Papa’s gloved hand covers mine. “Are you excited, Eve?”
I turn toward my father, the daylight making apparent the lines on his face and the gray hairs on his head. His gaze is kind and expectant, and I am grateful that he acquiesced to my repeated requests to accompany him to Egypt. He even fought off Mama’s objections that I should be completing the London Season instead of taking off for the Middle East, that the ongoing protests for independence, the striking, and the general disruption make Egypt inappropriate for a young woman such as myself.How soft he can be with me, I think.What a very different father he is to Porchey, hard and unyielding.
“It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember, Papa. And you made it come alive,” I say, speaking the first full truth of the day. “It’s the best present I could have ever received.”
Squeezing my hand in a burst of affection, he says, “Oh, Evie, wait until we arrive. The ancient history is alive everywhere in Egypt, not just in the most famous landmarks like the pyramids. You’ll see the history in the faces of the people, the wares offered in the souks, the music played on the streets, and—”
I interrupt him gently. “And in the excavations most of all, I imagine.”
“Most of all. Nothing like the Egyptian sun beating down on you, and getting your hands sandy as you dig out an object once owned by a pharaoh,” Papa says with a shake of his head, although I very much doubt that his hands ever get dirty. He and Mr. Carter employ teams of Egyptians to do the hard work of excavating. “Nothing like the thrill of the chase either,” he adds, his eyes bright in the same way I’ve seen time and again at the racetrack.
“I cannot wait to get my hands sandy,” I say, then ask a question that’s been niggling at me since Paris. “Do you think Uncle Aubrey’s concerns about the safety of Egypt are valid?”
We’d stopped in Paris for a night to visit Papa’s half brother, his sibling by his father’s second wife. Uncle Aubrey is a gifted linguist who works in foreign policy with the Arab Bureau. Dinner conversation focused on the revolution last year in Egypt, during which former governmental official Saad Zaghloul created the Wafd Party to advocate for independence from Great Britain, with some success. How did this happen? Well, our country had had a de facto protectorate over Egypt since the 1880s—even though Egypt was ostensibly still a province ofthe Ottoman Empire during that time—but became an official protectorate in 1914 when the Ottoman Empire sided with Great Britain’s enemies in the Great War. During the war, British forces used Egypt as a staging ground for battle—conscripting Egyptian men into the military in the process, even though Egypt wasn’t actually in the war. When the war finally ended, the Egyptians wanted to have a say in the peace talks. Demonstrations and riots ensued when British authorities refused to allow Mr. Zaghloul to participate in the Peace Conference on behalf of the Egyptian people, and Mr. Zaghloul was exiled to Malta. Despite these measures, Uncle Aubrey maintains that the uprising is not over: “Even the women and peasants are marching against the British because they believe we put our interests above theirs, which—to be fair—is true. It’s not over.”
“Ah, Aubrey has always been overly worrisome about rising Arab nationalism,” Papa replies, casting aside his half brother’s concerns. “Spent too much time with his chum T. E. Lawrence over the years, I think. I know several of the men involved in the uprising last year—including that Zaghloul—and they aren’t bad fellows. I can even see their point about wanting to govern themselves, as long as our assets in the Suez Canal and in the Valley of the Kings are protected. But I think High Commissioner Allenby has any danger well in hand.” Papa puts significant faith in the British representative in charge of Egypt, former Field Marshal Viscount Allenby, who, together with his wife, are close family friends of my parents.
“Good, I don’t want anything to stand in the way of the dig,” I say.
“The only thing that may impede your sandy hands is your mother. Do I understand that you two struck a deal about this trip? She put up quite the fight.”
“Yes, I am to spend equal time at the Valley of the Kings site as in Cairo at social events,” I answer, not bothering to hide my dread. The battle to spend equal time at the dig had been unpleasant and hard-won. “That’s the promise.”
How will I manage to feign interest in dances and teas and gossip and dresses when Papa’s archaeological dig is right around the corner? I’ve learned to playact the part my mother wants for me, but this particular role will be challenging. Perhaps impossible.
“Good girl,” Papa says, even though I don’t think he means it. I know he’s beholden to Mama as well. He has the title and the castle and the connections, but she has the fortune that makes his life possible—including his excavations. “But perhaps we should strike a deal of our own?”
I glance over at him, game for anything at the moment. “I’d like that.” Reaching my hand back in my pocket, I run my fingers along the scarab like an ancient good-luck charm, the sort I dislike Papa having. As I smooth its surface and trace the hieroglyphics with my fingernail, I think that I might have become as superstitious as Papa.
“If you keep your end of the bargain with Mama, I’ll keep my end of the bargain with you. I’ll do my level best to deliver the most astonishing excavation of ancient Egypt the world has ever seen.”
Chapter Fourteen
FEBRUARY 12, 1920
CAIRO,EGYPT
I am warm down to my bones. For the first time since we left bitterly cold England, really. The thick rays of the sun bake me from within, and a frozen part of me feels suddenly alive. A heat that deepens when I consider that this is the same sun that warmed Hatshepsut.
“Eve,” Mama scolds, gesturing to the hovering porters and dragomen. “Stop dawdling. The men are ready to bring our trunks into the hotel.”
We stand on the wrought-iron veranda of Shepheard’s Hotel in the Ezbekiyya neighborhood, one of the European and British quarters in the city, and I cannot tear my eyes away from the sight unfurling before me. Between the leaves of the ferns and palms planted around the hotel veranda, I can see the bustle of Egyptian life. Dark-haired men ingallibayaand women wearing a variety of headscarves and face coverings mill about. They brush up against people in European clothes on the sidewalk and street, which is crowded with horse-drawn carriages and convertible automobiles alike. The sound of Arabic and the smell of turmeric and cumin waft in the air. It is delightfully new.
How have I spent so much time studying and writing about ancient Egypt but given so little time to thinking about the modern-day country and its citizens? They are the inheritors of the legacy I’ve been studying from afar, after all. And while ancient Egypt might be dead, modern Egypt is alive and well and pulsating all around me.
“Could we visit the souk before we check into our rooms?” I ask,longing to explore the famous open-air bazaars where vendors hawk all sorts of wares.
“Certainly not,” Mama snaps. “That would be entirely unsuitable.”
I follow my parents inside, delighted at the interior of the famous Shepheard’s Hotel. With its European furniture, Persian carpets, and stained-glass windows, the luxurious lobby feels familiar in some ways, until I examine the details more closely. The thresholds are marked with distinctly Arabic peaked ceilings, and the marble pillars delineating spaces closely resemble the colonnades of ancient Egyptian temples. I am not in Europe anymore.
After an interminable period installing ourselves in our suites and overseeing the unpacking of our clothes for Egypt, we are finally set free. I am itching to explore, but the leash only extends as far as Shepheard’s long bar, so named not because of the length of the bar but because of the typically long wait for a drink. I’ve heard about the long bar since I was a child—it features prominently in many of Papa’s Egyptian tales—so I’m surprised to find it largely empty.
“What do you think of Egypt so far?” Papa asks.
“Well, I like the inside of Shepheard’s and what I saw of the streets from the automobile and the hotel terrace,” I answer, quietly humming along to a song called “Roses of Picardy” being performed by a trio in the corner of the bar.
“It is remarkably civilized, isn’t it?” Mama remarks, sipping at her Dubonnet and gin. She is dressed for dinner, and the heavily beaded blue gown seems too dark and weighty for this climate.
