Sunset Over Cairo

PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

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 ismagnifique!"

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 withour 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.