The Mistress of Nothing by Kate Pullinger

Author:Kate Pullinger [Pullinger, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical
Publisher: Touchstone
Published: 2011-01-03T23:00:00+00:00

PART

2

DEATH

10

WE SAT BY THE OPEN WINDOW OF MY ROOM IN THE FRENCH House in the evening, to watch the sun set on the Nile. It was January—we’d been back in Luxor for only a few days—and the nights were chilly still, so I wrapped us up together in my heavy patterned shawl. Having him there with me was the most tremendous feeling: I felt warm and soft and tired and sore and shocked and bewildered and happy, so wonderfully happy, all at the same time. My baby—even now these two little words give me a start of surprise and wonder. My baby in my arms: nothing—I’ll say it again—nothing could mean more to me. My baby was bonny and hungry, with dimpled hands, brown eyes, black hair, pale skin, and round cheeks. He was clean and swaddled, and his hand came to rest on my breast as he fed. He nibbled at me, tiny and strong. Our room smelled of sweet milk and sleep and that extraordinary, indescribable smell—baby.

Omar brought in a tray of food he had prepared specially, things he said would build up my stamina, everything smooth and pure and clean, nothing too spicy or sharp. He leaned close to kiss my hair and I caught his hand in mine and he smiled. Since that night on the Nile when my baby was born I had felt my motherlessness most acutely; having lost my own mother when I was twelve, I had no idea how to be a mother myself. But Omar moved around the room quickly, as he always does, swift and precise, reassuring, putting everything in its place. “The washerwoman will come in the morning,” he said, and he went to fetch Ahmed to help with the great pile of laundry the baby and I had accumulated. “Don’t move,” he said when he returned; he knew I felt compelled to help even before I realized it myself. No one had ever taken care of me before; I was not accustomed to having things done for me. They filled the basket, and Ahmed dragged it away. Omar came to sit beside me.

And then we heard her. Her voice traveled through the house faintly, “Omar? Omar!” I smiled. “Why don’t I go to her?” I said. “I’ll take the baby with me.”

“Don’t move,” he said, again. “Everything is fine.” And he made his way through the French House to my Lady. I leaned back on my cushion and pulled my shawl close and looked down on my baby, the most beautiful child in Egypt, and he opened his eyes and closed them again, and we were at complete peace.

I didn’t know it yet, but that peace was not mine, and would never be mine, to enjoy. And out of nowhere, that evening, I suddenly thought, I suddenly found myself thinking, Everything is fine? But why would he say that? Why would he need to say that? Everything is fine. It must be.

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