The Twelve Rooms of the Nile

25

AMONG THE ABABDEH

Never having ridden her camel at a gallop, Flo was amazed at how rapidly the riders she first glimpsed churning up dust flurries at the horizon materialized at the camp: Père Elias and his houseboy, Hakim, both showered with fine grit and wearing kaffiyehs over their faces. The forward contingent of Trout’s search party!

Dazed by thirst, her head still throbbing from last night’s rakı, she stood up, spilling the last plate of beans and apricot paste onto the sand.

Père Elias promptly ordered his camel to kneel and slid to the ground. “Mademoiselle Nightingale,” he cried. “We have found you at last! You are all right, I hope?”

Of course you have found me, she thought. I am not the one who is lost. “Thirsty,” she replied. “Have you any water?”

“Plenty.” He leaned over his camel. “We carry a full load, six skins each.” He hurried to her, kissed both cheeks, and handed her two goatskins.

“It is good to see you. Please, excuse me.” She raised a skin above her head and, to her surprise, squirted a perfect liquid arc into her mouth. Hakim shifted on his feet. “Bonjour,” he muttered. She acknowledged him by shutting her eyes as she gulped and swallowed, gulped and swallowed.

“And where are the gentlemen?” the consul asked.

She pointed to Joseph’s tent. “Malades,” she managed, “with fever.” Her belly was cramping. She stopped drinking and placed the damp goatskin against her cheek. “All but Gustave, who is inspecting rocks for petroglyphs.” In fact, he had gone to relieve himself.

Mohammed and the crew members welcomed the riders, bowing to Père Elias and embracing Hakim. How did they know him? Were they his relatives? she wondered. Cousins?

After another long slug, she began to revive, like a wilted plant responding to water flooding its leaves and branches. While the men exchanged formal pleasantries, she rushed two of Hakim’s goatskins to the sick tent. Max was so grateful, he wept as he drank, while Joseph leaned forward on his elbow, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a hungry chick as he swallowed. Their fevers had broken. Still, both men were weak and without appetite. They needed to return to Kenneh as quickly as possible to avoid a relapse in the desert heat.

The camel guides were sharing Père Elias’s dates and water good-naturedly when she returned. Just then she spied a haggard Gustave plodding back toward the camp. Earlier, when he exited his tent, they’d exchanged the stuporous greetings of the desperately hung over. Now, though pale, his eyes sunken within swollen circles, he smiled at her. She passed him her goatskin, and he drank until he was quenched.

She could wait no longer. “What about Trout?” she asked the consul. “Have you found her?” She was determined to stay calm but felt herself trembling. She feared the consul’s presence boded bad news, possibly the worst news. Gustave reached out his hand and she took it, gratified that Max remained in the tent, though she would not, she decided, relinquish this comfort if he suddenly appeared, reputation be damned.

Père Elias and Hakim were conferring in whispers. “Please,” she begged them, “we have been sick with worry.”

“Mademoiselle Nightingale,” Père Elias began, crossing himself, “I beg your forgiveness for taking so long. Of course, I shall tell you all that I know.” He glanced at Hakim, who sat beside him, hanging on his employer’s every word like a spaniel awaiting a tidbit. The wind gusted at ground level, an impish, invisible creature that ruffled the hems of the men’s robes, her filth-stiffened dress.

“Out with it, monsieur!” Gustave shouted. “Is she among the living?”

“Oh, yes, forgive me, dear friends. Yes—she is alive.” The consul put his arm around Hakim’s shoulders. “That is why I—we—have come. To explain everything. I beg you only to be patient.”

Flo felt her body sag in relief. Thank God. Thank you, thank you, God. Gustave squeezed her hand and held fast to it.

Warm and newly familiar, his hand propelled her into a parallel awareness. Comments from the previous night floated like motes in a sunbeam across her mind. Oui, d’accord. J’aime ton visage. But a strange fog enveloped her, as if she had kept a secret so long and thoroughly that she herself had forgotten it.

After securing the mold of Gustave’s face in a box, she recalled, she had groped toward her tent, acknowledged the drowsing sentry, and lain upon her bedroll without undressing. A moment later, it seemed, the sun was blaring. Peering outside and seeing no activity, she went back to sleep. Shortly after eight—four hours later than usual—the crew roused themselves and she got up for good. It was then that she noticed her unbuttoned bodice and the tatters of pa-pier-mâché clinging to her neck and chest. He had made squeezes of her, yes. And they had kissed. Beyond that, she was sure of only two things: that she would be happy to see him again and that no harm had been done her. Nevertheless, before emerging from her tent, she had inspected her drawers for blood, finding nothing but a stiff patch of cloth where something had dried. Her virginity, that priceless jewel for which she had no earthly use, was intact.

They had talked. And talked and talked. She remembered laughter. Above all, the impression of tenderness given and received. They had been playful, like brother and sister, though not exactly. She felt her face heat up as she remembered the feel of her fingers in his mouth and her will dissolving in a burst of pleasure. And then he had placed his finger in her mouth, whereupon the sensation had doubled and trebled until she felt herself purely a body, all thought having vanished for the first time in her life. She had liked that. Very much. Was this what Clarkey called amitié amoureuse? Loving fellowship?

Père Elias was nattering on at the edge of her attention, carefully laying the groundwork for his story. The camel guides ululated and hooted as he lauded the Ababdeh women, who were, as everyone knew, blessed with strong feet and lean figures. Their flawless, nut-brown skin was especially glorious against their white shell necklaces.

She returned to her thoughts. They must remain in touch after Egypt. She pictured him visiting at Embley, herself in Rouen or Paris. They might remain friends for years, decades—a lifetime of substantial letters and conversations. She could consult him about her plans to serve God, and confer with him about his writing. They would be the best of companions, like Clarkey and M. Fauriel. Perhaps lovers. Had Clarkey been sleeping with Fauriel all those years? Certainly she must be now with Mohl. She had heard that the French knew how to prevent pregnancy. If anyone knew, Clarkey would. A brutal determination formed in her mind: she would keep him as a friend, whatever it took.

But was this the touted bliss of love that she’d read about in Madame Sand’s spicy novels? It was not the crushing sensation she’d expected, but rather feathery and weightless. How lightly his hand had covered hers! And how much it assured: to keep her safe, to guide and delight. Such a simple act, holding hands. We are a pair, it said. Two in harmony against this inattentive, suffering world.

She let out a deep sigh. Whether it was love or not, she couldn’t stop smiling, especially now that she knew Trout was alive.

The consul’s speech, alternating between French and Arabic, had slowed, as if he were approaching sensitive material. She turned her attention to it.

Not one Abadi in living memory, he explained, had refused matrimony. Most boys eagerly anticipated it as a mark of manhood and privilege. To make matters worse, Hakim’s father was a sheik; his mother, a powerful matchmaker and matriarch. Humiliated by the recalcitrant son who would not take a bride, they had disowned him. It was owing to these grave circumstances, Père Elias summarized, that Hakim had hit upon a plan that, alas, had come to involve Trout.

Following the consul’s logic, Flo’s mind leaped forward. “I hope he does not propose to marry my maid.” Snickering and chortling followed Père Elias’s translation. For the first time she had the undivided attention of the crew, even Mohammed.

“Non, certainement pas,” Père Elias replied. “Although Hakim prefers the company of older women, he does not wish to marry anyone, I assure you.”

The crew continued to laugh. Apparently they found the idea of Trout as a wife utterly ludicrous. Flo felt slighted on her maid’s behalf. Trout might be forty-three years old, but she was neither infirm nor unattractive. Indeed, she was a person of a certain dignity.

As if reading Flo’s thoughts, Gustave stood and called them to order, his hand raised like a constable’s directing carriage traffic at Mayfair. “See here, there’s no need to mock Miss Nightingale’s companion.”

“Forgive me,” Père Elias said, raising both hands as if to bless the crew, but in fact to silence them. “She is a fine English lady.”

Oh, thought Flo, if you only knew.

Grumbling, Gustave sat down again next to her.

“Understand that Madame Trout is safe,” Père Elias said. “To my best knowledge, she is perfectly safe and sound.”

Again, Gustave jumped up, with more vigor than he’d shown all day. “Will you not simply produce her then?” He sat back down. “These people talk long, but not straight,” he whispered. “There is always something hidden in their words.” Color had returned to his cheeks and sweat lay in a thin film upon his brow.

She removed her handkerchief and blotted his forehead as she eyed the consul. “Where is she then?” she demanded.

Shaking his head, the consul regarded his sandals. “This will take time.”

Now Hakim stepped forward, addressing Flo in frantic Arabic. “I regret the sorrow and worry I have caused you,” the consul translated. “I am the guilty one.” His face reddened as tears flooded his handsome brown eyes. “I beg you to spare me and the men who helped me.”

“C’est ça.” Gustave clapped hands, looking away with distaste. “The confession.”

Things, at last, were starting to come clear. Flo watched as the consul comforted the sobbing, shaking Hakim, and urged him to continue. “I only wished for the forgiveness of my beloved father and mother,” the boy finally managed.

The crew clucked in sympathy.

“I had to do something to restore my mother’s honor, or she might have died,” Hakim explained.

For all his tears, Flo thought Hakim unrepentant, a remorseless upstart of a boy.

“Also,” Hakim continued, sheltered by the strong arms of Père Elias, “I did not wish to be an orphan.”

“The poor boy,” Gustave said meltingly into her ear. Even he, it seemed, was taken in by the sob story.

Flo could hardly credit the sympathy Hakim’s testimony had generated. “Oh, I have had enough of all of you,” she suddenly shouted, rising to her full height and jamming her hands over her narrow hips as she walked toward Hakim. “Where in the blazes is my Trout, boy?” she thundered. “I command you to bring her to me at once, since you claim to know where she is.”

As he listened to the consul’s translation, Hakim’s eyes appeared to darken, then lighten and glaze over. His face turned waxen. Flo recalled with definite satisfaction that he was said to be frightened of women. This power over him pleased her. All her life, it now seemed to her, she had backed down from those who opposed her, trapped and helpless and despising herself for it. Rarely had she sought directly to exercise authority over anyone, yielding instead to misery, as if that would bring the desired result, as if justice could be achieved merely through patient suffering and the pity of others. Never had she felt power—the raw force of it—possess her being as it did in this moment. Her body jolted into a fine alertness, every fiber of her straining forward with pointed intention. She could smite him if his answer proved unsatisfactory. Yes, smite him!

Hakim’s lashes fluttered like a child’s caught in a lie. Any second, she expected, he would dissolve into another gushing waterworks of regret.

Instead, he swooned. The guides promptly collected him, fanning his forehead and patting his cheeks. Only Mohammed did not move or show concern, his usual composure prevailing. His lack of sympathy was not, then, the mark of a weak man, as she had thought, but the flimsy mask of power. Max had been right all along, but she had had to be outraged to see it: the guides had conspired in the kidnapping.

Père Elias stepped to her side. “I knew nothing of what I am telling you until you sent word that Madame Trout was missing. Let that be absolutely clear.”

“Of course,” she replied. Was there anyone in this part of the world who was not fundamentally self-serving, not frightened to death of retribution? Still, she believed the consul, her reasons having as much to do with his bathtub and bonhomie as his declaration. She had observed his kindness and fondness for Hakim—he did not beat him, for one thing. Indeed, the consul was nothing if not brave to inject himself into the tribal dispute. Yet even the consul’s good intentions did not soothe her present frustration or allay her feeling smothered by his ingratiating politesse. She preferred to fulminate, to yield to the new energies roiling within her and fly into a satisfying rage.

“Oh, everyone is innocent!” she screamed, throwing up her arms and glowering. “I suppose it’s all Trout’s fault. No doubt she kidnapped herself!” Blood rushed to her face. “You’re all liars. A pack of liars!” She felt magnificent, her own heart pounding applause within. Even Gustave hung back, watching.

“Oh, she was kidnapped, that is clear,” the consul confirmed, bowing. “But, miraculously, the family is reconciled, thanks to Madame Trout—”

“Is she their slave, then?” Flo pictured an abject Trout hunched over a cooking fire in a shadowy desert cave. She reached for Gustave’s arm and found it. Touching him settled her. Her breathing slowed.

Again, the consul begged forgiveness. “Not at all. On the contrary, she has been treated well. But soon you may ask her yourself.”

The consul and Hakim were staring at something beyond Flo in the white distance. She turned to see what it was, but had she not known that something was there, she wouldn’t have noticed the faint streak at the horizon where the desert melded into the browned blue of the sky.

For an indeterminate time, the streak did not change, though a dusty halo formed around it. Slowly it elongated into three bars, which soon shifted into three ovals. Waves of heat, the watery illusion of a mirage, transected the blur as it approached.

Looking bored, Mohammed sat down with his men, but Hakim and the consul remained standing, arm in arm, watching the distant shimmer. At the corner of her eye, Flo glimpsed the tent flap open as Max and Joseph edged outside to join the spectators.

“Why the silence?” Max asked in a weak voice. “Is something wrong?”

Quickly grasping the situation, Joseph grabbed Max by the shoulders and turned him in the direction of the oncoming visitors, still a faraway smudge.

Long moments later, three camels loped into the camp with three riders in full Bedouin traveling fig—striped woolen mantles and kaffiyehs to shield their faces from the scouring sand. Only the eyes and hands were not covered. While Flo and her entourage waited, two of the figures ordered their camels to kneel, then helped the third down. They approached in a line, the two on either side supporting the third, processing as regally as Victoria through London. Flo heard a muffled “Mum!” escape into the boundless desert air.

“Is it you, Trout?” she cried, bringing her hands up to her mouth. “Is it truly you?” Her chest felt as if it might burst open like a magic trick into a bouquet of flowers—white roses for sheer gratitude.

“Yes, mum,” came the quavering voice.

Flo rushed to grasp Trout’s hands, then hugged her. They stepped back to arm’s length to regard each other, then embraced again.

Weeping, Hakim prostrated himself at the feet of the other two figures, clutching their ankles. Flo watched as his parents removed their robes. The father wore a leather apron; rings bedecked his ears. His hair was stunning. Save for a short tuft on the top of his head, it was dressed in the corkscrew ringlets the Italian painters favored for Jesus. Though age had creased his face like a map folded too many times, his body was lean and muscular. On his arm he wore a leather band in which a short knife was sheathed. The mother was clad in a long white gown secured under her upper arms, while a long wrapper covered her head, one shoulder and an arm. Flo had the unkind thought that it would have taken quite some time for her to starve, as she was not lean like most of her kinswomen, but plump as a pigeon breast, with skin firm and gleaming as a ripe apple.

Everyone gathered in a circle. Flo counted thirteen, including the camel crew, who bunched together in a wide arc, with Mohammed seated at the sheik’s right hand, no doubt a position of honor. Hakim’s mother removed and folded Trout’s mantle and kaffiyeh.

There, at last, and apparently none the worse, was Trout. She stood stock-still, allowing herself to be appreciated. Her face split into an improbable grin.

Gustave kissed her on both cheeks. “We feared you’d been sold into white slavery,” he said, nodding at Flo to translate.

“I don’t know about that, sir,” Trout said.

“It’s just as well.”

Hakim’s mother fussed over Trout, cupping her chin, stroking her cheek with the back of her hand. She offered Trout water and dates, acting, Flo thought, like a body servant. Or, indeed, a parent. Had she in some fashion adopted Trout in lieu of the bride that had been denied her? Oh, the strangeness of it! This would require a longer letter home than going up and down the cataracts had. Parthe would be beside herself.

“I’ve had an adventure, mum. I do hope you didn’t fret for me too much.”

“Oh, but we did. We searched everywhere for you. We did not know anything except that you had been taken.” Feeling more relaxed now, Flo bit into a fresh date; it was slightly chewy, with cool honey at the center. “I knew you could not have vanished under your own steam.”

Flo was wretched at keeping secrets. She hoped none of the guilt she felt for reading Trout’s diary colored her voice. She would never volunteer it, but what if Trout suspected once the book was returned to her? Flo recalled the panicky feeling that had overcome her when she realized Trout had read her letters. Apparently she had no greater control over her impulses than Trout did.

Trout tugged at her arm. “I shall tell you about it later, mum,” she said under her breath. “I don’t wish to speak in a language these people can’t understand.”

“Very well,” said Flo, but she thought it odd that Trout should be solicitous of her kidnappers. Perhaps she did not yet feel wholly safe.

• • •

The Bedouin couple had brought the makings of a feast: goats’ milk, durra cakes, and something resembling clotted cream, churned as they rode, the consul explained, by the rocking motion of the camels.

After the food, Père Elias offered Turkish cigarettes, greatly prized, Flo knew, in the desert. Only she demurred. Even Hakim’s father, who had brought his own long pipe, accepted. Hakim’s mother passed hers to Trout, who, after a few moments, sat happily wreathed in smoke. Flo could not help staring.

“I always thought smoking a filthy habit,” Trout told her between puffs, “but now I’ve taken it up”—she tapped her ash to one side—“I quite enjoy it.”

Soon Hakim’s mother rose to perform a dance while his father chanted and the camel drivers clapped. She moved about the circle slowly, rotating her hips to the repetitious melody and flexing her hands into arabesques.

“She is happy,” Père Elias explained to Flo and Gustave. “Her honor has been restored and she has her son back.”

“How I miss my own dear mother,” Gustave opined. He turned to Flo. “Don’t you find this reunion touching? Do you not miss your own?” He stopped himself. “But no, I suppose you wouldn’t.” He sounded apologetic.

“I love my mother. I wish her well,” she said. “But away from me, or I from her.” She felt more determined saying aloud to another person what she had only thought privately. Addressing the consul, she said, “You will tell us more, I hope, when the celebration is ended.”

“It will be my duty and my pleasure.”

“And, of course, there is the matter of justice to discuss,” she added.

“Oui.”

Hakim danced at the edge of the circle, by turns catching his mother’s eye and then Trout’s. The drivers reclined on their elbows or sat cross-legged, contentedly smoking. Indeed, with Trout returned, the scene resembled nothing so much as opéra bouffe, Flo thought, complete with costumes, exotic sets, comic interludes, and a plot of mistaken identity.

• • •

Late in the afternoon, Hakim’s parents prepared to depart. They had saved the gifts for last, whether by tradition, or in a final attempt to purchase her goodwill, Flo did not know. The idea of justice was, in fact, much on her mind. Punishment. Possibly clemency. Whatever she decided would require a wisdom she wasn’t sure she possessed. She was weary, and bloated, too, after so much food and water.

The father withdrew a live kid with hobbled legs from his saddlebags—the animal barely a weanling—as well as a soapstone cup packed with hair grease for Flo. (Trout already had one, she later learned.) Next, he presented a limp bundle of fur with dark, glassy eyes. Despite all the hunts at Lea and Embley, it was the first fox Flo had ever seen. She shuddered.

“What is that, mum?” Trout asked, pointing to another furry offering.

“Merde!” Gustave cried. “It is a dead rat.” He poked at the animal, stretching out one of its long back legs. “But a rat from a circus. On stilts. Disgusting.”

“No, no!” The consul wagged his finger and moved closer. “It’s a jerboa, not a rat. They roast it over their camel-dung fires. It’s tasty! Not at all what you would expect.”

Removing the knife from his arm sheath, the sheik skinned the animal with a few deft strokes.

Flo felt faint.

“I saw him catch it,” Trout said with remarkable equanimity. “Walked right up to the burrow, he did, and pulled it out with his hands.”

“The Ababdeh are great trackers,” Père Elias said as the sheik proceeded to skewer the animal on a stick. “Voilà!” he exclaimed, accepting the kabob and bowing to the sheik in studious thanks. Hakim, observing nearby, looked proud and pleased. Vindicated.

Shell necklace softly clicking, the mother next stepped forward with two bronze rings lying in her open palm. She stared at Flo’s nose, visually inspecting it at close range, then pointed to her own nose ring, smiling. Flo felt herself stiffen as the woman grasped her hand and tried to push the ring onto her finger.

“Please,” Flo told the consul, flinching. “Tell her no more gifts! They are unnecessary. Besides, how can a gift compensate for a kidnapping?”

“It would be a great insult to refuse these last tokens,” he cautioned. “This represents most of the wealth of the family. You might undo everything.”

At that, Flo allowed Hakim’s mother to place the nose ring on her fourth finger. The woman did likewise for Trout. Flo and Trout curtsied. The mother smiled and fired off something in Arabic.

“Tell them how much we appreciate their generosity,” Flo urged Père Elias.

Trout settled the ring on her finger and admired her hand.

“What are we to do with the baby goat?” Gustave asked.

“Eat it,” Père Elias replied. “You shall need it for the rest of your journey.”

“And the fox?” Flo asked. Do we—”

“Yes, that, too.”

• • •

After the festivities ended and Hakim’s parents had departed, the travelers decided that they would not eat again until morning. The camel drivers built a fire and withdrew to care for their animals, grateful for the gift of fodder the Ababdeh had brought—dried zilla stems they’d collected en route.

As the sun fattened on its downward arc through the western sky, Flo, Gustave, the consul, Hakim, and Trout lounged on blankets around the campfire. Gustave smoked his chibouk, making sure, it pleased her to notice, that some part of him—leg, foot, hand, elbow, or shoulder—was always in contact with her. The consul stoked his French briar pipe and drew a long breath. “This is not a simple matter,” he warned.

“Fine, but you must tell us everything,” said Flo. “I shall translate for Trout.”

He nodded.

Hakim might as well have arranged for the sun to rise in the west instead of the east, Père Elias said, for all the confusion he had caused. In the end, only the boy’s cleverness had prevented a tragic outcome, for the situation was more complicated than he had yet allowed.

When Hakim’s father was unable to convince Hakim to marry, he faced the threat of being deposed by his first cousin. For a while it seemed the father might have to kill the cousin. Later he offered him the dowry of Hakim’s sister, though not the girl herself. The cousin refused. Hakim’s parents implored him to reconsider marriage, but by now, friendship and employment with the consul had strengthened his resolve. “Though Hakim is an excellent worker, I would not have risked bloodshed merely to retain a servant,” the consul said. “It was a matter of the heart for me, too,” he confessed, “for I have grown fond of Hakim. To me, he is like the son I never had.” The consul’s voice was shaky. He stared at his feet.

“I see,” said Flo.

“Enfin, the father proposed to give the cousin Hakim’s sister for a second wife. The cousin promised to consider it.”

“Oh, dear,” said Flo. She hated the very idea of a second wife. Before Egypt, she could not have imagined anything more limiting than to be bound as a wife. To be a second wife must be a complete forfeiture of personhood.

This broke Hakim’s mother’s heart a second time, Père Elias explained, for an Abadi daughter, once married, was forbidden ever to see her mother again. “That’s when Hakim took permanent refuge in Koseir, with me.”

“I still do not understand how Trout figures into it,” Flo said.

“I am nearly finished,” the consul said. He uncrossed his legs, stretching them out in front of him.

“So the daughter was taken away weeping, and the mother could not be comforted. It was just then that you and your party arrived in Koseir. Hakim had never before met an Englishwoman. He hatched the idea to arrange a gift for his parents that would redeem them in their clansmen’s eyes: a visit from a great English lady. Something like a state visit, you might say,” he added. Apparently the Ababdeh knew well the power of England, having ushered soldiers and diplomats across the desert bound to or from India by the Red Sea route. And so the visit was arranged.

The consul’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if Hakim might suddenly grasp his French. “I wonder if he told them he was considering marrying Madame Trout.”

“More likely,” Gustave said, “he simply let them arrive at the idea themselves, without contradicting it.”

Flo completed the thought. “That way, the parents could hope for the unthinkable and settle for the merely fabulous—a visit from a fine English lady.”

“What a clever lad,” Gustave noted.

Flo glared at him.

“Genius put to bad use, though.”

“I knew nothing of this plot,” the consul insisted again.

“So you have said. Do you think Hakim was aiming for Trout?” Flo asked.

“Aiming?” The consul tapped his pipe bowl onto the ground beside him. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Did he particularly wish to kidnap Trout?”

The consul paused. Clearly, if he knew what answer she desired, he would have supplied it. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know if he understood that she is your servant.”

“Oh, my.”

“Do not upset yourself,” Gustave said, patting her hand. “What’s done is done.”

“Yes.” But she felt the terrible certainty that it was her fault that Trout had been taken, her fault for consigning her to a small tent alone.

“You must trust to fate, to destiny, is what I mean,” Gustave said, “not that you should put the incident from your mind, but that everything is not under your control—or anyone’s. Do you see the difference, my dear?” He put his arm around her while the consul continued.

Gustave’s remark astounded her. For some reason, she had never truly believed in accidents until now. She’d always thought that if a person were paying attention, there could be no accidents. His reasoning provided enormous relief. For at least the moment, she felt both innocent of and forgiven for Trout’s abduction.

“Hakim enlisted his cousin, one of the caravan guides, to assist him. It’s likely they all knew of it.” Père Elias coughed and muttered sotto voce, “Of course, I know none of this part firsthand, you understand.”

“Yes, yes.” The consul’s insistence on his ignorance—and thus his innocence—was vexing. What possible point did it serve?

“The visit was a great success,” the consul went on. “All the clan came to meet the great English lady in the family hut and lavished food and gifts upon her. Hakim says that she bestowed favors and privileges in return.”

“What privileges?” Flo asked.

“Did they even share a common language?” Gustave added.

The consul shook his head. “I don’t see how. Nevertheless, Madame Trout reciprocated. So Hakim said. He was there.”

“Is it true?” Flo asked Trout, who startled upon being addressed.

“I did talk, mum. I could not be silent amidst all that gabble, so when they spoke, I spoke. I never understood more than a word or two.”

“Perhaps Hakim will elucidate,” Gustave said.

Hakim was blushing again. “It was all harmless lies, happy lies. My parents and I are reconciled, my father’s power is secure, and my mother is eating again. All is as it was before the trouble began. No harm has been done.” His eyes were welling up again.

“Except that your sister is wretchedly married,” Flo said.

“A minor point in the scheme of life,” said the consul, lighting his pipe anew. “She would have been sent away eventually.”

Trout raised her finger tentatively, like a schoolgirl who wants a second chance at the correct answer. “When I saw they meant me no harm, I talked to them. And I gave them things I had to hand.” She looked stunned, like a person shaken awake from a dream. “From my chatelaine.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew it. “The thimble and beeswax—”

Flo took the chatelaine in her fingers.

“The black and white thread.”

The chatelaine was almost empty. Only the needle case and the black key remained. Flo felt like crying at the sight and heft of it, so reduced, so much lighter in the hand. The gratitude she felt for Trout’s safe return overwhelmed her with a great wave of relief and then, abruptly, like a cloud obscuring the sun, exhaustion overcame her. Total darkness of thought and feeling. It was the fatigue of confusion, of too much information and too little sense. She might not be able to reach her tent unaided. And there was still the matter of justice. Père Elias and Hakim planned to leave shortly; she would start for Kenneh with two sick men before the sun was up. She couldn’t wait any longer to resolve the matter.

She turned to Trout. “Do you wish these people punished?” Her voice was hoarse.

Trout did not react. Flo repeated the question.

“Is it up to me, then, a mere servant?”

“Not entirely.” Flo stretched out her aching legs. “But you are the party most injured.”

Trout thought for a time. “What would the punishment be?”

“Death, most likely.”

“Death?”

Flo nodded at the consul to expand on the point, and feebly translated as he did.

“Yes,” he confirmed, “that is the penalty for abducting a European in Egypt, though it is not so straightforward with the Ababdeh, as they are not subject to most Egyptian laws. You would have to present your grievance to the Bedouin sheik. But in all likelihood, the penalty would be death. The Ababdeh are sworn to protect all travelers in this desert.” He exhaled a long curl of smoke. “They both rule this wasteland and are its hostages.”

Flo thought it useless to bring a case before the Ababdeh prince. It would take weeks, for one thing.

“Nothing, then,” Trout said. “No punishment.”

The consul didn’t look surprised. “Très bien,” he said. Upon learning the verdict, Hakim wept and spewed thanks to every quarter.

“Good,” said Flo, rising wobbily to her feet. “And now I’m afraid we must retire.” Gustave supported her unsteady frame.

Once more, Père Elias bid them a poignant adieu, kissing them on both cheeks and weeping, as he had in Koseir. She watched the two men mount their camels. From atop his beast, Hakim saluted.

With Père Elias leading the way, they vanished into the pink twilight at a canter. Venus rose above the diminishing figures as Flo watched the already darkened eastern half of the sky absorb them until all that remained was a wisp of dust kicked up by the camels’ long, ungainly legs.

Encircling Flo’s waist, Gustave shepherded her to the tent as if helping a wounded soldier from a battlefield. “Trout,” she whispered, “must sleep with me.” The sentry opened the flap, and she collapsed onto her knees.

• • •

She slept, she knew not how long, awakening to Trout staring down at her. It was still dark. Their ruined dresses lay balled up in a corner of the tent. She dimly recalled Trout helping her into a nightgown over her objections, saying work made her feel better.

Trout was holding the hairbrush and comb from Flo’s camel box. An oil lamp burned nearby. “Yes,” said Flo.

Trout sat down behind her and began silently to brush out her matted, grimy hair.

“Thanks to God you are safe and sound,” Flo said. She felt refreshed after sleeping. More blessed yet was it not to be thirsty. “I couldn’t have borne it.”

“Yes, mum. Thank you.”

Flo felt the tug of the boar bristles mediated by Trout’s steadying touch as she parted the hair into small sections. After a time, Trout rose and returned with a pair of embroidery scissors.

The brushing was soporific, and Flo willingly drifted off. Periodically, she jogged herself awake to enjoy Trout’s tender ministrations. The lamplight was lovely, glimmering in the satin ties of her gown, darting off the scissors in golden splinters. As Trout snipped through the unassailable knots, a fine shawl of sacrificed hair collected over Flo’s shoulders.

“You will have quite a tale to tell your nieces and nephews,” Flo said drowsily.

The brushing came to a halt. Trout lowered her hands. Flo sensed them behind her, motionless on the blanket. “No, mum. I don’t think I shall tell it.”

Flo turned around. “Why ever not?”

“No, I am sure I never could.”

“But, Trout—why in the world not? You are fine, after all. And it is a tale deserving to be told in detail, to be passed down—”

Trout began to sob. “That was the consul’s story you heard, mum, but . . .” She broke off, racked by crying.

Her ease giving way to fear, Flo swiveled completely around. “But what?”

“Even if he is telling the truth.” Trout blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. “He wasn’t there, mum. He was not me!” A look of arrant terror had seized her face.

Flo patted her tensed hand. “Of course, you are right. I am sorry. It must have been fright—”

A piercing cry issued from Trout, so shrill it raised gooseflesh on Flo’s arms and neck. She had never heard such a sustained and unnerving noise. It was the sound of agony, of butchery—a death cry—Trout’s mouth a rictus of recollected terror.

Immediately the sentry burst into the room, dagger at the ready, two cohorts not far behind him. “Get away!” Flo screamed, grabbing the hairbrush and waving them back with it, at which Trout’s cries abruptly ceased. Utterly bewildered, the man retreated, the tent flapping shut behind him.

Trout started to weep again in sustained and heaving waves, a tidal bore of tears. “Oh, mum,” she gasped between sobs, throwing herself across Flo’s small lap, “he doesn’t know what it felt like to me!”