The Twelve Rooms of the Nile

4

LA VIE DE FLORENCE ROSSIGNOL

On a clear Monday in February 1850, what Flo saw from her houseboat was nothing less, she thought, than divinely inspired, powered into existence by the love of God.

She’d awakened to the unmistakable jolt of the boat setting sail at dawn. As she watched through the window, the river turned pewter, then silver, like a hand mirror tilting up to catch the ever more brilliant light. After breakfasting with the others, she’d remained on deck, anticipating Abu Simbel.

They had been on the Nile for six weeks and more than nine hundred miles. Going south, the river had been a wide expanse, lined on either side with the fertile croplands that had filled the empire’s belly for millennia. Then, at Aswan, the green borders had narrowed and the river with it, fracturing into rapids that boiled over the crags. After the cataracts came the three D’s—Dendur, Dakkeh, and Derr, where Charles bought two barrels of dates. Flo had planned to spend the afternoon at a temple, but Derr was the capital of Nubia, and the clamor and poverty of its inhabitants were so dispiriting, she had spent only an hour in town.

Now, as the boat sped upriver, its great crossed sails unfurled in the breeze, sandstone cliffs encroached on both sides, rising up in sheer ocher walls to form a canyon through which the low, twisting river appeared to be fleeing for its life. The river was more tortuous here than in the north, with hairpin turns so sharp that each vista coming into view was an astonishment. Which is how it was that, rounding yet another bend, Flo was staggered by the breathtaking sight on the western bank: cut from the cliff, the faces of enormous stone pharaohs glowed in the morning light. They were the biggest likenesses she had ever seen. If the height of the cliff were three hundred feet, these colossi, she estimated, were easily seventy feet high. Her gaze shifted to the second temple, also carved from the rock and equally imposing, if smaller—the monument to Ramses’s queen, Nefertari. Elation buzzed through her body.

Everyone, including the dragoman, Paolo, gathered eagerly as the boat moored alongside a patch of palms. Selina carried her hemp tote, packed with drawing supplies, on her shoulder. She squeezed Flo’s hand and stepped onto the gangplank. Flo and Trout followed. Behind them, four brawny Nubians would, if necessary, haul the travelers over the slope of windblown sand that rose, it seemed, a thousand feet up the mountain.

The climb was slow and arduous. Never look down, her father had told her when she was a child and they hiked the hills of Kent, near Embley. She focused on the colossi when they were visible, their blank eyes staring impassively into the sun, urging her on. The heat was building, and she was glad she’d worn only her brown Hollands. Unbleached linen was perfect for the climate of Egypt.

Trout struggled alongside, aided by a crewman who pushed her from time to time, his hands hovering just behind the broadest part of her back. Flo hoped to finish the ascent unassisted, but she wouldn‘t be shy about asking for help. Once she reached the great temple, she could rest. She planned to sit alone in the inner rooms and ponder the Egyptian religion. Unlike most Christians, she hadn’t dismissed the Egyptian gods and goddesses as false deities, viewing them, rather, as alternate conceptions of holiness. Surely, the theology of a people who had ruled for four thousand years was worth contemplating.

Trout grunted, and the crewman clamped onto her elbow to steady her. She was dressed for a visit to London, not the Nubian Desert, her cotton twill bodice and skirts already damp with sweat. In front of Flo, following in Paolo’s footsteps, Charles and Selina made steady progress. Selina stopped to speak, pointing at something, but the wind tossed aside her words.

At seventeen, Flo had climbed the stairs at Notre Dame—more than four hundred steps, her travel guide had crowed—to the parapeted rooftop and Paris below, dainty as a Persian miniature. Though not as high, this was considerably more difficult. At last she moved from the acutely angled ramp to a patch of level ground. It felt good to stand up straight after so much bending and trudging.

One Ramses was broken, the disjointed head and torso lying on the ground. Higher up, the first colossus was covered to his nostrils in sand. Arabs with shovels appeared to be digging out his visage. But despite neglect and damage, the temple seemed pristine, as if whatever had blasted the figure apart had happened centuries before, and it had been untouched ever since. Certainly no European had disturbed it, since Europe hadn’t known of Abu Simbel until the French conquered Egypt. Sailing up the Nile in 1817, Giovanni Belzoni must have gasped as she had when he rounded the bend in the river.

From a closer stance, it was even more incredible that the colossi had once formed part of the undifferentiated mountain they flanked. In a niche above the entrance—at perhaps three times life size—sat another splendid pharaoh wearing the traditional kilt and bearing the orb of the sun on his head. Ramses, she guessed, this one in the guise of his namesake, the sun god Ra.

Leaning against the shin of the headless Ramses (it must have been twenty feet from his sandal to his knee!), she felt small and yet more significant—like a jewel—the opposite of the diminution imposed by Chartres and Westminster Abbey. They had humbled her. Karnak, two weeks earlier, had been terrifying, the immense columns pressing in, threatening to crush her. She had felt overshadowed in every way. But Abu Simbel filled her with an awe that lifted her up and enlarged her. Paradoxically, the very enormity of the figures was comforting instead of intimidating. Sublime, she whispered aloud to no one in particular, gazing up at the serenely composed faces looming above her. Two tourists were creeping down from a niche in the rock alongside the shoulder of the southernmost colossus, and she determined to perch there before exploring the interior.

“Paolo,” she said, pointing up to a stone platform, “do you think someone could help me climb up there?”

The guide muttered to one of the crew and shouted back to her. “Brava, Signorella Nightingale. Why not?”

The crewman preceded her, a coil of rope for her to grasp wound around his shoulder. He helped her from foothold to ledge to handhold, and within moments, she was sitting alongside Ramses. Later, she thought, she’d maneuver down to the great ruler’s lap, to seek firsthand succor at his glorious breast.

She contemplated the two identical faces receding to her left in perfect alignment. The duplication was soothing. Here is Ramses, and here again, and again. By repeating that serene visage, the ancient sculptors had managed to convey the experience of time itself—of its passage—in a way that spoke not to death and decay but eternity.

Ramses’s eyes were far too big, she noticed. Nothing was in strict proportion. Yet these anatomical distortions made the figures more expressive of pure spirit than any other relics she’d seen. It was difficult to imagine that men had built these grand and godly objects. Not beautiful, certainly not realistic in the way of art as she’d always understood it, this was a whole world for which she had no language, only what stirred in her heart.

Above the four Osiridae—statues of Ramses in the guise of Osiris—a relief of yet another Ramses held a statuette in his hand. Was this an offering to or a gift from his divinity? And what did it symbolize? From its central location, she adjudged it important. Another detail to look up in Herr Bunsen’s book.

Selina and Charles were picnicking near the next Ramses, sharing a cup of local beer, when Flo climbed down and signaled her intention to enter the temple. Selina waved back, smiling, and lifted her cup in a toast. Flo was so grateful to the Bracebridges. They were more than loving family friends—angels, really. A year ago she had accompanied them to Italy and learned what easygoing companions they were. The first day in Rome she’d returned to the hotel expecting a reprimand for having spent the whole day lying on her back in the Sistine Chapel, but they hadn’t even missed her. No, their focus, too, was on books and art and politics—and on one another’s ailments—all of which left them delightfully permissive and absentminded.

Because sand had blocked all but about three feet of the temple’s doorway, she had to crawl into the magnificence on all fours—properly humbling, she thought. Her guide followed at a discreet distance. As soon as she was snug inside, she’d send him back.

Still on all fours, she found herself atop an interior sand ramp, this one the height of a double flight of stairs and illuminated by sunlight slanting through the impacted entrance. She scooted down on her bottom to the stone floor of a cavern suffused with twilight. Egypt was not only captivating, it was also glorious fun.

Eight Osiridae stood against as many pillars, their arms crossed upon their chests, the crook and flail in either hand to signify dominion over living and departed souls.

The trapped air, dim light, and thick mountain walls created a strange stillness and warmth, as if she had descended into the bowels of the earth. Near her foot, a scarab beetle careered over a tiny hillock of sand. The guide lighted her oil lamp and she continued into a second hall, and then a smaller chamber aglow with trickles of light from an invisible source high in the ceiling. Four more statues of Osiris supported the roof. Lowering herself against one of them, she shooed the guide away. When he hesitated, she shouted “Go back!” and was startled to hear the chamber echo her words in a diminishing chorus. He retreated to the opposite wall and knelt, head down, to give her the privacy she demanded. Clearly he had instructions not to leave her alone under any circumstances.

She opened her bag, removed her diary, and came across a recent entry: I had been feeling melancholy when we reached Aswan, but the sheer excitement brought me round. Riding up the rapids was one of the most delightful moments of my life—a moment that lasted four and a half hours! They’d navigated the cataracts with difficulty, she, Charles, and Trout on board for the thrilling ordeal while Selina continued overland by donkey. Six times the dahabiyah jutted out of the water like a vessel about to sink and was hauled by the main force of more than a hundred men up the granite rocks. . . . With unerring aim ropes were thrown from the poop to men on the rocks standing in the attitude of the Apollo Belvedere, their keen eyes glistening with eagerness. . . . I expected them to be dashed to pieces at every moment.

Describing a thing was nearly as exhilarating as the thing itself. She smiled to herself, then uncapped her pen and smoothed a blank page.

Now, at Abu Simbel, I feel nothing but comfort, as if in the presence of God. I am as moved by the Egyptian ideas of the afterlife as by our Christian ones. Further, it seems to me that the Egyptian beliefs are not so different in mechanism than the story of Christ’s resurrection. Bunsen points out that in the original mythology, only the sun-god Ra journeyed to the afterlife. Each night, when he died in the west, he traveled through the underworld on an infernal river divided into twelve rooms, one for each hour of the night. Emerging each morning at sunrise, he assured the continuation of the world. For the next hundred generations, only the pharaohs joined Ra, sailing to the Field of Reeds. But after a thousand generations (about 200 B.C.), everyone in the kingdom of Egypt could journey to the golden dawn of eternal life. The similarities with Christian belief are striking: the passage through the twelve rooms of the night was, like the crucifixion, the earthly death. Jesus, like the pharaoh, was divine and the first man to attain heaven. If we accept Him, then like the Egyptians who worshipped Ra and Osiris, we receive the gift of eternal life.

She closed her eyes and sat dragging her fingers through the sand. Writing her thoughts had always been calming, a way to weather her deepest storms and sort out her feelings. In fact, after Selina Brace-bridge and Mary Clarke, she thought of her diary as her best friend. She called it Lavie, which was short for La Vie de Florence Rossignol, begun as a French assignment when she was seven. Lavie was also the record of her struggles—with Parthe, with Fanny, and with herself.

J’aime Mme. Gale, ma bonne d’enfants, was the first sentence she’d written in it. I love my nurse, Mrs. Gale. And then—she recalled this as clearly as if the words had left her pen twenty minutes rather than twenty years ago—“In English her name means a storm, but Mrs. Gale is “une femme très calme, très placide.” Writing in French made her feel adult and sophisticated, and she attacked it with relish. Je suis née le 12 mai, en l’année 1820. My mother, whom I love, is called Fanny, and my Father (also very loved) is William Edward Nightingale. Everybody calls him WEN. She handed the copybook in weekly to the governess, who returned it with corrections in red ink: accents and apostrophes, spelling errors, failure to match case, gender, or number. There were never any comments on the facts or Flo’s effusive declarations of affection.

When she wrote about her first serious illness, Lavie seemed to come to life, to take on the characteristics of an intimate. Flo had had the whooping cough and had to be isolated, Parthe banished downstairs to prevent contagion. Flo had enjoyed having the bed to herself, being alone. “J’aime être seule,” she’d written in her careful French, “complêtement seule.” On her first trip to London, where she had gone for a wedding, she described the soldiers’ band playing at the Court of St. James’s Palace and wandering with Fanny through the shining aisles of the best shops. Her dearest relative, WEN’s little sister, Aunt Mai, was to be married to Sam, Fanny’s baby brother. Flo watched Aunt Mai join hands with Uncle Sam, swear her undying love, and kiss him, too long and too hard, with everyone looking on. I blushed, Flo had confided in print. She nearly cried when the young couple drove off in their coach. That, she informed Lavie, was marriage. People went away. She was never going to do it, never leave the people she loved.

The people she loved . . . She closed her eyes. Who did not, it turned out, love her as she wished them to. Instead, they had plans for her based not on her talents and desires but on what they wanted and what was proper.

The familiar feeling of loneliness, of incipient hopelessness, gripped her—a queasiness in the chest she knew too well. Lavie held that story, too—of the first time she had known despair.

It began with unexpected criticism from Fanny soon after she began the diary. Florence was bright, her mother conceded, there was no disputing that; she conquered her academics with ease, and charmed people with engaging conversation. But she was unkind to Parthe. Flo could scarcely believe Fanny thought such a thing! Was it Flo’s fault if Parthe were duller, shyer, and less able-bodied? If she was more inclined to doodle on her sketch pad than declaim memorized passages in Father’s library? Invariably, docile Parthe cried in frustration while Flo remained dry-eyed. She knew that the gifts and talents with which she’d been blessed (and Parthe, alas, had not) could not be shared by force of will, presuming Flo even had the will to do so. Which she did not.

Not believing that she was a troublemaker, Flo latched on to the flattery instead of the censure in Fanny’s critique. She had social graces! She was a brilliant conversationalist with a sunny disposition. Buoyed by this praise, a few days later she had written a letter to her Aunt Anne without clearing it first with Fanny. Her mother flew into a tantrum. “I hope you have got safe to your journey’s end,” Florence had written. “And I do hope you saw the eclipse of the moon on the day you went. Papa says that you were blind boobies if you did not watch it for a whole hour, as we did.”

The next week Fanny began to inquire about an addition to the household staff.

• • •

Flo’s right foot was numb, she realized. She changed position.

It had taken years for her to grasp what Fanny had intended in hiring Miss Christie, that she had another motive beyond educating her girls: to rein Florence in, to instill in her humility and doubt where there had been too many high spirits, too much confidence, a native arrogance that made her impertinent. But at the time, Flo had been excited at the prospect of a governess. She had imagined long romps through the woods and parklands, and hours spent pasting album pages with pressed flowers and leaves, bird feathers and butterflies. She would ride her pony more than ever under Miss Christie’s supervision. Miss Christie would teach her chess, so that eventually she could play with WEN.

Before Miss Christie arrived, Fanny warned the girls not to speak unless spoken to, under any conditions. “That is intended for you, Florence,” she had added. “I want no outbursts. If you think of something to say, I want you to turn your tongue in your mouth seven times before you speak.” Flo had felt her face redden to be singled out for reprimand.

When the girls were called to the sitting room where Miss Christie and Fanny had taken tea, Flo was immediately hopeful. For one thing, Miss Christie looked too young to be a grown-up. Though she had overheard Fanny tell WEN that Miss Christie was almost twenty-one, she could have passed for fourteen. Flo liked her looks, too. She was tall in comparison to Fanny, neatly got up in a navy gabardine bodice and skirt, with blue canvas gloves and a straw hat with a single feather. She nodded at Flo and Parthe, who curtsied as Fanny introduced them. “Good day,” Miss Christie said, smiling.

“Good day to you,” the girls chimed in unison.

Miss Christie listed the subjects she could teach. She’d begin, she said, with the absolute fundamentals, which, Flo was surprised to learn, had nothing to do with numbers or spelling and everything to do with being quiet, paying strict attention, and doing exactly what Miss Christie bid. She handed her references to Fanny in two sealed envelopes.

Scanning them, Fanny seemed pleased. “Of course the girls will call you Miss Christie, but I hope you don’t mind if I shall call you Sarah.”

“I’d be honored,” said Miss Christie, her cheeks turning pink.

“Thank you for coming. I am quite satisfied that you will fit the bill. You may begin as soon as you can move in. Shall we say on Thursday?” Fanny turned to her daughters. “Girls, do you want to ask Miss Christie anything?”

Parthe shook her head, suddenly shy, while Flo popped off the couch and placed herself directly in front of the new governess. “What’s your favorite game?”

Miss Christie paused and glanced at Fanny. Her smile broadened. “Well, I don’t have a favorite, really. You shall have to teach me yours.”

“I would love to!” Flo cried with relish. “There’s Grandma’s Basket, Giant Steps, Posey in the Pocket—”

“All right, then. There will be time for that,” Miss Christie said, reining in her smile somewhat.

Parthe could only squeal more joy, while Flo jumped up and down, as high and as fast as she could, coming perilously close to the cranberry lusters on the side table.

“But first things first,” Miss Christie added. “Penmanship—”

“Oh, we already know penmanship!” Flo said, though in truth her characters were still round and wobbly.

“Addition and sub—”

“But we’ve had that, both of us. Test us, why don’t you?”

“Eleven take away four, Flo!” Parthe yelled, peering wildly around the room, “plus twenty take away eleven.”

“Discipline,” Fanny said before Flo could begin to calculate. “First comes discipline.”

“We’ve had that already,” Flo said, still jumping.

“Have you?” Miss Christie asked.

“I think maybe it’s time for another hand,” said Fanny. “Yours, Miss Christie.” And with that, Fanny accompanied her to the door.

“Hooray!” both girls shouted as they rushed upstairs. “We get Miss Christie, Miss Sarah Christie.” For the duration of the afternoon, they ran from room to room trilling the governess’s name.

After Miss Christie moved in, Florence wove baskets for her out of long grass, bracelets and rings out of dandelions and the wild violets blooming profusely that spring. Florence wanted Miss Christie to know that she was loved. But alas! Miss Christie didn’t want love. She wanted obedience.

Days under her tutelage were rigidly scheduled and exceedingly busy. After the maid brushed and coiffed the girls’ hair and dressed them in the morning, there was calisthenics, with special attention to legs and arms. Flo had to wear her steel-lined boots all the time. There were prayers morning and evening and, of course, lessons, with an emphasis on rote learning—copying out sentences instructive of both grammar and morality dozens of times to compensate for an error or simply to emblazon them in the mind. The entire regimen left Flo disheartened and frustrated, and despite the consequences, she rebelled. When she left a note saying I don’t like writing these copperplate sentences. It’s stupid and I don’t wish to do it, a corrective aphorism was assigned her: Obedience comes first, understanding later.

There was much discussion of her sudden outbursts of energy and enthusiasm. She was sparky, Miss Christie said, excessively so. Flo’s innate vitality constantly threatened to spill over into a spontaneous shout or jump, a shove in Parthe’s direction, or high jinks with the animals, such as encouraging the pony to gallop instead of walk. Inside her, something was always bubbling up—a new idea, another question. Also, she was too curious. Morally speaking, Fanny and Miss Christie agreed, this amounted to an inability to mind her own business. Life, Miss Christie believed, ought to proceed as solemnly as a funeral.

Fanny began to travel more, leaving the girls to Miss Christie’s rule for a month or more at a time. Parthe seemed content enough, but Flo missed her mother desperately. Fanny’s absences felt like punishments. Had she chosen to stay away until Flo was able to sit still, to fall asleep on time, to listen without interrupting when others spoke? It was no good. Even when Flo succeeded in showing her family a covered cage, a wild animal was still racing around inside it.

After several months, a dizzying monologue began to occupy her mind, a nagging voice that chastised her for every unscripted thought. Stop it, she found herself thinking. Do not think about skipping rope or French fables or drawing the dog. To lure Fanny home, she sent notes reassuring her mother of her improvement. I am beginning to yield more, and I am more obliging now than formerly. When Fanny continued to stay away, Flo slipped into a dark uncertainty. Unable to locate and reform the flaws that so upset everyone, she began to question her very nature. She would have turned herself inside out like a pocket to prove her new purity and bring Fanny home. But she did not know how. And then one July evening at dinner, the voice in her head became something else entirely.

The family had gathered over a fancy meal with meat aspics and pheasant pie to celebrate WEN and Fanny’s return to Embley from a long visit to Tapton, in the north. The conversation fluttered around Flo’s head like a flock of gulls. It was small talk and she wanted nothing to do with it. She wanted only to be hugged and kissed and petted by her parents. Perhaps then she could be disciplined and serene rather than impulsive and annoying.

She looked at her place setting. To the right and left and above her dishes lay an arsenal of silver—four forks, three spoons, and three knives, not counting the butter knife. Fanny was proud of her table settings, especially when she threw a hunt ball. There was an implement for each foul or fish, every soup, pudding, and torte.

It occurred to Flo that she did not know the respective functions of the different cutlery. All she knew was that her mother no longer loved or wanted her. She had given her away to the implacable Miss Christie, who was completely resistant to Flo’s charms, so much so that Flo had become convinced that she had no charms, that there was nothing about her that might please another. Did anyone love her? Well, Mrs. Gale, certainly, the old nurse, but she loved everyone equally, whatever their flaws, and at the moment, such a generalized affection was of little comfort.

A chill like pure ice seized her. She dared not pick up a single implement, lest it be the wrong one. Her hands remained in her lap, clenched together in a sweaty knot. She wanted to be good—to be perfect—but she understood that she was neither, and far from becoming either. She was a monster, a freak, abnormal as the two-headed chicken that the gamekeeper had brought up to the house last spring, thinking it would amuse the children. It had horrified her.

She felt glued to the dining chair, unable to move. For a while no one noticed that she was not eating, that she was frozen in place. Finally Miss Christie spoke up. “Are you not hungry, my dear Florence?” she asked.

A scorching in her chest, a sudden widening of the eyes: not yet nine years old, Flo felt rage for the first time in her life. She knew that she was not “dear” to Miss Christie, that it was just a polite form of address, but at that moment, it was intolerable.

“I am not,” she replied, “dear Miss Christie,” the last words tinged with sarcasm. “I am . . . ill.”

Flo could almost feel the sensation even now of that utter desolation. But Fanny, she was happy to remember, had not disappointed. She had scraped back her chair, rushed to Flo, and placed her palm on her forehead. “I believe you have a fever, darling. Shall we go up to bed?”

“Oh, yes, Mother. Please.” Bed meant that she would be warm and alone and, for at least a few moments, the center of her mother’s doting concern.

In the girls’ bedroom, Fanny tenderly helped her into her nightgown and sleeping cap before tucking her in, kissing her forehead and both cheeks until Flo’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude. WEN appeared at her bedside a few moments later, leaning over her and stroking her hair, his brow furrowed. “Coming down with a chill, are you, my little poppet?” he asked, lingering by the bed with Fanny until Mrs. Gale arrived with rosehip tea and a piece of toast with jam. Flo ate greedily, hoping she would not be chastised for rushing through her food. She wasn’t, and her parents’ faces hung in the dark room like two lockets on black velvet until she fell asleep.

Soon she couldn’t bear to be seen by other children, certain that they’d perceive her monstrosity. She who had been pert and chatty and full of spicy confidence became painfully shy, barely speaking. It was not enough to excel at history, to have perfect French verbs. If anything, it was a liability, turning one into a self-absorbed braggart who flaunted her accomplishments. Self-promoting, Fanny called it. To please her mother, Flo decided to become the ideal unselfish daughter, allowing no thoughts in her head that did not put the comfort and benefit of others before her own. She tried especially hard to be solicitous of Parthe, not to outshine her in any way. Pray let us love one another more than we have done, she wrote in a note that Parthe still had. Mama wishes it particularly, it is the will of God, and it will comfort us in our trials through life.

And then there was that awful daily list Miss Christie and Fanny devised to improve her character. A pale spot still marked where it had been tacked to her bedroom wall:

I PROMISE:

To run before breakfast to the gate and back, or if cold and dark take a long walk before and 1/2 hour after dinner

To do 20 arms before I dress, and, if ill done, ten more

To draw 1/2 an hour regularly

Not to lie in bed

To go to bed in proper time

To read the Bible and pray regularly before breakfast & at night

To go to the bathroom regularly after breakfast

To go to Church on Sundays

To read, write and do the Bible

To read any book you put out for me

To read this paper every day

With such a busy schedule, she was able to keep the monster at bay, at least while in the company of others. When she was alone, though, the monster transformed itself into a habit that had plagued her ever since: dreaming. It bothered no one else, being invisible to everyone but Flo, for whom it proved an enduring anguish, all the worse for being secret. Her long self-centered reveries were not mere daydreams but epic poems: glory unfolded in her mind’s eye, in stanza after stanza, where she featured as a person adored by multitudes for heroic deeds or stunning accomplishments. Florence Nightingale, discoverer of the cure for consumption with attendant audiences with the queen, ceremonies in Parliament, and a stamp in her honor. Or: Florence Nightingale, founder of a school for girls, of a reformatory, author of Blue Books and articles in the Times. Diva, doctor, translator of the classics, philosopher, reformer. It was, she knew, an evil pursuit, but no self-imposed edict, no remorse or penance had been sufficient to stop the filthy habit for more than a week or two. Dreaming became the bane of her existence, and nothing short of torture. She could barely keep it under control even now, at age twenty-nine.

• • •

A noise startled her from her reverie, a muffled sound that seemed to come from a great distance. A voice calling to her? The guide stirred, lifting his oil lamp and walking to the entry. He cocked his head, then signaled her to follow. She packed up her pen and book.

Climbing out of the entrance, Flo saw a man with a tripod, taking pictures. She hesitated before standing, worried she might ruin his photograph, but he paid her no mind. Charles called out to her and she waved back. It was time to return to the houseboat. She scurried past the photographer without glimpsing his face.

• • •

People were scattered about the deck of the dahabiyah, taking the evening air, all except Trout who was already asleep in the stuffy cabin below. Flo shifted in her chair. The dark blue pennant announcing the name of their vessel as the Parthenope that Flo had sewn from a petticoat and her only roll of white seam tape waved languidly on the flagpole.

Charles was snoring in the low chair and footstool he favored for naps. Selina, too, had drifted off, Florence saw, the downy globe of one cheek pressed into her shoulder while her hand lay inert over her open book, the fingers grazing the words that had sent her sliding over the edge of attention into a delicious postprandial slumber.

One of the crew stood smoking a water pipe at the bow of the boat. He caught Flo’s eye, nodded, and then turned back, white ruffles of smoke about his neck like a jabot.

The wind stirred, lifting the unbound hair at her nape. It was the dry season in Egypt, travel of course being impossible in the summer, when the river flooded, that great upheaval of nourishing mud to which had been attributed ancient Egypt’s accomplishments—the pyramids, the gilt sarcophagi, the obelisks and tombs. The air on winter evenings tended to be clear and bracing, though occasionally the desert churned up a wind that prickled with minute particles of sand, and then it was like seeing through scratchy golden gauze. That same dust, suspended in the air, could hue the sunsets in deep reds and purples. Tonight, happily, the air was clear, the sky a mesh of stars under a fingernail moon, perfect subject for a nightscape painting.

She suddenly recalled the photographer outside the temple. Of course, it must have been M. Du Camp! He had said that he planned to record Abu Simbel in detail. That meant his companion, M. Flaubert, was somewhere about, pressing wet paper onto dry stone. He was the quieter of the two, but the more interesting, she suspected.