The Visitors Read Online Free PDF Page B

staircase, and past the famous ebony statues of nubile, bare-breasted Egyptian maidens at its foot; Miss Mack ignored them stonily and averted her gaze. It carried us on through the lobby and into the hotel’s famous Moorish hall. This large space, surmounted by a vast glass dome, had a clubby atmosphere: it was an unofficial male preserve. Groups of English officers lounged in leather armchairs; safragis carrying trays and soda siphons moved soft-footed between tables; government officials conferred with colleagues from the British Residency, rustled the pages of The Times . Englishmen to the right of us, Frenchmen to our left… According to Miss Mack, this huge room was subject to an invisible divide: this gulf she called the Channel, or la Manche, according to mood.
    The British, who, as Miss Mack put it, ruled Egypt while pretending it was a Protectorate, were on our left: they drank Scotch whisky. The French, who ruled over all matters cultural, including the great domain of archaeology, were on our right, drinking champagne. Both sides of the Channel united at once in the face of female trespassers. The Englishmen stared with cold indignation; the Frenchmen looked upon us more mildly, then, defeated by a charmless child and a spinster who was stout, and neither pretty nor young, sighed in a philosophical way. Miss Mack, sensing this inspection, her colour heightening, marched on. I suspect she overheard the remarks about her hat, which sported a rusty bow and was worn at a peculiar angle, over her left eye. ‘ Affreux ,’ murmured a Frenchman. ‘Bloody hell ,’ muttered an English subaltern.
    We passed into a series of dimly lit, Persian-carpeted corridors, Miss Mack talking all the while. Ballets Russes , Revolution, Count- this and Prince- that: bombarded with associations that related to Madame but meant little to me, negotiating a maze of bewildering ante-rooms, I could feel my mind fogging up again. I tried to concentrate on the few hard certainties that Miss Mack had drilled into me.
    One : I must sit still, not fidget, and watch the ballet class carefully. Two : I must not remove my cardigan, as that would reveal to all and sundry the shocking emaciation of my arms. Three : I must not remove the hat under any circumstances, because we both knew what happened when I did. Four : while I must answer if addressed directly, I should not proffer information unasked or blurt things out, as I tended to do… Yes, yes, it was true that I had contracted typhoid and that my dear mother had died of the same disease; the fact that my father was immersed in his academic work and holed up in his Cambridge college was also true, if an inelegant way of expressing it… But to add that I was here in Egypt with Miss Mack because he couldn’t decide what to do with me, though in due course I’d no doubt be parcelled up and sent elsewhere… well, that was not true. It was just plain hurtful. That kind of remark embarrassed people. It was… too much information , as we’d say now.
    Must, must not, I muttered to myself as, at the end of a long corridor, we finally came to a tall pair of mahogany doors. From beyond them came the sound of piano music, abruptly halted by a loud banging sound. It was followed by a tirade so fierce that we both froze.
    ‘Non, non, non! Fräulein von Essen, Lady Rose, this is excruciating. Never in my life have I seen such lumps . Back to the barre, mesdemoiselles ! Alors, nous recommençons… Now, adage, s’il vous plaît. Stretch, stretch… No, not like some vile ostrich, like a swan… The arms, so. The feet, so. Young ladies, have you set out to make me suffer? Continue like this and I’ll throw you out of my class, every last one of you. Music! One, two, three, four – allongez, allongez… Ah, mon Dieu! Allongez, mademoiselle… ’
    Under cover of the music, Miss Mack finally risked opening the door. She crept around it and I followed her. I saw a huge room, its size doubled and