—60—
Fate conspired to bring Gurdaya to Cairo not five days later.
She was accompanying her husband, who had some business to attend, and she intended to shop.
I’d been looking forward to seeing her for months, but on the morning we were to meet for lunch, I very nearly canceled.
My lip was no longer swollen, but the cut still marked it, and a quadrant of finger bruises showed on my jaw.
I covered them with powder and foundation, and wore long sleeves to cover the bruises on my arms. I couldn’t bear not to see her.
We were to meet at her lodgings, Shepheard’s Hotel, a glamorous place known for its international visitors, and a terrace overlooking the Ezbekieh Gardens.
It was bustling in the bright late morning, waiters in uniform discreetly serving and whisking away dishes and pouring coffee from silver carafes.
I paused at the doorway to see if I could spot her, but there was no one who matched the girl who was in my mind.
A woman stood and raised a hand. She was clad in a western dress of yellow silk, and her thick, black hair was swirled into a fashionable twist, showing off the face that had matured even more beautifully than I remembered.
My mouth opened, and I hurried over, taking her hands.
Her childhood nickname slipped out: “Guriya!” She was taller than I, and regal in her bearing, which I supposed fitted the wife and daughter of a raja.
Ropes of pearls circled her neck and fell in cascades over her chest, and her wrists were adorned with bracelets.
“Elsie!” she cried, kissing my cheeks in continental fashion. “You are stunning!”
“And you!” I laughed. “I did not expect you to be the last word in modern girls!”
We sat, and the waiter poured coffee and brought cream, and then bread and olives and tomatoes for us to graze.
“I hardly know where to begin,” I said, a little breathless.
Of course I could see Tanveer in her face, in the same high-bridged nose, the full lips.
“Or, I suppose I do—I am so delighted by your writing career!”
“It is so wonderfully surprising, and so very enjoyable. I love the writing, and the publishing. I am a tiny bit famous in Bombay.” She mimed a movie-star pose with hands below her face. “Not as famous as you! I saw your paintings in the gallery.”
“You did?”
“Of course. I made a particular trip. Baldev also found them striking. He said you must come to India and paint our world.”
I laughed. “How kind! But I spent my first years in school unlearning all my India styles.”
“That’s terrible! Why?”
“Not at all. I had to find my own voice.”
“India must be part of that, surely.”
A wash of late summer evenings moved through me, the sound of cicadas loud in the trees. “It seems far away now. Long ago.”
“We were fortunate children. What a gift it was when my mother moved in next door to yours!”
I couldn’t even imagine my life without Tanveer in it, but I did not know her feelings about our connection, or how much she really knew.
Of course she knew I’d gone to him in the hospital in Brighton and brought him back to Herewich to heal, but how much more than that, I did not know.
As lightly as possible, I asked, “How is your brother?”
“Has he not written of late?”
“No, he has.” I dropped sugar cubes into my coffee to hide my expression. “I assume you must see him now and again.”
“I do. And Channan, frail as she is. Poor dear. It’s always been an amazement to me that he married her. Baldev and I think him a bit of a saint.”
“A saint!”
Gurdaya inclined her head. “Do you not know her story?”
“A little. She was disfigured in a robbery.”
She lifted her chin, and waved toward the waiter. “Disfigured is a mild word. She was beaten and burned. It was a miracle she did not die—and it might have been kinder if she had.”
I found myself suddenly protective. “Oh, surely not. Tanveer praises her good mind. Beauty is not the only measure of worth.”
“Oh, no, of course not.” She touched my hand. “How kind that you defend her.” The waiter brought grapefruits and toast. “I only meant that without Tanveer’s protection, she would have suffered.”
I hadn’t realized her condition was so severe, and it gave me a twist of new love for him. “That is in character, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she said. “He has ever sought to protect the defenseless. And you, Elsie? How do you fare?”
“I’m well!” I said brightly. “Cairo has given me so much to paint.”
“And your husband?”
“A junior ambassador, but likely to move up, I’m sure. He’s an amateur archaeologist, so, of course, he loves Egypt.”
“Is it he who gives you those bruises?”
The inquiry was so direct it disarmed me entirely. I looked at her without speaking. She waited, and then cocked one elegantly arched brow. I nodded. “He suffers war troubles, and the winds have set him off. He did not mean to hurt me.”
She blinked. “Are you in danger?”
Again, the directness took me aback. “No,” I said, even though I was not sure. But I would not burden Gurdaya with it, nor Tanveer if it got back to him. “Not at all.”
“Would you tell me the truth, my old friend?”
I met her gaze and lied. “Yes. Now, tell me about your husband and your children.”
She allowed the redirection, but as she spoke of Baldev, her eyes glittered. I could see that she loved him, and her four children.
“It’s wonderful that it has turned out so well. I remember how distraught you were when you married.”
“I was. And it was you who challenged me to write, and when I did, when I discovered some outlet for myself, I found I did not have to hate him, and in fact, I found some joy.” She raised a brow. “He is quite handsome.”
“But older, yes?”
“A decade, which seemed much more when I was fifteen than when I am thirty.” She laughed. “Come, I must find a dress for a dinner tonight. I’d like your feedback.”
“Would it be too plebeian to ask you to bring your husband to dinner? I shall cook.”
“I would so love to, but we are only here for a whirlwind.” She reached for my arm. “Won’t you come to India? Come and paint.”
The idea had dangerous appeal, but, of course, I could not. “My life is here.”
She gave a little shrug. “One can travel, you know. Think about it. We should so love to have you.”