Sphinx Read Free Page B

was my world: palpable, exploitable. Isabella’s world was far more spiritual: there was a karmic logic to the outcome of events; the personal had an immediate impact on the political, the micro on the macro. I thought this a misinformed perception; an anthropocentric outlook that bred complacency; the determinist’s investment in the notion of meaningful destiny.
    ‘If Cleopatra had the astrarium and it was able to influence the outcome of the battle, why did she flee and abandon Mark Antony to Octavian?’ I asked.
    ‘I don’t know. But if it had been me, I would have fought to change my fate right up to the last minute. The astrarium would have saved her, I know it.’ Her obsessive tone worried me. Again, the desire to protect her shot through me but I knew that to stand between Isabella and her quest would mean the end of our marriage and certainly any respect she held for me. A fiercely independent woman who had consciously fought both her family and her culture for the right to pursue her profession, I had no choice but to trust her judgement. Nevertheless there was something unsettling about this particular dive that I couldn’t quite place my finger on - all of her obsession seemed to be leading to this one event.
    There was a huge clap of thunder outside. A violent gust of wind threw open the French windows and pushed over a cane chair.
    ‘That’s cyclone weather,’ I told her as I secured the doors. ‘You are not diving today!’
    ‘It’s too dangerous for me not to dive!’ she yelled.
    Isabella was almost hysterical by now and I knew it was pointless to continue to argue.
    ‘You can dive tomorrow, first light,’ I said, pulling her into an embrace. ‘I’ll go with you, okay? But this day is for us. We’ll do something nice. Isn’t it the anniversary of your grandfather’s birthday? We could visit your grandmother. By tomorrow morning the storm will have cleared and visibility is going to be much better.’
    ‘You don’t understand,’ she murmured into my chest. But she let me guide her back to bed.
    Back then I thought we had all the time in the world.
     
    Already the salty tang of the sea air was discernible above the exhaust fumes and the wafting scent of incense billowing from jars placed outside night stalls, an odour tainted by the ubiquitous but faint smell of sewage. Isabella wound up the taxi window; we were driving down the Corniche - the long seafront path that swung around the glittering curve of the Eastern Harbour. We stopped at a red light and I glanced across at the cafés on the sidewalk. Huddled around small tables were groups of men, some dressed in pale brown jellabas and blue turbans, the traditional dress of the fellahin, others in Western clothes, sharing the large hookah pipes with their colourful corded stems snaking out into the mouth of the smoker. Inside one of the cafés a black-and-white television blared out to a small argumentative knot of men and youths. A football game was playing. A penalty was being taken and a sudden cheer catapulted through the men, reminding me of England and the long afternoons spent watching football with my father and brother.
    I turned back to face the Mediterranean. The emptiness of the panorama was in stark contrast to the frenetic metropolis nestled up beside it. Liberating the eye, this elemental minimalism was always a comfort to me. It took me away from humanity, from the mistakes we make, the noisiness of life. In Alexandria, as in the rest of Egypt, this polarity was exaggerated. The desert touched the sea, just as the green fecundity of the delta surrounding the Nile and its canals butted right up against the sand. It was said that Alexandria had a front door and a back door and little else.
    North-west of the bay, out there under the waves, lay Isabella’s archaeological site. A place where once the great sea battle between Mark Antony and Octavian had taken place, it was easy to imagine the long ancient wooden