Bahaa Taher - Sunset Oasis

I hadn't told Fiona the whole truth. I had seized the opportunity of Zubeida's unaccompanied visit and said that I was thinking of making a short outing in the vicinity of the house if the old lady would agree to lend me her donkey. Fiona agreed at once, saying, 'You really need to go out and take the air a little instead of staying a prisoner with me in the house.' Her words intimated that she blamed herself, and I didn't object that she had nothing to do with my being a prisoner. I needed her help to persuade the stubborn old woman.

The moment Zubeida agreed, I put on the clothes I'd prepared so that I'd look like a Siwan woman. I donned a flowing dark-coloured dress with long trousers underneath, then wrapped tightly around me Fiona's tarfottet mantle, which hung from the top of my head, and draped it over my face, completely covering it but for a space for the eyes.

As I was slowly descending the steps, my heart beating, I noticed that the soldiers of the guard were looking at me in astonishment. Too bad! I'd be back before they could think or do anything.

I mounted the donkey the way Zubeida did, dangling my legs on either side, and urged it quickly down the road to Aghurmi, the road of Maleeka, Sheikh Yahya, Gouba Spring and many other things. I felt certain I'd disguised myself well. Some zaggala were coming out of their gardens when they heard the bray of the donkey and gave me a passing glance, then returned to their work. All the same, my heart started beating faster. What did it mean, then, when I said I was afraid of nothing? Here I was, afraid! Was that another delusion with which I lied to myself?

I didn't have much time to think about that or anything else. I urged on the slow donkey, which was indeed weak, as its mistress had claimed. Often it stopped on the road and started braying, as though it were moaning, but we got there in the end.

I looked around me. No one.

I tied the donkey to the palm tree beneath which young Mahmoud had stretched out. Then I entered the temple. I had hidden my sketchbook and pen beneath the cloak, so I took them out and made my way quickly towards the wall from which I'd copied the text. I looked it over and traced the letters with my fingers. I hadn't been mistaken. It was indeed a prayer to Amun-Ra and none other. I wanted to be sure of the reference to water. I would not fool myself. I had to try to decode the symbols forming the columns of partially erased demotic writing. As I reread them, I discovered that I had made mistakes in copying some of the lines when I had written them down the first time. I rested the sketchbook against the wall and tried to be very precise in copying what I saw in front of me, but I still made mistakes because of the speed with which I was working, so I would rub out what I had written and do it over, reproaching myself for the error. I had no time to lose!

I had barely written out one page before I heard a murmur that changed into a clamour, which changed into yelling voices, just as my heartbeats changed into a drumming in my ears. My hand shook and the sketchbook fell from it, and I had bent down to pick it up when I saw the angry faces of the zaggala surrounding the entrance to the temple.

I was bent over, so the first stone didn't hit me, but the stones followed one another, raining down on me. I put my hands and arms over my head and face and screamed just as they were screaming. Then there was the sound of a horse and a shot and the stoning stopped as the zaggala turned and looked in the direction from which it had come.

After the silence that fell, I heard the deep voice of Salmawi and that of Sergeant Ibraheem calling out, then saw them together. Salmawi stood in the midst of the zaggala, his rifle slung over his shoulder, and started talking to them, smiling and patting their backs, while Ibraheem charged towards me and asked me anxiously, 'Are you all right, madame? Did anything hit you?'

He looked at the stones scattered about me on the ground and said, his apprehension increasing, 'Did those rogues hit you, madame?'

'No, Sergeant… Ibraheem.'

I wouldn't scream. I wouldn't moan. Many parts of my body hurt but I'd been able to protect my head and face. I wanted to be sure, so I felt them with my hand. There wasn't any blood.

Salmawi succeeded in dispersing the zaggala, talking to them in a loud voice and joking with them, while Ibraheem asked me in a sorrowful voice, 'Why, madame?'

Trying to keep my voice normal, I answered him with the question, 'How did you know I was here?'

The guards had informed the corporal. Zubeida's cloak was still on the threshold of the door, so they knew that it wasn't she who'd left, but…

Corporal Salmawi came up and said, 'Excuse me, madame, but we must return as quickly as we can before those men change their minds and before His Excellency hears what happened. We came without telling him anything.'

I picked up the sketchbook and walked with firm steps towards the palm tree. At least Zubeida's donkey hadn't come to any harm.

Salmawi mounted his horse and almost had to pick the sergeant up and put him on, the latter riding pillion behind him. Then he preceded me, his rifle in his hand, and I mounted the donkey and followed. There was no longer any point in my disguising myself, so I let the cloak fall open and left my face uncovered, feeling my wounds and suppressing my moans.

Mahmoud charged into the house like a madman.

On his reddened face there was anger such as I had never seen.

Zubeida also left in a temper as soon as I arrived, shouting words of blame and reproach that I didn't bother to try to understand, and for the first time she didn't hug and kiss Fiona as she went out.

Fiona sat at the table opposite me, her head bowed, sorrow and defeat on her face.

Before Mahmoud could get a word out, I said, 'I'm sorry. I was wrong and I'm sorry.'

He opened his mouth to speak but the words choked in his throat, his face turned an even brighter shade of red, and in the end he exploded with,'Madame is sorry?'

Then he resumed, his tongue tripping over the words, 'I… I… I'm the last one to know?'

He came towards me, extending his arms and spreading his hands out as though he intended to hit me with both of them, or strangle me, but he suddenly raised a hand and struck himself on the forehead, stammering out again, 'I'll… I'll…

I'll throttle Salmawi, and Ibraheem with him. Me, the last to know? I swear I'll…'

'Wait a moment, Mahmoud!'

When Fiona stood up and addressed him, he fell suddenly silent. Her face was the colour of ashes but she spoke in a clear voice, suppressing her violent emotion. 'You should direct all your blame at me, Mahmoud, Catherine is not at fault. I'm the one who asked her to go out and get some air.'

He stood looking at her uncomprehendingly. Then he said, 'You too? But why?'

He turned and rushed out as he had entered. Fiona put her hand on my shoulder and repeated the question in a faltering voice.

'But why, Catherine?'

I woke earlier than usual, in the midst of deep darkness.

Another night of little sleep.

And that name. Deird? Deirdre? Deiradra?

It's been going around in my mind from the moment I opened my eyes but I can't manage to remember it. A difficult name, and a more difficult story, Fiona.

The name won't come back to me and the details are slipping away. In the story there's an evil king, who wants this innocent girl Deirdre, who is in love with a beautiful cavalier. I don't remember whether the king kills her beloved and his two knightly brothers or someone else does. And does the beautiful girl kill herself out of grief over her beloved or does she die of sorrow? The details evaporate but I remember the ending perfectly. The king is determined to part her from her beloved even in death. He buries her far away from his grave and there's a river, or a canal, between them. A plant grows up from her grave, though — ivy, perhaps. It grows longer and longer and it spreads over the ground and across the water and, on the other bank, intertwines with a shoot that has grown up from her beloved's grave, and from their embrace grows a bush. The king orders that the bush be cut down and the two shoots cut back, but they spring up again and embrace again and again and again, until the king despairs and stops having them cut back. In death their love frustrates the will of evil.