The Gift of the Nile
"All right, close your eyes."
"Christian—"
"Satine . . ."
"Oh, all right."
"Closed?"
"Yes."
"No peeking?"
"Christian . . ."
"Sorry."
Leading the now effectively sightless Satine down the hallway by the hand, Christian beamed happily, like a child on Christmas morning. He had been like that ever since their arrival in Egypt four days before. Now they were in Cairo, and with some help from Alexander Castleton, strings had been pulled and Christian assured her that he had procured them a lovely apartment in a hotel where nearly all the occupants were Westerners.
Given the fact Christian had found his garret in Montmartre rather more than adequate, this did not reassure Satine in the slightest.
Even still, she couldn't help a swell of anticipation as he released her hands and she heard the turning of keys in a lock. Standing just behind them was one of the hotel attendants, leaning against the luggage cart and looking rather bored with the antics of the couple, though he waited patiently enough in mind of the tip he was certain to receive. Foreigners such as these were an eccentric lot, but they always tipped generously, though from true kindness or simple ignorance of the money system, he wasn't quite sure.
"Can I open them yet?" Satine asked, bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet—a rather childlike gesture, but the move seemed to have awakened a youth in herself as well that she had thought lost.
"Not yet . . ." Christian took a moment to glance inside the apartment to make sure everything was in order, then he reached out and took Satine by both hands, backpedaling in the direction of the door. Stopping there just outside the doorway, he moved around behind her, then said, "All right, open them."
Satine opened her eyes and found herself staring into what was undoubtedly indeed one of the loveliest rooms she had ever seen. It did not have the gaudy, lavish appearance of any of the varied rooms in the Moulin Rouge, which were usually decorated to a certain theme—befitting of the courtesan that commonly used it, or a patron's wants. Nor did it have the penniless simplicity of Christian's garret.
Rather, it had an atmosphere of its own, clearly decorated with the intention of mixing the exoticism the people from the West expected of Egypt, but it held on to enough of the European standards so as not to be completely unfamiliar. On the wall facing her, Satine could see a pair of balcony doors through which sunlight streamed; in fact, the entire place seemed flooded with light, the floors of polished hardwood, scattered here and there with well-woven rugs.
The furniture was of a rich lacquered wood, its upholstery in predominant shades of white, ivory, and gold, just as the whole room—it seemed pure and golden, and unlike anything she had ever seen before.
After her spellbound moment of silence, Christian leaned in and looked sidelong at Satine, questioning somewhat self-consciously, "Do you like it?"
Satine still didn't say anything, causing Christian to shift his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, still staring at her. It was thus she caught him off guard when she gave a decidedly unladylike squeal of joy and threw herself at him. "I love it!"
Christian staggered back with a grin on his face—which was soon enough smeared with red lipstick stains, not that he minded at all—and spun her around in a circle. "I'm glad. I was afraid you wouldn't, and, well—"
"I really do love it," Satine said, more sedately this time, and she disentangled herself from him, wiping at the lipstick on his face with her handkerchief.
"Let's go inside," Christian suggested with a smile, then he swept her up in his arms and carried her across the threshold.
Satine felt a bit silly as she found herself giggling like some sort of schoolgirl, but that was something she could let go for the moment. As Christian put her down, she smoothed out her dress, then turned to look around the inside of the apartment.
The next few minutes were spent with her flittering about pointing out various things, dragging Christian around as she did so—and for once, even the energetic poet seemed to have met his match. It turned out there was a small kitchen and dining room to the left, and a spacious bedroom to the right, making the place larger than anything either of them had ever occupied without having to share it with a family—or, in Satine's case, what had been like her family, the other performers at the Moulin Rouge.
Finally, they ended up on the balcony, which happened to afford a breathtaking view of the city. It was all quite amazing, and as Satine leaned up from the railing and turned to Christian, aglow with a healthy radiance, she smiled and sang, "I'm amazed, the places you've taken me to."
As the two shared in a kiss, the hotel attendant stood in the main room, where he had deposited their luggage—a trunk, three suitcases, and a small, but heavy case—and waited patiently to be remembered by the couple. They certainly were strange . . . well, in his consideration, all the Westerners were, but he had a feeling these two were strange even to their own native people, and he had to admit they were rather entertaining in their eccentricity.
In fact, he had a feeling he was going to grow to like these two.
Finally, Christian led Satine back off the balcony, and as she moved off into the bedroom with the intention of freshening up a bit, he tipped the attendant—heftily, just as had been expected—and offered him a note.
"Could you drop this off at the front desk for me?"
"It would be my pleasure," the young man responded in his accented English, "and welcome to Cairo."
"Thank you," Christian responded with a smile, "I think we're going to like it here."
As the attendant left, he was passed in the hallway by none other than Alexander Castleton, who came to the open door of the apartment and stuck his head inside. He rapped on the doorframe, then finding Christian standing alone, moved on inside.
"How's it going, Chris?"
Before, Christian had never really noticed how different Castleton's accent was—he spoke similarly to his brash American kin, but it hadn't been detectable at all beneath his flawless French, which he had used up until their departure from France.
Since arriving in Egypt, they had all decided to speak English; it only made sense, of course, as it was the native language of both Christian and Alexander, and they were more likely to find people speaking English than French. Satine was even fluent in the language herself, having included it among her versatility in dealing with men from various places, though she naturally had a French accent clinging to her words (which, personally, Christian found rather lovely).
Christian looked up from where he had been examining the furniture, having decided something needed rearranging, though he wasn't yet certain what—and offered the man a smile, though he still found it a bit disconcerting to be called by the nickname Alexander had decided to place upon him.
"Good afternoon, Alexander," he responded pleasantly, then deciding it was the desk that needed moving, he began to drag it across the floor, until the American man came to give him a hand with it—though to be helpful, or silence the rather horrid scraping sound, it wasn't certain.
"How are you settling in?"
"Pretty well, actually—Satine loved the place. She's in the bedroom freshening up."
"Ah, well, I just dropped in to tell you that I got myself a slightly smaller place a floor down from you, if you need me," Alexander offered, as they set the desk down near the balcony doors, where Christian would have a prime vantage point for the view afforded.
"That's wonderful," Christian responded, lifting his typewriter case onto the desk, true to form unpacking his typewriter before anything else. It took him a moment to position the Underwood, during which Castleton remained silent, simply watching the young man he'd dubbed his 'creative genius' at work.
"I was also wondering if you and Miss Satine would like to join me for dinner. There's a restaurant down on the main floor—I hear it has good food, sort of a mix of European and Egyptian, so there's something for everyone."
"It sounds nice," the writer responded with a nod, setting a stack of paper alongside the typewriter. He paused a moment, then looked back up at his publisher. "Dr. Dieudonné's colleague here, Dr. Morrow, is supposed to come see Satine in a few hours, but that should be done before dinner."
"Excellent—I'll see you around seven, then?"
Christian paced up and down the length of the living room, and even around it. Really, his pacing had no particular aim or direction aside from constant motion, weaving around furniture, into the kitchen, even out onto the balcony.
Finally, the bedroom door opened and Dr. Morrow stepped out. It had turned out he was around a decade younger than Dr. Dieudonné had been—probably in his mid-forties—and English rather than French. He had placid grey eyes, dark brown hair that was becoming gradually streaked with silver, and his skin was tanned golden from the Egyptian sun.
The doctor offered Christian a smile, an expression which seemed at home on him, and closed up his bag as he walked over to the younger man. "She's getting dressed."
Christian nodded pensively, then unable to hold in his anxiety any longer, burst out, "How is she, doctor?"
"Miss Satine is a remarkable young woman. When Maurice wrote to tell me about the unusual case he had seen, I had no idea that she would be this far recovered. Considering the condition she was supposed to have been in when you left Paris, I really am amazed—and that's a lot coming from me, considering how many consumptives I have treated."
Dr. Morrow paused, and removed his glasses, folding them up and dropping them into the pocket on his vest. "I think, Mr. James, that Miss Satine should make a full recovery."
He halted again, rolling his sleeves back down and buttoning their cuffs, seeming quite unaware of the fact that Christian was hanging on his words.
"I would, however," Dr. Morrow went on, "recommend that she continue to treat her illness in the same manner which you have been—I have left the necessary medication with Miss Satine, and I would actually suggest that you start taking it as well."
"Me?" Christian blinked. "Am I—"
"No, not unless you've been feeling symptoms?"
Somewhat taken aback, Christian shook his head. "No."
"Consider it a precautionary measure, then. Consumption is something easily picked up in a city environment such as that you experienced in Paris. If you and Miss Satine have lived together, breathed the same air, then—well, consider me quite amazed you haven't developed symptoms."
Pausing in his somewhat severe speech to the young man, Dr. Morrow offered another smile. "Don't worry, I'm not trying to scare you—I just want to make sure you understand how serious this could have been, or could still be."
Christian nodded slightly. "Thank you, Doctor."
"It's been my pleasure. I'll see you this time next week, then."
As the doctor left, Christian remained standing there rooted to the same spot, pensively staring at the wall opposite him. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open and Satine stepped out with a look of wonder on her face. She was already dressed for dinner, having decided to change after the doctor finished examining her.
Christian looked up at her, then crossed the distance between them and enveloped her in a tight embrace.
"You're going to be all right . . ."
Satine returned the embrace, clinging to him, and despite herself tears of relief had begun to roll down her cheeks. "I know. It's almost hard to believe it's real."
"But it is," he assured her, pulling back to look into her eyes, and Satine could see that he was crying as well.
He leaned in to kiss her tears away, then pulled her back into the circle of his arms. "Everything's going to be all right now."
But as Satine leaned her head against his shoulder, Christian simply wished he could banish his unease . . .
Author's Note: Naughty me, ending the chapter with an ellipsis. Brief use of lyrics is credited to Poe's "Amazed," which is a recurrence from chapter four. Forgive all the dialogue and seemingly pointless description, but it's important, really. Next chapter: Angst, betrayal, and singing!
Also, this chapter is dedicated to BeetleBon99, for faithfully reading and reviewing every single chapter, and everyone else who has read and reviewed!