surely. There will be time enough for that later. My visit today is only to reassure you, madame, of our good intentions.’
‘Thank you, sir. May I ask how I am to proceed in collecting this ransom?’
‘We leave that to your discretion, madame. But official tax collectors will be appointed and assisted by worthy gentlemen like Monsieur Bartholomew here, the new chief of police –’
Nafisa caught her breath; Fart Rumman – chief of police! Might as well set the hyena to guarding the henhouse.
Bartholomew cleared his throat. ‘Malti the Copt will be at the head of the tax collectors,’ he offered.
‘In the meantime, madame, we know we can count on you to set an example to calm the spirits of those who do not yet know the forbearance and the generosity of the French Republic. I thank you for your hospitality, madame.’ Beauharnais had risen from his seat.
‘One moment, sir. If my husband is alive – and I have had no word from him – on what terms may he hope to sue for peace?’
‘That, madame, is not within my competence to discuss. But the appropriate emissary will be sent you at the right time, I am sure. I bid you good-day.’ He bowed again.
Nafisa rose in her turn, and then on impulse twisted the yellow diamond ring off her finger and handed it to Beauharnais. ‘For your general, with my compliments, as a gauge of good faith.’
Beauharnais bowed and took his leave. Nafisa remained standing as he descended the spiral staircase, Bartholomew on his heels. She stared at the lovely rose faience clock in the corner, making a mental note that it would be the first item she would render as part of the levy the French were imposing. Then she looked at her finger where the pigeon’s egg diamond was no more. What was it that Amr, the Arab conqueror of Egypt, had said? ‘If there were no more than a thread linking me to a people, it should not break; if they tightened their grip, I would slacken, and if they slackened, I would tighten.’ Nafisa would try to keep the thread of civility between her and the French from snapping; but for how long?
And where was Murad? At least he was alive. But Elfi? Of him there had been no word.
Dusk fell for the third night since Elfi had emerged from the river, and he welcomed the respite from the relentless sun over the desert. He was riding in a north-easterly direction, away from the delta, skirting the villages and the cultivated land and sticking to the sand dunes as he headed towards the Red Sea and the Sinai.
Ibrahim Bey and his retinue were heading for Istanbul. Elfi had learned this when he traded his diamond turban pin for a horse at a village in Sharkia, the seat of the eastern provinces that had been his fief only a few days earlier. He had not been recognized in his altered state, but the diamond pin had given him away as a Mamluke, and he had not tarried beyond buying the horse and a pistol and a leather skin of water. He still felt dizzy every now and then, but the wound to his head had stopped bleeding and the cut on his thigh was healing. His right hand continued to worry him, oozing yellow pus and throbbing constantly, yet he could not risk seeking attention at one of the estates he owned, for he could not trust even his own servants.
His plan was to keep moving towards Gaza and on to Syria, and eventually regroup with those of his Mamlukes who had survived. He spurred the horse, and it picked up pace for a desultory mile. Water, he thought, licking his cracked lips; he would have to find water, and soon, for the horse was thirsty, and he had already let it lick the last drops from his water skin. He debated the risk of approaching a village or a Bedouin encampment.
In the desert dusk before him, something was shimmering like a slender column of dust in a sandstorm. Elfi blinked. If he was starting to hallucinate with thirst, it was a bad sign. He shook his head and his vision came into focus: a Bedouin woman, standing upright, quivering like a reed, her sequined veil and her silver necklaces and bangles glittering in the fading light. He spurred his horse but the animal whinnied and held back, teeth bared, as if it had seen a Jinn. The woman, if that was indeed what she was, gave no sign of having heard his approach. There was something eerie about her, as if she were in a sort of trance, her large brown eyes dilated and staring at the empty air.
Then Elfi saw what transfixed her gaze: on a mound not two feet in front of her was a large snake, half-erect, hissing, flicking its tongue, preparing to strike; in its malignant concentration it seemed as mesmerized by the woman as she was by it. If he moved fast enough, Elfi calculated, he might be able to save her; if he did nothing, the snake would strike within seconds.
Transferring the reins to his bandaged right hand, Elfi spurred the horse into a gallop, snatched the woman up with his good arm and carried her that way for a few yards before slowing his horse to a trot and setting her down.
She stood blinking up at him and shuddering as the fear released her from its grip. He could see that she was young, about fifteen, and lithe in the way of desert women.
‘What are you, a Jinniya? What are you doing out here alone? Where are your people?’ His voice rasped hoarse with thirst. Yet, thirsty as he was, he knew the wisest thing to do would be to head in the opposite direction rather than risk an unpredictable encounter with the Bedouin. Her people were more likely to kill him for his horse than offer him water for saving their daughter. He turned his horse’s head and spurred its flanks, then, changing his mind, wheeled around and came to a halt before her. In his life, Elfi thought, he had regretted acts of mercy more than those of cruelty, and he might yet live to regret saving this girl from the terrible death of thirst in the desert.
‘Are you lost? You’d better answer, my girl, for I’d just as soon leave you here to die on your own. What tribe are you? Abbadi? Muwaylih?’
The girl hesitated, then pointed east beyond the dunes.
‘All right then, come on.’ He winced as he transferred the reins to his throbbing right hand, and held out his good hand to her. She hesitated, then reached up, grasped his hand and leaped, barely tapping his foot with hers as he hoisted her into the saddle behind him. Her body settled warm and pliant against his back and he twisted round to look at her. Whatever she thought she read in his eyes made her pupils dilate as they had when she had stared at the snake. Elfi quickly clamped both her hands in a vice with his left hand; Bedouin women were taught to carry daggers, and to use them, as soon as they reached puberty. ‘I won’t hurt you. I’m thirsty enough to cut your throat just to drink your blood, but I won’t rape you.’
With his free hand he fumbled at her waist and found the dagger in her wide belt of embroidered cloth, and took it and tucked it into his sash. Then he pointed the horse towards the dunes. Another night spent under the stars, he thought; would he see the day when he could lie under the roof of his Ezbekiah palace?
‘Cairo is an immense city. The Saint-Honoré quarter is at one end, the faubourg Saint-Victor is at the opposite end. But in this faubourg there are four Beys’ palaces side by side, and four immense gardens. This is the location we were assigned. All the French, as you can imagine, live near the General in the Saint-Honoré quarter, but they are obliged to come visit us to take part in our promenades and our delights. That is where the real Champs Élysées are!’
Geoffroy St-Hilaire, Lettres écrites d’Égypte
