—59—
In March, the winds came into Cairo, picking up sand and dust from every corner of the desert and flinging them across streets and through any open window, and through the cracks of the closed doors. My teeth constantly had grit between them, and it was impossible to keep the floors swept.
The wind brought a kind of insanity to the expats. Peter had been remarkably stable since an invitation to visit Luxor, but the winds ruffled his nerves once again. I steered clear of his moods and painted trees bent in one direction and sand piled over a pair of shoes, only the toes still showing.
I’d rented a studio away from our little house, a set of rooms at the top of a colonial building, the windows enormous.
Here, too, I had to sweep constantly, never left a painting uncovered overnight, and hired a girl to come in every morning and keep it clean.
I kept a hot plate for tea, and a small number of groceries.
Peter disliked the studio, and he especially hated when I slept there. I gave him keys to the place so he wouldn’t suspect infidelity, and he often popped in on his way to and fro—to work in the morning, to zinc bars in the evening. He, too, spent nights away from home, but I did not question him.
Most nights, I did go home to sleep, and sometimes I cooked for him, for I was learning to cook Egyptian dishes.
He enjoyed exploring the flavors, but I suspected that he most liked being tended by his wife.
One night I had proudly made mulukhiyah, a green stew made with jute leaves and spiced with cardamom, cloves, and bay leaves.
The scent of it filled the room, and I danced a little to the radio, an Egyptian woman named Umm Kulthum singing a mournful song I couldn’t understand and loved anyway.
Peter blew in, his hair askew with the wind, a restlessness in his pacing.
He poured a gin, and drank it quickly, then made another.
As if the wind fueled his speech, he tumbled out a series of anecdotes and stories from his day, bouncing from topic to topic in a way that warned me he was on the verge of an episode.
“Peter,” I said, “will you dance with me?”
The radio had switched to “After You’ve Gone,” and he lifted his head with a smile. “We danced to this a lot at Nina’s, didn’t we?”
“We did.” I took off my apron and offered my arms.
His entire being softened. Unbuttoning his shirt a little, rolling up the sleeves, he stepped forward with a half smile that made me remember his young self, the earnest boy before the war.
He had always been a nimble dancer, and that had not faded.
It was a relief to sway, to spin, to laugh at some fancy dip.
The music changed, and we danced to that, too. His mood eased, and he kept up a happy patter of conversation about mostly nothing at all.
And then the wind knocked something down outside. With a crash, a projectile came through the window, struck me sideways and hit Peter in the ribs. He cried out in terror. I stumbled sideways, trying to see what had come through—
He slammed me to the floor, knocking the wind out of me. “Don’t move!”
“I can’t breathe! Get off me.”
“Shut up. You’ll get us killed.”
Struggling to regain my breath, I was seized with panic, struggling sideways back and forth, gasping and hurting from the weight of his body plastering me to the floor and the impact of landing on the tiles and whatever it was that had struck me. “It was the wind—”
He plastered a hand over my mouth, bending very close. “Not a sound.”
I began to weep, fearing for my life, and shoved at him with my hands against his shoulders, my knees against his legs. He pinned me harder, grabbing one arm above my head, pinning it to the floor, wrenching my shoulder.
I moved my head hard, dislodging his hand over my mouth. “Peter!” I cried. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”
“Stop resisting!” Spittle flew from his lips as he scanned the world around us. Leaning into my ear, he whispered, “They’ll hear us.”
Tears leaked from my eyes. His elbow bruised my forearm, and my lip was bleeding from his grip over my mouth. I stopped struggling, hoping he would regain his senses.
The radio played and the wind blew, and Peter kept me pinned to the floor for long, long minutes. It was the shift of the music that seemed to bring him to his senses. All at once he said, “Oh, God, Elsie. Jesus.” He scrambled backward, freeing me, and I rolled away, gasping to fill my lungs.
He bent to help me, and I waved him away, tasting the coppery blood in my mouth. “Get away from me.”
“Let me help you.”
“No.” I struggled to my feet. My hair fell in my face and my dress was twisted.
He stared at me in horror. “Jesus,” he said again. “I am so terribly sorry. Do you need a doctor?”
I waved him back with a hand and retreated to the bathroom, where I took inventory of my injuries—bloodied lip, the suggestion of bruises on my cheek, my hair askew. A bump grew on the back of my head, and I could feel the bruises on my shoulder and arm, as well.
Running a face cloth under cold water, I stared at myself in the mirror. He might have killed me. He could have killed me. Wiping away the blood, gently, I let the cold reality sink in.
Peter’s war experience had twisted him, and as long as he suffered these episodes, he was a danger—to me, to others, to himself. What could I do?
He’d been moody in England at times, but never dangerous. That had only started here. Perhaps something about Cairo triggered his memories. Perhaps—
My mother’s face floated over my reflection, as she’d tended a woman severely beaten by her husband, long ago in India. “A brutal man will never change, Elsie. Remember that.”
But Peter was not brutal. He was tortured. Was there no help for that at all?
I opened the door and found him in the living room, drink in hand, his expression bereft. As I approached, his eyes filled with tears. “Elsie, I can’t even—”
I shook my head. “No. I know you were not yourself.” I narrowed my eyes. “But I will not stay in the company of a wounded tiger.”
“Don’t leave me, Elsie. Please. I’ll find some help somewhere. Somehow.”
“I will not leave you.” I took a breath. “I owe you for rescuing me, and in light of that, I will remain your wife.” I paused to give my words weight. “But henceforth, I will be spending the night at my studio, and you will quit drinking.”
“Yes, of course. I felt so much better in the desert. Perhaps I should go back there, dry out, get my head together.”
“That is not a terrible idea.” I touched his arm. “I do think, Peter, this is not the best city for you. It seems to unnerve you.”
He looked away, suddenly looking a husk of himself.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know how.”
I sat, took his hand, drawing him down beside me. “Perhaps you could write me letters, as if the experiences were happening now.”
He closed his eyes tight. “No.”
“Perhaps not to me, then. Someone else. Someone who will listen and not judge.”
He growled, yanking his hand away. “There is no one who will not judge. You think you know, but you do not.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m not your precious prince, to be patched up and sent on my way.” He reeled way, pushing his hands though his wild hair. “It’s this wind. It’s this place.”
“Perhaps you could ask to return to England? We were all right there, weren’t we?”
He swung back. “We were. It’s early, but considering all, perhaps they’ll send me back.”
“It’s worth asking.”
With sudden drama, he fell to his knees and buried his head in my lap. “Elsie, you are the dearest thing in my world. I can’t bear hurting you.”
I hesitated for a moment, blood still on my lip. But I had married him, and he deserved the ministrations of a wife. In truth, I was fond of him, even if it wasn’t quite what he hoped. “Dear Peter. I’m sorry for your suffering. I truly am. But we must take action.”
He lifted his head. “I shall go to the desert this week, and speak to headquarters about a transfer before I go.” He kissed my fingers. “It will be all right. You’ll see.”