The festival brought with it a new outbreak of the gastric condition my Lady and I had battled against the year before, though early signs showed it would not be as severe. However, when a party of Bedouin pitched camp outside the French House, waiting to be seen by the
hakima
they had heard could cure them, my Lady struggled to cope. She attempted to train Ahmed as her helper, but the little boy, though clever and keen to learn, was no replacement for me, and Ahmed himself told me this made my Lady short-tempered at times. “It’s hard for me to remember everything,” he complained. But my Lady was stubborn: she kept on with the makeshift clinic; she and Ahmed got by.
My Lady knew that she was being watched; Mustafa Agha had told her as much one afternoon when he mentioned a government envoy had been seen talking to Omar. After he had departed she called Omar into her room and asked him about the gossip: was it true he’d been visited by an agent of the Pasha?
Omar did not want to tell her what the official had said. “Yes, my Lady … they don’t like your letters. You know this already. They don’t like the book.”
Omar told me my Lady laughed and said, “They don’t like me.”
But she told Omar she didn’t much care, and she wasn’t worried. “I am resigned to my fate; Egypt is my fate. I am not afraid of the Khedive.” And despite the situation with me, it was clear she trusted Omar absolutely.
One evening, after Ahmed had fallen asleep on the kitchen floor, exhausted from his efforts in the clinic, Omar took my Lady her meal in the salon.
“Sit with me, Omar, please,” she said. “Eat with me.” They had not shared an evening meal since returning to the French House, since all our positions in the household had been so dramatically altered by Abdullah’s birth. Omar gathered a few cushions and sat and ate a little of the lamb stew he had prepared for her, feeling, he said later, a strong mixture of relief and anxiety.
My Lady had some news for Omar. “We will travel to Europe this summer,” she said.
Omar smiled and nodded.
“We’ll travel with Janet from Alexandria onward. She is making all the arrangements. Janet is very good at making arrangements.”
“I’m sure she is, my Lady.”
“We’ll travel by ship to Marseilles and take the train to Paris, where we will join the rest of the family.”
“Paris,” said Omar, and he sighed. “It will be like traveling to the moon and back again.”
My Lady laughed. “Paris is lovely, much nicer than the moon, I’m sure. We’ll stay a few days and we’ll see the sights. The River Seine. Notre Dame.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a great cathedral in the center of the city, but we’ll only stay a few days. Then we’ll travel to a spa town in Germany for the family holiday.”
“Germany,” said Omar.
“You’ve always wanted to go to Germany, Omar, you just don’t know it yet.”
“I’m happy to travel anywhere, my Lady.”
“We won’t go to England—too far, too expensive, nowhere for us all to stay. Janet has everything arranged. I will see my family once again, Omar! I can’t wait. We will have a wonderful time.”
She beamed at him and he smiled back. “Have you seen all the villagers who want your help yet?” he asked.
“There’s a few remaining. And, of course, there are still those who will need to return if the treatment has not been effective.”
“This work is taking a toll on your health.”
“It needs to be done. And while I am well enough, I shall continue.”
“It would be easier if your helper was a little more …”—Omar paused—“skilled than Ahmed.” Omar couldn’t help himself; my Lady’s mood was so buoyant and free.
“The boy does his best,” she said. “And he is learning quickly. He is useful when I can’t make out what the Bedouin are saying.”
“You would see more people, more quickly, if you would allow Sally to help you—”
My Lady interrupted. “I know what you are going to say. Don’t think you can use my good mood to help you argue your case.”
Omar rose and carried the meal tray into the kitchen. He wanted to slam it down onto the bench; he wanted to punish himself for daring to argue with my Lady and at the same time he wanted to rush back into the salon to shout out his frustration. “But your life is in my hands, my Lady,” he told me he wanted to say. “You might think there’s no danger, that you can simply wave it away, but it’s real. You know what the agent asked of me?”
“You must make her understand what she owes you, Omar,” I said. “The Pasha is watching. If she trusts you with her life, how can she not trust you to know what is best for your own wife and child?” But it was no use. My Lady would not listen to him. Her resolve against me would not weaken. It was only a matter of time now until I was sent away.
LADY DUFF GORDON’S PRACTICE AS VILLAGE
HAKIMA
WAS FORCED TO
end when she came down with a serious bout of her own illness. Once again she was reduced to lying propped up in bed all day, unable to sleep from the coughing and blood spitting and fever, unable to lie flat, unable to sit. It was apparent that between bouts she was no longer recovering as well as she had done in the past. The disease seemed to grip her more fully now, her recovery less complete each time. At night Omar lifted her light body—what little weight he managed to put on her through the sumptuousness of his cooking almost always fell away, taking more with it, as soon as she became ill—and carried her out onto the terrace that overlooked the garden. He made her comfortable with mats and cushions and pillows and blankets, hoping the light breeze would make it easier for her to breathe; she stared into the distance at the dark outline of the desert hills, watching the stars, telling Omar that she sometimes felt as though she might drown in the fluid that filled her lungs. Omar did his best to treat her, making frequent forays down the corridor to my room to ask for advice and guidance, which I gave freely. At my suggestion, he moved his sleeping mat next to the door of the terrace, where he lay awake at night, listening to my Lady as she struggled to breathe.
One night Omar woke with a shudder, convinced my Lady had stopped breathing altogether. He rushed out onto the terrace, where he found her slumped, her breath reduced to a tiny rattle deep in her chest. He ran to wake me, and I did not hesitate. I went to fetch the implements, while Omar carried my Lady into the kitchen. He laid her on the table and we prepared to treat her. I asked Omar to heat the knife in the fire and when he gave it to me, its blade glowing in the lamplight, I stared down at her. How many times had I nursed her back to health when it looked as though her life had almost ebbed away? How many sacrifices had I made for her before discovering she was not prepared to sacrifice anything for me? Omar was heating the water and gathering cushions and trying to make my Lady’s rudimentary gurney more comfortable; he could not read my mind and I knew he thought I was poised and ready, waiting for him to finish. Would he notice if I made the cut too deep, in the wrong place?
I gave myself a shake. “Watch carefully,” I said, “you may have to do this by yourself next time.” I made the incision in my Lady’s breast confidently, as the doctor had shown me, as I had done before. I placed the heated glass cup over the wound and waited as the cup filled with blood. Omar looked at me from the other side of the kitchen table, across the body of my Lady, who lay insensible throughout. We were like make-believe physicians in a diabolically crude surgery.
“It will help,” I said. “It always does.”
My Lady recovered a little over the following week; I asked Omar if he told her it was me who had treated her that night, but he said no. He said he was unwilling to risk her anger and weaken her once again.
He was right not to tell her, I think. Though I wondered sometimes, had Omar given up on me?
A LETTER ARRIVED—OPENED AND CRUDELY RESEALED, LIKE ALL OF
my Lady’s post now—from the Prince and Princess of Wales. They had read Lady Duff Gordon’s book and were in Egypt and would like to meet her; they were traveling up the Nile and would like her to visit them on their
dahabieh
when they were at Aswan in a week’s time.
My Lady read the letter aloud to Omar and smiled and closed her eyes. “See, I told you: I’ve become a fixture on the Nile itinerary.”
Omar was a little shocked that she could make a joke about her own monarchy. “You must be feeling better today,” he said.
“You know,” she replied, “I just might be.”
That same afternoon, the man from the government who had invited Omar onto his boat for coffee appeared at the door of the French House. Ahmed ran up the stairs to announce the unknown visitor. When Omar saw who it was, he told me later, he faltered and leaned into the wall involuntarily. The man smiled. “I have come to speak with Lady Duff Gordon.”
“You must not … ,” Omar began.
“Please tell her I am here.”
“Your name?”
“Tell her I’ve come on orders from the Khedive.”
My Lady insisted on seeing the man alone. The house buzzed—a royal missive, and now this, a government agent; Ahmed sneaked into my room to tell me everything, his voice squeaking with excitement. Omar made the envoy wait outside the house while he helped my Lady into the salon and settled her on the divan. Then he hovered in the kitchen; my Lady had asked him to prepare tea and pastries, as she would for any guest, but he positioned himself so he could hear every word of their conversation.
“Lady Duff Gordon,” the man began, his tone even, well-mannered, “you have received an invitation from the Prince of Wales?”
“Yes,” replied my Lady, and Omar heard no trace of fear in her voice. “They will be at Aswan, next week.”
“The Khedive respectfully requests that you do not accept their invitation.”
“Why should the Khedive care whether I accept an invitation from the Prince and Princess of Wales?”
Omar could hear my Lady was amused and he worried for one long moment that my Lady would laugh at the Pasha’s envoy.
“If you hire a boat to take you to Aswan, the boatmen will be arrested.”
“If I hire a boat …” My Lady stopped speaking.
Omar waited in the kitchen. He tried to force himself to get on with making the tea, with placing sweetmeats on the tray.
“You are threatening me,” my Lady said calmly. “Whatever for? I’m a sick old woman, can’t you see?”
The man cleared his throat but remained silent.
“What does the Khedive fear?” my Lady asked. “That I’ll tell the Prince and Princess what I see outside my window every day?”
“I’ve given you the Pasha’s message, Lady Duff Gordon. Now please, excuse me.
Ma esalaameh.
The Khedive sends his greetings.”
“Will you not stay for tea?” my Lady asked blandly.
The man bowed. “No, thank you.”
After the agent was gone, Omar took the tea tray through to the salon. He could not pretend he had not overheard. “That man,” he said, “came to see me. He offered to bribe me to have you drowned.”
At that, my Lady did laugh, out loud, but now there was no amusement in her voice. “How much was I worth to the Khedive?”
Omar did not reply to her question. “These threats, my Lady, they are not made in jest, they are not made in idleness. The Khedive—”
“Don’t you think I’ve seen enough of his brutality to know that if it suited him I would disappear the next day?”
Omar nodded abruptly.
“Please pour me some tea.” My Lady began to cough, clutching her side, and Omar could see she was in pain. He propped her up and tried to ease her by rubbing her back; before I had Abdullah, Omar would never have touched her. But now, he said, he’d grown accustomed to touching her almost as quickly as he’d adapted to doing my job as well as his own.
When my Lady could speak again she said, “I was planning to decline the invitation anyway. I’m too ill to make the journey. The thought of traveling to Aswan makes me feel even more unwell; I doubt I could travel to the end of the village. I’ll write to the Prince later today.”
Omar was surprised by this decision, though he did not show it. But late that night, my Lady took a turn for the worse. She railed against it, but no one can live on will alone, and each cough, each bout of blood spitting, brought her closer to death. And she knew it. He could see she knew it. Nothing could be as frightening, not even the Khedive and his men.
I found myself wondering what would happen if my Lady did die. Omar would have to find a new position immediately if we were to survive, and there was no guarantee that another
Frangi
employer would look on our situation more benevolently. The fact was that having a European wife and child might make finding work difficult for Omar. It was likely we would have to live separately. But no one could insist that I leave the country; I’d be free to stay. Perhaps Omar’s family would welcome me into their household, as Mustafa Agha had suggested the day we were married. Perhaps … But this was not a useful train of thought; it was not seemly to speculate in this way. My Lady would pull through; she always did; she was indestructible.
When she had the strength, Lady Duff Gordon continued to write her letters home, sometimes only a few lines per day. She gave no thought to the government envoy and his warning and sent her letters via trusted travelers only. She stayed in her room during the day and slept outside at night. She alternated between the garden balcony and the terrace overlooking the Nile. “The changing views,” she told Omar, “heal me.” Her ongoing incapacity gave me a little freedom and I was able to spend part of my day in the kitchen with Omar, though the other household members were sworn to secrecy, Ahmed sworn doubly. They didn’t mind, for the pleasure of holding the baby. Abdullah’s skin had become paler since he was born, and his whiteness was much admired. He slept most of the time and, when he wasn’t asleep, he was being fed or played with or cosseted or bathed by one of his admirers.
My Lady was not herself, but even so, she knew what was going on, behind her back, though she heard not a whisper or peep. “Another few weeks,” she mumbled to Omar one afternoon as he wiped her face with a cool cloth. “Another few weeks and I’ll send the baby to Cairo and Sally can be on her way. Beginning of May.”