Go Feedback: An exotic Yuletide holiday many years ago sticks in the mind of Goreader Nuala Smith
THAT CHRISTMAS, and it was to be her last, my mother treated my nine-year-old daughter and me to a cruise on the Nile. This solved the annual crisis over what to do about Christmas, as, with few relations, and even fewer who’d have us over, we’d had it with the too-heavy lunch that usually ended with someone being in a huff or herself swearing vengeance on the gas company or the butcher.
So in Christmas week off we sailed on the Royal Princessalong the satin waters from Luxor to Aswan. With reeds and bulrushes bordering its banks, where the odd biblical donkey tottered along under impossible weights, so timeless did it seem that when we reached the ancient Egyptian town of Edfu we were unsurprised to see sandalled men in long robes striding towards us – only now they were selling embroidered tablecloths and scarab ear-rings.
We, three generations, had few squabbles, as we were either too busy keeping up with our guide, Lila, as she led us around breathtaking pharaohs’ temples – like those at Karnak, or the tombs of Tutankhamun and his relations – or racing to get to the ship’s tables before they were cleared.
Chummily, passengers shared tables, and, as usual, my mother couldn’t stand the American family (so loud) or the English couple (drink too much) or the two middle-aged women (you can see they’re looking for husbands).
But the image that comes back to me now is that of the beautiful mystery woman who, though in the midst of us, dined alone on Christmas night.
By now the Royal Princesshad disgorged us in Aswan. We'd arrived by small sailing boat to the landing stage of the old Cataract, our stylish hotel, where we scrambled up steps in the rocks to the palatial entrance. Open to the sun, its wide marble foyer was strewn with red rugs. Now we could play table tennis, swim in the warm pool or just people-watch from the canopied loungers under the palms.
Suddenly, to ripples of excitement, and craned necks, François Mitterand, who was president of France at the time, arrived in a bustle of security, was whisked into the arms of managers and quickly vanished. We'd been told that Agatha Christie had set Death on the Nilehere, and this added an extra shiver of exotica.
On Christmas night we were shepherded into the dining hall, with its startling Arabic-style black-and-white tiling and its candlelit tables. A small stage held a troupe of bejewelled dancers. Overlooking all this, and beneath a high ceiling, hung a balcony screened with a lattice, which presumably hid important people from the cruisers below.
The scarlet-fezzed waiters in Ali Baba dress had served our melon when she made her entrance. Every head turned as the maitre d’ rushed to claim her. Tall and slender, with blond hair piled on top of her head, she had wide cheekbones and a chiselled nose. In her late 20s or early 30s, I’d have guessed. As she was led past our table we got a good look at her silver wrap, ivory-lace dress and gold choker. Eyes followed her as she was seated, alone, facing the balcony.
We had been adopted by the two “man hunters”, whose company my mother appeared to enjoy, even though I knew she’d demolish them later to me. We began to debate who the lone stunner resembled. Faye Dunaway? Julie Christie? Grace Kelly, insisted my mother.
Between pulling crackers and having my paper hat pushed over my eyes by the daughter, I watched her, too. As straight-backed as a ballerina, she seemed unaware of her waiter each time he arrived. She ate her meal as if she were in a cafe on her lunch break. Between courses, her hands propped under her chin, she watched the dancers.
As the trifle arrived a masked dancer swooped from table to table, pulling diners out to join a rhythmic chain that looped and whooped around the dining hall. My daughter, shy but thrilled, congaed off, pink and grinning. The lone lady was not approached.
As our coffee was served – those little brass cups jingling like bells, the dancing snake gathering force – the icy beauty stood and, putting her clutch bag under her arm, tapped up the steps. Then, her path cleared by the maitre d’, she followed him through a staff exit under the balcony before the conga surged around again.
Her meal had taken an hour. A mortifying 60 minutes or a peaceful reverie with the prospect of an evening with a handsome prince behind the lattice?
Take your pick. Christmas is all about surprises, isn’t it?
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