The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (8 page)

strength of heart. He will come to regret his in?delity, ultimately

and forever.

And I shall triumph, Sukeena at my side. She is coming home

with us. This is the ?rst of many concessions my husband shall

learn to make.

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15 june 1908—cairo, egypt

I cannot imagine any place hotter in all the world than Cairo in

June. We have sailed down the Nile for days (how strange a world

this is that north is downstream?). John is foul of mood, and no

wonder: he has not won my affections since late April when he

bestowed upon me that horrible curse. And now, in such close

company as this small ?at-bottomed boat, he cannot ?nd any

budding young women to pluck except those of the European

families that people this vessel—girls who can speak, read and

write—girls who would report him in an instant if he lifted their

skirts. He broods and drinks and brags with the other passengers,

wisely leaving Sukeena and me to ourselves, except at dinner at a

tedious captain’s table where liquor is the of?cial language and all

but I speak ?uently. I hear him tell his hunting stories and marvel

at his ability to win friends, and I watch the women swoon, and I

wonder if that is how I once looked in his company as well. I want

to hate him, but that vexation is slowly wearing off. Calculated or

not, he has taken some time to charm me, has helped me pick out

several splendid rugs from Persia (bought in Luxor) and a great

deal of woven wicker—baskets and hampers mostly, some seventy-

?ve in all. The prize so far is the hand-carved alabaster. We are to

have dinner, bread and salad plates, soup bowls of two sizes, all

for a table of forty. It is to be shipped to Seattle within the year,

each piece carefully packed. John said that if half the cargo

arrived undamaged we should consider it a victory, at which point

I increased the alabaster order to a serving for eighty, and

watched John wince at the increase in price, although these dirtpoor

Egyptian farmers are practically giving away such wares. I

could have increased it to eight hundred and not taken a week of

my husband’s income. Indeed, if I am to have any revenge on my

husband, I see clearly now that it absolutely must come in the

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construction of the grand house. That is the only weapon I

possess.

I have come to detest the Europeans for their treatment of my

dear Sukeena. Of those who acknowledge her presence (precious

few, I’m sorry to say), few treat her with any respect above a slave.

A French couple was nice to her—the woman offered her some

clothes that would ?t (mine are far too small for her) and she

accepted. A Canadian woman was quite thoughtful and respectful

and always greeted Sukeena by name. The rest were brutes. I was

glad to be free of the Sun Ra, even if it meant the streets of Cairo.

Few cities in the world are as densely populated as this one.

Brown bodies by the millions, all covered in long cotton robes of

soft browns and a few subtle greens. They look like nightgowns—

as if everyone has just woken up. The men wrap their heads in

white cotton. The women cover their faces—all but the black eyes

that stare straight ahead, unseeing and yet all seeing. Water buffalo

drag carts through the streets but foul the sunbaked brick and

make a stink that rises with the sun. People wash themselves in the

river—this river that is the heart of the land—they wash their

babies, their food utensils, their camels. The river is putrid and

foul—and they practically live in it.

But to the story at hand! Sukeena and I were bicycled by rickshaw

into the city’s main market—deep in the center of humanity.

We were not, by any means, the only visitors to this city, but it felt

that way. We collected some trinkets, a good deal of colorful fabrics

and a few more pieces of alabaster, these ornately carved. All

our goods were stacked high on the three-wheeled bicycle, our

driver never hesitating a moment to add to his load. After about

an hour of this, we took tea in a small teahouse where young boys

circulated the air by manning large fans. The tea helped me to

perspire, which in turn cooled me off. I made the mistake of

showing my coin purse to pay for the tea—a practice John has

warned me against time and time again, and one I just cannot

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seem to master. At any rate, I committed this mistake ( John is

right, of course) and must have shown to all those looking a good

deal of bills within that small purse, for John had just exchanged

some dollars upon our arrival and had provided me appropriate

spending money.

I realize now this must have been staged, but at the time the

commotion that arose at the front of the building drove Sukeena

and me to the rear, in hopes of escaping the melee. As we

slipped out the back, not one, but two very evil-minded men

approached, their message clear from the knives they carried: the

purse, or our lives. I nearly fainted at this threat of violence, and

it did not escape me that as men confronting a white-skinned

woman they might want more than just my purse.

I willingly offered the purse, but Sukeena lovingly took hold

of my arm, shook her head “no” and made me to hold on to it.

One of the two stepped forward—I believe to challenge us, certainly

to challenge Sukeena. But that brave woman stood tall. Her

skin so dark it shined blue. “Nubian!” they called out in their

foreign tongue.

And then I witnessed with my own eyes a side of Sukeena I had

never before seen. She stared at this man—a glaring stare unlike

anything, impossible to describe. She stepped toward him, her

body ?uid and ?awless, moving more like a wave than a step, a

snake than a legged creature. And all the while a deep, low, guttural

sound pulsated from her throat and chest. This sound

seemed to surround us. The man, increasingly uncomfortable

with her approach, took a step back, the ?rst sign she had dominion

over him. At this point, the guttural sound evolved into language

—a tongue I had never heard, not in all our travels in the

dark continent. But this man, and his associate, apparently

understood the primitive message she imparted. As she waved her

hands the man stopped, absolutely still. As still as marble. That

knife carried as an ornament, not a weapon. Both men began to

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tremble—and I swear I felt the earth beneath my feet rumbling—

like a self-contained earthquake. Then they folded in on themselves

and writhed in pain on the ground as if stricken by some

disease to the stomach or bowels. What began as their moaning

developed into cries of terror.

Sukeena took my hand, stepped around the one in front of us

and led me down the alley to our waiting driver. As I looked back,

the men were still groaning miserably.

Sukeena has not spoken of the incident, and I, for one, am

glad of that fact, for I’d know not what to say. But I am less concerned

about travel deep into these foreign streets now. I feel

protected, defended against the dark side by my African friend. I

am more intrigued by her unspeakable powers. Where such powers

come from, and whether or not a person can learn them, can

adopt them for her own, I have yet to discover. But with Sukeena

to teach me, I suddenly feel that anything is possible. Anything

my heart desires.

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4 july 1908—crete, greece

Our nation’s birthday was met by much drinking on John’s part.

He began his celebrations before noon, partaking in the clear

liquor these ?shermen drink by the shot, said to be a variation on

grain alcohol. The Greeks, of course, have little if any idea of our

Independence Day, and must ?nd John’s display of patriotism

somewhat confounding.

Sukeena and I toured a ruin, an old port city now inland by a

quarter mile, rocked above sea level in a seismic shift two thousand

years earlier. We visited a row of stone tubs used for washing

laundry, so well preserved that all they lacked was a stopper and

some soap to be put back into service. This is the land of raw olive

oil, squid and goats that climb trees (I saw this with my own

eyes!). A quiet, peace-loving peasant people with a rich appetite

for café discussion, drinking and coffee so strong and bitter that

it turns my stomach.

It was here, this morning, in a spectacular suite of rooms

overlooking the rich blue depths of the Mediterranean that my

will surrendered to John for the ?rst time since this past April.

The morning broke incredibly hot and I slipped out of bed to

stand by the ocean breeze at the window when my husband took

hold of me from behind, his massive hands beneath my gown

before my voice could rise to protest. I grabbed for either side of

the open French doors and braced myself, casting myself forward

and clearly inviting his ardor, the hem of my nightgown riding on

my hips, his brazen intentions driving me to my toes, my knees

quivering, my heart racing. My God, I must admit here to the

thrill of it all. Our passions mutually heightened by my months

of refusal, John’s aggressiveness, so masculine and forceful, yet

careful and kind to me. I could not maintain my footing, and

therefore slowly sank to my knees, my husband keeping us joined

and fervently pursuing his climax, to where, in a dizzying

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moment of unbridled sensation I tried to call out to him, only to

hear my voice moan through indistinguishable syllables that he

clearly took as a signal. We collapsed in a gasp of satisfaction, he

on my back, me with my face pressed to the tile ?oor. “This is

hardly a situation becoming of a lady,” I said weakly, winning a

spontaneous eruption of laughter from the both of us.

“Our morning ride,” he said, and we laughed again.

When we were apart he rolled me over and we lay together

again, half in, half out of our bedroom, half in, half out of consciousness,

basking in the morning sunshine, basking in our

union. I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist and heard

myself say, “It’s all behind us, yes?”

“I have hope it is.”

“Never again.”

“Never,” he said, gently touching my cheek. “I was a fool,

Ellen.” And then the words I had prayed to hear. “Forgive me.”

“We will not speak of it. Not now. Not ever.” From where this

capitulation arose, I know not. Perhaps I wanted a marriage back.

A life. Perhaps my con?dence in Sukeena’s enormous powers

made John Rimbauer less of an obstacle and more of a game to

me. I felt more the cat than the mouse. I had what he wanted:

ability to deliver his heir. He had what I had quickly grown accustomed

to: position, power and tremendous wealth.

As we lay there, this forty-year-old man grew ardent yet again,

and again I capitulated. And for the ?rst time since our marriage,

I directed him as to the choreography of my pleasure. With each

instruction I gave, I witnessed arousal in my husband, excitement.

He would answer each touch I gave to him with a hearty,

throaty, “Yes!” and do exactly as I wished. I tell you, Dear Diary: I

never knew . . . I never knew. But under my careful instruction,

both of the hips and the hands, he did pleasure me, carrying me

to new sensations that both alarmed me (for my surrender to

them) and overcame me with pure and perfect delight (my every

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muscle on ?re at once!). My legs still gripped around him, I

eased my damp head of hair back to resting, my chest a ?orid

pink, my husband panting like a long-distance runner. “Good

boy, Johnny,” I said, using a nickname I had never dared use

before, adopting an attitude—as much a test as a conviction.

He placed his head on my chest, and brie?y was that little boy

I had complimented. I cannot explain in these pages, but in that

moment the tide of our relating husband to wife did shift, wife to

husband. I gained the strength and courage to express my physical

desires, and in doing so somehow also gained the upper hand

over my formerly de?ant husband. I didn’t want to think about

the past, I wanted to command the future.

As we dressed and took coffee on the balcony, I felt another

stirring in my loins, and nearly requested my husband’s favors yet

again. But this stirring was something altogether different from a

woman’s urges. At ?rst I blamed this awful coffee and then, later,

the excitement pent up from my morning discoveries and the

accomplishment of one part of my dream.

But then I blamed the act itself (or the acts, if one is counting!).

For though I’d never experienced the condition ?rsthand,

could only speculate on the sensation surging through my soul

(not my body, but my soul), I sensed the presence of another life.

A life within me. I was pregnant.

I knew this absolutely and with all conviction. The ?rst ?edgling

moments of a human being were growing inside me.

When Sukeena saw me it was all but con?rmed. She met me in

our rooms, looked deeply into my eyes and smiled widely. “So,”