letter one last time. It was perfect, the red sealing wax exactly centered on the envelope flap. She handed it to him. He wiped his hands on his trousers before taking it.

“Right away.” He bowed his head again, like a butler or valet.
“Subito.”
He gave a little salute and hurried down the gangway. She watched him march briskly up the beach, deftly negotiating the mud from last night’s rain as he passed by the small fleet of houseboats, bound for the blue
cange
with the tricolor flag.

10

A VISIT TO THE PATRIARCHS

W
hen he awakened, Gustave remembered Max leaving him to sleep alone during the night—in disgust, because he’d been retching.

He felt nauseated now. And tired. Surely it was still early in the morning, though there was no way to know. In its handsome mahogany case with ormolu fittings, the clock on the shelf had read onethirty ever since he boarded in Cairo. The Egyptians seemed to regard clocks as decorative rather than functional objects. Or perhaps they thought them European good luck charms. In any case, a timepiece was useless in Upper Egypt. His pocket watch had stopped after the first sandstorm. Though Max had carried his in a double case inside a buttoned pocket, sand grains had jammed the mainspring.

He craned his neck for a view of the sun, but the sky was hazy. It looked the way he felt: shitty and glaringly ragged. Too much of Bracebridge’s good Irish whiskey after the dinner wine. At home, his mother would have prepared his father’s remedy for mornings after: cognac, fresh milk, a raw egg, and a squirt of lemon juice.

The wind, he noted with distaste, had returned after a day and evening of quietude. Waves raced relentlessly shoreward, repeatedly slapping the sand, like the pounding in his head.

He rose from his bed, fighting the urge to vomit, threw off his gown, donned his hooded djellaba, and pulled on his boots. It was then he noticed Achmet skulking in the doorway, a piece of paper in hand. How long had he been standing there? Surely the man had watched while he slept, drool leaking onto his pillow, afraid to wake him. “Effendi,” the servant whispered, his eyes cast down. He handed the paper over, bowed, and disappeared.

Gustave recognized the creamy stationery. Miss Nightingale must have stayed up last night writing. Or perhaps she had gotten an early start. He imagined that she preferred sunrises to sunsets, waking brightly and full of energy.

He stuck his head through the doorway and instructed Achmet to bring coffee and bread. Then he slit the missive with his ivory letter-opener, one of the few vanities he’d brought from home.

Cher Monsieur,

Nous avons tous tellement apprécié votre visite d’hier soir. Je vous prie de remercier Monsieur Du Camp de notre part—votre ami est un photographe vraiment exceptionnel! Il me ferait plaisir de regarder vos compressions archéologiques. Peut-être pourrais-je même vous aider à les faire.

Que dire de l’étrange conversation que nous avons eue? De ma part, je l’ai trouvée extraordinaire. C’était comme si on se connaissait depuis des années déjà. . . .

The letter continued in a more searching tone:

Good and evil are two of the subjects that consume me at present, first, in regard to ancient Egyptian beliefs; second, in what I find contradictory and limiting in the Christian interpretations (especially the Roman Catholic, which you yourself no doubt practice). Finally, as one who wishes to do good in the world but has only managed to suffer ineffectually (and also make others suffer on my behalf), I feel confused as to my future course.
How shall I accomplish good in the world? I hope you do not think me naive.

Perhaps the freedom of being in an exotic land is what impels me to confess this tempest of ideas to you. If so, I hope you are similarly afflicted with candor and curiosity and will wish to spend time with me discussing these things, especially as you have written an entire book on goodness.

As my friend Selina mentioned, we shall stay on here a few more days, then head for the island of Philae, the “jewel of the Nile.” I look forward to meeting you there and learning about your squeezes.

Sincerely, your new friend,
Rossignol

P.S. Please give my warmest regards to Max.

He liked her directness, her apparent lack of embarrassment, her tone, so intimate that had she spoken the words instead of writing them, he might have thought them odd. With sparkling honesty, she had suggested they meet for a theological discussion. As far as she knew, he was a man of similar spiritual inclinations. He smiled at the absurd irony.

Or
was
he? Why
had
a degenerate like him written a book about a saint? He thought of himself as a troublemaker interested only in truth, chiefly ugly truths. He had tackled the subject of goodness not on his own account, but Saint Anthony’s. Was it possible he harbored a secret wish to do good, like Miss Nightingale, or at least to understand what goodness was? And if he did, how could he reconcile it with his dissipated ways—his studied crassness, his love of perversity and fascination with prostitutes?

He reread her letter, in case something lay hidden between the lines, but her words were crystalline, unsullied by ulterior motives or mixed intentions. So different from Louise’s. Miss Nightingale’s missives were clarion calls that invited him to question his soul.

He tucked the letter away and went abovedecks. No one about but Captain Ibrahim, lolling on a palm mat. He peeked in the salon, where Max was still sleeping, then returned to his cabin.

Coffee and bread sat on a bright tin tray, courtesy of Achmet, who preferred to move unnoticed to escape remark or criticism. In Egypt, it was best to be invisible except when summoned, and then, to lavish flattery. Only yesterday, when he asked Aouadallah why he was still standing at attention after a day of brutal work, the poor soul had prostrated himself and mumbled a reply. “He say, effendi,” Joseph translated, “that it please him enough to be see by you.” There would be no revolutions in Egypt anytime soon.

After he finished the meager meal, he had nothing to do and nowhere he wanted to go. He decided to answer Miss Nightingale and send his reply by courier to her before the day was out. He had something specific he wished to discuss with her, something that would not interest Max, a trip—actually, a pilgrimage—he’d made on his own in Cairo. Who better than Miss Nightingale to confide in?—especially as it pertained to the subject at hand.

My dear Rossignol,

Thank you for your kind letter, which arrived with the speed of lightning. I hope this to you fares as well.

I want to tell you about a marvelous discussion I had in Cairo, partly out of pure curiosity, and partly with the idea of revising my book about Saint Anthony. Since it bears on the idea of good and evil, I think it will be of interest to you, too.

While Max (who has little interest in the Christian faith) was busy photographing the necropolis of the Mamelukes, I took our crewman Hasan with me to visit the Coptic patriarchs at their monastery in Cairo. Hasan is fluent in French and Arabic and, most importantly, Coptic, which is the last remnant of the ancient Egyptian language.

I found the patriarch in an open courtyard, seated on a divan built around a copse of trees. Someone had placed handwritten
books with many flourishes and illuminations all about him so that he appeared to ride in a gold and white cloud of paper. Four more of his sect clad in long black pelisses manned each corner of the yard.

Hasan introduced me as a Frank traveling the world in search of wisdom and religious truth. Long and flowery salutations followed. “May you prosper forever, my sweet lord, and find happiness in all your days and God grant that you return home safe and happy to your family”—this bestowed on me simply for saying my name!

The bishop greeted me courteously and offered many kindnesses. Out came the little cups of strong sugared coffee, the heavy pastries and gelatinous Turkish Delight—cubes of fruit essence dusted with sugar. A fellow approached from the shadows tricked out with a strange contraption that I initially thought was a bagpipe, for I saw a lumpen shape slung over his shoulder and a metallic mouthpiece in front. He turned out to be carrying hot tea in a goatskin, which he poured from a brass spout by leaning forward. Little glasses were stowed in a separate sack under his arm. After he had served us, he wandered off, chanting, “Chai, chai!”

I posed questions about the Trinity (how three gods could be one); about the Virgin; the Gospels; the Eucharist; and the Resurrection. All the erudition I had acquired for Saint Anthony came flooding back. The four robed figures joined us. They, too, were theologians, in the tradition of catechisticals (the Copts invented the catechistic method), and took stools around the patriarch while I sat cross-legged at his feet on the ground. I took notes while Hasan translated. The bishop was ruminative in his answers, thinking with his head down, as if consulting his great, shapeless beard. When the old fellow tired, one of the spirited younger cohorts took over until everyone was quite exhausted. In all, I spent three hours with the Copts, and hope to go back upon my return to Cairo for another session, maybe to talk to the Armenians as well.

As you must know, the Coptic religion is the oldest of all
the Christian sects. They are descended from the ancient Egyptians, but have always been Christian and are highly respected here despite being a tiny minority. While Max and I were first in Cairo last December, we spent many hours tutored in Islam, learning about circumcision, Ramadan (their Easter), the veil, the Prophet, his family, and the dietary laws. We learned more about Islam than I yet know about the Copts.

The Coptic bible is surely closer to what Saint Anthony would have known than the version put forth later by the Roman Catholic Church. He himself was a Coptic Christian and the first monk. He invented the anchorite life.

The most significant theological difference between the Copts and Rome is this: they reject the idea that Jesus was human. This affects their notions of good and evil. They believe that He had only a divine nature, so was not a man at all. If Jesus was not capable of sin, it follows that man is not capable of godliness. This interests me because Saint Anthony was a man who suffered temptation his entire life and was never rid of sin—so not a saint in the way we understand today. He did nothing but live alone in the desert and battle his demons. No healing, no miracles, just the unending struggle to be a human without sin, which is impossible. But if, as the Copts believe, we are born evil and can’t achieve goodness, why would he even have tried?

I’ve been wondering if I may address you as “Rossignol,” or “Florence.” (I prefer the former.) I heard Mrs. Bracebridge call you “Flo,” but perhaps that is reserved for family and the closest of friends; perhaps it would be too
intime.
Since we have revealed our failings to each other, might we
se tutoyer?
Would that offend you? We are far from our respective countries in a land where the formalities are largely irrelevant, in my humble opinion.

Have you noticed that on the Nile almost everyone has but one name? On the
cange,
only Rais Ibrahim has a family name, which is Farghali. At first I thought “rais” was his given name and Ibrahim his family name, but “rais” simply means “captain,”
which you probably know, having your own “rais” on the dahabiyah. Perhaps the Egyptians fancy themselves one big family. I think this lack of a second name serves to keep them in their place and powerless. But enough digression. (For I am in a mood to write tomes to you!)

Will you let me know that this has arrived, my dear songbird?

I should be happy to have your help in making squeezes.

Your friend,
Gustave

11

FRIGHTFUL ROW WITH TROUT

F
lo felt lighter than air when she returned to the cabin after her predawn visit to the temple. Trout lay with her face pressed into her pillow. Flo decided not to wake her yet.

Bending to a low cabinet, she retrieved a battered black wooden box. Dear medicine chest, friend since she was seventeen. A carpenter in Wellow had built it to her design. She grasped the brass handle. Affixed on a piano hinge, the lid folded back to make a walled gallery.