The Mistress of Nothing (24 page)

She opened her eyes and looked at Omar, but he looked away.

NEWS CAME OF A SUDDEN UPRISING IN THE VILLAGE OF QENA, JUST
south of Luxor. The rumors began filtering through the village in the morning: a Prussian boat had been attacked the day before with all aboard murdered and the boat burned; ten villages were in open revolt against the Pasha’s policies. Omar shook his head at the villager who gave him this news, and wanted to hear the truth, the real story, not just the rumors, which got wilder and larger each time Omar and Ahmed ventured from the French House. That evening, Mustafa Agha brought news to the house himself; my Lady was not well enough to receive him, so he sat in the kitchen with Omar and conveyed all that he had heard.

“A dervish from the desert has proclaimed himself the Mahdi,” he said. “May I have another pastry?”

“Of course,” said Omar, and he pushed the tray closer to Mustafa Agha. The Mahdi is the messiah who will come to slay the Antichrist and convert all of humankind to Islam at the end of the world.

“These are delicious, Omar; you are the best pastry cook in all of Luxor. When you need a new employer—” Mustafa stopped himself, and both men were embarrassed by this unintended reference to the graveness of my Lady’s illness. “The
fellahin
in a village south of Qena have proclaimed him their savior and have risen up against the Khedive. These people are starving; they have lost their land and their livelihoods. It’s no wonder they have had enough.”

“It’s not like you, Agha Bey, to defend the rights of the
fellahin.”

“Ach, I know, but the Khedive has gone too far. He has made the people desperate, and all they have left is their own violence.”

“What about the Prussian ship?”

“All rumors and lies. There was a merchant boat—Greek, I think—that was robbed by a mob, but no one was hurt. The troops are massing with their boats at Qena. Ismail Pasha himself is there, they say, in his steamer.”

“And the dervish?”

“He’s a trickster. He repeated the names of Allah three thousand times every night for three years, which rendered him invulnerable. He made friends with a djinn, who taught him more tricks. Then he proclaimed himself El-Mahdi.”

“What will happen?” Omar thought of the villagers. Revolt on this scale had been a long time coming; it took a madman and fanatic to tip the balance.

“The Khedive will prevent this unrest from spreading. It will not reach Luxor, I guarantee you.”

“But they are miles away.” It hadn’t occurred to Omar that the unrest could travel this far.

“The
fellahin
are starving, Omar. Anything can happen. But don’t worry. We will be prepared, I assure you.”

When Mustafa Agha left, Omar grabbed hold of Ahmed and made him swear not to tell my Lady what was happening. I know he meant to include me in his pact with the boy, but he forgot, so Ahmed made it his business to keep me informed. In return, I paid him with sweets, and when those ran out, I let him hold Abdullah.

That night, my Lady was gripped by a burning fever, which Omar struggled for hours to bring down. Though she was insensible, he bathed her gently in cool water. Once again, I ventured out of my room to assist him. I went into my Lady’s traveling trunk and brought out the inlaid box that contained the laudanum. “This will help,” I said, as I dosed my Lady.

“I will tell her this time, Sally; I will tell her that without you I would not have been able to cope.”

I shook my head. “You can cope, Omar; you know how to treat her yourself. You’re as much of a
hakima
now as my Lady.”

The laudanum took effect quickly and my Lady rested more easily. We went back to the kitchen for something cool to drink. Omar could not sit but continued to pace. When I asked him what was troubling him, he said it was nothing.

“I know what is going on at Qena,” I said.

He looked at me, annoyed and amazed.

“Ahmed told me. He’s my own little agent.”

“That boy,” Omar said, shaking his head.

I couldn’t help but smile. “I know,” I said, “he’s so serious, he lowers the tone of his voice and puffs out his chest and speaks to me like a man and I try not to laugh—”

Omar interrupted me. “But it is serious, Sally! The violence is spreading. Every moment of every day, it’s getting worse. There are people dying.”

“I know,” I said, “but I find it hard to separate rumors and tall tales from the truth, especially under Ahmed’s supervision.”

“I’ve made a plan,” Omar said, “in case the violence reaches Luxor.”

Ahmed had not mentioned the possibility of the unrest coming as far as Luxor.

“The French House is like a kind of fortress,” Omar said, “up high on top of the temple. Its walls are twice as thick and more sound than any other building in Luxor. There is room for a lot of people,” he continued. “The women and children can take shelter on the ground level; the men and boys can keep lookout from the terraces and the roof and watch for movement in the desert as well as boats from either direction on the Nile. I’ve got Sir Duff Gordon’s old pistols and I’m sure other men in the village will have weapons; Mustafa Agha will have his hunting guns.”

He had clearly given it a lot of thought. “Have you told anyone else this plan? Have you told my Lady?” I asked.

“Not yet. There is no way of predicting what will happen: will the
fellahin
in the grip of the Mahdi attack Luxor, or will the villagers, themselves angry and tired, want to join in the uprising? If it comes to it I shall have to force my Lady to shelter with you and Abdullah—”

“She won’t agree to that. She’ll want to grab Sir Alick’s pistols and take a stand herself.”

“I will force her. No one would harm an infant and two women. You will be safest of all.”

“Surely the Khedive’s troops will arrive in time to protect us?” I said. Omar and I looked at each other then and shuddered to find ourselves hoping for protection from the same Khedive who had threatened my Lady.

MUSTAFA AGHA RETURNED TO THE HOUSE IN THE MORNING WITH
the news that the uprising had spread to several other villages and that hundreds of
fellahin
were now in open revolt. “It could spread further,” he said, “if the troops don’t act. We must be ready.”

Omar told him of his idea to use the French House as a bastion and Mustafa Agha agreed that, as a last resort, this is what they would do.

In Luxor there was no sign of what was happening in the villages up the river; the occasional tourist boat continued to dawdle on the Nile, the call to prayer rang out from the mosque, the villagers went about their business as before. But there was a stillness in the air, a feeling of anticipation, and tempers were short in the market and in the narrow alleyways.

Omar continued to keep the news of the insurgency from my Lady and she mistook his increasing agitation for something else. Each time she woke from her heavy, drug-induced sleep, her first thought was to call out for him—to call out in panic, as though convinced he had left her. “He’s gone!” I heard her cry out, and I knew then that she was afraid that Omar would leave with me, that I had somehow convinced him to take me and the child and abandon my Lady, to travel somewhere she couldn’t find him, to abandon her here in Luxor, on her own, far away from her friends, far away from her family. I heard it in her voice; she thought he had left her, and that there was no one here for her, no one to care for her. And she’d call out, as loudly as she could, and if Omar didn’t reply immediately, she’d call out again, and attempt to sit up, try to get up out of bed, her lungs aching, her heart pounding, blood rushing to her head and …

Someone always came, someone always answered, if not Omar, then Ahmed or Mohammed; she was never left on her own in the house, never left without someone nearby. And she would lie back on her cushions, able to rest once again, to forget her panic and say to herself, of course he’s here, how foolish of me. Of course he’s here; he is loyal and obedient.

OMAR REGRETTED THAT AHMED HAD TOLD ME WHAT WAS HAPPENING
in the villages. But for me it was a relief to have something so much more concrete and pressing to fear after weeks and weeks of hiding away in my room, waiting, hoping, speculating over my own fate. I kept thinking I could hear men shouting in the distance and that shouting moving closer, but then I’d realize it was only villagers chatting beneath my window, or the breeze rattling through the palm trees. My skin crept, and I was easily startled, poor Abdullah clasped tightly in my arms—too tightly—on more than one occasion.

After lunch one day, Omar went into the village to try to get more news, leaving Ahmed to stay behind to watch over my Lady. As soon as he was gone, however, Ahmed, the naughty boy, set out to follow him, determined to find out for himself what was happening, not wanting to miss anything. I paced in my room and contemplated moving out into the salon where I would have a better view of the village from the balcony—might be able to track Omar’s progress even—when I heard my Lady call out. Of course, this time there was no reply; Mohammed was away from the house as well; there was no one there to reply. My Lady called out once again and I could hear the panic in her voice. She’s become a tyrant, I thought, she was never a tyrant before I had my baby, it’s my fault, and I felt a fresh flush of guilt and shame. But that guilt and shame led me on into anger when I remembered my fate, and the extremity of the current situation—the countryside in open rebellion—spurred me further still. I laid the sleeping Abdullah in his fine basket and marched into my Lady’s room.

She was sitting up; she’d swung her feet to the floor and was about to attempt to stand. It was a shock to see her: she was thin and drawn and had a green tinge to her skin, and her shorn hair was now almost completely white. “What are you doing here?” she said, her voice shrill. “Where’s Omar?” and I could see that she was panicked. For a moment I felt a strong impulse towards cruelty; I would tell her Omar had left us, left us both here to die at the hands of the villagers who had joined the uprising.

“Omar has gone to the village,” I said, and I stopped myself from adding the familiar, the familial “my Lady.” “I can help you. What do you need?”

“I don’t want your help,” she said. “Omar will tend to me when he returns.” She turned away to look at the wall, dismissing me like a child.

But I could not leave. “Please,” I began, and the words felt like chalk in my mouth as I realized what I was about to say. “Lady Duff Gordon, please,” I said. “I beg you. Please—do not send me away.” I allowed myself a breath. She was not looking at me and this enabled me to continue. “Do not force me to leave my child and return to England. Think of your own children—think of Miss Rainey—do not force this separation on me. Omar and I are married now, we will find a way—”

“Get out.” My Lady did not—would not—look at me. Her voice was low and even. “Get out of my room immediately or I will make you leave the house today.”

I was desperate now. “He loves me. You know this is true. Why do you hate me so, after all I have done for you, all the years I have given to you? You would deny me my child? You would deny me any happiness of my own? You would—”

My Lady picked up a book off the table next to her bed as though she was about to begin to read. As I continued to plead, my words accelerating, she turned towards me abruptly and threw the book with all that remained of her strength, striking me in the face.

I staggered backwards, clutching my nose, which I could feel had begun to bleed. Then I ran from the room, back to my baby.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER OMAR RETURNED AND THE HOUSE FILLED UP
once again with people and activity. When Omar checked on me he noticed my injury; my cheek was swollen and the skin beneath my eye was beginning to bruise. I told him I had slipped and fallen and struck myself on the edge of the table. He could tell there was something not quite right about my story, but he was too preoccupied, there was too much going on, and I assured him I was fine. He had been unable to gain much in the way of actual information on the events south of Qena, and the village was in a state of high tension, as though ready to shift its allegiance either way, to the uprising or to the Khedive.

“Perhaps now it is time to tell my Lady my plan,” Omar said.

I did not reply.

“Perhaps I should send for Mustafa Agha and get out the pistols.”

I did not reply. I had no idea what to do; I had no idea about anything.

Just then Ahmed came clattering up the stairs. “They are coming!” he shouted. “They are here! They are making their way through the village!”

Omar rushed to fetch Sir Alick’s hunting pistols, which he kept hidden in his room. I ran to the windows at the front of the house, and what I saw brought me to a halt.

It was not the villagers responding to the uprising, en route to storm the French House, but something equally extraordinary: a splendid procession, borne by horse and donkey, was moving through the village, making its way towards the French House from two vast and luxurious
dahabiehs
moored at the riverside. I wondered who on earth it could possibly be, when it came to me: it was the Prince and Princess of Wales.

MY LADY RECEIVED HER ROYAL VISITORS IN THE SALON AT THE
French House; the royal entourage took up residence in the kitchen, and Omar and Ahmed rushed from room to room madly, attending to the needs of the venerable guests, Ahmed flying down the corridor to bring me minute-by-minute updates.

After they were gone—they stayed for less than an hour, but it felt like several days—I could not contain myself. There was too much happening, a royal visit in the midst of the threat of an uprising. I needed to see Omar, I needed to get out onto the terrace of the house myself, to see the visitors departing, to see whether or not a mob of angry villagers was about to rise up in their wake. But Omar was not in the kitchen; he was with my Lady. I did something then I had never done before, not in all my years as a domestic servant: I stood outside my Lady’s door in order to listen to their conversation.