Night Boat To Cairo

Drifting helplessly in the flow, Osman was entirely unconcerned; this kind of thing had happened to him many times before, and had never led him to disaster, he knew that something would turn up. Maybe the fickle wind would rise again to fill his threadbare sail, maybe he would bump ashore on a convenient sandbank, or maybe a merciful providence would somehow provide him with a replacement oar. Anything could happen, all a man had to do was relax and wait. It should be said that relaxing and waiting were Osman’s areas of special expertise, he was able to slip into sleep with remarkable speed, and with hardly any effort.

The lapping of water on the hull, the furtive splashing of creatures in the distant shallows, the lowing of cattle in the fields, these were the customary background murmur to Osman’s universe, and they disturbed him not at all as he gently dozed. Night fell, and a chill descended on the dark river as the sky cleared and Sirius rose cold and brilliant in the south; Osman retrieved a blanket from the bottom of the boat, and wrapped it about his shoulders, all without returning to wakefulness. Sinister swirls that might have triggered a crocodile panic in others brought no reaction from Osman, who sank deeper and deeper into slumber.

Something turned up. A riverboat horn blasted through the thick fatty layers of sleep that enveloped Osman; he awoke with his heart pounding and the sharp taste of fear in his mouth. The Nile boatman does not fear the crocodile, he knows that the man-killer of the ancient waterway is the Nile riverboat pilot, who will rarely trouble to loose any speed or divert from his course to spare the life of a miserable wretch such as Osman. The riverboat, a steamer, was no more than two hundred yards away, and heading straight for him like an arrow aimed at his heart, Osman could see a small group of figures in the dimly-lit wheelhouse, he had no idea if they had seen him or not. For a few moments his attention was held by activity on the steamer’s foredeck, then he dropped to his knees in his small craft, extended an arm on either side, and began to paddle furiously with his hands. The steamer bore down on him, its antique oily pistons sliding to and fro in their polished cylinders to drive the paddlewheels on the boat’s flanks; at the end of each piston stroke there was a heart-rending gasp as steam vented into the air.  Osman could hear the paddles splashing into the water, could hear them lift again from the surface with a loud plopping sound, and he could hear his heart hammering as he desperately sought escape from the leviathan’s crushing path.

Even as death toyed with him, and the steamer loomed ever closer, Osman was distracted by the unusual sights on the low foredeck of the steamer. His hands worked with the blinding speed of a humming bird’s wings, and yet his necked craned round, to view a row of girls lined up on the varnished teak decking. If they had only been totally naked, the sight would have been less shocking; but the straps and shining buckles that adorned their forms mesmerised Osman, almost to the point that he forgot his battle for survival. He lost his view of them as the steamer’s bow loomed above him, and then the bow wave lifted his craft, and contemptuously flung it aside. With his boat at a crazy angle, Osman fought to keep his balance, and to renew his sight of the girls. The steamer rushed past, and then he could see the foredeck again; there were at least eight girls, Osman had but seconds to see that they were chained together by the neck, that straps passed over their shoulders, between their exposed breasts to buckles at waist level. One man was examining the girls; another two men seemed to be arguing violently.

He lost sight of the foredeck again as his boat was sucked against the side of the streamer; it rattled and banged along the side of the larger vessel at the level of a row of portholes, giving Osman a succession of freeze-frame images from brilliantly lit cabins. In the first cabin a woman dressed in a red hunting jacket and nothing else was knelt on a small table, Osman had a vague impression of a naked fat man in the background, but then the image was gone. In the next flash, a girl similar to those he had seen on the foredeck was standing before a tall blonde man, who was fitting some kind of headband to her; astonishingly, a flowing tail projected from between her buttocks. With the sound of splitting wood in his ears, Osman next saw a completely naked black girl, her face was towards the porthole, and she appeared to be laughing, but then Osman saw that her mouth was help partially open by what seemed to be a bit between her teeth.

That final image disappeared as Osman’s boat struck a paddle casing; his boat was spun around, and he found himself lying flat on his back. He managed to haul himself up to a crouch; ignoring the water that was rising up his shins, he looked at the steamer. A girl had seemingly broken away from the group on the foredeck, and was running along the side of the vessel, with the three men chasing her. A remnant of chain hung from her neck, and her full breasts swung from side to side as her feet scampered along the deck with the frantic rhythm of a bird’s heart, heavier feet beat a menacing tempo in close pursuit.

As Osman’s boat settled into the water, the runaway girl reached the back of the steamer, where her frightened face was clearly illuminated by the stern light. She climbed up onto the guardrail, but as she perched on the top rail, and steeled herself to jump into the swirling blackness beneath the stern, her eyes locked with Osman’s, and she hesitated. In that hesitation she was lost, strong brown arms seized her; Osman and the world lost sight of her forever. The steamer continued northwards, into the blind gaze of the Sphinx; its wake rocked Osman’s sinking boat violently, and he clung to it only briefly before allowing the cool kiss of the Nile to end his anguish.

In a man’s life, many things will overtake him. On one cold dawn or on one dark night, or perhaps in the warm fullness of a summer’s evening, he will lose his race with death, and will be overtaken for the last time. The bony face of the reaper could hold no terrors for Osman, not now that he had seen his own beloved daughter go past him on the night boat to Cairo.

END