I asked in astonishment,'Mahmoud's your son? Why didn't you mention this earlier?'
He said, 'I didn't want to say anything until I was sure that I had done for the sergeant everything I could, and I shall pray to God that his cure is completed.'
Days passed before Sheikh Sabir managed to find the Bedouin, and he brought him himself. He was a giant and he wore a wide abaya with red stripes and spoke in coarse, commanding tones. I hated him from the moment I saw him and wanted to send him away, but Sheikh Sabir and Rashid treated him with the utmost respect as they spoke of his powers, so I backed down and grudgingly gave the order for him to do what he wanted.
The Bedouin asked for fire, and placed in it a large iron nail with a wooden handle, leaving it there until it glowed red hot, and he ordered us to secure Ibraheem well and stretch his swollen leg out all the way so that it couldn't move. Ibraheem, in terror, begged us to excuse him from this treatment, saying he was getting better, thank God, and didn't need anything more, his eye never leaving the nail as it heated in the fire.
I also saw looks of disgust in the eyes of the soldiers surrounding Ibraheem, and one of them, perhaps the nurse, said in a loud voice, 'May the Lord protect him!' which I was also whispering myself. I had heard about cauterization before but had never seen it and I had no idea what use it could be in a case like Ibraheem's. Still, we did what the Bedouin asked. We sat Ibraheem on a chair and two of the soldiers took hold of him by his upper arms and armpits and two others by his extended legs.
The Bedouin spent some time feeling the injured leg below the knee but far from the site of the wound. Ibraheem's moans increased as the man felt these places slowly with his thick fingers, and at a certain moment he stopped and pressed with his index finger on a particular spot, causing Ibraheem to let out a sudden scream of pain. The Bedouin shouted at the soldiers not to let Ibraheem make any movement and then snatched the nail from the fire and with it cauterized for a few seconds the place that he had chosen, and then for a few more seconds another place next to it, to the accompaniment of Ibraheem's screams and wails. With some amazement, the Bedouin said, 'All the men weep and scream! What is this fire compared to the fire of Hell?'
But was I dreaming? Had I gone mad? Fire burnt the skin of my leg in the very place where Ibraheem's was being cauterized. I shuddered and turned my face away, placing my hand over my mouth so that I wouldn't scream like him.
The smell of burnt flesh filled the place, and then the Bedouin extracted from his robes a flask in a leather holder from which he poured a liquid onto the site of the cauterization. I heard a repeated sizzling sound and saw what looked like white foam at the place where he'd been burnt, and at that same moment a shiver of cold passed through my leg and my whole body and I had to make an effort to control myself in front of my men.
The Bedouin waited for a moment, holding Ibraheem's leg, the patient's screams having changed into a continuous moan of pain, and when the liquid had dried, he started tying up the place he had cauterized with a bandage, replying to a question from Sheikh Sabir by saying, 'No. I won't come again. Rashid knows what has to be done now to clean the wound, and the sergeant will be on his feet in two days.'
Then he went on, with a loud laugh, 'But he'll limp for the rest of his life!'
'You didn't have to say that!' I muttered.
Nevertheless I remained standing where I was, certain that if I moved, I'd limp.
For two days at the police station and at home I walked with slow steps so that no one would notice anything. Then the pain in my leg improved. After the same two days, Ibraheem indeed got up from his bed and started walking, limping on the leg for which the nurse and Catherine had seen no solution but amputation.
When Sheikh Sabir came to enquire about Ibraheem's health, after he was back on his feet, I thanked him and Rashid and the Bedouin, whose name I didn't know.
The only reward that I could offer Sheikh Sabir, though, was to tell him that the ministry had refused my request for the reduction of the tax and sent a warning that if the collected taxes did not arrive with the next caravan, the fine would be doubled and other measures would be taken.
The attitude of the local people towards me had improved following my supposed role in the saving of the young Mahmoud, but, after they heard what I had to say, I read in Sabir's and Rashid's eyes the old hatred, peering out anew.
The period of forgiveness was over.
10. Catherine
I know I'm doing something wrong. Mahmoud will be very angry, but I have to do it.
I can't see any other solution. Many weeks have passed here and I've made no progress with anything. I've taught myself many dead languages but I still don't know a single sentence of the language of these real people whom I'm living among and whose help I need. I no longer do any work and my search for evidence that might lead me to Alexander has come to a halt. But I've had enough. Today I'm going to go to them myself and on my own. I'll apologize to Mahmoud later — not just for what I'm going to do now but for having encouraged him to come to this place at all.
He's got much worse since Ibraheem's accident. He was with him from the time he was hurt until he could stand. He behaves as though he were responsible for what happened to the poor soldier. Stranger still, he talks about my visit to the temple almost reproachfully, as though that were the reason for Ibraheem's leg getting broken! He ought to understand it was just an accident and that no one's responsible for fate. And anyway, it can't have been that grave an accident, since it was possible to treat it with primitive medicine. Mahmoud, though, is always panting after reasons to be miserable.
His worries are the last thing I need now. This morning he is not himself.
Since yesterday things have been unsettling. Fiona's letter, which reached me with the latest caravan, upset me greatly. It's not her usual long letter full of news. She just says she'll be arriving in Alexandria soon on one of the steamers and she's coming here to visit us in Siwa. Just like that, without preamble or explanation. Maybe she thinks the journey from Alexandria to Siwa is like travelling from our province of Connaught to Dublin by train! I've asked Mahmoud to write to one of his officer friends in Alexandria and ask him to wait for her and arrange accommodation for her there until we can decide what to do. Should I go there and take her to Cairo, or should we really arrange a way for her to come to Siwa? Why, though? Even her writing was disturbed and messy, unlike her normal hand. What problem are you hiding from me, Fiona?
She visits me often in my dreams. Last night I saw her beautiful face disappearing behind a transparent silk mask, which she was trying to tear off with both her hands. Every time that she tried, though, she'd tear off the face itself, which would turn to rubber as she pulled at the mask.
I woke up in a panic, but she visited me once again, and she wasn't alone. She came bringing Alexander. He often comes to me these days in my sleep, but it's my fault. Last night he came to me with an angry face. Then I saw Fiona carrying him and holding him like a weeping child in her arms. I approached them and discovered that the child was made out of marble and that there were copious tears in its stone eyes. Mahmoud woke me, asking, 'Why are you screaming?' I said, gasping for breath, 'There's something frightful in this desert.' Patting me, he said, 'It's only a nightmare. Go to sleep, Catherine.' I fell silent, clinging on to him in the bed, but my eyes stayed open. I was afraid that drowsiness would return, and remained restless till morning.