Page 116 of A Thousand Painted Hours

An Invitation from Channan

1926

Cairo

—61—

Peter stabilized again over the following months. He began speaking with enthusiasm about a woman archaeologist, Margo Lang, who turned out to be a stunningly beautiful redhead, and so far out of Peter’s league that I couldn’t believe he even had a crush on her. An American doing research at the Valley of Kings, she was in town for a few months. She circled the edges of our set, and I met her a few times at dinner parties, but we had little in common. In truth, she rubbed me the wrong way a bit—too bold and bright, with a wide red mouth and large breasts and a way of moving that seemed just this side of tarty.

And yet, one night, as everyone danced and I sat on the sidelines, watching, I found myself pondering my reaction to her. Why did I judge her? From my deep bag, I withdrew my sketchbook and began to draw the flying hands, the mouth laughing, wide open, the vigor of movements. Surprising that she’d chosen archaeology with its careful, studied movements, the silence of the desert. Perhaps I would ask her why.

She was known for her prodigious ability to hold her whiskey. Maybe that was what she shared with Peter, who didn’t seem to be the kind of man such a woman would choose. He was utterly smitten. For quite some time, I wasn’t sure if he was actually having an affair or just worshipping her from afar. Honestly, I didn’t care. Our physical relationship had halted the night he held me down on the floor.

He knew I would not sue for divorce. Apart from the scandal and the likelihood that my suit would be denied, I had no income of myown, other than dribs and drabs that came in from painting. I depended upon his goodwill.

Better to keep the arrangement we had.

I kept my focus on my work. My reputation was growing, both in England and Cairo, and now with a push from Gurdaya, I’d been approached by a Bombay gallery. It made me a little giddy, and I spent most of my time in the studio, which I’d furnished for my comfort. Peter and I still kept up the appearance of a marriage—I attended events on his arm, and we entertained as required by his position, but I limited the amount of time we spent alone.

One night, after a successful dinner party with three couples from the embassy, he brought me a coffee as I collected my things in the bedroom. “You don’t have to go, Elsie. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“That’s not necessary. We both might as well be comfortable.”

He tucked his hands in his pockets. “I rather miss your company.”

I paused. He was quite thoroughly sober, having limited his intake during the dinner. From past experience, I knew he’d likely settle in and drink a fair bit of whiskey before bed, but for now, he was the Peter I knew. “I’m sorry.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “I supposed I thought you were happy with this arrangement.”

“I know it makes you feel safer, and for that reason, I am willing to go along. I deserved this judgment.”

Something about the way he ducked his head brought the youth he’d been into clear focus. I patted the place beside me. When he’d joined me, I said, “It just seemed wise to give you wide berth until you find a way to avoid violence when the demons plague you.”

He bent his head into my shoulder. “Don’t leave me, Elsie. Please.”

I laughed softly. “I have no intention of leaving you.”

He raised his head. “Truly?”

“Why would I leave you?” I made my voice light. “Truth be told, I’m married to my painting, and you do not seem to mind that.”

He allowed a smile. “I do not. I am quite proud of you.”

“You are?”

“I boast to everyone what a gifted artist my wife is.” He touched the place on my chest above my buttons. “Beautiful and talented both.” He raised his eyes, and I saw that whatever transpired between Margo and him, he still loved me as much as he ever had.

Perhaps out of guilt or pity, I leaned in and kissed him, and allowed him to take off my dress and make love to me, gently, deeply. We slept in the bed together, and he did not go back out to the living room for more whiskey.

Perhaps he could heal.

Not more than two months after my day with Gurdaya, a letter arrived from Talwarpur Palace. But not from Tanveer.

March 30, 1926

Talwarpur Palace

[In Urdu]

Dear Elsie,