Sunset Over Cairo

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"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, nobaksheesh. 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, agedmashrabiyeh; 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 blackabeyah, 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 thetakhtabush, 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 themaq'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 youare 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 Ican 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.