I am a sceptic where words are concerned. I have learned to mistrust them for often they lead us astray or tell us apparently simple things that disguise or deny darker, less appealing paradoxes and truths. There is a slipperiness, an unreliability, in words. But there is also something in their power that sometimes has its own inevitable beauty. And is it not true that part of the story of words is that they metamorphose into other things-into stories we tell about the world or ourselves or each other, or into dreams we half recall, or into the silence beyond words? I had to hear her story. After all, I was a part of it now.
‘Tell me what you need me to do,’ I said. ‘And please tell me why.’
She sat down again, opposite me. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Am I in it?’
‘You are.’
29
‘I have to go back to the beginning,’ Nefertiti said. ‘Most stories start with birth, and childhood, don’t they? I was born in such and such a place, and at this time and this season; these were the propitious or the unlucky stars that witnessed the moment of my birth and held the secret of my destiny. But such things are far away now, so far I do not know them. I was lucky, I suppose, to be raised in a family that possessed power and influence and wealth and pride. So much abundance! We forgot the fragility of all fortune.’
I listened. She was seeking the thread of her tale.
‘Apart from fragments which might as well be dreams-running through a green garden between the sunlight and the shadow; the sounds of the Great River on a boat in the evening; travelling home one night in a carrying chair, my head on my mother’s lap as I gazed up at the stars-my first real memory is of being taken by my father during the Opet Festival to walk the new processional colonnade at Luxor. I held his hand for I was frightened by the avenue of sphinxes: they seemed like monsters with sunny faces. I couldn’t understand why there were so many of them! As we walked my father told me fables: of Thutmosis, who answered a dream and removed the encroaching desert sands from the Great Sphinx in return for the throne of the Great Estate; and of the dashing Amenhotep, who loved horses above all things, who distributed and displayed the corpses of his conquered enemies on the walls of the city, and who was buried with his favourite longbow; and of his grandson, Amenhotep our King, the Handsome, now grieving the sudden death of his first son. I remember he told me the dead prince was buried with his favourite cat, whom he called Puss. Puss went with him into the Otherworld. I liked the thought of Puss sitting in the prow of the Great Barque of the Sun, his green eyes looking upon the mysteries of the Otherworld, and on the green face of Osiris himself.
‘When I asked my father, as children do who are delighted by stories of men and women of greatness and power, what happened next, he said, “You will see.” And one day, I did. One day my father called for me and said, “I want you to be very brave. Will you do that for me?” His face was always so serious. I looked at him and said, “Can I grow my hair now?” And he smiled, and said, “Now would be a good time.” I clapped my hands. I thought: now I am about to become a woman! So he sent me to the women of the family, and I was initiated into their secrets: their bowls and spoons and combs, their little laughs and lies and gossip. But I also remember my mother looking at me, as if from further away, something unspoken passing between us. As if she wanted to tell me something but could not find the way to say it.’
She poured the cat from her lap, rose, and walked a little way along the room, remembering and pacing, the two things working together.
‘The next morning, the women returned together, with many robes and jewellery. They were silent. Something was happening. They dressed me in layers of gold and white clothing. I was wrapped up like a gift. A High Priest came with my father, the women left the room, and he gave me instructions. What to say, what not to say, when to speak and when to remain silent. I looked at my father, who said, “This is a great day for you, and for all our family. I am very proud.” Then he picked me up, my mother kissed me goodbye, and he carried me out of my home.
‘I remember the sun and the noise along the crowded ways. All the litters and chairs had been cleared so there was just me and my father on the avenue, riding in a chariot. I could hear the birds singing in the air above the noise of the crowds, who all seemed to be paying their respects to me. To me! I held my father’s hand tightly. We were driven to the palace. But the further we left my home behind, the more I began to feel like a piece of furniture on a cart and less like a princess in a fable.
‘We arrived at the palace and I was carried through court after court, chamber after chamber, all crowded with dignitaries and officials who bowed as we passed. My world retreated and disappeared behind me. I remember I was set down beside a curtain. My father said to me, “Here you stand on the threshold of a great future. I am passing you forward, now, to your new life.” I think I tried to wrap my arms around his neck, to cling on to him, but he prised my fingers gently away, held my hands and said, “Remember your promise. Be brave. And never forget I love you.” I believe there were tears on his face. I had never seen my father weep.’
Nefertiti stopped speaking for a moment. The memory seemed to overwhelm her.
‘I would have cried out then, but I saw something strange: passing along the corridor, as over-burdened with clothing as I was, the slight figure of a young man. He raised his head and looked at me. His eyes were thoughtful. What happened in that moment? Understanding, recognition, complicity? I knew we knew each other and that our lives were entwined in some profound way. Then a ribbon was tied over my eyes, and the world vanished.
‘The noise in the chamber on the far side of the curtain suddenly hushed. I heard a chime and chant of words, the rattle of sistra, an announcement, then my father’s hands gently pushing me forward through the curtains and into the chamber. I looked beneath the ribbon at the ground and saw lotus flowers and fish, and I walked across this painted water. Hands received me at the end of this long walk, and they turned me around. My head was raised, the ribbon untied, and I saw a blur of people, hundreds of them all staring at me, their eyes moving over every detail of my being. I was so heavily clothed I could not have raised my own hand to my eyes, yet I felt naked, stripped down to my last skin. I dared to look quickly to my side. The boy’s face, a long, serious face, glanced quickly at me, a partner in all this strangeness. I felt a small gladdening in my heart, which was tight with fear. Some of my spirit returned to me.’
She stopped her pacing. Her sad smile was charged with all the loss and strangeness which that girl, alive now inside this woman as she spoke, had suffered. I wanted to make it all right. I wanted to console her.
‘Don’t feel sorry for me,’ she said suddenly. ‘I don’t require your pity or your sorrow.’
She continued to pace again, as if each careful step returned her to the story.
‘I remember little else. I suppose the ceremony was concluded satisfactorily; I suppose the audience dispersed to their dinners and their gossip and their criticisms. I followed my new husband down a different hallway, not the one through which I had been brought in but into a different part of the palace. I remember looking at him a few steps ahead of me, hobbling on his crutch. I liked it-the way he had turned the difficulty and effort into a kind of grace. I imagined I could see him smiling, secretly, for my benefit. I remember I thought of him, kindly, as weak; as the one sheep the hunting lion would pick out from the flock and kill. So you see, I was the more deceived.’