Act I of an erotic tale in three acts having for scene ancient Egypt



"... Amon, Master of the thrones of the Double Country,
is satisfied with your eminent value of noble lady,
ô woman with great charm and largely praised,
mistress of pleasure, with great softness
and largely loved, which delights him...
whom who is linked to Horus, her beloved,
whom one says that all things are made for her... "
(Words said by Thot, lord of the divine words
to the noble lady, girl of Geb and heiress of Osiris,
whom presides to the Double Country, the royal mother Ahmose:)

- Abibi, abibi. You must have pronounced these words so many times during all that night, whereas I kissed your beautiful coppered body of beautiful Egyptian girl. I cherished you, I kissed you so many times during all that night that I did not cease hearing these words in my head:

- Abibi, abibi

The muezzin calls for the prayer, it is morning time. I do not cease to hear your brothers shout this other song of love:

- Allah akbar; but if God exists and that He is great, it is that you, you exist, that you are so beautiful and that you are in my bed.

The sun is not raised yet that already the rumours of the street awake me. I am in Louxor. She is in my bed, tiny Egyptian woman picked among the gigantic pylons of the Amen-Ra temple of Karnak, we coupled ourselves together, the whole night, embraced one into the other, but anguish came back in the morning, lonelyness also, there was no miracle, it was simply the love of our two naked bodies. Tomorrow, I will have crossed the Nile on a felouque and I will turn back in time.

I cannot prevent myself from thinking of Howard Carter and his discovery of the tomb of Tout-Ankh-Amon, when advancing so deeply in Biban el Moulouk, the valley of the kings, all as mysterious to my eyes as it could habe been at the time of Carter. While hundreds of tourists, further and securely, gatthered around the entry of the tomb of Tout-Ankh-Amon as for a pilgrimage, I have the impression of being alone and vulnerable, in front of the barrier of the cliff which overhangs, in a sinister way, over the majestic temple of the Queen Hatshepsout.

My passion for the Queen Hatshepsout does not goes back to today. I always had a weakness for this mysterious women, Queen in a kingdom of men, woman in a universe of maidservants, warlike woman although being a woman, virgin because She is Queen. I am here, and I have the impression that She is here also.

I survey the torned paving stones of the upper terrace of the Deir-el-Bahari temple; I look at the sceneries carved in the stone, god Amon, the reincarnation of the goddess Hator, the boats leaving the quays of Thebes and which carry, towards the country of Punt, the mutilated body of my Queen; my thoughts bangs into each other.

I attack with audacity, the cliff of the gebel, seeking the easiest passage towards what could be the entry of the tomb of Queen Hatchepsout. I am like a lover who seek to reconquer her lover too often raped, undoubtedly, by others, this door which carries out to so many treasures, this crowned vulva releasing so many temptations for these rapists, these thousand-year-old robbers who live at the bottom of the cliff, among the tombs of the Pharaons.

I exhausted myself since hours on these deep cracks, these false caves which cover the gebel, these unstable rocks which are likely to precipitate me at the bottom of the cliff; but it is the murmur of the mountain which calls me, a complaint, like that of a young girl whom one rapes and I hasten towards this dark cave which appears to me at the end of a narrow crack, I see arms which are agitated like those of rapists controlling their defenceless victim.

The shadows are agitated nervously while I advance blindly and that the half-light replace the raw light of the day, shadows passes close by me, those of dismayed or surprised rapists who escape from the abyss while I engulf myself into it.

The half-light gradually imprisons me whereas other shades precipitately close, with a heavy stone, the entry to the cave, leaving me alone with the night, the deep night. I am prisoner of the mountain, prisoner of the night, there, even, where rests, perhaps, the momified body of the Queen of my dreams.

But a light calls me, another light appeared from the abyss of the cave towards where I advance painfully, passing close by the rough walls, stumbling on the stones, bruising all my flesh while painfully approaching to this torch left there by the plunderers of tombs disturbed in their hunting for the treasure, a lamp which projects a yellowish light on the sinister walls of the cave.

Marco Polo ou le voyage imaginaire (Contes et légendes érotiques, novembre 2002) © 2002 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
(hommage à la reine Hatshepsout d'après Hajime)

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