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Crisis of Identity
by Nancy Lynne
She was nobody’s wife anymore. Not since that drab November evening
when her husband had told her that he was in love with another woman.
Afterwards, when he’d gone, she had switched on the computer and
booked herself a holiday. A cruise between Luxor and Aswan on the River
Nile. A special, seven night fly/cruise package was leaving the next day.
She had paid using her husband’s Amex card experiencing a small
stab of revengeful pleasure as the transaction went through. She had the
most curious sensation that she was merely a spectator watching this tall
woman with the red gold hair pack her suitcase, drive to the airport and
board the flight to Luxor. But then she no longer had an identity.
The luxury cruiser pulled away from Luxor’s chaotic east bank. She
stood on deck deriving some comfort in her anonymity. She was Amanda Sutton,
aged 33 years, snatching a sneaky break away from it all. She was not
the unwanted, unloved, soon to be ex Mrs Richard Sutton. Here she would
be taken at face value. No embarrassing explanations necessary. She would
immerse herself in the culture of ancient Egypt and be transported to
another time far removed from the darkness of her own.
Amanda was glad that she had chosen Egypt. She was forced to notice it.
The sheer foreignness of the city of Luxor was a distraction, almost an
antidote to her pain. The streets, full of horse drawn carriages with
children running alongside asking for anything that was going; the glimpses
of the colourful souks where the market traders daily perfected the art
of haggling; the new buildings close to the Nile mostly without roofs.
Luxor might be the most disorganised place she had ever visited but it
was vitally alive.
Not like her. Not anymore.
She felt a light touch on her shoulder. For a moment she almost believed
it was Richard. But he doesn’t even know I’m here, she thought.
Nobody knows. I’ve escaped from my life. She turned to see a tall
man with thick blond hair grazing the collar of his shirt. Blue eyes regarded
her with interest, blazing out of his sun bronzed face.
‘Hi, I’m James Amory. One of the guides. Welcome aboard the
Isis, pretty lady. Is this your first time in Egypt?’ His voice
was clipped, very English public school.
‘Amanda Sutton.’ The compliment had not escaped her. She smiled
carefully. ‘Thank you and yes this is my first visit.’
‘I envy you,’ he said simply. ‘The Egyptian experience
is the best ever and I recommend that you start yours with the short talk
I’m about to give on the Temple of Denderah which is our first stop.
Stern deck. Five minutes.’
‘I’ll be there,’ she said, but in truth she was careless
of her destiny. Slowly she walked the length of the boat and sat down
under the canopied shade. As James began to speak she instantly longed
for him to finish so that she could retreat inside herself again. She
couldn’t concentrate. She didn’t care enough. She got up and
began to run back along the deck with one thought pounding in her brain.
I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here, like the rhythm
of a train. She reached her cabin, swallowed two sleeping pills and lay
down on the bed.
It was the telephone that woke her. She reached for the receiver, still
groggy with sleep. ‘Richard?’ she whispered.
‘No, sorry, it’s James. Your guide. I just wondered if you’re
OK. Only you missed the shore excursion to Denderah.’
Amanda sat up. ‘I’m sorry, I fell asleep. Are we still there?’
‘No, we’re almost back at Luxor. How about I take you to the
Old Winter Palace hotel for cocktails this evening? It’s one of
the must do’s in Luxor. Very Agatha Christie. I’ll pick you
up in half an hour.’
‘No, James …’ but the line was dead.
‘I didn’t think you’d accept,’ James said. They
were sitting in the Royal Bar of the Old Winter Palace in front of two
spectacular cocktails.
‘Did I have a choice?’ Amanda didn’t mention that it
was only the thought that he’d bang on her door and make a fuss
that had driven her out of bed and into the shower. She sipped her drink
and looked around the elegant English style bar. ‘I see what you
mean about Agatha Christie.’
‘She used the Old Colonial hotel at Aswan for her book Death on
the Nile, but this has a similar style.’ He studied her for a long
moment. ‘You know that she created a mystery of her own? She went
missing in 1926 for eleven days. After her husband had told her he was
in love with someone else. She claimed later that she’d had amnesia.’
The words, ‘oh really?’ and ‘how peculiar’ died
on Amanda’s lips to be replaced by an insane desire to laugh hysterically.
Agatha Christie and Amanda Sutton. What do these two women have in common?
Answer: They escaped from the world because of their unfaithful husbands.
Instead she said quietly: ‘you’re fishing.’
‘And what have I caught?’
‘I can’t talk about my marriage. It’s over and I have
an aversion to crying in public. Anyway, I’m sure Agatha Christie
didn’t tell anyone. Not then, during her escape.’
‘The ancient Egyptians were all about survival,’ James said.
‘Let’s stay here for dinner and I’ll beguile you with
a potted history of the Pharoahs. You’ll know your Tutankhamun from
your Rameses the Great by the time I’ve finished with you,’
he grinned. ‘You can’t haggle with an offer like that.’
Amanda laughed. It was impossible not to react to his good humoured charm.
‘Oh yes I can. Beguile me with your life history and we have a deal.’
She’d been right about the public school. From there he had gone
to university to study archaeology. Ruefully he described himself as an
archaeologist temporarily without a dig, hence the job as a cruise guide
on the Nile. However he was using the experience to research a book he
was writing on the lives of the Upper Nile explorers.
He entertained her. Renewed the spark of life she had buried deep within
her. She found herself talking about her work as a research chemist. The
work she had loved but had given up four years ago when she had married.
She didn’t tell him that Richard had wanted a full time wife. She
didn’t mention Richard’s name at all. By the time he escorted
her back to her cabin she no longer wanted to cry.
The next day Amanda joined the excursion to the west bank of the Nile
across from Luxor. James began his lecture as they approached the Valley
of the Kings.
‘On the east side of the Nile where the sun sets is a place for
the living. On the west side is a place for the dead. Sixty two dead pharaohs
to be exact buried here at the edge of the desert.’
She felt the mini death of her own despair stifling her. This had been
a mistake. She had an urgent need to be with the living. She lagged behind
wondering if she could escape back to the womb of the Isis.
‘You’re not enjoying this are you Agatha?’ James fell
into step beside her.
‘Death, decay, desert,’ she said. ‘I’d prefer
to go back to the boat.’
He tucked her arm through his. ‘Did I tell you about Queen Hatshepsut?
She ruled alongside her dead husband’s son and wore a false beard
so that she’d be taken seriously. Can you believe that? But these
Egyptians knew how to live. If you appoint me as your personal guide I
promise to dish the dirt.’
Amanda frowned. ‘Why are you doing this, James? Putting yourself
out for me?’
He squeezed her arm. ‘Some may say that it’s my job. Others
may say it’s because I fancy green eyed, rusty haired replicas of
Agatha Christie.’
She was smiling in spite of herself. This irrepressible man with his impossible
charm never failed to give her hope. And hope was just what she needed
to combat her despair.
During the next few days as they cruised towards Aswan, the new Amanda
Sutton gradually fell under the spell of ancient Egypt. She floated through
the timeless beauty of the Temples, calmed by the echoes of lives long
past; absorbed by the legacies they had left behind. And as always, James
was her guide, her inspiration, her gateway to survival.
On the day before they were due to sail back to Luxor, Amanda joined several
other passengers for a ride on a traditional Egyptian sailboat. She lay
back against the cushions positioned around the circumference listening
to James conclude his talk on these feluccas of the Nile.
‘Job done,’ he sat down beside her. ‘That’s me
finished for this tour.’ The sail of the felucca caught the breeze
and picked up speed. James looked across the river. ‘To the people
of Egypt the Nile is everything. It’s the one constant thing throughout
their lives.’
Amanda was barely listening. She could no longer deny the inevitable.
For her the end of James’ duties as a guide signified the end of
her escape. ‘But not for me,’ she said, her voice quietly
despairing. ‘I have to go back to face Richard, the divorce.’
‘Only to tie up some loose ends,’ James said very matter of
fact. ‘Just remember the Arabic code of life. Insha’allah
means God willing; bukra means tomorrow and ma’lesh means it doesn’t
matter. They’ll work for you. Maybe they worked for Agatha Christie
when she went back. Did you know that she remarried? An archaeologist
called Max Mallowan.’
A sliver of hope illuminated Amanda’s dark place.
He bent his head towards hers. ‘I’ll be following you in three
months when my contract runs out. Meet me for tea at 4.00 o’clock
in the Palm Court of the Ritz in London on 29th February. It’s a
leap year, Agatha. Will you take that chance?’
The darkness slithered away. ‘Insha’allah,’ she said.
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