his sleeping mat, the cool air pouring over and over our skin, and we looked at each other for a long time. He was wonderful to look at; I had never thought that a man—a man’s body—could be a thing of such dream-filled beauty. Then he drew me down beside him on his sleeping mat and we began. We began and we began and we began and it was perfect. I had not known it could be so perfect.
My Lady had come to Egypt to evade death, but in Egypt I found life.
7
WE SET TO WORK, THE THREE OF US, AND ALMOST IMMEDIATELY the work was overwhelming. My Lady and I opened our clinic at the French House that morning, seeing villagers early before it grew too warm. Over the next few days the epidemic increased in viciousness; as many as four villagers were dying every day. If patients were brought to us before they were too poisoned by the sickness, the castor oil, combined with the lavement machine and the internal wash it afforded, proved to be a very successful treatment. My Lady took the role of doctor, with me as her assistant; we fell into a working rhythm quite naturally. Instead of tiring with the increasing pressure of the task at hand, my Lady thrived, though I was careful to bear the brunt of any physical labor—heating kettles in the kitchen and carrying the water down the stairs, lifting patients, cleaning and sterilizing the lavement machine. Omar and I worked out how to extract oil from the leaves of the enormous castor plant growing in the garden and he spent a large part of every evening pounding the leaves with his pestle and mortar. Rather than curse her with the evil eye, villagers proclaimed my Lady their new
hakima,
or healer.
News came from farther up the Nile at El-Moutaneh that the sickness had spread through both the people and the cattle and that they were losing eight to ten people every day and double that number of animals. In Luxor, only a few calves had died. One afternoon I walked down to the Nile on my own, to get away from the house for a time, and thought the surface of the water had somehow been altered before I realized the river was crowded with dead cows, so many head of cattle floating downriver that, should I choose, I could walk across to the other side without wetting the hems of my Egyptian trousers.
The next day I walked out onto the balcony to find that the sand in front of the French House was thronged by people and camels. I called my Lady to come out and look; we stood together and marveled at this inexplicable gathering of men and beasts. My Lady spotted Sheikh Yusuf in the crowd and called to him to come up. “The camels are being sent off to transport the Pasha’s troops in Sudan,” he explained as he stood with us surveying the scene. “They’ll head south in convoy. The poor owners will not see their animals again.” As well as the camels, the owners had been ordered to supply two months’ worth of feed per animal, so the village was crowded with camels, their beleaguered owners, and great heaps of maize and hay. Bitterness and resentment rose off the men like a great black cloud of fleas.
“How are they meant to live and work without their camels?” my Lady asked.
Sheikh Yusuf gave one of his expressive shrugs. “
Alhamdulillah.”
Later, after the sheikh had gone back down to the crowd, my Lady and I went into the kitchen to beg Omar for more information. He explained that all the land in Egypt is owned by the Khedive, Ismail Pasha. “There are no Egyptian owners,” he said, “only tenants, each paying a tariff according to the value of the land; when they die they can pass their tenancy on to their children.”
“Thus the passion for babies,” my Lady said to me, nodding.
“If you are childless, you lose your land,” Omar continued. “The Pasha can take it from you, with payment or without.”
“Without payment?” I said.
“Yes, in fact, the Pasha can take the land any time he wants—to give to someone else more favored perhaps, or for one of his
My Lady had come to Egypt to evade death, but in Egypt I found life.
7
WE SET TO WORK, THE THREE OF US, AND ALMOST IMMEDIATELY the work was overwhelming. My Lady and I opened our clinic at the French House that morning, seeing villagers early before it grew too warm. Over the next few days the epidemic increased in viciousness; as many as four villagers were dying every day. If patients were brought to us before they were too poisoned by the sickness, the castor oil, combined with the lavement machine and the internal wash it afforded, proved to be a very successful treatment. My Lady took the role of doctor, with me as her assistant; we fell into a working rhythm quite naturally. Instead of tiring with the increasing pressure of the task at hand, my Lady thrived, though I was careful to bear the brunt of any physical labor—heating kettles in the kitchen and carrying the water down the stairs, lifting patients, cleaning and sterilizing the lavement machine. Omar and I worked out how to extract oil from the leaves of the enormous castor plant growing in the garden and he spent a large part of every evening pounding the leaves with his pestle and mortar. Rather than curse her with the evil eye, villagers proclaimed my Lady their new
hakima,
or healer.
News came from farther up the Nile at El-Moutaneh that the sickness had spread through both the people and the cattle and that they were losing eight to ten people every day and double that number of animals. In Luxor, only a few calves had died. One afternoon I walked down to the Nile on my own, to get away from the house for a time, and thought the surface of the water had somehow been altered before I realized the river was crowded with dead cows, so many head of cattle floating downriver that, should I choose, I could walk across to the other side without wetting the hems of my Egyptian trousers.
The next day I walked out onto the balcony to find that the sand in front of the French House was thronged by people and camels. I called my Lady to come out and look; we stood together and marveled at this inexplicable gathering of men and beasts. My Lady spotted Sheikh Yusuf in the crowd and called to him to come up. “The camels are being sent off to transport the Pasha’s troops in Sudan,” he explained as he stood with us surveying the scene. “They’ll head south in convoy. The poor owners will not see their animals again.” As well as the camels, the owners had been ordered to supply two months’ worth of feed per animal, so the village was crowded with camels, their beleaguered owners, and great heaps of maize and hay. Bitterness and resentment rose off the men like a great black cloud of fleas.
“How are they meant to live and work without their camels?” my Lady asked.
Sheikh Yusuf gave one of his expressive shrugs. “
Alhamdulillah.”
Later, after the sheikh had gone back down to the crowd, my Lady and I went into the kitchen to beg Omar for more information. He explained that all the land in Egypt is owned by the Khedive, Ismail Pasha. “There are no Egyptian owners,” he said, “only tenants, each paying a tariff according to the value of the land; when they die they can pass their tenancy on to their children.”
“Thus the passion for babies,” my Lady said to me, nodding.
“If you are childless, you lose your land,” Omar continued. “The Pasha can take it from you, with payment or without.”
“Without payment?” I said.
“Yes, in fact, the Pasha can take the land any time he wants—to give to someone else more favored perhaps, or for one of his
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