3 comments/ 6938 views/ 0 favorites Sunset Over Cairo By: Alexis Haines Sunset Over Cairo A black kite wails through the cooling air as evening falls over the great plain of Gizeh. Beneath the sinking sun, the dull dirt landscape glows in momentary splendor. Shadows lengthen as the black kite plunges, and a tiny shriek of death goes unnoticed on the plain. To the east in Cairo's old quarter, Masr al-Qadima, a clear-eyed muadhdhin prepares to climb the winding stairs of a golden minaret. Shadows snap to black in an instant as the sun finally dies, leaving behind soft kisses of purple and champagne. From Amr Ibn al-Aas, the Crown of Mosques, the oldest mosque built upon Egypt's ancient land, the soulful cry of the muadhdhin calls to the faithful. Cerulean blue deepens to indigo as the last echoes of the sunset fade, and the silt-brown flowing waters of the Nile are quiet. In the middle of the river sits the flat, broadly tapering island of Gezirat Boulaq. The island sits between Gizeh and Masr al-Qadima, between the death dealing talons of the black kite and the life summons of the muadhdhin. As the divided river gently caresses the island's sides, lights appear from inside the Gezira Sporting Club. In 1922, its patrons are in palm-decked twilight, precariously suspended between death and life, in Cairo's divided worlds. ******* Frances Shanley strode easily beside her husband along tree lined Avenue Zamalek. She was happy, despite two minor irritations. Her fashionable, short-brimmed cloche hat sat so low over her forehead it was impossible to look across the street discreetly; and Allan insisted on walking on the 'outside'. So she had to lean backwards, raise her chin, and peer down her nose to take in the view. There were two reactions; the first was a fierce glare from the dark skinned sentry outside the high-walled building. The second was Allan's firm hand between her shoulder blades pushing her upright. He, of course, kept his eyes forward. "The reason for the high walls is that the Sirdar does not like people peering in." "The Sirdar. Hmm. Major-General Sir Oliver Fitzmorris (Lee) Stack, governor-general of the Sudan and commander-general of the Egyptian army." "Quite." "So who is Major Parker Jones?" "Bertie's a friend of father's; retired from the Army now. He has a sinecure with the Egyptian State Railway. Old boy's rather high up, you know; not quite Cabinet level, but pretty damn close. He's an interesting chap. Built rail all over Indian and Burma. Give him half a chance, and he'll tell you the whole history of the Royal Engineers." "Oh." Three minor irritations. Allan and Frances were on their way to meet the Major and his wife for lunch. "So, how do we get to Shepheard's Hotel? Do we walk the whole way? I'm getting hungry." "There's a tram stop just past the Sirdaria. Frances, please stop looking. And do be nice to Bertie and Edith for me. Bertie pulled strings to get us the villa, and Edith is dying to meet you. She's the club matriarch; let her take you under her wing, and you'll be settled in no time. You'll see." Frances had loved Villa Zohria on sight. Her new semi-detached home on Shagaret el-Dor Street was modern, bright, and well maintained. It had the lushest garden she had ever seen, a boon to her English heart. Thanks to his father's connections, Allan had acquired the lease three weeks ago, shortly after he arrived; this was Frances' second day in Cairo, and her first outing. Her only connection was Allan, if she didn't count the children next door. The adjoining residence, also called Villa Zohria, was leased by a Swiss couple from Lausanne. Dr. Georg Veillon and his wife, Margrit, had been quick to welcome Allan when he first moved in. Their three boisterous children had likewise wasted no time in getting to meet Frances. They had introduced themselves that morning through the time honored expedient of an errant ball lobbed over the boxwood hedge. If the immaculate streets and the Veillons were anything to go by, the Gezira suburb would do nicely. She would have preferred to have spent the day alone with her husband; Allan would report to the Ministry of Finance in just three short days. But she understood. They could not snub an old friend of 'pater' and the doyenne of ex-patriot society. Frances grimaced as she remembered her mother's parting words at Southampton docks, just a few short days before: "Best foot forward, Frances; don't let the side down". She had told her the same thing on her first morning with the Red Cross, during the Great War. She had been 18 when she volunteered. Sheltered and over socialized, like all the daughters of the upper class before the war, Frances had taken heart from her mother's words. Six years later, the sights and sounds of the wounded and dying were still with her. Slow circling teaspoons would bring back memories of winding bandages around fetid stumps of limbs, and any high sound would recall the torturous screams that echoed through the wards. In her dreams, sometimes, the screams were her own. Frances often told herself she was happy, despite the minor irritations; but since the war, she had never again taken heart from her mother's favorite expression. ******* Nicolas Phillipides sat in unaffected ease in a fine grey suit and matching trilby, on the most famous terrace in Cairo. Overlooking Ibrahim Pasha Street, the Shepheard's Hotel terrace spread broadly for its languishing guests. Potted palms, white wicker, and scrolling iron made an elegant setting for the Europeans who gathered there, to see and be seen. Along the terrace front, the city's best-kept carriages and horses waited patiently on their bidding. A few blunt-nosed cars chugged past the neat line of gharrys. Boys in white turbans kept up a practiced chatter as they polished the soft leather slippers of men in light blue, nightshirt galabeyahs, brown western-style jackets, and red flowerpot tarbush hats. Expecting to be shooed away at any moment, they worked quickly for their few piastres. There were nine, wide steps between the sidewalk and the top of the terrace. Nine steps between two very separate worlds. To most of the inhabitants of those two worlds, the distance the steps traversed was immeasurable; but not to Nicolas Phillipides. Nicolas had an acute grasp of measurement. Commodities prices, tonnage and the capacity of ships' holds, distances and times of delivery; they were all pieces of a puzzle, and he could fit them together like none other of his time. When the pieces fit, his company made money. The Phillipides had a lot of money; they were part of the protoklassatoi, the old money families of the Greek community. Nicolas' grandfather had started the company as an Alexandrian dragoman, when Egypt was part of the Ottoman Empire. Stratis Phillipides had been a guide, a man of many languages with an almost miraculous ability to procure anything, at any time, for and from anyone. Many of the old-time dragomans made enough money to go into the hotel business. Stratis Phillipides went into shipping. At 34, Nicolas had developed all of his grandfather's talents. From his father, he had inherited the wealth and ships of the Alexandrian Traders Company. It was in his father's time, when the American Civil War blockades brought the British to the Egyptian cotton market, that the Phillipides had expanded. The ability to read the writing on the wall had helped secure their success. Sensing the coming shift of power from the Ottoman pashas to the British lords, they had grabbed a few of the latter for their own. And so it was that Nicolas sat patiently sipping coffee on the terrace of Shepheard's Hotel, while he waited for Lord Cecil Ashton. Lord Cecil was the company's current British front who, with his title and little else, helped smooth the way through British hegemony. "Dashed sorry I'm late, Nic. How about a brandy and soda?" Lord Cecil dropped into a white wicker chair beside Nicolas and disinterestedly surveyed the carriages and passing traffic on the street. A sofragi in a long white galabeyah, black cummerbund, cropped black jacket and red tarbush appeared at their table. He waited with blank eyes for the lord's pleasure. Lord Cecil ignored him. "A brandy and soda for my guest, min fadlak." Nicolas added his 'please' quietly, addressing it to the sofragi's cummerbund before looking up into his dark, impassive face. Nicolas saw the flash in the waiter's eyes. He would remember his face. Men, too, he could measure. With an inner sigh, he turned his attention to the business at hand. Lord Cecil did little for his twenty percent, but he was not yet indispensable. Nicolas knew the time was coming when the Egyptian national assembly, the Wafd, would win their country's independence. The recent, hard won concessions were the beginning of the end for the British. By the time the occupation was truly over, his company would have its new allegiances in place. Nicolas would dispose of his British board members when the time was right. This one would be the first to go. In the meantime, let the ingrate believe he was the superior man. Even the waiter knew the truth. ******* "…and you must let Bertie put you up for membership! You will, won't you Bertie?" "Rather! You play croquet, Frances? The club's lawns are excellent. No rowing teams for you, Allan, old boy. Too many damned feluccas and barges. Your father told me you almost made the Oxford rowing list?" "Didn't quite get my blue, Sir, but I did row for Christ Church during Eight's Week. That was when I met Frances." Allan took hold of his wife's hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. The Major and his wife had been talking non-stop, almost all of it addressed to Allan. "Do you know, this lad got a first in Modern Greats, Edith! And you came highly recommended by the Home Office, I understand. Good show! You'll go far here, my boy," pronounced the Major. "A sign of the highest talent and application, young man. Your mother must be very proud." 'I, on the other hand, just nursed the dying' thought Frances. Evidently Allan's academic study and three years pushing paper for the Home Office far outweighed her slice of life. Feeling invisible, she tilted her head back and peered across the terrace; and caught a foreigner looking at her. He was tanned, clean shaven, with thick, black eyebrows above deep set, intensely dark eyes. She guessed he was Greek, from his sensuous mouth and slightly broad nose, with perhaps some Coptic ancestry in the fine boned hands. He lifted his hat in recognition of her interest. Two shanks of thick, shining black hair fell forward over his brow. The frank acknowledgment startled her; in response to which, his mouth spread in an almost imperceptible smile. She turned away quickly. "…and I gained a substantive knowledge of contemporary politics and economics. What I hope will be useful is my training in data analysis and problem solving. There are complex social issues here. I would be glad of any advice you would care to give me, Major." "Social issues, eh? I could tell you a few stories about those." Frances was finally interested, and grateful for the distraction. "What happened in 1919, Major? The general strike and the riots, I mean." Edith jumped in immediately. "Oh now, Frances, you mustn't worry. That was just a spot of trouble and it's all blown over now, hasn't it Bertie?" "Oh Lord, yes! Lord Allenby's got 'em by the short and curlies." Frances kept a straight face for Edith's sake, but she liked the simile. "Damn fine High Commissioner, Allenby. Wingate was Commissioner then; exiled that nationalist crew. Upstarts wanted to send a delegation to London! Powers-that-be decided exhile was the sensible thing; packed 'em off to Malta. A few disruptive elements got the gyppies all lathered up over that. Poor old Wingate couldn't hold it." Major Parker Jones shook his craggy head and pursed his lips in disapproval of the inconveniences the "disruptive elements" had caused. "Edith's quite right," he continued, "all over now. They're an easy-going lot usually. The truth is your average fellah is quite content if he has his coffee and a little hashish. No, I'm sorry the Foreign Office recalled Wingate, but I like the new man. The old boy's got horse sense; he won't stand for any riot nonsense! Egypt may be a monarchy now but, you mark my words, everyone knows who holds the real power." "So, if we have the real power still, doesn't that make King Faud a puppet?" Allan looked at his wife, astonished. Edith Parker Jones was visibly shocked. Surely the girl wasn't politically inclined? One heard such odd news about the 'bright young things'; holding radical views and drinking cocktails in London's West End clubs. She looked modern, but nothing outré. A little boyish, perhaps, and the painted lips and nails were rather bold. But there was a quiet, refined air about the girl. Edith decided the girl was probably just trying to show an interest in her new home. Laudable. But even so, a few of the Egyptian elite were regular visitors to the club. They weren't members, of course; but one still had to know what to say around them. No, Frances Shanley would need a little guidance, but she would do. Having made her assessment, Edith appraised the terrace guests. "Oh look, Bertie, Lord Cecil! He's with that Greek of his, what's his name? Philip? I've seen that fellow at the club a few times. I don't know who signs him in. Would Lord Cecil sign him in, Bertie?" "Not sure. Could be just about anyone; chap seems well connected. Bit of a dark horse, if you ask me. Look out, they're coming over." A tall, crumpled-looking Englishman was approaching their table. To Frances' astonishment, the foreigner with the dark eyes was with him. "Major! Edith! Jolly good to see you both!" "Cecil, old boy! How have you been? Haven't seen you since the Continental's last ball! You're looking well, old chap. Allow me to introduce Allan Shanley." The younger man jumped to his feet. "Good afternoon, Lord Cecil." The rules of etiquette were followed in a round of handshakes and the mystery of the Greek chap's name was finally resolved. However, since a lady was never presented to a man, Nicolas had not yet achieved the purpose for which he and Lord Cecil had come. Conviviality being the Major's nature, Lord Cecil and Nicolas were immediately invited to join them. Discretely leaving the three Englishmen to gossip over the affairs of state, Nicolas took a seat beside the large, blousy Edith who was immediately taken with his charm. "I want to tell you I have long admired your dedication to the Gezira community, Mrs. Parker Jones. You have an impressive civic spirit, if I may say so. Gezira is indebted to you." "Oh! Well, I do think one should guide the less experienced, particularly the new arrivals. It does so make a difference to how they settle in." "Very true; indeed, so many difficulties can be avoided with a little care from one's friends." "And in what way do you care for your friends, Mr. Phillipides?" Frances had been inundated with charm in her debutante year, and had been suspicious of it ever since. Nicolas' eyes took in her wedding band and gleamed. "I fear the ways in which I am able to assist would be of little interest to you, Mrs. Shanley; and I would be a poor showing beside Mrs. Parker Jones." Edith beamed delightedly at Nicolas as he nonchalantly sipped his Vichy water, but it was too evasive an answer for Frances. "And why would I, my husband and I, not be interested in your help, Mr. Phillipides?" Nicolas leaned forward and answered her seriously. "Perhaps you would be interested, Mrs. Shanley, in time. And if such a time should come, I would be glad to be of assistance to both Mr. Shanley and yourself. But my business takes me far from places of immediate interest to newcomers." "You mean, off the tourist track?" Her arch tone was gone. "Far off the tourist track." He leaned back and continued in a lighter tone. "However the pyramids and Ezbekieh Gardens are wonderful, and I would highly recommend the Museum, wouldn't you, Mrs. Parker Jones?" "Oh, Frances, I'll round up some of the ladies and we'll have our own grand tour! Won't that be fun?" Frances. Her eyes met his and held them, as she considered how best to answer Edith. Again, that faint smile played around his mouth. In the end, all she could do was dubiously assure Edith that she thought it would be wonderful, and thank her. A sideways glance at Allan told her his conversation was coming to a close, and she made a display of placing her napkin on the table. All stood to make the final round of handshakes. Edith's eyes sparkled as Nicolas bent low over her plump hand. Allan's eyes were questioning but his manner was warm as Nicolas gave him his card and assured him, should he ever need his help, he had but to ask. As the chattering group moved to the terrace steps, Nicolas deftly took Frances' hand and treated her to the same courtly bow. But as he straightened, he held her back and spoke low. "Mrs. Shanley, your social calendar will be a whirl of lunches, dinners, balls and club functions. You will be introduced to the finest European couturiers, and taken on regular shopping expeditions to Tiring's department store. You will listen to endless conversations about the fashions of the elite, and the lives of families back home; people you do not know, and will never meet. There will be croquet, tennis, and tea in the pavilions." "When you have tired of all that, and you will tire of it, Frances, then you will come to me. And then, I promise you, I will show you Cairo." Bidding a cheerful good day to the rest of the group, Nicolas Phillipides lightly descended the steps between his worlds, leapt into the nearest carriage, and was gone. Frances Shanley stared after him feeling suddenly, unaccountably, alone. ******* "You look tired, mon ami. Is there anything I can do?" "You can help me eat this lemon cake and let me pour you another cup of tea. Oh, and you can ask Dr. Georg if he has anything I can slip Edith to slow her down. Honestly, I can't keep up with her!" Margrit smiled as she cut them both a slice of cake. Her experience of living on Gezira was different from her young neighbor's. Not for the first time, she counted her blessings. While the small Anglo-American Hospital was demanding of their time, it offered the Veillons a way to share their life. Dr. Veillon was a resident, and his steady, level-headed wife volunteered while the children were at school. Besides being a worthy cause, it also offered Margrit an alternative scene to the club. For that alone, Margrit was thankful. When she first learnt of Frances' years with the Red Cross, she had tried to enlist her as a volunteer. The panic in the young woman's eyes told her it would never happen, and she could guess why. Families had hidden the ignominy, but she knew there had been nervous breakdowns amongst the Red Cross' more sensitive volunteers. She had never raised the subject again, and had been careful to show Frances the Veillons bore no grudge. Regular morning tea in Frances' well-loved garden had been the result. "I think it is wonderful, what you have done." "What Edith has done, you mean." "Hah! I do not believe Edith will have all of the credit. Everyone knows how hard you worked. Yesterday, one of the twitterings told me all of society will be there. I can not imagine how many invitations you sent." "Twitterings" was Margrit's word for the club gossips. She delighted Frances every time she used it. "The twittering was right; it's going to be the charity ball of the season. But the best of it is, we're going to raise a very handsome sum for the Anglo." Frances stared pensively at the restful greenery beyond the patio. "I'm dreading it." Sunset Over Cairo Her frank revelation caught Margrit by surprise. "Oh, Frances! But, why? As you say, it will be a great success!" "It will be such a success that I will be co-opted into every worthless function Edith wants her name on. I won't have anything real to look forward to after this. I feel like Cinderella, just before midnight." She was more than tired, Margrit realized. She was miserable. It had been seven months since the Shanleys had moved in. It was the time new arrivals either found their niche, or started longing for home. "Listen to me, ma petite. This, I can not let go by. I may speak out of turn, but it is from concern for you, do you understand?" Frances didn't trust her voice. She blinked quickly and faced her confidante with an unconvincing smile and nodded. "Sometimes, a young man does not understand his wife. He thinks she likes the same things as other men's wives. For you, this is not true. Does Allan know this? Does he know the club is not enough for you?" Frances sighed. "Yes, he knows. Actually, we had a row about it. I told him I don't want to be Edith's shadow any more. He said I should be grateful she's taken me under her wing. So I told him he's the one who should be grateful, not me; she's taken me off his shoulders. I know I shouldn't have said it, but it's the truth. He's putting everything into his career and she's helping him. It's working out fine for him." "Margrit, I feel bad about volunteering at the Anglo. I wish… I would do it, if I could." "Do not feel bad. It is not your fault. You know, even if you could, it would not be the whole answer. There is the home, too. At least you and your husband talked. It is a start, no?" "Not exactly; I told him the club is a hareem for British careerists. Then he moved into the spare bedroom." "Mon Dieu! Oh, Frances I am sorry." "I was sorry too; but I've just realized, I'm not anymore." She brightened under the older woman's concerned gaze. "You're a good friend, Margrit; thank you. I feel better for getting it off my chest." "Vraiment?" "Yes, really," Frances smiled as she cut into her slice of cake. "I'm suddenly looking forward to the ball." ******* There had been few balls during the Great War. As if to make up for lost time, there were balls six nights a week in Cairo. But Frances had never seen anything like the Anglo-American Hospital Charity Ball. Through all the planning, she had imagined how it would be. But nothing could have prepared her for the sheer scale and beauty of the event. It was breathtaking. The front terrace of the Grand Continental Hotel had been transformed into an Arabian Nights dream. Soft, glowing lights welcomed arrivals into a massive tent, where sofragis padded over thick, richly patterned rugs, bearing silver trays of sparkling glasses. Chatter and laughter tumbled out onto the street. As Frances and Allan entered the tent, they were plunged into the sights and sounds of the elite at play; cries of recognition, bursts of laughter, the clicks of cigarette lighters and powder compacts, glasses clinking in mutual toasts. Some guests had not yet shed their coats; some had, and had returned to the terrace to drink a glass and mingle before heading to the ballroom. The season's colors competed with the rugs; salmon, burnt orange, cinnamon, muddy reds and brilliant, azure blues. The flamboyance swam before Frances' dazzled eyes; platinum brooches, chrome dress clips, diamonds, pearls, sweeping ostrich feathers, short, trimmed peacock feathers jutting from bejeweled headbands, and shimmering beadwork bodices. The pale luminescence of powdered faces glowed around her. Painted lips flashed open smiles, and darkly outlined eyes spoke their own language in the chattering crowd. The younger women were boyish and modern, confidently beautiful in their affected poses. The older women, throwing sideways glances at the hand-on-hip and jutting elbow stance, pulled their chins upright and took comfort in their tiaras. Young and old alike, the men upheld the dress code admirably; black tail coats, two-braid black trousers, white stiff-fronted shirts, white waistcoats and ties. All the European community districts, Gezira, Ma'adi and Garden City, had been steeped in laundry and starch for the past two weeks. The elder men looked easy in their stiff wing collars, confidently ignoring the younger men as they competed to light the cigarettes of the strange, epicene beauties. "Frances! Allan! Over here!" The Veillons had arrived before them. "Oh, what a resplendent pair! Margrit, you are so beautiful, isn't she Dr. Georg?" Margrit's sleeveless turquoise silk flowed to the floor and out behind her in a short train. Long lines of silver beads ran down the dress's length in straight, parallel veins. A moonburst of beadwork spread in a wide band around the low slung waist. Margrit had hit the mark in her usual, classy style and Georg beamed happily, squeezing his wife to him. "She is always beautiful to me; and tonight, she is my goddess." "But I want to see what Frances has hidden under her cloak, so now she must come with me. You gentlemen can admire the view until we return, and then you shall only have eyes for us goddesses, n'est ce pas, Frances?" Georg and Allan bowed in mock homage as the giggling women left for the hotel lobby. The hotel's entire right wing was at the guests' disposal. Frances had visited with Edith several times and knew the layout. In the dressing room, she shyly revealed her dress to Margrit. "What do you think?" "Oh, Frances! That is magnifique!" She had chosen it for the color of the beads, and the way they played up her short, golden hair, soft brown eyebrows, and deep-set hazel eyes. Strands of glowing, molten bronze ran from narrow points at her shoulders and spread in two burnished rivers over her small breasts. The river of beads crossed below her waist and flowed over her slim hips, sweeping up to merge below the deep, open back. A long, chiffon, sleeveless dress emerged simply beneath the sweeping bronze strands. She wore little makeup, and no jewelry besides her engagement ring, her wedding band, and a tigers-eye ring that had been a favorite of her mother's. On a shorter, heavier woman the expanse of beadwork would have been excessive. On Frances' willowy frame, the effect was stunning. Allan had not seen the dress until earlier that evening, and then his mouth had dropped open. Before he could ask, she had told him she had bought it with her own money. Then she had put on her cloak, and preceded him outside to the waiting carriage. They had said nothing to each other during the ten minute ride to the hotel. As Margrit and Frances reemerged into the lobby, Margrit's quick eyes scanned the crowd and her bright face lit up suddenly with surprise. "What is it?" "I must tell Georg! A friend is here; he will be so pleased. That man is a wonderful benefactor to the hospital, so generous!" "What man?" "Over there, at the foot of the stairs. Do you see? He is just leaving that group of Egyptians." He was of little more than average height and build, but Nicolas could always stand out in a crowd; in formal white tie, he looked particularly fine. The black of his well-fitted tailcoat accentuated his dark eyes, and his white shirt and tie flashed against his darkened skin. His thick, black hair, a little longer on top than was customary, shone brilliantly under the chandeliers. Frances grabbed Margrit's hand and pulled her across the lobby before she knew what she was doing. Nicolas turned in mid-stride as he sensed their approach and quickly assessed the situation. "Margrit! Comment gentil de vous voir!" "And hello, Mrs. Shanley," he added quietly. Frances' mouth suddenly went dry, and all she could manage was to cough, and to blush at her foolishness. Margrit recovered the situation well. "Bonsoir, mon ami! Vous amusez-vous?" Georg would have brought Nicolas to them and it would have been the proper way for them to meet, but she could play along. Besides, she genuinely liked Nicolas. "Mais oui, je suis enchanté pour être ici! And Mrs. Shanley, are you enjoying the fruits of your labor?" Frances found her voice. "I am enjoying myself very much, Mr. Phillipides, thank you. But please, since you know my neighbor so well, won't you call me Frances?" "I shall; if you will favor me with one small request." "What can I do for you?" "You can save me a dance. I have nothing to barter for a dance with you, Margrit, so I must throw myself on your charity. Ladies, do we have an agreement?" "Comment est-ce que je peux résister? You have your dance with me, Monsieur!" "I would be delighted too." "Good! I will hold you both to it. But now, I am expected elsewhere and so, please, you must excuse me." As he turned, Nicolas whisked two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and presented them to Margrit and Frances. "For your throat, Mrs. Shanley." Frances grinned at the twinkle in his eye, and then watched him thoughtfully as he strode away. ******* A fifty-piece military band had been brought in for the occasion and every one of them put heart and soul into their non-stop performance. For four hours they played waltzes, and lilting tunes for the slow and elegantly gliding British version of the Foxtrot. They played faster tempos for the Quick-time Foxtrot and the Quickstep, and melancholic tunes for the Tango dancers. Nicolas waltzed with Margrit, and then watched from a distance as Frances danced with Allan, the Major, Georg, and other husbands of club acquaintances. He bided his time. Cutting in was bad form at British balls. It was when almost one hundred and fifty couples were on the floor for an easy-going Foxtrot that Nicolas finally claimed her. He smiled pleasantly and said nothing as he settled her into his lead, letting her find her comfort level and waiting until she was ready to converse. From the start, it was easy to hold her eyes. "I haven't seen you at the club, Mr. Phillipides." "Let's not be formal, Frances. I think we know it doesn't suit us." He pulled her imperceptibly closer to him as he tried her on a turn, and maintained the slight pressure in the small of her back for a little while. As he expected, she stayed with him when he let up. His smile broadened at the challenge in her eyes. "I've been away for a few months. Besides, I haven't had a reason to go to the club. But I'm curious; how do you find it now?" "It's exactly what you said it would be. Gossip and tea. But you didn't tell me about the pecking order, Nicolas. You could have warned me about that." "Ah, the indomitable Mrs. Parker Jones. You seem to be her best acquisition yet." "Is that what I am?" "What do you think?" "I think you're right." He said nothing as they moved easily together, gliding and turning through the elegant crowd. His lead was intuitive and confident; his dark eyes measured hers as he read the uncertainty there. He waited as Frances considered her opening gambit. "You offered me something different, once." "I did? What did I offer you, Frances? Refresh my memory." As he pulled her tighter against him, Frances started in surprise; she could feel his arousal through the thin chiffon. But this time his hand did not relax the pressure in her back, and the smile was gone from his face. "Tell me when you want to stop, and I will let you go." Her eyes were wide, but she said nothing and danced on. His smile returned, but not to his eyes. They explored her face, seriously and slowly. They watched her lips part and traced the small flare of her nostrils, the soft shine of her hair, and the delicate line of her jaw. She looked away while he scrutinized her. When she looked to his face again, he met her eyes directly. "What is it you want? Do you know?" "I want something real. I want to see Cairo. The real Cairo." "Cairo is many worlds, Frances. They are all real to the people who live in them; even this one." "This one isn't real to me. Please, Nicolas, I don't want much from you; just your guidance. Show me where the people live, how they live. Take me to the places you go." He felt her body's tension. She had become as taught as an overstretched bow. "Frances, where I go people, do not behave as you might expect. The rules are different. Can you run?" "Run?" He chuckled as her eyebrows shot up. "Yes, run! If I told you to run, would you take off? Would you leave me?" His hand dropped lower, pressing her against him. She glanced around, but nobody was noticing. "Would you want me to leave you, if there was trouble?" "Yes, if it meant a greater chance for your safety. I would owe you that." "Then I would do whatever you told me." He looked in her shining eyes for a long moment. He saw fear, excitement, and hope. He could feel her shallow breathing, almost feel her thudding blood. He had not forgotten the promise he had made her. The only thing he had not anticipated was how badly she would need him to keep it. "Do you know the Kasr el-Nil Bridge?" "The one at the bottom of Gezira? With the bronze lions on the ends?" "Yes. Can you get yourself there next Tuesday morning? I have business at the Semiramis Hotel; it's just across the street. If you're at the southeast lion at half-past nine, I'll pick you up and take you into the Old City." "Will you bring me back?" "If you're still alive." He burst out laughing at her horrified expression, and whirled her into the opening strains of a waltz. ******* The gentle click of china teacups on saucers punctuated the easy silence between the two women. Margrit's youngest was playing with her doll on a blanket on Frances' lawn. The favorite doll, with the big, blue, blinking eyes and long golden curls, was accepting little cups and saucers. A childish patter of things liked and disliked, and secrets known only to herself and her doll, burbled around the little girl's head. Two days after the ball, the women were sharing secrets, too. "I met him on my second day here. I didn't like him at first." "Nicolas can be abrupt. It is his way, I think; he gets to the heart of things. He can seem, what is the word, laconique?" "Yes, laconic; and perceptive, too." "Oh, of that, there is no doubt. He is a very clever man. I only met her one time, but I think his wife is not a match for him. It does not seem to matter. He has his life, she has hers. C'est la vie." "Where is his family?" "In Alexandria. We saw him there one time. Georg went to a conference, and he took me and the children. Nicolas was in our hotel restaurant. The whole family was celebrating his father's birthday; there must have been fifty people there. I remember, when Nicolas saw us, he brought a huge platter of cakes to our table; all the children ended up chasing each other. Gabriele fell in love and didn't want to come home." "I'm meeting him tomorrow; he's taking me sight-seeing. Allan doesn't know." "Are you going to tell him?" "No, I don't think I will. It's nothing, and I don't want him to worry." Margrit made no comment. "So, anyway, I'll be leaving early tomorrow. But you'll come for tea on Wednesday?" "Of course, mon ami. You know that I will always be your friend." ******* "Frances! Frances! Are you coming? Or are you going to stand there all day?!" Frances felt a surge of relief as she peered across the plaza, teeming with men in dark suits and light galabeyahs, horse drawn carriages, cars, carts, and donkeys laden with men and bundles. Nicolas was punctual but she had been the only woman standing under the lion, or on the plaza for that matter, for fifteen minutes. She skipped and threaded her way through the traffic and bounded under the waiting carriage's dark canopy. She landed on the hard leather seat with a thump. With a wordless nod from Nicolas, the driver's whip flicked over the horse's rump and they were soon trotting south on Corniche el-Nil, the long road that ran between the edge of the city and the Nile's eastern bank. "Sabah el-khair. Good morning." He looked cool in crisp linen, elegantly composed against the far corner of the shabby bench seat. Frances settled into her corner, and gave him a shy smile. "Good morning! It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" "It's going to be hot. You'll be glad of that hat." It was a straw sunhat with a small brim. She'd be able to look around in this one. "I'm so excited, I won't notice the heat. Are my clothes alright?" Nicolas had taken in every detail as he watched her cross the plaza, so he didn't appraise her further. "Skirt's good, and the shoes. A jacket might have been nice." Frances looked ruefully at her bare arms and pressed her exposed breastbone. "I had one picked out to wear, but I ran out without it. I'm sorry. I was afraid I'd miss you if I went back for it." His eyes flashed and then suddenly softened. "We could have done this another time; I would have found you. You were the one who couldn't wait, Frances; not me. Never me." He looked out at the passing street. "So, tell me; why is this so important?" "I don't think I can explain." "Try." "Alright." He turned and watched her closely as she searched for the words. "I don't belong here. We don't belong here; the British, I mean. We're like gilded lilies, floating on the surface. We run the country, but we act like Egypt doesn't exist. It's… surreal." "And if you spend a day in the Old City, it will make a difference." "It will to me." "Explain." Frances gave him a hard look. "I read Allan's reports to the Ministry of Finance. I've seen how many thousands are unemployed and what our imports are worth. You know, the ones we protect with our trade laws. We call it free trade, but there's nothing free about it to the fellahin. Allan knows the numbers, but he wouldn't know an unemployed Egyptian if one hit him on the nose. But I will, after today. I may not be able to give a fellah a paying job, but I at least I'll have acknowledged his existence." She looked away from Nicolas' thoughtful face and stared at the passing banks of a mid-river island. Naked children, burnt black by the sun, were swimming and splashing at the island's edge. Their laughter carried across the water and faded behind the clopping hooves of the carriage horse. "I'm sorry. Allan says I think too much." Nicolas reached, laid cool fingertips lightly on her far cheek, and turned her face towards him. She was confused, yet comforted, when he softly told her, "Thank you." ******* Some ten minutes into their journey, as they skirted the city's edge, its character changed. The large European villas and tree-lined avenues of the Garden City district gave way to humbler homes. Earthen banks replaced the boxwood hedges, and an air of unkempt homeliness replaced the ex-pat pretensions of English suburbia. On their right, they had traveled past a third of the island's length. The island they were riding beside, Gezira el-Rhoda, stretched down the Nile for another ten minutes as Frances silently watched the full-sailed feluccas gliding by, and gazed at the brightly painted house boats moored at the island's edge. Their candy floss colors and the sparkling water lifted her mood. By the time Nicolas hailed their arrival to the driver, she was eager to step into the life outside the carriage. Their arrival did not go unnoticed. As Nicolas paid the driver and exchanged a few words of well wishes, Frances once again felt the eyes of passing men. At the bridge, she had challenged them back and they had been quick to look away. Here, they openly stared at her breasts, her slim hips, her firm calves and small boned ankles. She quickly learnt they would stop to enjoy the view if she tried to stare them down. But as the carriage left, the few she had attracted flicked their eyes to Nicolas and melted away. A quiet smile played on his face as he watched them leave, and broadened as he took in her wide eyes. Sunset Over Cairo "Would you prefer to walk or ride?" He nodded to the string of saddled donkeys patiently standing at the entrance to the nearest adjoining street. Sullen youths in crumpled, stained galabeyahs lounged on the packed earth road beside the donkeys, or leaned carelessly against the nearby baked brick, mud-cemented walls. "I think I'd like to walk, for now." "Alright. Let's go." Nicolas strode confidently towards the street entrance, and immediately Frances was immobilized by a dozen children clamoring around her. She stared helplessly after him as one little girl, barely five years old, pulled off her tattered leather sandals and offered them to her. "I don't want them. No, no baksheesh. No." The clamoring grew louder as they sensed her uncertainty. Their confidence far outweighed hers. They had nothing to lose, as they pressed her to part with a few half piastres. The small girl chattered to her, determinedly holding her sandals aloft as she was buffeted by the competition. The crescendo reached fever pitch as Frances hurriedly pulled her change purse from her small drawstring bag. In exasperation she finally scooped up the little girl and ran with her to just beyond the pocket of yelling children. The bouncing girl beamed at her with delight. As Frances set her down, she quickly presented her with a coin and laughed as the little girl snatched it and took off, barefoot, down the street. Turning to find Nicolas, she saw him waiting for her a few yards away, grinning broadly. Striding away from the few persistent stragglers, Frances joined him and they walked together into Masr al-Qadima. Hawkers trilled in the huddled street, their nasal cries shrill in the confining air. Three men squatted on the packed earth beside bowls of water and soap, waiting their turn as a barber applied a straight razor to a customer's face. A stocky youth offered lemonade from a tall, silver spouted samovar strapped heavily to his body. The hard brown earth sloped towards the center of the narrow street, dark at the edges where overhanging structures shaded the pressing crowd. Cloth awnings drooped and wood panel shutters balanced at precarious angles, propped open on misshapen poles. Clusters of men and women gathered at dark openings in the long street walls. Frances could barely tell where one building began and another ended, as she stared down the tilted street. Three levels of brick and pitted, sand-browned stucco loomed on either side; some walls had crumbled, displaying fiercely jutting, wooden ribs. Propped on tiered brick or stone supports, walled galleries hung from the upper levels, shouldering the sky and hemming in the darkened street below. Some were enclosed in simple lattice shutters. Some were grand in shabby, aged mashrabiyeh; massive filigree grilles of ancient wood, some edged with delicately carved, stalactite pelmets. Little panels set within the mashrabiyeh opened at measured distances, to permit the unobstructed view of unseen eyes within. A thundering rhythm drew Frances' attention to a wall space, dark behind its framing arch. The sharp tang of peppercorns cut through the nose-warming scents of cinnamon and chilli as she watched wiry, quick arms pound the spices into dust. Rough hemp sacks filled with roots, buds, bark, dried leaves and berries squatted on the street and lined the walls of the small warehouse. Baskets arranged on leaning tables displayed the pounded colors: cool greens; rich, dark reds; sienna; ochre, and bright and muted golds. "The medicine chest of the east, Frances. They come here from the fields by barge, near where we arrived." "The scents are wonderful; I could stand here all day." "I agree, but we need to move on. A colleague is expecting me." Frances was surprised, but followed gamely as he stepped away. The crush of bodies permitted no rhythm to her walk as she made her way further into the street's dark interior. A shout behind her sent her stumbling sideways as a trotting donkey and a plank cart bore down from behind. She danced a confused two-step with a short woman and her son before the woman impatiently gestured her aside. Topped with a basket mountain of flat, round breads, the woman had no time for Frances' indecision. Frances stood aside and watched her pass in her black abeyah, bulkily wrapped beneath a curtain length of black headdress. She moved easily through the seething mass of people; with one hand balancing the wide basket, she picked her path and glided through. Soon Frances, too, had learnt the art of reading and sending the bodily signals that made progress on the narrow street possible. Since the beginning of the British occupation, the Cairene Copts, the Christian descendants of the ancient Egyptians, had gradually given up the veil. In this part of the city, the fine-boned Copts were the prevalent race. But they retained the modest dress adopted from the Muslims, with whom they had shared the city for over a thousand years. In every direction, Frances was by far the most exposed woman on the street. As she gazed into the passing stalls and warehouses, tall men did not always accede to her path, and some stepped deliberately to feel her move against them. Her frustration mounted; in the close confinement of the street, she could not keep up with Nicolas and avoid the brushing caresses. Around a corner and further into the city, the warehouses of produce gave way to manufactured goods. In cramped, narrow shops, bolts of cotton in cool white, light blue, and sun pale yellow were stacked from floor to ceiling. Every available inch was piled high with the produce of the English mills. In the doorways, long, handcrafted shawls in rich damask shot through with lace hung on hooks in the airless shade. A little further down the street, Nicolas waited for Frances to catch up. She spotted him through the crowd, as he exchanged greetings with a young, crisply dressed man in a spotless white galabeyah and turban wound tarbush. As she approached, the young man disappeared through an ornately carved arch between a massive pair of heavy, open iron doors. "I have some business to attend to here. I shan't be long." "What is this place?" "It was a pasha's house many years ago; it belongs to a Coptic trader now. Frances, you'll be made welcome, but stay in the public parts of the house. They'll show you the guest bathroom, but after that I suggest you keep to the courtyard and the takhtabush, the vestibule, alright? The other areas are private. So, shall we go in?" Frances said nothing and followed Nicolas through the doors. They came to an airy, simply furnished corridor, one side of which opened onto a courtyard oasis. The tall body of the house wrapped around it, hiding its green treasure from the outside world. The young doorman reappeared and, after assuring Frances she was in good hands, Nicolas departed through another archway. Staring blankly at the silent servant, Frances realized he was waiting for her to follow him, and she was led through a small wooden doorway, up a short flight of stairs, and into a surprisingly modern bathroom where she was left to find her own way back. On her return, she found a small, brass-topped table had been set beside an upholstered divan. There was not only a carafe of fresh lemonade, but also a silver teapot and sugar bowl, and a steaming glass full of fragrant, hot mint tea. A neatly folded napkin lay beside a silver fingerbowl, and plate of small, honey drenched sesame cakes had been left for her to enjoy. Frances looked at the brick walls and bare stone floor of the takhtabush and realized she had been relegated to the waiting area for low-ranking visitors. So, having nothing else to do, she sat and waited for Nicolas to complete his business and drank her tea. She could hear his voice drifting across the courtyard and the laughter of his host; who was also her host, she supposed. The courtyard was an attractive place; sunlit and bright, full of palm fronds, shrubs, and shady acacia trees. After the hassle of the street, it was a haven of quiet with only the sounds of murmuring doves and a splashing fountain emanating from within. Suspended over the courtyard, Frances saw the now familiar bay windows with their wooden lace enclosures. Bending low to look across the courtyard, Frances spotted Nicolas. He was sitting in the maq'ad, the stone arched, open gallery built high in the opposite wall. He was in plain sight, talking to someone further back whom Frances could not see. After almost an hour, Nicolas appeared looking relaxed and happy. "Shall we resume our travels, Frances? How about some lunch?" "Yes, I am a little hungry." "Good! There's a nice little restaurant around the corner with the best grilled lamb in town." "Actually, I was thinking of heading back for lunch." Nicolas stopped in his tracks, surveyed her cool face, nodded once, and then led her to the gate where he bid the gatekeeper goodbye. "Ma'a elsalama." Frances nodded politely to the young man and walked off; straight into a crowd of revelers who apparently were drunk, or high, or both. By the time she realized what she had done, the game was on. She was jostled as they quickly formed a ring around her, dancing and laughing. When she tried to break free, they closed in and grabbed her by her arms and her waist to make her spin and dance with them. As one, they pressed in close. Frances looked desperately towards the gate for Nicolas, trying to catch his eye through the bouncing, chanting bodies. He was leaning in the doorway, eyes glinting and arms folded, with a cool smile on his dark, hard face. "Nicolas!" He raised his eyebrows and held his palms upward in mock helplessness. "Nicholas, please!" The gatekeeper looked nervously to Nicolas and made to step forward. He stopped, wide eyed, as Nicolas motioned him back, drew a small gun from under his jacket, and fired once into the air. The gun was of sufficient size to get the fellahins' attention, and the look on Nicolas' face was enough to persuade them their fun was over. So, apparently was Nicolas'. Frances walked over to him, gave him one seething look, and raised her arm to slap him. He caught her wrist before she could make contact, held it up while he slipped the gun back into its holster, and then pulled her arm slowly down. "I think we need to talk." "I want to go home!" "That, too. Come on." ******* They walked back to the Corniche el-Nil in silence. There were waiting carriages, but no waiting drivers. All the drivers had left their horses under the watching eyes of the donkey boys, while they went to eat their midday meal. Frances avoided Nicolas' eye while they waited beside the road. Eventually she wandered across to the river bank, and watched the barges as they anchored at the small wharf nearby. Nicolas let her be until the first driver returned. "Get in, Mrs. Shanley." Frances half-expected Nicolas to send her back alone, but he jumped in beside her as the carriage pulled around. "You needn't come back with me; I can manage on my own." "That wasn't the deal." "Oh, so you're going to act the gentleman now, after what you just did?" "And what was it I just did, Mrs. Shanley?" "You let that dirty mob molest me! You stood there and watched, and you enjoyed it! You're a sadistic bastard; I never should have trusted you." "I thought you wanted, let me see, what was it you said? "Something real"? Well, you got it. I told you, the rules are different here." "They certainly are." "Tell me, what was it that offended you so much?" "Don't be facetious with me, Mr. Phillipides. I took exception to being touched up and I especially took exception to your enjoying it. I didn't expect that from you, whatever I expected from them." "You had no objections three nights ago." "You took advantage of me." "Frances, I said I would let you go when you told me you wanted to stop. You've told me. I won't trouble you again." Nicolas settled comfortably into the corner of the carriage and for ten minutes there was no sound between them, save for the steady clopping of the horse. Frances could contain her hurt and confusion no longer. "This is so unfair! How is this my fault? I was in your care! I don't understand!" "Frances, I like you. You have many endearing qualities and you're very attractive. But I can not afford you. I can not afford a child who thinks she's a woman, and I will not be anyone's dragoman." Frances' mouth dropped open in horror-stricken dismay. "I never thought of you that way. Never." "Oh, I think you did. I listen carefully to what people say, Frances, but I always pay much more attention to how they act. And your words and your actions don't match." "But what did I do?" "Three nights ago, I laid it on the line for you. I made it clear I expected you to be responsible for yourself. You told me you accepted my terms. This morning, you explained to me why you needed this trip and I may have thought it naïve, but on a personal level I understood. At that point I considered you my equal. Are you with me?" "Yes." "So what happens? When we arrive, you immediately realize the fellahin are not shy. And you realize that, to them, you are provocatively dressed. Am I right?" "Yes." "So, when offered the choice, you choose to walk and be accessible rather than ride on a donkey. Not a smart choice." "I didn't…" "You didn't like the look of the donkey boys. Some of the very people you said you needed to meet. Let's go on, shall we?" "I'd rather not." "Oh no, Mrs. Shanley; you accused me of being unfair! The British have their own courts, but even a dragoman is permitted a defense. You may not like it, but you are going to hear it!" "So, finding yourself in this situation, in what way do you take responsibility? You pass a hundred places where you can buy a shawl. You have money with you. Do you buy one? No. Why not?" "I didn't think. I was just following you." "Thank you. My point exactly." "So now we come to a house where, again, the rules are different. You are extended courtesy, but you are not treated as a guest of honor because, quite simply, Mrs. Shanley you are not one. Furthermore, I have no right to demand that my non-English speaking host indulge your sense of entitlement." "The whole purpose of my trip here today was to do business at that house. I bring you as a favor, a favor you asked of me. Instead of accommodating me, you rebuke me. Is that fair?" "No." "And then, for your crowning act, you run into the middle of a crowd of harmless young fellahin and act like "that dirty mob" raped you. Your actions were high-handed, ungrateful, irresponsible, and had nothing to do with your words." "I hope you understand me. I do not dislike you and I agree with you, your world is surreal. But it is the world you are best equipped for, Frances. I hope you can find a way to be happy in it." Frances stared woodenly at the passing scenery as the coach approached the villas and the boxwood hedges of Garden City. Neither she nor Nicolas had anything more to say. ******* In the months that followed, Allan began to feel that Frances had finally 'settled in'. She was spending less time at the Gezira Sporting Club, but she seemed quieter and they weren't at odds anymore. Her attitude towards him was gentler and kinder, and he was happy she was spending more time at home. He, unfortunately, had been able to spend increasingly less time at Villa Zohria. The Ministry of Finance demanded its pound of flesh, but he was gratified. His star was rising fast, just as the Major had predicted. He was now a frequent guest at the Turf Club, the bastion of the highest-ranking foreign officials. He had been proposed for membership, and he expected to be accepted very soon. Cultivating his superiors at the Turf took time away from Frances, of course, but it couldn't be helped. One had to do these things; she understood. In recompense, he made a point of always sharing Saturday morning breakfast with her. Newspapers, tea, and a light breakfast always started the weekend on the right note. A few months ago, he would have felt awkward discussing the evening's plans with her, she had been so resentful about everything; all that had changed now. "Frances, I'm sorry about tonight. It's dashed poor planning, I'm afraid." Frances put down the Cairo Gazette, and smiled at Allan's conciliatory tone. "The Turf Club doesn't plan its billiards evenings around Edith's parties. The Major will miss you, but you can't be in two places at the same time." "Yes, too bad about the Major's birthday dinner. Perhaps I'll be able to get away; stop by and raise a glass with the old boy." "Perhaps. He would like that." She turned back to the newspaper. "But in any case, you'll give him my best, won't you?" Frances lowered the paper and gave him a level look. "Would you like me to tell Bertie and Edith you were 'unavoidably detained'?" "Yes, I think that would be best; then if I can put in an appearance, it will be a jolly nice surprise, won't it?" Frances smiled and nodded, and went back to her newspaper. Allan whistled as he busied himself with the toast and marmalade. Yes, she was definitely more settled. ******* Edith had booked a table of eight for dinner at the club. Bertie's ideal evening would have consisted of dinner alone with his wife at home, and then whiskey and soda in the club lounge with as many of the regulars as he could round up. Since he had no say in the matter, he sat good naturedly at the head of the table and chatted with the captain of the polo team, Captain Edward Agnew, on his right and Edward's wife, Florence, on his left. Edith had placed Frances on her right at the foot of the table. "We hardly see you and Allan, these days. I suppose you young things have grown tired of our company. I quite understand. Of course, Allan is very busy." "Yes, he's certainly very busy." "Well, the world is not the same as it used to be. Isn't that right, David?" Major David Campbell (Ret.) swallowed down the last of his whiskey and soda and looked blankly at Edith, then peered in puzzlement at Frances' right cheek. "Eh?" "Mrs. Parker Jones is thanking you for making up the party this evening, Major. My husband was unavoidably detained at the last moment." "Oh! Good Lord, wouldn't miss it for the world, old gal. Bertie's a jolly good sort." Major Campbell tended to favor aphorism over acumen, and had the bellow of a drill sergeant. "We had a time in Burma, didn't we Bertie old chap?" Mrs. Florence Agnew blanched at the force of the discharge hurtling past her left ear. Frances glanced across at Margrit and suppressed a smile while Georg caught the look but wasn't so amused. He was warily eyeing the Major's florid complexion and glassy eyes. "I say, where's the waiter? My glass is empty! Waiter! Waiter!" Sensing an imminent barrage of complaint, Edith looked around frantically; not only for a refill for her guest, but also the food. The club's dining room was full to capacity, and the dinner was off to a late start. A sofragi hurried to their table. "Another whiskey and soda. And where's the food?" "Yimkin badayn. Perhaps later." "What?! What do you mean, perhaps later?" "Trouble dear?" asked Major Bertie, benignly. "Trouble?! We'll give the blighters trouble! Where's my whiskey and soda?!" The sofragi took one look at the bristling Major Campbell and ran. Frances pushed her chair back and laid a hand on Edith's shoulder as she moved past her. "Edith, let me find Mahmoud, see if I can't find out what's happening." She found the head waiter flying through the kitchen doors with a silver tray balanced on his shoulder. A quick exchange told her she was in for a long, difficult evening. Sunset Over Cairo "Well? What is it? What's going on?" Edith's tone was sharp as Frances regained her seat. Frances took a breath and smiled brightly at her. "They're short staffed in the kitchen tonight, Edith. The head chef has been taken ill, and they're a little behind." "But it's Bertie's birthday! I booked dinner for eight o'clock! It's damn near a quarter to nine! When is it supposed to be ready? Where's Mahmoud? Mahmoud! Mahmoud!" "They'll bring it as soon as they can, Edith. It'll be alright. Bertie's happy enough." Georg and Margrit exchanged silent glances and both took a good swallow of their drinks. Florence Agnew smiled at them, uncertainly. Frances could not be heard over Edith's roaring, which even Major Campbell couldn't outdo as he bellowed for his drink. By the time Mahmoud arrived, bearing a large whiskey and soda as a peace offering, Edith was ready for battle. "What is the meaning of this? Where is our dinner? I had this table booked for eight o'clock!" "I am very sorry. Our chef is indisposed. We will have your food very shortly." "It's not good enough!" "I am sorry." "I'll have your job for this! You won't find work in the whole of Cairo! My husband is on the committee; don't think I won't do it! You're finished, young man! Eight o'clock!" Major Campell was not about to be outdone by a woman. "Damn gyypy! Who do you think you are? Can't run a mess hall, and you think you can run the damn country! Hah!" "I am very sorry." Frances took one look at the cringing waiter and slowly rose to her feet. She was shaking, but her voice was calm. "Mahmoud, there are other tables where your assistance would be more appreciated. Thank you for your patience." Mahmoud needed no further encouragement to run. "Major Campbell, you're a bigot, and a drunk." Frances' voice rang out across the hushed dining room as she hit her stride. "You're worthless compared to that man! You're not fit to clean his shoes!" "Now, hold on a minute…" "And you, Mrs. Parker Jones. You! God help me, I don't have the words for you. Has there been one moment in your self-important little life when you cared about anyone other than yourself? Do you know what would happen to that man's family if you put him out of work? You neither know nor care, do you? Do you know why? Because you're a pathetic bully, Mrs. Parker Jones! I'm done with you, I'm done with your kind, and I'm done with your precious club! You disgust me, all of you! You can all go to hell! Goodnight." The room was silent. Eyes stared and mouths hung open all around her as Frances left with as much dignity as she could on her wobbling legs. She heard the muted, buzzing excitement behind her as she walked towards the club's entrance. A tanned hand came from behind and pushed open the heavy swing door; she turned and stared uncomprehendingly at the man standing next to her. It was Nicolas. "Are you alright?" "No. I'm shaking like a leaf." He grinned, swung through the door, and pulled her outside. "Walk it off with me." The club's wide, luxuriant gardens stretched down to the island's perimeter road, the Shari al-Gezira; the dense Cairo Nile Gardens stretched invitingly along the river on the other side. Nicolas and Frances walked quickly through the club grounds to the river bank, where they eventually slowed their pace along the gardens' long, gravel path. "Feeling better?" Frances dragged off her hat, threw her golden head back, and shouted, "I feel wonderful!" into the night air. But then her laughing face grew somber suddenly, and she turned to face him. "Nicolas, thank you." "Not at all! I enjoy a good fight." "There's a bench over there; will you sit with me? Please?" Nicolas pulled a hand out of his trouser pocket and took hers as they strolled along the bush-lined path to the bench. The night was mild and fresh; a light breeze was blowing off the gently lapping Nile. Frances had left her coat in the club, but she was too exhilarated to care. "I'm glad you were there tonight; but that's not what I'm thanking you for." "Oh?" "No." She chose her words carefully, as she watched the lamplight dancing on the dark water. "I behaved terribly that day, Nicolas. I'm sorry." "Apology accepted; besides, you did me no harm." He pulled a lighter and a silver case from his jacket and offered her a cigarette. She pulled one delicately from the case, puffed lightly at the proffered flame, and watched his dark head lower as he lit his own. The smoke wafted gently away from the two glowing ends. "You did me a lot of good; though I'm not sure I appreciated it at the time. I've been thinking about what you said." He took a long draw on the Turkish tobacco and blew a stream of blue smoke; waiting, listening. "You said I was a child, that I didn't take responsibility for myself. You were right. I never have. I made everyone else responsible for me, while I did the things I wanted. Or not. That way, if it didn't work out, it wouldn't be my fault." He blew another stream of smoke. In the quiet night, cicadas trilled unseen around them; a ring spread outward across the water from a darkly splashing tail. "I thought everyone's expectations were unreasonable, but I never looked at my own. And if someone did something I didn't expect, I never asked why. I didn't want to know. If you don't understand the reasons for something, then you can accept it or reject it based on anything you like. You don't actually have to respond. That's what it is, isn't it? Responsibility. The ability to respond. The truth is, I've never been smart enough to be responsible." Nicolas crushed his cigarette underfoot, turned to face her, and laid his arm along the back of the bench. "I think you're smart enough. You've been sheltered, that's all. Half of understanding is practice; that, and empathy. You have what it takes; I've seen it." Frances smiled and worked her cigarette end into the path gravel. "Well, I want to practice right now. There's something you did that I don't understand. May I ask you a question?" "Ask away!" "Why did you press me against you at the ball? When you were aroused?" Nicolas' glossy black hair flew back as he laughed up to the stars. "You don't know?" "No! Don't laugh! No one ever did that to me before, and I didn't know what it meant. I still don't." "It meant, 'I want you'. Do you know what you told me?" Frances held her bottom lip between her teeth and shook her head. "You said, 'I know'. You said it with those dark blue eyes, and that pounding heart." He trailed a finger lightly along her temple and the curve of her sleek, bobbed hair. "I almost didn't go to the Old City with you, when I found out you're married. I was afraid of what you wanted." "I would never take what you could not offer." "I know that, now." "Was that all you were afraid of?" "No." The nearby lamppost drew dark glints from Nicolas' eyes as she studied his face. "I was afraid of what I wanted. I thought if I admitted I had feelings for you, I'd be taking a lion by the ear. Does that make sense?" "Yes. Why don't you come over here; let me hold you." She leaned her head back into his shoulder as he cradled her, and smiled as he planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. "When you told the entire club to go to hell, do you know what I saw?" "What did you see?" "Passion. The passion of pure, unbridled anger." "I could have killed her. Threatening Mahmoud like that." Another kiss. "That's the lion, Frances. You own it now." She sat up and looked at him incredulously, wide-eyed as she remembered the joy her stand had unleashed in her. He smiled at her wonder. "I want to see it again. Will you come to Masr al-Qadima with me on Monday? Show me all you have told me tonight? Make it real for me, Frances. Make it real for you." She reached her arms around him and held his dark head tenderly as she pressed her lips to his full, open mouth. She felt his sigh as he crushed her to him, and held her eyes wide open as she gave him her sure and certain, unequivocal response. ******* His eyes were tender as she dropped onto the carriage seat beside him. In greeting he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He held it lightly and did not let go as he urged the driver onward. "Yellabina!" She had remembered her jacket this time. Long and unstructured, it hung loosely from her shoulders in slim panels of white, under which she wore a button-through, square neck blouse of fine, white cotton. Her skirt was mid-calf and straight, with a slight flare beneath the knee. She would walk on the street again today. No skirt that straight would open enough to permit a donkey ride. Nicolas gently lifted a front of her jacket and gazed beneath it for a long moment. Like many women of her day, she eschewed the long, hot girdles with their bulky suspenders and wore only a net-lined lace bandeau for a bra. His full lips were heavy as his eyes traced the darkened areola of a breast. As he let the jacket fall, he eased back into the seat; his eyes and body became languid with the swaying motion of the carriage. No words passed between them for the first few miles of the journey southward; his dark eyes held hers entranced as they passed through the unheeded neighborhoods. "How are things at home?" he asked, eventually. "Saturday night, I was in bed asleep before Allan got home. He got up late yesterday morning and then Margrit called in the afternoon. She wanted to make sure I was alright, I think." "And were you?" "Yes, I'm fine. Allan sensed something had happened but we glossed over it. He won't catch on until he realizes I've become de trop at the club." "That will hurt him." "An uncontrollable wife? Oh yes! He'll expect me to apologize to Edith." "Will you?" "The day after she apologizes to Mahmoud." Nicolas' smile faded as he considered the repercussions. "How much money do you have, Frances?" She knew where he was going. "Enough for passage back to England." She looked down at the fine dark hairs on the back of his hand, and her pink fingertips curled around them, and then looked away to the passing river. Though the day was young, she had the sense that time was passing quickly. At the depot entrance to Masr al-Qadima, Frances surprised both Nicolas and the driver with a softly spoken 'thank you'. "Shukran." The driver's lined and tired face burst into a brilliant smile and he gave her a jubilant, "Ashufakik ba'dayn!" as he drove away. Frances laughed at Nicolas' quizzical stare. "Our gardener has been teaching me. He said, "see you later", right?" Nicolas was beaming. "Right! How much more do you know?" "A little; Shaadi doesn't speak much English so I don't always know what he's telling me. He's picking it up though. I ordered some books; we'll both make more progress when they arrive." "Are you going to talk to the donkey boys? I dare you!" "You talk to them! I have some old friends to take care of; here, take these." He cupped his hands quickly as Frances poured hardboiled English candies from her bag; a yelling swarm of children had descended on them. Passing Egyptians stopped and pointed at them, smiling at the flurry of hands and flying candy as they tried to make sure everyone got their share. After all the candy was gone, Nicolas grabbed her hand and they made a run for the street entrance. This time Nicolas had Frances walk before him, to watch her thread her way through the pressing bodies and the quick, appraising eyes. Her confused and graceless stumbling was gone; she moved in an easy, walking dance. Her shoulders turned to slip past the obvious approaches; the more subtle caresses did not deter her. Her face was shining as she turned back to look at him; she laughed, and shook her head at his knowing smile. "Where are we going?" "Turn left at the next corner." The thinly populated alley was wide enough for two adults and maybe a thin donkey, and ended blindly in a sheer brick wall. Nicolas walked closely behind her as they passed a stable of goats, a blacksmith's workshop, and a grocery shop, all huddled beneath the crumbling apartments stacked above them. Halfway down the alley, a few men in galabeyah sat on narrow wooden chairs, talking quietly and sipping tea at small iron tables topped with plain brass trays. Chickens clucked around the table legs. As Frances approached the group, Nicolas ducked into a doorway and pulled her into the ahwa, the local neighborhood café. "Sabah el-khair, Nic!" "Sabah el-khair, Sadeek! Mumkin aglis hunaa?" The beaming portly proprietor nodded and gestured towards the small, round, empty table Nicolas had indicated, who then made a great show of pulling back a chair for Frances to sit. The proprietor nodded happily, and then asked Nicolas who he had brought with him. "Nic, min mahak?" "Ana maha sahbatii." The proprietor raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes at Frances as Nicolas ordered for them both, and then bustled away to a side door behind which, Frances assumed, was the kitchen. "What did you tell him?" "I said I was with my girlfriend. Half of Cairo now knows." "Well, the other half aren't likely to listen to him." "We can be ourselves here. Relax." Behind Frances, shelves of glass narghile, water pipes, were arranged along the side wall. Along all the other walls in the softly lit ahwa, lean faces regarded Nicolas and Frances somberly. Some watched alone, openly assessing Frances as they drew light smoke through the brightly colored hoses of their pipes. Some looked sideways as they discussed the new arrivals and other local gossip. The room was filled with the murmur of quiet conversation, and the gentle gurgling of pipes. A patron unhurriedly knocked the ash off his few burning coals with small, teethed tongs, repositioned them, and then sat back in his creaking chair to resume his enjoyment of the fair skinned woman sitting poised and quiet across the room. A blue haze hung like an ephemeral tent canopy in the close air and coated the thickly painted, yellowing walls. The proprietor brought dark mint tea for Frances in a battered enamel teapot with a bowl of sugar, sprigs of fresh mint, and a small glass. For Nicolas, there was ahwa mahaweka, Turkish coffee spiced with cardamom. "They know you here?" "Yes. My family deals in cash crops, from production to shipping; cotton, wheat, sugar and maize, mostly. It takes extensive arrangements between rural peasants, interior merchants, city buyers and the export agents in Cairo and Alexandria. And then there's the politicians. There isn't a level of society I don't touch, at one point or another, and they can all be found in the ahwas. I come to this one when there are people I don't want to see." "They don't get many women in here, do they?" Nicolas smiled at her over the rim of his thick, muddy coffee. "You're probably the first." "They seem alright with it." "I wouldn't take you anywhere you couldn't go. They've seen everything; maybe not as fair as you. Show them your hair, Frances. Take off your hat." As Frances removed her sunhat, the proprietor appeared at their table and set a freshly cleaned narghile on the floor beside Nicolas. A small boy carrying a pot of hot coals and tongs followed him and, under his father's watchful eye, carefully placed a few coals on the wadded mixture of tobacco and molasses on the pipe's clay bowl. Nicolas drew smoke down through the water from the smoldering, damp mix, and thanked the somber looking boy. Nicolas contentedly added his haze to the atmosphere, Frances sipped her tea, and they watched each other as the patrons watched them. Frances fluffed out her hair as the heat prickled the back of her neck, and quickly looked around the room. Even the ones chatting with their friends had moved their chairs around to watch her as they talked. Nicolas propped an ankle on one knee and puffed, studying her speculatively. "Warm?" "Somewhat." The pipe gurgled. "Take it off." He blew a stream of water-cooled white haze to the ceiling as she lightly grasped the edges of her jacket. As she pulled it open she leaned forward slightly, and let her jacket fall slowly down her back. The patrons seemed to stop breathing as a quiet hush spread around the walls. Nicolas' eyes, and ten other pairs of eyes, dropped to her breasts, lingered, and moved slowly up to her slender shoulders and long neck. She kept her eyes on Nicolas as she lowered her bare arms and slipped them from the puddled jacket sleeves. There was an almost audible sigh around the ahwa walls as finally she sat, smiling quietly and triumphant, with her jacket draped across the chair seat behind her. They enjoyed more tea and coffee through the hour it took for Nicolas' tobacco to burn. The watching patrons made no approaches, and no one left while she was there. Their liquid eyes moved smoothly over her body, drinking in her femininity with their smoke, tea, and coffee. Through that gentle hour, Frances sat in quiet acceptance of their frank appreciation, sharing a smile occasionally with the dark eyes across her table. Frances saw a dozen expressions cross Nicolas' face that morning. His body spoke of rapture; there were moments of longing, lust, and simple joy in his eyes. She mirrored them all, walking with him through the range of his unspoken thoughts. His voice was a whisper, when he finally spoke. "How do you feel?" "I feel beautiful. I feel adored, accepted. I love their eyes on me; I love how you're looking at me. Do you remember the first time I saw you? How I had to turn away?" He smiled. "I remember a child playing grown up in a make believe world." Nicolas' eyes suddenly snapped into focus. "What are you going to do, Frances? Where do you go from here?" "I don't know. I thought if I could learn the language, I might teach children English." "At your home?" "I could do that. But then my students would be the children of the elite, and they're not the ones that need help. There are Egyptian schools, of course, but Allan wouldn't allow it and I don't want to fight with him. He's just doing what he's been raised to do. I don't blame him for anything, anymore." "There are Greek-run schools in Alexandria. They could use your help." "Could they pay me enough to live? Allan would support me if I went back to England, to keep up appearances; but if I went to Alexandria… my family would disown me. I let the side down once. They won't tolerate a second time." "You wouldn't be alone, Frances." "You would help me?" His gaze took in the quietly watching audience, moved slowly over her cool, long limbed body and finally rested, fondly, on her face. Time hung suspended in the ahwa. He saw her as she had first appeared to him, on a palm-decked terrace, questioning the inevitability of her prescribed life. He saw her as she had run, instinctively, across a hotel lobby to the only escape that she could see. He saw her stumble in the streets of the city, and rise again to roar with the power of a life that could not be contained. And he saw her, finally, striding confidently, free and clear, in the streets of Alexandria. Nicolas Phillipides was gifted with an acute grasp of measurement. But even he could not fathom the depths of her joy as he asked her, gently, "When have I not?" ******* On the outskirts of Masr al-Qadima, at Amr Ibn al-Aas, the oldest mosque on Egypt's ancient land, a clear-eyed muadhdhin prepares to climb the winding stairs of a minaret. The golden sun leans heavily on the far horizon, as the veiled rose haze of its dying light spreads over the waters of the Nile. To the west, the shadows deepen on the great plain of Gizeh as a black kite throws its keening cry over the empty, barren land. The black kite plunges, and a tiny shriek of death goes unnoticed on the plain.