The Twelve Rooms of the Nile (49 page)

• • •

He was refilling their glasses. “I should take you to your tent.”

“Mmm. But let me lie here just a little longer.” She opened her eyes and closed them again.

“Would you allow me to make another cast of you?”

“I might. Yes.”

She turned toward him and drifted off in his arms.

• • •

Twelve hours of night felt like a day, a week, a life. Again, they stumbled to Joseph’s tent, where they found the patients no worse. They woke and slept, woke and slept, talked and murmured nonsense. He had never felt so comfortable with another person in his bed.

At some point he began quite naturally to caress her, his hand on her waist, then sliding up her ribs, a tidy but exotic landscape of concavities and rises. He kept his eyes closed, seeing only with his hand. She touched his face, tentatively, then with more vigor, stroking his cheeks, feeling his ears, nose, and lips.

But he must not, he reminded himself, could not, for many reasons, the first of which was that at Koseir he’d found a single chancre on his penis. In a matter of weeks, he’d know if it was the pox. He’d bring himself off outside the tent later on, but now he gave himself to the slow pleasure of touch. Alcohol was a beautiful thing. If he had children, God forbid, he would name the first one Rakı. Slowly, so that she would perceive what was happening to her in her fog, he unbuttoned the top of her bodice. And then, in order not to frighten her, he hit upon a clever scheme, placing her own hand on her breast and then covering it with his.

“Oh,” she said, gasping. She touched his face again with her free hand and slid her other hand out from under his.

He had felt a staggering number of breasts over the years, all reduced now to zero. This was the first, the only one that mattered. When her nipple hardened in his palm he became light-headed, his cock so hard it was bobbing up of its own accord, practically straining against his shorts. Knowing she’d be frightened if she felt it, he moved his hips back, even now feeling the pressure of his swollen testicles. He put it out of his mind. Her breast, her breast, her breast . . . Her arm. Her neck. He was fading into and out of his body on waves of rapture.

He must distract himself or explode. He reached for the bowl of papier-mâché. “
Wait
, don’t move,” he said. He added some rakı and mixed it up. “This is going to feel cool.”

She opened her eyes to see what he was up to.

He folded her bodice out of the way to reveal her breast. “I am going to make a mold of your heart.”

• • •

When he next awoke, he wondered if he’d suffered a nervous attack. So complete was the oblivion from which he emerged that at first he couldn’t be sure whose consciousness was peering out through his eyes. Was this what animals felt—sensation without identity?

Alone, he sat up and lifted the tent flap, clasping it under his neck. It was light out, the Orient’s bellyful of colors faded to a dun expanse. The camels were bunched on the ground, grotesque swans. And there was Miss Nightingale’s white tent, medieval-looking with its decorative fringe and flag. Was it morning? Afternoon? No one was about. He closed the flaps and lay back down.

His head felt heavy and swollen, as if wrapped in a ream of sopping squeeze paper, while his mouth was dry as a broom. Thirst. That was how the previous day had begun and ended, with a thirst beyond words, beyond enduring. He recalled a stream of pilgrims on the road, calabashes hanging from the pommels of their saddles, their bad-tempered wives screaming out an unending chorus of disapproval.

Trout. Privately, he had wept for her, though not in front of Miss Nightingale, thinking it would alarm her even more. And Max, seriously ill. Joseph, too. He prayed Max was better, though he didn’t love him and never would, he realized hazily—not the way he loved Bouilhet and Alfred. Still, Max was the best of companions for an adventure—fussy and ambitious, perhaps, but never too cautious.

Abruptly, a memory of Miss Nightingale surfaced, her mouth moving quickly, her neck rigid. The word
Abdulmecid. . . . Abdulmecid
, repeated in his mind like the tolling of a distant bell.

Inside a bandbox, he found the two casts he’d made.

Something had been said, not in profile, but looking straight at each other. What the devil was it? It had been, well, poetic. Poignant. He had promised himself to remember.

25

AMONG THE ABABDEH

N
ever having ridden her camel at a gallop, Flo was amazed at how rapidly the riders she first glimpsed churning up dust flurries at the horizon materialized at the camp: Père Elias and his houseboy, Hakim, both showered with fine grit and wearing kaffiyehs over their faces. The forward contingent of Trout’s search party!

Dazed by thirst, her head still throbbing from last night’s rakı, she stood up, spilling the last plate of beans and apricot paste onto the sand.

Père Elias promptly ordered his camel to kneel and slid to the ground. “Mademoiselle Nightingale,” he cried. “We have found you at last! You are all right, I hope?”

Of course you have found me, she thought. I am not the one who is lost. “Thirsty,” she replied. “Have you any water?”

“Plenty.” He leaned over his camel. “We carry a full load, six skins each.” He hurried to her, kissed both cheeks, and handed her two goatskins.

“It is good to see you. Please, excuse me.” She raised a skin above her head and, to her surprise, squirted a perfect liquid arc into her mouth. Hakim shifted on his feet.
“Bonjour,”
he muttered. She acknowledged him by shutting her eyes as she gulped and swallowed, gulped and swallowed.

“And where are the gentlemen?” the consul asked.

She pointed to Joseph’s tent.
“Malades,”
she managed, “with fever.” Her belly was cramping. She stopped drinking and placed the damp goatskin against her cheek. “All but Gustave, who is inspecting rocks for petroglyphs.” In fact, he had gone to relieve himself.

Mohammed and the crew members welcomed the riders, bowing to Père Elias and embracing Hakim. How did they know him? Were they his relatives? she wondered. Cousins?

After another long slug, she began to revive, like a wilted plant responding to water flooding its leaves and branches. While the men exchanged formal pleasantries, she rushed two of Hakim’s goatskins to the sick tent. Max was so grateful, he wept as he drank, while Joseph leaned forward on his elbow, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a hungry chick as he swallowed. Their fevers had broken. Still, both men were weak and without appetite. They needed to return to Kenneh as quickly as possible to avoid a relapse in the desert heat.

The camel guides were sharing Père Elias’s dates and water good-naturedly when she returned. Just then she spied a haggard Gustave plodding back toward the camp. Earlier, when he exited his tent, they’d exchanged the stuporous greetings of the desperately hung over. Now, though pale, his eyes sunken within swollen circles, he smiled at her. She passed him her goatskin, and he drank until he was quenched.

She could wait no longer. “What about Trout?” she asked the consul. “Have you found her?” She was determined to stay calm but felt herself trembling. She feared the consul’s presence boded bad news, possibly the worst news. Gustave reached out his hand and she took it, gratified that Max remained in the tent, though she would not, she decided, relinquish this comfort if he suddenly appeared, reputation be damned.

Père Elias and Hakim were conferring in whispers. “Please,” she begged them, “we have been sick with worry.”

“Mademoiselle Nightingale,” Père Elias began, crossing himself,
“I beg your forgiveness for taking so long. Of course, I shall tell you all that I know.” He glanced at Hakim, who sat beside him, hanging on his employer’s every word like a spaniel awaiting a tidbit. The wind gusted at ground level, an impish, invisible creature that ruffled the hems of the men’s robes, her filth-stiffened dress.

“Out with it,
monsieur
!” Gustave shouted. “Is she among the living?”

“Oh, yes,
forgive
me, dear friends. Yes—she is alive.” The consul put his arm around Hakim’s shoulders. “That is why I—
we
—have come. To explain everything. I beg you only to be patient.”

Flo felt her body sag in relief. Thank God. Thank you,
thank
you, God. Gustave squeezed her hand and held fast to it.

Warm and newly familiar, his hand propelled her into a parallel awareness. Comments from the previous night floated like motes in a sunbeam across her mind.
Oui, d’accord. J’aime ton visage
. But a strange fog enveloped her, as if she had kept a secret so long and thoroughly that she herself had forgotten it.

After securing the mold of Gustave’s face in a box, she recalled, she had groped toward her tent, acknowledged the drowsing sentry, and lain upon her bedroll without undressing. A moment later, it seemed, the sun was blaring. Peering outside and seeing no activity, she went back to sleep. Shortly after eight—four hours later than usual—the crew roused themselves and she got up for good. It was then that she noticed her unbuttoned bodice and the tatters of pa-pier-mâché clinging to her neck and chest. He had made squeezes of her, yes. And they had kissed. Beyond that, she was sure of only two things: that she would be happy to see him again and that no harm had been done her. Nevertheless, before emerging from her tent, she had inspected her drawers for blood, finding nothing but a stiff patch of cloth where something had dried. Her virginity, that priceless jewel for which she had no earthly use, was intact.

They had talked. And talked and talked. She remembered laughter. Above all, the impression of tenderness given and received. They had been playful, like brother and sister, though not exactly. She felt her face heat up as she remembered the feel of her fingers in his
mouth and her will dissolving in a burst of pleasure. And then he had placed his finger in
her
mouth, whereupon the sensation had doubled and trebled until she felt herself purely a body, all thought having vanished for the first time in her life. She had liked that. Very much. Was this what Clarkey called
amitié amoureuse
? Loving fellowship?

Père Elias was nattering on at the edge of her attention, carefully laying the groundwork for his story. The camel guides ululated and hooted as he lauded the Ababdeh women, who were, as everyone knew, blessed with strong feet and lean figures. Their flawless, nut-brown skin was especially glorious against their white shell necklaces.

She returned to her thoughts. They must remain in touch after Egypt. She pictured him visiting at Embley, herself in Rouen or Paris. They might remain friends for years, decades—a lifetime of substantial letters and conversations. She could consult him about her plans to serve God, and confer with him about his writing. They would be the best of companions, like Clarkey and M. Fauriel. Perhaps lovers. Had Clarkey been sleeping with Fauriel all those years? Certainly she must be now with Mohl. She had heard that the French knew how to prevent pregnancy. If anyone knew, Clarkey would. A brutal determination formed in her mind: she would keep him as a friend, whatever it took.

But was this the touted bliss of love that she’d read about in Madame Sand’s spicy novels? It was not the crushing sensation she’d expected, but rather feathery and weightless. How lightly his hand had covered hers! And how much it assured: to keep her safe, to guide and delight. Such a simple act, holding hands. We are a pair, it said. Two in harmony against this inattentive, suffering world.

She let out a deep sigh. Whether it was love or not, she couldn’t stop smiling, especially now that she knew Trout was alive.

The consul’s speech, alternating between French and Arabic, had slowed, as if he were approaching sensitive material. She turned her attention to it.

Not one Abadi in living memory, he explained, had refused matrimony. Most boys eagerly anticipated it as a mark of manhood and privilege. To make matters worse, Hakim’s father was a sheik; his
mother, a powerful matchmaker and matriarch. Humiliated by the recalcitrant son who would not take a bride, they had disowned him. It was owing to these grave circumstances, Père Elias summarized, that Hakim had hit upon a plan that, alas, had come to involve Trout.

Following the consul’s logic, Flo’s mind leaped forward. “I hope he does not propose to marry my maid.” Snickering and chortling followed Père Elias’s translation. For the first time she had the undivided attention of the crew, even Mohammed.

“Non, certainement pas,”
Père Elias replied. “Although Hakim prefers the company of older women, he does not wish to marry anyone, I assure you.”

The crew continued to laugh. Apparently they found the idea of Trout as a wife utterly ludicrous. Flo felt slighted on her maid’s behalf. Trout might be forty-three years old, but she was neither infirm nor unattractive. Indeed, she was a person of a certain dignity.

As if reading Flo’s thoughts, Gustave stood and called them to order, his hand raised like a constable’s directing carriage traffic at Mayfair. “See here, there’s no need to mock Miss Nightingale’s companion.”

“Forgive me,” Père Elias said, raising both hands as if to bless the crew, but in fact to silence them. “She is a fine English lady.”

Oh, thought Flo, if you only knew.

Grumbling, Gustave sat down again next to her.

“Understand that Madame Trout is safe,” Père Elias said. “To my best knowledge, she is perfectly safe and sound.”

Again, Gustave jumped up, with more vigor than he’d shown all day. “Will you not simply produce her then?” He sat back down. “These people talk long, but not straight,” he whispered. “There is always something hidden in their words.” Color had returned to his cheeks and sweat lay in a thin film upon his brow.

She removed her handkerchief and blotted his forehead as she eyed the consul. “Where is she then?” she demanded.

Shaking his head, the consul regarded his sandals. “This will take time.”