Read Online The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red by Ellen Rimbauer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellen Rimbauer
Ads: Link
looked in his company as well. I want
to hate him, but that vexation is slowly wearing off. Calculated or
not, he has taken some time to charm me, has helped me pick out
several splendid rugs from Persia (bought in Luxor) and a great
deal of woven wicker—baskets and hampers mostly, some seventy-
?ve in all. The prize so far is the hand-carved alabaster. We are to
have dinner, bread and salad plates, soup bowls of two sizes, all
for a table of forty. It is to be shipped to Seattle within the year,
each piece carefully packed. John said that if half the cargo
arrived undamaged we should consider it a victory, at which point
I increased the alabaster order to a serving for eighty, and
watched John wince at the increase in price, although these dirtpoor
Egyptian farmers are practically giving away such wares. I
could have increased it to eight hundred and not taken a week of
my husband’s income. Indeed, if I am to have any revenge on my
husband, I see clearly now that it absolutely must come in the
53
construction of the grand house. That is the only weapon I
possess.
I have come to detest the Europeans for their treatment of my
dear Sukeena. Of those who acknowledge her presence (precious
few, I’m sorry to say), few treat her with any respect above a slave.
A French couple was nice to her—the woman offered her some
clothes that would ?t (mine are far too small for her) and she
accepted. A Canadian woman was quite thoughtful and respectful
and always greeted Sukeena by name. The rest were brutes. I was
glad to be free of the Sun Ra, even if it meant the streets of Cairo.
Few cities in the world are as densely populated as this one.
Brown bodies by the millions, all covered in long cotton robes of
soft browns and a few subtle greens. They look like nightgowns—
as if everyone has just woken up. The men wrap their heads in
white cotton. The women cover their faces—all but the black eyes
that stare straight ahead, unseeing and yet all seeing. Water buffalo
drag carts through the streets but foul the sunbaked brick and
make a stink that rises with the sun. People wash themselves in the
river—this river that is the heart of the land—they wash their
babies, their food utensils, their camels. The river is putrid and
foul—and they practically live in it.
But to the story at hand! Sukeena and I were bicycled by rickshaw
into the city’s main market—deep in the center of humanity.
We were not, by any means, the only visitors to this city, but it felt
that way. We collected some trinkets, a good deal of colorful fabrics
and a few more pieces of alabaster, these ornately carved. All
our goods were stacked high on the three-wheeled bicycle, our
driver never hesitating a moment to add to his load. After about
an hour of this, we took tea in a small teahouse where young boys
circulated the air by manning large fans. The tea helped me to
perspire, which in turn cooled me off. I made the mistake of
showing my coin purse to pay for the tea—a practice John has
warned me against time and time again, and one I just cannot
54
seem to master. At any rate, I committed this mistake ( John is
right, of course) and must have shown to all those looking a good
deal of bills within that small purse, for John had just exchanged
some dollars upon our arrival and had provided me appropriate
spending money.
I realize now this must have been staged, but at the time the
commotion that arose at the front of the building drove Sukeena
and me to the rear, in hopes of escaping the melee. As we
slipped out the back, not one, but two very evil-minded men
approached, their message clear from the knives they carried: the
purse, or our lives. I nearly fainted at this threat of violence, and
it did not escape me that as men confronting a white-skinned
woman they might want more than just my purse.
I willingly offered the purse, but Sukeena lovingly took hold
of my arm, shook her head
to hate him, but that vexation is slowly wearing off. Calculated or
not, he has taken some time to charm me, has helped me pick out
several splendid rugs from Persia (bought in Luxor) and a great
deal of woven wicker—baskets and hampers mostly, some seventy-
?ve in all. The prize so far is the hand-carved alabaster. We are to
have dinner, bread and salad plates, soup bowls of two sizes, all
for a table of forty. It is to be shipped to Seattle within the year,
each piece carefully packed. John said that if half the cargo
arrived undamaged we should consider it a victory, at which point
I increased the alabaster order to a serving for eighty, and
watched John wince at the increase in price, although these dirtpoor
Egyptian farmers are practically giving away such wares. I
could have increased it to eight hundred and not taken a week of
my husband’s income. Indeed, if I am to have any revenge on my
husband, I see clearly now that it absolutely must come in the
53
construction of the grand house. That is the only weapon I
possess.
I have come to detest the Europeans for their treatment of my
dear Sukeena. Of those who acknowledge her presence (precious
few, I’m sorry to say), few treat her with any respect above a slave.
A French couple was nice to her—the woman offered her some
clothes that would ?t (mine are far too small for her) and she
accepted. A Canadian woman was quite thoughtful and respectful
and always greeted Sukeena by name. The rest were brutes. I was
glad to be free of the Sun Ra, even if it meant the streets of Cairo.
Few cities in the world are as densely populated as this one.
Brown bodies by the millions, all covered in long cotton robes of
soft browns and a few subtle greens. They look like nightgowns—
as if everyone has just woken up. The men wrap their heads in
white cotton. The women cover their faces—all but the black eyes
that stare straight ahead, unseeing and yet all seeing. Water buffalo
drag carts through the streets but foul the sunbaked brick and
make a stink that rises with the sun. People wash themselves in the
river—this river that is the heart of the land—they wash their
babies, their food utensils, their camels. The river is putrid and
foul—and they practically live in it.
But to the story at hand! Sukeena and I were bicycled by rickshaw
into the city’s main market—deep in the center of humanity.
We were not, by any means, the only visitors to this city, but it felt
that way. We collected some trinkets, a good deal of colorful fabrics
and a few more pieces of alabaster, these ornately carved. All
our goods were stacked high on the three-wheeled bicycle, our
driver never hesitating a moment to add to his load. After about
an hour of this, we took tea in a small teahouse where young boys
circulated the air by manning large fans. The tea helped me to
perspire, which in turn cooled me off. I made the mistake of
showing my coin purse to pay for the tea—a practice John has
warned me against time and time again, and one I just cannot
54
seem to master. At any rate, I committed this mistake ( John is
right, of course) and must have shown to all those looking a good
deal of bills within that small purse, for John had just exchanged
some dollars upon our arrival and had provided me appropriate
spending money.
I realize now this must have been staged, but at the time the
commotion that arose at the front of the building drove Sukeena
and me to the rear, in hopes of escaping the melee. As we
slipped out the back, not one, but two very evil-minded men
approached, their message clear from the knives they carried: the
purse, or our lives. I nearly fainted at this threat of violence, and
it did not escape me that as men confronting a white-skinned
woman they might want more than just my purse.
I willingly offered the purse, but Sukeena lovingly took hold
of my arm, shook her head
Similar Books
