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Authors: Enid Shomer
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body. The bedclothes that all night hadpassed for Venetian silk revealed in the daylight the most telling touch: bedbugs, which he amused himself by squashing on the wall. Their nauseating smell combined with Kuchuk’s attar of roses created an odor as memorable as her rotten tooth. In his work, he decided, as in life, there must always be a touch of bitterness in the sweet, a hint of calumny in the romance, a jeer in the midst of triumph!
Early the next morning, as agreed, Kuchuk Hanem appeared with her lamb in tow at the cange to pose for a portrait. No longer was she clad in diaphanous silks and cottons, much to his disappointment. She wore instead a bizarre combination of European and Ottoman clothes that denoted a prim matronliness—a black cloak, a fichu and cheap cameo at her throat, an embroidered vest and hat in the Armenian style, and European boots. Max took three exposures, all with the spotted lamb: one of her seated under a white umbrella, one standing, and one leaning over the side of the cange, so that the waters of the Nile might flow forever above the mantel at Croisset.
In accord with her attire, they had parted decorously. No fervid kisses or tender hugs, no desperate clutching of her ass. He promised to return in a month or two. She stepped gracefully off the boat followed by her sheep like a figure in a nursery rhyme. When she reached the street above the docks, she looked back and wagged her small perfumed hand.
He had detected true longing in that wave, with a soupçon of love and dolor, too. Ever since, he had allowed himself the fantasy that she had found him unusually appealing, and was counting the days until his return—that she was thinking and dreaming of him, reviewing every detail of their lovemaking.
When the photographic papers were developed, Kuchuk had disappeared, leaving only a gray smudge where she and the Nile had briefly intersected in the frame.
4
LA VIE DE FLORENCE ROSSIGNOL
O n 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
Early the next morning, as agreed, Kuchuk Hanem appeared with her lamb in tow at the cange to pose for a portrait. No longer was she clad in diaphanous silks and cottons, much to his disappointment. She wore instead a bizarre combination of European and Ottoman clothes that denoted a prim matronliness—a black cloak, a fichu and cheap cameo at her throat, an embroidered vest and hat in the Armenian style, and European boots. Max took three exposures, all with the spotted lamb: one of her seated under a white umbrella, one standing, and one leaning over the side of the cange, so that the waters of the Nile might flow forever above the mantel at Croisset.
In accord with her attire, they had parted decorously. No fervid kisses or tender hugs, no desperate clutching of her ass. He promised to return in a month or two. She stepped gracefully off the boat followed by her sheep like a figure in a nursery rhyme. When she reached the street above the docks, she looked back and wagged her small perfumed hand.
He had detected true longing in that wave, with a soupçon of love and dolor, too. Ever since, he had allowed himself the fantasy that she had found him unusually appealing, and was counting the days until his return—that she was thinking and dreaming of him, reviewing every detail of their lovemaking.
When the photographic papers were developed, Kuchuk had disappeared, leaving only a gray smudge where she and the Nile had briefly intersected in the frame.
4
LA VIE DE FLORENCE ROSSIGNOL
O n 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
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