Chapter 12

Two days later the Orion dropped anchor in the calm waters of the Lake of Tunis. The city encompassed the lake like a jewel in its setting. There was the usual cluster of buildings and houses, interrupted by swatches of green and lofty palms. Rooftops gleamed under a bright sun.

Nearby was the armed escort vessel that had guided them through the narrow channel that connected the lake to the Mediterranean. Now a boat was approaching with an inspection team of the ruling Hussein Bey. There was a great concern that some decades ago, the French had occupied neighboring Algeria and had shown some intent of annexing Tunisia as well to their African possessions. For years now each ship passing through had to be inspected, to ferret out possible French spies among the passengers and crew.

Most people were cleared, but Lady Chillon was suspected of having French connections and ordered to remain on board, forbidden entry into the city. A few other passengers were also so constrained. Vainly did they protest that they were English, that their French names went back to Norman roots: the Tunisian official didn’t relent.

“I took this cruise to see the world, not to sit on board,” Lady Chillon complained to Emily. “Anyway, my ancestry is Swiss not French.”

Lady Bethune joined some others who were allowed to visit ashore, wanting to be on solid ground again, to have stone and mortar instead of the groaning, creaking entity of the Orion, never quiet or still. Besides, she hoped to find a bathhouse to clean up in, and to take care of her private laundry. Her skin crawled from not being properly washed for days because of the onboard water shortage.

She was a little nauseous going down the sea ladder, and stepping aboard the unsteady row boat; she nearly lost her balance but the First Officer steadied her in time.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said, seating herself on one of the benches. The pastor’s wife sat down beside her.

“Isn’t this exciting? I’ve never been to Africa. I’ve never been anywhere. My husband and I are going to the Holy Land to visit the shrines.”

“I’m going to Egypt.”

“Then you’ll see the pyramids the Children of Israel built. Walk where Moses walked...” The woman couldn’t see beyond her narrow interest.

The group landed on the main quay. “Ladies, please remember to keep your hair covered by a shawl, and much of your face,” the First Officer instructed. “It’s considered highly indecent to do otherwise.”

“Indecent?”

“Akin to walking naked in public,” the Officer chortled, then fearing he’d said something inappropriate, he quickly added, “Please keep together. You’d not want to get lost in a strange city.”

“Or be abducted for a sheik’s harem,” the pastor’s wife exhaled, her imagination fired by lurid tales from the Daily Mirror.

“Is the Chief Engineer not with us?” Lady Bethune asked the First Officer.

“He has duties to attend to on board. Storm damage to fix.”

A tight knit group explored the bazaar, buying a few things, trying to make sense of the local currency. Lady Bethune bought a finely worked Moroccan leather bag and a pair of slippers for Bernice. From a street vendor they sampled some tea, finding it too strong and too sweet for English tastes. They nibbled at an offering of skewered meats from a roadside barbecue. Strange tastes intrigued the tongue, deliciously native.

The group gawked at the locals and the locals gawked right back. Under the rule of the aging Bey, Tunis wasn’t an open city and it had been years since foreigners were allowed onshore, on these rare occasions restricted to a small quarter adjoining the main docks. That way unhealthy influences could be contained. Tunis had also suffered through several devastating plagues of recent years, all imported by strange ships. Permission for the Orion to make landfall was due only to the emergency caused by the storm damage, a fact that the harbormaster emphasized repeatedly to Captain Harris.

The group was allowed to walk around the main mosque but not inside it. Next they visited a rose garden and inhaled the heady fragrance of a huge variety of flowers. Some bought essence of rose oil.

All throughout their meandering, a number of officious minders kept a close watch over them. Sometimes they denied the visitors access to a location for unknown reasons. They herded the group through a maze of streets and alleyways, always returning them to the waterfront.

Nervously the First Officer ushered the sightseers back to the hostel on the waterfront that served western style food. The place was named Oasis and housed the only foreigners in the city. When Lady Bethune found out the place had baths, she immediately rented a room and reserved herself a bath. She had to do it in Italian, as no one spoke English. The First Officer was vehemently against her plan, but she refused to budge: at all costs, she would have her bath.

Reluctantly the First Officer escorted the rest of the passengers quay side to board the rowboats taking them back to the Orion. He hated leaving Lady Bethune behind, but the lady refused to change her mind. As soon as the rest left, Emily went to the room assigned to her, slipped into a robe and had herself taken to the baths. She was conveyed to a private room with a generous basin full of steaming water. With a sigh of relief she slipped into the hot water, surrendering to its warm embrace. The heat soon relaxed her; all her cares slipped like liquid through her fingers. For the moment it didn’t matter that she was chasing across the world to fix her marriage, that with the children out of the home, she had no meaningful purpose to her life; for now, the soothing water was enough. A woman silently entered and poured an aromatic oil onto her hair. Emily luxuriated in the warm glow, just floating in the perfumed liquid.

She soaked a good hour, not caring about anything else. Getting out of the water, she felt reborn. Wrapping herself in the eastern style clothes she had bought, she returned to her room where she found her clothes cleaned and freshened. She dressed herself, enjoying being clean. For a while she sat at the window and watched the lake. Offshore, the Orion looked strangely unreal. Yet she knew its routines, could picture her tablemates were collecting in the dining room, no doubt discussing her desertion. She smiled, and wondered what the Chief Engineer thought of her now. She felt a tinge of guilt; as a married woman she shouldn’t be having these thoughts.

Looking out, she let the view of the busy harbor distract her from more serious concerns. She was on holiday after all. She watched barges unloading cargo, a line of half naked men struggling up the steps, loaded down with sacks. She saw her first camel, the strange beast plodding along under an ungainly load. A herd of goats filled the street, bleating, and passed, like the tide washing up on shore. A covered wagon creaked by, children played in the busy flow. There were few women to be seen, hidden by their bulky garments.

Unsure of whether the pangs she felt were of hunger or just the burning from the spicy food she had snacked on earlier, she nonetheless went downstairs to the dining room which already had a number of guests scattered throughout. She sat and ordered in Italian what she hoped was lamb with rice. The food came quickly, smelling of strange spices. Lady Bethune ate, not sure whether the food was good or bad, her palate not yet educated. She ordered tea without sweeteners. She sat there, satiated and feeling very clean and pleased with herself. No doubt on board they were still struggling with the water supply.

She was about to rise from the table when a lady emerged into her view.

“Excuse me, I heard you speaking Italian and wondered if you were as fluent in Spanish. I have not spoken it for many months, and my mouth gets tired of shaping foreign sounds.”

“Please sit,” Emily invited in Spanish.

“Ah, you do speak it. You don’t know how refreshing it is to hear my mother tongue... and to speak it.” They went on to exchange brief histories. She was Agustina Carmelita Moreno Valdez, daughter of a former functionary to the Spanish Crown. The family had been exiled from all Spanish dominions for undisclosed reasons; treason was rumored but never validated. For the past eight years, the family had found shelter in Tunis. There was a sadness about Agustina that surrounded her like a veil. Her dark eyes were haunted, perhaps by the memory of her childhood in her homeland.

“What’s Tunis like for Europeans?”

“Not bad. For the most part the authorities leave us alone, though they never take their eyes off us. They are suspicious of the French, of course, or anyone with French connections.”

“Do they allow you to practice Christianity openly?”

“More privately. There is a small Catholic church that we attend. There are about six families in Tunis and about two dozen unattached men, merchants and businessmen hoping to strike it rich in trade.”

The two women drank tea and talked, each curious about the other.

“The thing that I regret the most is losing contact with my friends and extended family. Spanish ships won’t take my letters and others here have learned not to either, fearing some sort of reprisal.” She shook her head, dejected, her eyes swimming in tears. “You don’t know how hard it is suddenly not to have any friends. Here the other European women are married and one doesn’t see Moslem women, who, for the most part, stay at home.” Emily felt terrible for her table companion.

“I haven’t had a letter all the time we’ve been here. And I don’t expect I ever shall.” Then Agustina made a great effort to gather herself. “I envy you English women. Allowed to go where you want, travel by yourselves, enjoy liberties the rest of us dream of.”

“Not quite...”

“But you’re free. I’m buried here. To keep from going crazy I write letters that never get sent and will never be read.” The tears started up again, and Agustina daubed at them with a lace handkerchief. It was gut-wrenching to see the young woman suffer.

“Maybe I can help. We’re going on to Egypt; from there I could mail your letter by British post.”

“Could you? Really?” Hope dawned in Agustina’s pain-ravaged face and her eyes brightened.

“Sure. Easy enough. One thing we British are good at, is writing and sending letters.” Emily held out her hand in a symbolic gesture. “Just give them to me.”

“Oh that would be heaven sent.” Agustina rose and hurried out.

Lady Bethune had another cup of tea, trying to imagine what it would be like to suffer years of exile away from her home and country. In less than half an hour, Agustina returned and slipped Emily a packet of letters. “These are the best I’ve written. Don’t show them around or someone might try to stop you sending them.” Emily nodded, thinking privately that the young woman had learned too many fears. Shortly after, Lady Bethune retired to her room and went to bed, grateful to be clean and that the world didn’t move restlessly around her.