The Twelve Rooms of the Nile (33 page)

Yours until tomorrow at 7:30,
Gve.

What impressed her most about Gustave was his liveliness. And now he would put it to use to help her sway Selina and Charles and, most especially, Trout!

But what if Trout exerted her will? What rights did a servant have? At home, she was free to quit. Oddly, when Fanny hired her, Trout had set two conditions of employment, neither of which suggested that she would be put off by the hardships of travel. The first was her preference for the filthiest, most arduous jobs—blacking the grates, scrubbing the flags on the stoop, polishing boots. While other maids took a bashful pride in their feminine limitations, Trout had the unself-conscious bearing of a draft animal as she moved trunks and furniture about the house. The second condition was a special curfew. Without providing a reason, she had asked permission to come home at ten instead of nine in the evening.

The real question, Flo knew, was this: how deep was Trout’s loyalty? Flo thought she had ingratiated herself to a degree during the toothache ordeal, but the threat remained that even if Charles and Selina agreed to the caravan, Trout might not.

17

PÈRE ISSA

F
lo hated the thought of conspiring against the Bracebridges, especially as they were willing to conspire
with
her for the upcoming Kaiserswerth visit. Nevertheless, she pondered her strategy all day. Though loving, permissive, and endearingly absentminded, Charles and Selina bore in loco parentis the responsibility for her safety. This was no mere formality: they would require assurances about the trip that she, Gustave, and Max would have to provide. The discussion must be unfettered, logical as a clock. Her only chance for success was to dull with the semblance of rationality an enterprise that in truth glittered like a jeweled dagger with the perils of the unknown.

Selina in particular knew the strength of Flo’s determination, though she had never tested it. After dinner, she surprised Flo by expressing her reservations. Trout had gone to retrieve her needlework, and Charles to fetch his brandy, leaving the two women alone on deck as they waited for the Frenchmen.

“I cannot help worrying that there will be many opportunities for mishaps,” Selina said, unfastening the catch on the mosaic bar pin she’d bought in Rome the year before. “It’s crooked,” she explained, stabbing the pin afresh into one side of her collar.

Flo was about to reply when Selina hurried on. “Oh, I trust M. Flaubert implicitly. It is the wilderness that concerns me.”

“But you read the guidebook, didn’t you?” Flo had pressed it into Selina’s hands that morning.

“Yes, Sweet, I did—”

“Then you know that our own military use the route our caravan will take. As do diplomats and missionaries.”

“Certainly, Flo. I read it all.” Selina worked the pin back and forth at her throat, attempting to level it.

“I’m only saying that if missionaries use it, surely the route is safe.” Flo folded her hands and wove her fingers together until they whitened. She feared no eventualities except being denied permission to go or, to a lesser degree, offending her dear friends.

“There!” Selina announced. “Is it straight now?”

Flo appraised the long, narrow brooch. Pliny’s doves, encircled in black, held between them a blue garland of flowers. “It is.”

Selina poured herself a glass of orange-flavored sugar water. “Something to drink, dear?”

Flo shook her head.

“As I understand it,” Selina went on, “it is not the
preferred
passage. Too rugged, I believe.” She sat down at the table. “And I saw no mention of families taking it out to India.” Avoiding Flo’s eye, she stared at the liquid in her glass.

Surely this was a bad sign. For the first time Selina was clearly discomfited by Flo’s intensity. They had never argued, never adamantly taken sides about anything. Selina had never been flint or fuel for Flo’s fire but always the snuffer, the damper, the cool ration of water.

“Yes, but the caravan route is shorter and quicker,” Flo said. Was that actually true? What was short was the description of it in
Murray—
just a page, not counting the list of landmarks. In fact, Murray, wishing to sell guidebooks, rarely sounded a note of alarm. A traveler would be hard-pressed to find mention of death or danger, save for ubiquitous warnings about the importance of respecting the honor and independence of Bedouins. As for the terrain, it was always “majestic.”
Treacherous ravines and steep defiles became “echoing choirs for travelers who would give voice to their desert delight.”

Selina fussed with the damask tablecloth, tugging it over the corners of the wobbly table. “Flo, dear, I have no wish to argue. You know I have only your welfare at heart.”

An infuriating tear made its way down Flo’s cheek. “I’m
counting
on this trip, Selina, really I am.” Dabbing at her nose with a monogrammed linen handkerchief withdrawn from her sleeve, she lowered herself into one of the chairs. “It may be arduous, but I am equal to it. I’m
sure
I am.”

Charles had emerged from his cabin by now and stood at the stern, chatting with Paolo. Flo could hear the two reminiscing again about Greece. Twice Paolo had been Charles’s cicerone in Greece, so that, though Paolo was, in fact, from Malta, to Charles, he
was
Greece. Surely, Charles missed his club in London—the smoky, tweedy, liquor-tinged press of other Hellenophiles who worshipped at the altar of the Golden Age. Indeed, some (though not Charles) had joined the battle for Greek independence as young men.

Selina took Flo’s hand. “I just want you to be safe.”

“Is Charles so worried, too?”

Selina lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I’m not certain. I haven’t raised the issue with him. I didn’t want to draw his attention to it.”

Flo sometimes forgot how clever Selina was, her jackdaw intellect cloaked in a fabric of pleasantries, smiles, and melodic speech. She and Charles loved each other more than any couple Flo knew, but that didn’t stop Selina from leading Charles around to her point of view like a bull with a nose ring.
Brava,
Selina!

“In any case, I doubt he’s given it much thought since you first mentioned it.” Selina tried to straighten the well-used tablecloth with the heel of her hand, Sisyphus clearing dust from the path of his rock.

“Perhaps he’s more concerned about the company I’m keeping. My honor and all that.” She regretted it instantly. Why could she not keep a civil tongue?

Selina shook her head, looking pained. “That’s hardly fair, Flo, and you know it.” She let go of Flo’s hand, leaned back in her chair. “Charles adores you. And he trusts your judgment as much as I do.”

“I’m sorry, Selina. I’m just
so
eager for this trip.” It was true: she didn’t doubt Charles’s loving regard. But it was infuriating to have her fate rest even in his benevolent hands. “You know how much I cherish you both.” Selina looked away from her. Was she reluctant to convey bad news? “Has he said anything at all about the trip?”

A breeze stirred, lifting the hair off Selina’s forehead.

“I believe he’ll want to know what your plans are. You know Charles—he thinks in terms of schedules and tactics.” Selina paused, her face full of pleasure. “My quartermaster. Wonderful trait in a husband, to be so practical.”

Indeed. Where would they be without Charles’s zest for organizing? It was Charles who insisted on lugging supplies from home. Without his foresight and insistence, they would have had no jams, no milled soaps and hairdressings, no laudanum, lye, oatmeal, or cocoa. Without gregarious, calendar-crazed Charles, there would have been no afternoon teas with consular agents, no lunches with delegates, no picnics with slave-mongering wives of watercolorists on remote islands. Left to Flo, they would not have met a single Englishman during the two-thousand-mile journey on the Nile. And would such isolation really have been wise or advisable? Not all the meetings had been boring; not every English tourist was an insensitive dolt.

How easy it was to complain about a thing when one had no shortage of it. Fanny was right: sometimes Flo
was
a selfish brat no better than Marian Lewis. Worse—a brat on the outside; on the inside, a monster. And forever at war with herself.

“Don’t fret, Sweet,” said Selina. “Let us see how things unfold. Just let people speak their minds. Have faith, dear Flo.”

If only Selina knew! Flo had faith enough for a dozen women, one for each year since God had so decisively if mysteriously put her under His thumb. How could she tell Selina that she not only wanted what
she
wanted, but also what God wanted
for her
.

Selina cupped Flo’s chin. “You shall be happy, I know it. We both wish it more than anything.”

There was movement on the beach, four men ambling toward the houseboat. In the uncanny pink light of dusk, their footprints were steeped in violet shadows and the Nile stilled to a vast deposit of jade. No such hue ever bathed the lawns or beaches of England.

Joseph led the way, followed by a stranger wearing a dazzling white
gubbeh
and tarboosh. Gustave and Max, for their parts, were dressed, ridiculously,
à la Nizam—
like Egyptian infantrymen—in baggy pants with tall boots, wide belts, and scarlet jackets.

The mere sight of their costumes lightened Flo’s mood. It struck her then that she was not simply drawn to Gustave; she was also drawn to
herself
as she might be in his company, to the freedom he elicited in her, his wildness perhaps unleashing its equivalent in her. She, too, might dress outrageously, pull pranks, tell jokes. He more than tolerated her moodiness; he
embraced
it. Little wonder that she burned to go to Koseir! Not so much for the place or the adventure as for a different self, a Florence driven not by selfishness or monstrosity, but by the simple prospect of joy.

Charles hailed the quartet and, with Paolo, handed them aboard. Introductions followed, cemented with handshakes, curtsies, the brushing of lips on hands. Max, Charles, and the stranger laid on courtesies and compliments in a thick impasto, tossing out verbal flourishes like bandalores in a game of “around the world.” Flo envisioned herself and Gustave parodying them later. They would bow to each other and knock heads, melt to the floor laughing, pleased with their private whimsy.

The stranger, Père Issa, was a Christian from Bethlehem who served as the French consular agent in Kenneh. A tall, immaculate man of indeterminate race with olive skin and green eyes, he wore a gold hoop in his ear, like a storybook pirate. Flo was struck by his long, slender fingers and glossy, almond-shaped nails. Overall, he cut the elegant figure of a man who had just emerged clean and pleasantly scented from a Turkish bath. Yet, for all this splendor, he was
the farthest thing from an English gentleman she could imagine. The word
exotic
jumped to mind.
Alluringly foreign
.

But what was that at the end of the pinky finger of his right (but not his left) hand? A tapered fingernail grown beyond all utility flitted about him like a winged insect as he gesticulated. A weapon? Decoration? Mark of rank? She scrupulously avoided staring, but there it was, again and again, nearly two inches long. Following her covert gaze to the weird appendage, Gustave nodded, ever so slightly.
Yes, I see it, too.

Selina welcomed everyone to the table, and Efreet-Youssef, always at the ready, pulled out chairs for each guest in turn, then blended into a nearby shadow. Charles poured two fingers of brandy from his crystal decanter for the men, while Selina and Flo took sugared water. Appearing on deck, Trout waved away the offer of a beverage before installing herself decisively in a chair several paces behind Selina, where she proceeded to count out crochet stitches.

“Ah, my dear Madame Trout, allow me to introduce to you Père Issa, our distinguished guest,” Gustave said, his voice a rich tapestry of regard, the words plumped in gold. Paolo translated perfectly.

Forty-two doubles and turn work,
Flo heard her mutter. Would Trout stop crocheting? Finally, she rose with a little sigh and set her bundle on the chair. “How do you do, Mr. Issa.”

“Enchanté.”
Following the French custom, the consul reached for her hand, which was not offered. Trout retreated a step. “I beg your pardon, sir. I do not parlay-voo.”

Rebuffed but still smiling, Père Issa bowed to Trout, then returned to his hosts.

Trout coiled yarn around her index finger and resumed her place behind Selina.

“We are gathered to discuss the excursion I spoke of last week,” Flo told her maid. She had mentioned Koseir in passing, only to stress that Trout would be going, for when given the option, Trout preferred to remain on the boat. There had been so many side trips to tombs, temples, bazaars, and ruins that Trout had stopped asking for details, and Flo had ceased providing them.

“Yes, mum,” Trout said, eyes on her yarn, wrists ticking forward and back. Loop up, wrap around, loop back, pull through. Another plank in the barricade nailed in place.

“It will be a stimulating journey, Madame Trout,” said Gustave, laying on solicitude with a trowel. “I hope you will enjoy yourself in our company.”

Paolo deftly translated. She thought to correct him and Gustave—Trout, after all, was a
mademoiselle
—but decided against it. A title of any sort gave Trout added gravitas, raised her social standing. Surely this pleased her.

“Thank you, sir. That’s most kind of you.” Trout said this loudly and slowly, as though to ensure his understanding. She had no inkling, thought Flo. Would it be better to keep her in the dark until the last moment, thereby adding the burden of guilt if she thought of refusing? Gustave seemed to have a strategy.

After talk about the weather, the river, and a brief recounting of the descent of the cataracts (by general accord a lark as compared with the ascent), Max unfolded a map onto the tabletop. He pointed to Kenneh and then to a brown dot on the Red Sea’s western shore. Koseir. Trout, still counting stitches, paid no mind. Charles and Selina were rapt.