Part 11 (2/2)

He thought for a moment, considering his options. Did not the location alone cast the whole enterprise in a unique and liberating light? He was inside a derelict temple in Egypt where, for all he knew, orgies had been conducted with sacred wh.o.r.es, and hearts excised and weighed on golden scales. He decided not to consider custom or pride, which could only lead to lies and silence. ”Because I cannot betray my calling by marrying,” he began, ”I no longer court proper women.”

Florence listened while he explained how disillusioned he had been that Louise, a fellow artist, had tricked him into believing that she yearned for something other than a bourgeois existence when in fact she wanted a husband and a lover, and that was not revolutionary in the least. ”That marked the beginning of my life as a cynic,” he explained.

He had been cruel to Louise. But now, miles and months removed, his fury had been replaced by wistfulness, by the memory of her tongue darting between his lips like a hungry bird, the salty tang of golden thatch under her arms. ”In the main,” he continued to Florence, ”I have found another outlet for my pa.s.sions in the brothels of Paris.” In the spirit of full disclosure he added, ”And Egypt.”

She did not move, her head still nuzzled against his chest. He felt her bony rib cage rising and falling. ”Brothels?”

”Oui. J'ai frequente des bordels presque depuis mon enfance.”

Her voice altered, resembling a schoolgirl's neutrally reciting the population of Spain, the successor to Henry VIII. No, it was the s.e.xual peccadilloes of members of Parliament. ”It's bruited about that lords in England do the same. Not that I would know. Or condone it.” She looked up at him. ”I am sure it is degrading to all concerned.”

”Of course,” he lied. Clearly, Florence knew nothing about brothels. How could she, being English, rich, pious, and protected? Had he ever felt degraded? He did not think so. Had he ever degraded the women? Without doubt. He had once f.u.c.ked an old woman while wearing a hat and smoking a cigar as two friends cheered him on, then pa.s.sed her around like a bottle of cognac.

”I suppose it is better than deceiving a girl by promising to marry her to gain an advantage,” she added.

In other circ.u.mstances, he might have found it amusing to think of s.e.x as an ”advantage” rather than his rightful due. The only time, as far as he was concerned, that s.e.x was not an advantage was when it led to marriage. Then he feared it. But he wouldn't say that. He could never say that. Because once he began to think so coldheartedly, so truthfully, love in the brothel became impossible, the brothel itself distasteful, actually a pathetic subst.i.tute. No, he could not give up his wh.o.r.es.

”I shall die a virgin, I suppose,” she said, brus.h.i.+ng away a channel of sand in the pleat of her skirt, ”though I came close to marrying once.” She told him about refusing Richard. ”I reasoned that if I married, I would be a prisoner of my household, unable to do whatever it is G.o.d wishes of me. My family didn't understand how much it pained me to disappoint them. And myself, for I have a deeply pa.s.sional nature.”

”So you said earlier.”

”Not just carnal pa.s.sion.”

”I understand. There is the mind. Ah, and the yearning spirit.” She would die, he thought, without ever discovering the bazaar of flavors, sights, and sensations that was the body. A shame, all those nerve endings wasted. He remembered the corpses in his father's dissecting room, he and Caroline watching the autopsies from the apartment across the way, happy to be horrified.

”As I said, I am excessive in my likes and dislikes-my likes especially.” She was matter-of-fact again, her hands folded in her lap. ”And with such a pa.s.sionate nature, everyone believes that I am at greater risk than usual when I travel. I have a chaperone everywhere and at all times in England. Abroad, they say I am what is called in hunting parlance an easy target.”

”After a certain age, my sister, too, required a chaperone.” It was the age of b.r.e.a.s.t.s and blood, he thought but did not say. ”When she was young, I schooled her to be a tomboy and a free spirit. She was a painter and actress. Then she grew up and married.” He had been angry with Caroline for yielding to convention, for joining the ranks of the enemy, only recently realizing that she had no choice unless she wished to become one of the s.e.xless spinsters he joked about to her. Sometimes when they were together with her new husband, she would look at him as if to say It's not so bad. I've paid the price. Why can't you? Or perhaps he had only imagined that message in her glance. As a bride she seemed unquestionably happy, nearly gloating, not the Caroline he knew and loved. But why should he grow up to be like her? Why should any man wish to become a silo-a stolid, stationary provider for every hungry mouth?

She continued, ”Everything must be planned with chaperoning in mind. You and Max follow your fancies, free to move about. You can be invisible-men among men-while wherever I go, I am a bauble trying to hang in the air as invisibly as a spider's thread.”

He s.h.i.+fted to one haunch to relieve the itching. Stung with sweat, it had intensified. ”Oh, but that is not quite correct, Rossignol. Max and I are not always safe. It just seems so to you. Of course,” he conceded, ”we are safer than you would be.”

”Without the Bracebridges, I should be mad by now. They took me to Italy last year to prevent a civil war at home.” She had been feuding with her family, she explained, for ten years, ever since they returned from their Grand Tour and f.a.n.n.y undertook to marry her off. She enumerated a few of the battles: the opposition to mathematics as being manly, f.a.n.n.y forbidding her to volunteer at hospitals and orphanages, both parents' distaste for her work at the Ragged School, their horror at the amount of time she spent with the poor villagers.

”I am meant to sit quietly, look pretty, and entertain at the piano-in short, to be useless in a world where so much needs to be done.”

”Yes,” he said, ”I see that now.” He did understand. He recognized the dull world she described. However, his unhappiness was of a different stripe, for he refused to aspire to the usefulness within it that she so desired. Could she grasp his nature after all? he wondered.

”According to Father, every man in the world has his mind on seduction and conquest, and will revert to it at the first opportunity, like a traveler to his native language. Then he becomes a ravening monster. The way Father talks, it is only their suits and cravats that separate men from beasts.”

”He's trying to frighten you to protect you. It isn't true.” Actually, it was. He was certainly guilty of making the lives of unescorted women miserable, taunting them on the street, catcalling when drunk and sometimes when sober.

”I must be out in the world to accomplish anything, but how will I do it if the world is so dangerous that I can't take a walk alone?”

”Dear girl,” he said, petting her hair, ”here's an idea. Why don't you come with Max and me to Koseir. It's on the Red-”

”Sea. Yes, I know where it is. I looked it up on the map when Max wrote me about it.”

Max hadn't told him that he'd written to her. The lout! Did he have his rascally eye on what he called ”English pudding”? He'd set him straight: Miss Nightingale was not to be prey, but comrade. ”The Bracebridges could come along or wait for you in Kenneh.”

She sat up briskly, eyes glittering. ”Is that a genuine invitation?”

”It is.” He swept the air gallantly with his hand and bowed his head. ”It would be my great pleasure to remove you from your scheduled itinerary. Imagine”-he stretched an arm toward the opposite wall, using it as a canvas-”the sun turning the sea to a golden laver that stretches to the horizon. Immersing yourself in the ancient waters where all those Egyptians drowned with their horses and chariots.” But the more he painted the scene, the more disheartened she became. ”What is wrong, Rossignol?”

”I shall still need a chaperone. The Bracebridges are in poor health and would never allow me to go with the two of you. The chaperone must be a male relative or older woman or married couple. Those are the rules, even in the Orient, even in the emptiness of the Sahara.”

”You can take your servant, La Truite. It might do her good.”

”Trout?” she repeated dubiously. Her face, moments before glowing like an alabaster lamp, clouded over. ”I don't think she'll agree to it.”

”Leave it to me.” He dreaded the thought of flirting with the churlish hen, but then he had slept with wh.o.r.es older than Trout. ”Oh, but I cannot!” He smacked his thigh. ”She doesn't speak French!”

”She hates me,” said Flo. ”It would turn her against the idea if I translated for you. She'd smell a plot.”

”But Max can get by. I shall set him the task.” Even in broken English, Max was adept at melting hearts with the saga of his life as an orphan. (He never mentioned his wealth and that his parents died when he was nearly grown.) ”Max could photograph the old biddy. So few people have seen a photograph, let alone owned one. Surely she could be bought with a portrait of herself on the rump of a camel. He could say he needs her as a model on the caravan.”

Florence clapped her hands. ”If only it could be done.”

How good it was to see her animated. He felt himself expand with pleasure, too. Not only had he cheered her up; he'd also found a way to put some distance between himself and Max. Max would be less inclined to ask for his a.s.sistance if Miss Nightingale came along. She would be Gustave's project for the desert trip.

”Let's find Max,” he said, offering his hand as she stood.

They brushed off their clothes and located the entrance, then crept up the stairs. Bending through the doorway as one, they stepped onto a slab of light on the threshold. Flo extended her palm. ”Oh, my letters, please.”

He'd nearly forgotten them. ”Will you put them back?”

”No. I left one inside the chamber of Osiris. That is enough.”

Reluctant to return them-he cherished his mementos of women-he dug one of the two from his pocket. ”I seem to have only this,” he said, placing it in her palm. She tucked it in her bodice. A mummy . . . dates from Derr . . . Rossignol's secret scroll . . .

They tramped arm in arm over the rubble in silence. As they neared the temple to Isis, Max hailed them excitedly. ”Venez ici!” he shouted, waving to them. ”Look what I've found.” Hadji Ismael lounged nearby, braiding a palm frond, his one eye focused elsewhere. Joseph was nowhere to be seen.

Max indicated a stele behind the pylons. When they did not react, he pointed to a French inscription incised near the ground: En l'annee 1799, Napoleon a conquis les Mamelukes dans la Bataille des Pyramides.

”Do you think our great emperor wrote his name everywhere, like Ramses?” Gustave asked. ”Why is there no mention of his sweetheart, Josephine?” He winked at Flo, who began to laugh. In a moment, they were both howling. He a.s.sured Max they were not laughing at him. The truth was they were laughing because they needed to after the intense encounter in the temple. Anything might have triggered it.

”Laugh all you want,” Max said, kicking at the ground. ”I have photographed this historical marker for my book.” Behind his bl.u.s.ter was clearly dismay.

”I suppose we shall need a squeeze of this,” Gustave said.

”As a matter of fact, yes.”

”You did promise to teach me how to make a squeeze, M. Flaubert,” Flo said nonchalantly. ”Might it be this one?”

So he was M. Flaubert again. ”This one is awfully low,” he said. ”It will be difficult, with a lot of bending and groveling in dirt. A higher engraving would be easier.”

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