—61—
Peter stabilized again over the following months.
He began speaking with enthusiasm about a woman archaeologist, Margo Lang, who turned out to be a stunningly beautiful redhead, and so far out of Peter’s league that I couldn’t believe he even had a crush on her.
An American doing research at the Valley of Kings, she was in town for a few months.
She circled the edges of our set, and I met her a few times at dinner parties, but we had little in common.
In truth, she rubbed me the wrong way a bit—too bold and bright, with a wide red mouth and large breasts and a way of moving that seemed just this side of tarty.
And yet, one night, as everyone danced and I sat on the sidelines, watching, I found myself pondering my reaction to her.
Why did I judge her? From my deep bag, I withdrew my sketchbook and began to draw the flying hands, the mouth laughing, wide open, the vigor of movements.
Surprising that she’d chosen archaeology with its careful, studied movements, the silence of the desert. Perhaps I would ask her why.
She was known for her prodigious ability to hold her whiskey.
Maybe that was what she shared with Peter, who didn’t seem to be the kind of man such a woman would choose.
He was utterly smitten. For quite some time, I wasn’t sure if he was actually having an affair or just worshipping her from afar.
Honestly, I didn’t care. Our physical relationship had halted the night he held me down on the floor.
He knew I would not sue for divorce. Apart from the scandal and the likelihood that my suit would be denied, I had no income of my own, other than dribs and drabs that came in from painting. I depended upon his goodwill.
Better to keep the arrangement we had.
I kept my focus on my work. My reputation was growing, both in England and Cairo, and now with a push from Gurdaya, I’d been approached by a Bombay gallery.
It made me a little giddy, and I spent most of my time in the studio, which I’d furnished for my comfort.
Peter and I still kept up the appearance of a marriage—I attended events on his arm, and we entertained as required by his position, but I limited the amount of time we spent alone.
One night, after a successful dinner party with three couples from the embassy, he brought me a coffee as I collected my things in the bedroom. “You don’t have to go, Elsie. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“That’s not necessary. We both might as well be comfortable.”
He tucked his hands in his pockets. “I rather miss your company.”
I paused. He was quite thoroughly sober, having limited his intake during the dinner.
From past experience, I knew he’d likely settle in and drink a fair bit of whiskey before bed, but for now, he was the Peter I knew.
“I’m sorry.” I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I supposed I thought you were happy with this arrangement.”
“I know it makes you feel safer, and for that reason, I am willing to go along. I deserved this judgment.”
Something about the way he ducked his head brought the youth he’d been into clear focus. I patted the place beside me. When he’d joined me, I said, “It just seemed wise to give you wide berth until you find a way to avoid violence when the demons plague you.”
He bent his head into my shoulder. “Don’t leave me, Elsie. Please.”
I laughed softly. “I have no intention of leaving you.”
He raised his head. “Truly?”
“Why would I leave you?” I made my voice light. “Truth be told, I’m married to my painting, and you do not seem to mind that.”
He allowed a smile. “I do not. I am quite proud of you.”
“You are?”
“I boast to everyone what a gifted artist my wife is.” He touched the place on my chest above my buttons. “Beautiful and talented both.” He raised his eyes, and I saw that whatever transpired between Margo and him, he still loved me as much as he ever had.
Perhaps out of guilt or pity, I leaned in and kissed him, and allowed him to take off my dress and make love to me, gently, deeply. We slept in the bed together, and he did not go back out to the living room for more whiskey.
Perhaps he could heal.
Not more than two months after my day with Gurdaya, a letter arrived from Talwarpur Palace. But not from Tanveer.
March 30, 1926
Talwarpur Palace
[In Urdu]
Dear Elsie,
Please forgive my forwardness in writing to you directly. I found your address on my husband’s desk. I wonder if you would consider visiting us in September, in time for Tanveer’s birthday. It is a lovely time in the Punjab, as you may remember.
My main wish is that you might paint our portrait.
I saw the painting Gurdaya brought home from Cairo, and I was quite deeply moved.
Your work has a depth of compassion and true seeing that is most unusual.
I have longed for someone who might be able to see through the damage of my face and paint me in a way that shows who I am.
(I assume you know that I was badly burned as a young woman, but perhaps you do not.)
And to be frank, Tanveer is not well. It is not a disease of the body, but one of the soul, for there is much division among the people of the Punjab, and the British ever try to widen the gaps. I am not a political or philosophical being, and I know he takes courage from your exchanges.
He speaks of you often, sharing your insights and travelogues, and I know that he holds you in very high regard.
Will you consider it? Cairo is not so terribly far, and you must have sometimes wished to visit your childhood home. You would be free to stay for as long as you like, and I have just the space in mind for a studio.
I hope you will say yes.
Your friend by association,
Channan Kaur
I would not go, of course. I suspected Gurdaya’s hand in the matter.
April 7, 1926
Talwarpur Palace
[In Urdu]
Dear Elsie,
Channan told me that she wrote to invite you to come here and paint our portrait. It would honor her so deeply for you to do such work, and I thank you for even giving it a single moment of consideration.
I suspect you will hesitate. I have vowed to be as truthful as possible with you and I will not stint here.
Gurdaya was quite concerned about you after her visit, and I felt similar misgivings over your letter about Peter.
Perhaps taking a time for a leisurely visit to the world of your childhood would not go amiss?
Channan has already put servants to work making over a room with good, clear light for a studio, and you would be able to visit the tigers and see the work we have done there.
We should be free to debate religion and thought and politics until we’re both completely weary of it. It would cheer me to no end.
As for the other, surely after so many years, our youthful attachment will have resolved into a mature and respectful friendship?
Please come.
Your friend,
Tanveer
Tanveer’s letter haunted me for weeks. Had we matured to such a place? Perhaps we had. We were nearly thirty, settled into our own lives, both of us married.
But still I resisted. Even when Gurdaya sent a letter about the Bombay gallery, I resisted. I had made a kind of peace with the way of my life, and going to India seemed a fool’s errand, a way to torture myself. What things might be awakened there?
My rational side argued he was a man who kept his word, and he would keep his word to his wife. There would be no danger of dalliance.
In truth, I longed to go. To walk those landscapes, to debate ideas with Tanveer, even to have a chance to meet Gurdaya’s children, and see the tigers. Every time I considered it, a fresh wind of possibility blew through my soul.
But had I truly let him go? Would my old sorrow be reawakened in his presence?
In my studio, the bickering voices battled for days, until I realized that if I actually did travel to India, I would spend the entire time there in this state of anxious longing. Absurd for a woman of my age and status.
I would not go.
The love affair between Margo and Peter began to be a subject of gossip.
I only heard the edges of it, of course, as everyone imagined I wanted protecting.
They traveled to a dig, and he came home in a sour state.
She returned to Cairo a month later, and they took it up again, famously fighting at a club known for hard-drinking expats.
They drank and fought and presumably this fueled less visible sex.
He was both more alive and more prone to his instability, and I pushed again for a move back to England or to a different posting.
Perhaps Kabul, which was a nondrinking society. He was not interested.
It came to a head when Peter arrived at my studio rather late one night. He was quite drunk, had a scratch across his face. I could see by his bleary eyes that he was in an evil mood. “I need a cup of tea,” he said.
“You cannot come in,” I said, holding the door. “Not in this state.”
“Just give me a cup of tea, Elsie. For God’s sake, you’re my wife.”
I did not move. I’d already changed for bed and felt vulnerable in my nightdress and robe, my feet bare. “I am your wife, but I cannot help you when you are drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk.” He pushed at the door. My nerves jolted. “I just want a cup of tea.”
“It would be better if you find it elsewhere.” A little ribbon of warning ran down my spine, making me alert to every small movement he made, his feet, his eyes, his hand flat on the door. “I was already in bed.”
“Well, let me sleep next to you then?”
“No, Peter.” I braced my hip against the door. “Is there something wrong?”
He scowled. “I’m tired of women who think they run the world.
Where would you be if it weren’t for me?
Hmm? Living in some bedsit, without a penny.
What makes you think you can tell me how to live?
” With a sudden movement, he pushed the door, and I lost my hold.
“You are my wife. I am the master of this family.”
I cried out as he barreled into the room, holding up a hand as if he would hit me, and that infuriated him even more. “You act like I’ll beat you! Have I ever lifted a hand to you?”
“No.” Not exactly, although he’d become more and more unstable when he drank.
But my body reacted to the memory of him knocking me to the ground the night of the winds. My lungs felt compressed, and the hairs on arms lifted, and I could not help but use my peripheral vision to see what I might use to defend myself if need be.
“Of course not!” He stalked around the room, restless as a tiger, taking an apple from the dish on the table, taking a bite, rounding the room toward my easel, where I was working on a new painting of Gurdaya, in her new guise as a mighty woman. “Who’s this?”
“A friend from my childhood who came to see me.”
His gaze sharpened over his shoulder. “A friend? Have you seen the prince, too?”
“No. Peter, you need to go. You’re in a terrible mood.”
He continued his pacing and started a nonsensical rant about women and how they were ruining the world for men like him. Suffragettes and women in the workplace, artists and archaeologists.
“Is this about Margo? Have you had a fight?”
“What do you know about Margo?” He tossed the apple core into the sink.
“Everyone knows about her,” I said, wearily. “You two have been spotted drinking and scrapping across all of Egypt.”
He went still. “That’s a lie.”
“It is not a lie.” I was exhausted by him suddenly, by all of it. “The two of you have not exactly been discreet.”
“How dare you!” He slapped me.
It was so sudden and violent that I staggered backward, tripping on the edge of a rug and nearly falling down before I righted myself. Fear ran cold through my veins, and as I straightened, I took the offensive. “Get out!” I cried, shoving him. “Go home and sleep it off.”
But he shoved me back. “You’re my wife. I pay for this space.
” He pushed me against the wall and held me there, his face inches from mine.
I struggled, pushing back against him, but his grip was harsh, his size an advantage.
True fear made my limbs shake. “You always think you’re so much better than me, doing me such a favor.
” He pressed a forearm against my chest, and with his other hand, tore at my robe.
“Peter, stop!” I cried, trying to grab the fabric back around me, push his hand away. “You will hate yourself.”
“Will I?” A little smile turned up his lips, and he unbuckled his belt.
I shoved again, unbalancing him, and ran for the door. He got there first, and yanked me around, pushing me to the bed, holding me with one knee and one arm while he dropped his pants. “I don’t know what you’re fighting about. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
Gathering all my reserves and my anger, I screamed as loudly as I could.
It took him aback, and when he was off guard from the noise, I managed to roll off the bed.
I fell on the floor and scrambled away. I heard him behind me, and grabbed the closest thing I could see—a shoe with a substantial heel.
With a feral sound, I slammed the heel into his temple, once, and then again.
He staggered away, hand to his head, blood trickling from a cut.
“Get out,” I cried. “Out!”
He stared at me for a long moment. I could not tell if he was himself or the monster. I screamed, as loudly as I could manage in my raw throat, “Out!”
He left.
I dropped the shoe, and ran to lock the door, then fell into a chair, trembling, panting.
Enough.