The Twelve Rooms of the Nile (27 page)

“Miraculously, nothing was lost.”

Furtively, Flo studied Rosy Dawn—the purple silk sash, the blue jacket that ended just beneath her bosom with a fringe of gold coins that left her midriff visible through the pink gauze. She wore her hair in lustrous black ringlets that reached her shoulders. A painter
would have had to use every pigment in his box to capture the shadings on her silks, which were as iridescent as scarab wings. When the woman raised her gaze from the floor, Flo saw that her eyes were a luminous and flickering green. At that moment, the woman returned Flo’s glance with a look so searing that Flo felt rebuked. The sensation was identical to how she’d felt when she and Trout had argued. She felt again the sting of Trout’s words:
You don’t know much about me, mum, truth be told.

A servant appeared carrying a wooden platter of sweets. Another carried a kettle of tea brewed at the brazier outside. “Bird’s nest pastries,” Mrs. Lewis said. “And Turkish delight. It’s a
Turkish
delicacy made of—”

“We know,” Flo said, taking one of each, not wanting to appear gluttonous, though she could have easily consumed half a dozen. She watched Selina place a pale green gelatinous square dusted with sugar into her mouth. She chewed it slowly, her eyelids closing as she savored it.

After dinner, they viewed Mr. Lewis’s watercolors and sketchbooks. He had made thousands of drawings. “I have enough material here for a lifetime of painting,” he said, turning the leaves of his portfolios while his guests oohed appreciatively. He said he planned to return with Mrs. Lewis to England the next year and start a family. Charles congratulated him, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back, saying that he had captured in his work all that was foreign and flamboyant in Cairo just as he had captured Spain’s hauteur and dash. Mrs. Lewis glowed with pride.

Flo, who loved art but did not always approve of it—the Italians were too fond of the naked breast, in her opinion, and the Dutch too gloomy—was at first enamored of Mr. Lewis’s renderings, seduced by their beauty. They were scrumptious Eastern delicacies meant to be consumed by the eyes instead of the mouth. He was masterful with a brush, and his hues had a depth she’d never before seen except in oil paintings. One composition showed a street bazaar; in another, schoolboys gathered around a low, tiled table under the tutelage of
colorfully garbed imams. Harem portraits featured languid women in lavishly decorated rooms with carved wooden shutters (from which, Flo mused, Rosy Dawn might have stepped). In all the work, a honeyed light poured down, picking out the brilliant white coils of turbans and the ruby stripes of pajama trousers with a fierce purity and sensuality. But there was something troubling, too, and the longer she looked at the pictures, the less she liked them. She couldn’t say why. Certainly, Lewis had captured the faces of the Orientals, from the hawk-nosed Greek sailors to the satin ebony cheeks of the Nubians. The colors were truer, if possible, than in life. The tactile billow of the textiles, the undulant curves of the camels, the brick and wooden textures were all magnificent. And then she saw what it was, or rather what was lacking. There was not a speck of dirt or disarray anywhere. Not a hint of stink. Everything had been glamorized, like a still life with flawless fruit and a smudgeless glass set upon a pristine tablecloth. If there was a beggar or cripple, his robes were not as tattered and threadbare as in life, his skin eruptions entirely omitted. Streets and alleyways lacked steaming piles of animal manure and sewage standing in open culverts. No pulpy filth smeared the ground of the markets; no spavined mules limped through the bazaars; no mangy dogs begged for scraps. Mr. Lewis had captured the splendor of Eastern fairy tales, of Aladdin’s lamp and flying carpets, but not of the Egypt she had seen. The world he had created was too beautiful, completely devoid of suffering and evil. And therefore—and worst of all—not in need of redemption.

At eight forty-five, Flo, Selina, and Charles packed up to return to Philae. The temperature had dropped, and cold penetrated every joint and exposed inch of skin. They covered themselves with blankets while walking, but it was colder on the water. Charles draped each of the women and himself with a kilim rug to cut the wind. The wool was heavy and itchy, with a smell like stale tobacco. A slow rain of dirt sifted down from it onto Flo’s clothing.

Luckily, despite going upstream, they caught a countercurrent and were back at Philae in ten minutes. Nevertheless, 9
P.M
. was well
past their usual bedtime, and Flo went straight to her cabin. Trout was sleeping under a quilted coverlet without her levinge. Flo wondered whether to follow suit.
Murray
warned severely about fleas, which cold did not discourage so much as impel to a warm body. It recommended sinking a dahabiyah after hiring it, which also took care of rats, but the
Parthenope
had not been doused. Nevertheless, she decided to take her chances, and for the first time curled into bed without the device.

• • •

There were numberless islands above the cataracts, some no bigger than a tabletop, others, like Elephantine, large and mountainous. Selina and Flo, once again in the felucca, were bound for medium-size Bidji, just offshore of Mahatta, where Mr. Lewis sometimes worked for greater privacy. Selina, enthused at the prospect of drawing the temple ruins on Bidji, had brought her sketchbook. “Everyone has done the Sphinx,” she told Flo as they neared the island.

Flo remembered Selina’s delicate pencil sketch of it at the start of the trip.

“But how many have sketched Bidji? Perhaps I shall be the second, after Mr. Lewis, of course.”

Mrs. Lewis, looking more festive and relaxed than the evening before, greeted them at a rickety wooden dock. She wore a white cotton dress with a yellow apron over it, like a governess. The crew helped the passengers ashore, then set off for the other side of the island. Mrs. Lewis called after them in Arabic.

“What did you say, Mrs. Lewis?” Flo asked, impressed at her hostess’s fluency in the language.

“Please, call me Marian. I said they should return in four hours.”

“I do hope they have the same notion of the hour as we do, Marian,” Selina said. She carried her drawing supplies close to her body like a banker his accounts.

“Time is more approximate in Nubia,” Mrs. Lewis said gaily. “The important thing is that they will return well before dark.”

Marian Lewis, Flo noted, was very sure of herself. She had the confidence and manner of a beautiful woman, though she was as ordinary as Parthe, who had the manner of a frightened rabbit. It was irritating to see a woman behave as if she were beautiful without actually
being
beautiful. Flo wondered how Mrs. Lewis managed it. Early on, someone must have convinced her of it, based, Flo reasoned, not on fact but on feeling. Her family might have constantly told her how gorgeous she was, not out of a desire to lie, but blinded by the purest love. Flo had met mothers like this, so enamored of their children that they considered others’ offspring negligible. Fanny was not such a mother, prone as she was to harping on the tiniest flaws. With Fanny as a mother, Flo did not even know if she were beautiful.

A child of about four ran from a nearby hut to greet Mrs. Lewis. She pushed up the hem of the Englishwoman’s dress and embraced her stockinged legs. “Zehnab!” Mrs. Lewis cried, petting her on the head. The child wore nothing but a bead necklace around her neck and another around her waist. She jumped up and down, clutching Mrs. Lewis’s skirts, raising them up in small handfuls, like flowers. The child’s woolly hair radiated from her head like a ring around the moon.

The little girl kissed Flo’s hand as Mrs. Lewis introduced her. Flo was so taken with her that she immediately began to wonder what she might give her as a present. She hadn’t thought to bring trinkets. Would Selina be willing to part with a couple of pencils or pieces or chalk? She whispered the question, and Selina nodded enthusiastically.

“And here is more of the family,” said Mrs. Lewis.

An old man clad in a sheer white robe approached with two girls in tow, an adolescent and a younger child. Flo felt she’d been delivered to a pagan heaven and here was its St. Peter, accompanied by two angels. With open faces and kindly expressions, they appeared to exist in a state of contentment that Flo had never known or could no longer remember—the paradise that was her childhood, before Miss Christie? The trio beamed at her. They were clean and polished-looking, from their neatly oiled and coiffed hair to the dazzling red of
the elder’s tunic. Mrs. Lewis explained that one big family inhabited Bidji and that he was its patriarch. Flo wished she could speak to him directly. Was there any bigger obstacle in the world than language? She saw Selina curtsy and followed suit.

The old man was Zehnab’s great-great-grandfather. The older girl, Fatima, was Zehnab’s mother and a widow at sixteen. The last girl, Azrah, was Zehnab’s aunt. She was ten and had just been married.

After a deep salaam, the old man left the girls with the women.

“It’s a short swim from Bidji to Mahatta,” Mrs. Lewis said. “Azrah swims over to visit us several times a week. Sometimes she brings little Zehnab.”

Azrah, the new bride, was anxious to show off her house, a typical Nubian mud dome consisting of two rooms, one furnished with a clay divan and water jar, the second one reserved for chickens. Azrah was happy with her life, Mrs. Lewis declared, and especially proud of two pillows angled neatly on the divan. Though Flo could not stand up in the squat dwelling, she appreciated its cleanliness and practicality.

Mrs. Lewis had prepared a picnic to eat under the trees. She asked Fatima to fetch it, and soon the six of them were lounging on an Indian paisley bedcover, munching on pistachio nuts, durra bread, durra cakes, olives, and white cheese. Nothing English, unlike the evening before. While the food was being passed, Selina dug into her tote, pulled out three pencils, and placed them in Flo’s pocket.

Mrs. Lewis was an adept translator, and the Nubian children—the wife, widow, and bride—had many questions for her. Azrah was fascinated by Mrs. Lewis’s gold wedding band, which she removed and passed among the three girls to try on. Flo wondered how Mr. Lewis would react if he saw the ring so casually handled.

Selina began to sketch Zehnab while the older girls asked to hear the story of Mrs. Lewis’s wedding. Mrs. Lewis was happy to oblige. Since grooms paid a bride price in Egypt, they wanted to know how much Mr. Lewis had given for her.

“Thirty shillings,” she said, laughing. She translated the conversation for the women.

Fatima said that was very little and seemed disconcerted by Mrs. Lewis’s bargain price. She asked how often Mr. Lewis beat her.

“Never,” chuckled Mrs. Lewis.

Surprised by that answer, Fatima and Azrah conferred briefly before the next question. “What is wrong with him that he does not beat you?” Azrah asked. She looked agitated.

“It is because he loves me,” Mrs. Lewis replied. “In England, men do not beat their wives.” She fussed with her mousy hair, pushing it back from her forehead.

Again, the older girls conferred, withdrawing to a corner of the picnic cloth while Zehnab continued to pose for Selina, frequently peeking at herself taking shape on the sketch pad. Selina seemed delighted by the little girl.

“Is the thirty shillings part true?” Flo asked.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Lewis answered, more cheerful than ever. “The
cadi
who married us demanded a price be paid, so my dear husband gave thirty shillings for the poor plate.”

“It must have been a strange but happy day,” Flo said.

“Unusual, to be sure.” Mrs. Lewis seemed lost in a momentary reverie of the event. “But wonderful, too. That is the day Mr. Lewis bought me my Berber slave. Oh, but you saw her, last night at dinner.”

Flo could not believe it! That there should still be slaves in Egypt was criminal. But that Marian Lewis should delight in owning one was nothing short of loathsome and evil. She recalled the hostile glare of Rosy Dawn when she caught Flo staring at her, and felt deeply ashamed. “You must love Mr. Lewis very much,” Flo mumbled. “Such an extravagant wedding gift.” Selina, like Flo an abolitionist, took one of Zehnab’s hands and held it, avoiding Mrs. Lewis’s eyes.

“Have you thought about arranging to educate little Zehnab?” Flo asked. “She seems so bright and energetic. You could send her to the nuns in Cairo.”

“Whatever for?” Mrs. Lewis replied.

Wasn’t it obvious? Flo thought of Felicetta Sensi, the little urchin she’d placed a year ago in the convent school at Trinità dei Monti,
proud to have removed her from the harsh, perverting streets of Rome. Since then, she’d been paying for the child’s education with her dress allowance. “For her betterment and the betterment of her whole family.” Flo stared unblinking into Marian Lewis’s face. Was it really going to be necessary to explain the idea of progress to her?

“That would be a waste of time. The child is perfectly happy here as she is.”

The older girls rejoined the group, still watching Mrs. Lewis piteously.

Flo decided it was useless to express her outrage.

“Could you translate something, Marian?” Selina asked, handing Zehnab the portrait she’d made.

“Of course.”

“Tell the girls that we like them very much.” Selina tore off several sheets of paper and signaled to Flo to produce the pencils. “These are gifts for them.”

As Mrs. Lewis translated, the girls eagerly accepted their presents, chattering and tugging on Flo and Selina. “They want to embrace you,” Mrs. Lewis said, “to thank you.”

“That would be lovely,” said Flo. The five hugged and bussed. Selina clung to the little girls with tears in her eyes as Mrs. Lewis watched impassively.

Fatima returned to the subject of Mrs. Lewis’s nuptials with what seemed to be an expression of concern. Would Mr. Lewis be sending her home since he did not think enough of her to beat her?

Mrs. Lewis laughed, then laughed again as she translated for Selina and Flo. Englishmen, she explained, did not send their wives home. They remained married to one woman forever.