by N E. David
“No, Ira, I didn’t lose it. I left it at the hotel. I know I did, so don’t you go saying different. It was on the clerk’s desk before we set off and I must have walked out without it. So we went back…”
“Took a taxi. Cost me darned near twenty dollars.”
“…we went back and they said they didn’t have it. I said, ‘You must have it because I left it right here on the desk’ but they said no they didn’t. Well I knew from the look on their faces they weren’t telling the truth. And do you know what? Two days later it turned up in a downstairs trashcan, empty, not a thing left in it. They’d taken the lot.”
“Yup,” said Ira. “Clean as a whistle.”
“Well, we went straight to the American Embassy. The guy we spoke to was awful nice but he said he couldn’t do a thing about it.”
“Nope. Not a darned thing. Said anybody could have taken it.”
“But it wasn’t anybody, Ira. It was them, I know it.”
“Darned near spoiled our holiday.”
Ira’s final comment seemed to encapsulate the point of the tale so well that his wife was content to let him have the last word and she sat looking smugly round at the others as if to say There! What do you think of that?
Blake’s heart sank. He was concerned that the conversation would develop into a competition to see who could tell the best ‘I was hard done by a foreigner’ story. It was not a happy prospect. All eyes now turned to the couple next to him as though they were expected to respond – but this was a game they had no intention of playing and they thankfully held their tongues. An embarrassed silence fell over the table.
Finally the man on Blake’s right, a gentleman in his late sixties with a craggy face, succumbed to the pressure.
“Well, as we’re obviously going to be spending some time together, I suppose we ought to introduce ourselves. I’m Keith and this is my wife Janet.” Janet dutifully nodded. “We’re from Coventry.”
They went round the table in turn. Mr and Mrs White were David and Joan from West Berkshire while the large American lady referred to herself simply as Mrs Biltmore.
“You’ve already met Ira.”
They certainly had.
“We come from Baltimore,” she explained. “We’re the Biltmores from Baltimore! Ain’t that a hoot? It sure makes it easy to remember – you won’t forget us in a hurry!”
Blake had an inkling they would not be allowed to – although her joke was successful in that it provoked some welcome laughter.
He was the last to speak, and when his turn came he sensed the others looking at him with a degree of anticipation and he became self-conscious. He was not used to, and nor did he want, such attention and his inclination was to keep things short and simple.
“It’s Blake, Michael Blake. I’m from Cairo.”
With Mrs White’s eyes fixed firmly on him, he would have given anything to add And I’m also an Egyptian. But he could not and the opportunity to counter her prejudice was lost.
“Cairo?” said Keith, raising a wispy eyebrow. “You’ll know your way around then. You’re British though, I take it?”
Blake nodded – there was no point in denying it.
“Will your wife be joining us?” Keith probed gently, glancing at the eighth and empty seat.
“I’m not married.”
Blake’s reply was short and to the point. He knew full well it did not answer the intended question, and given what had gone before it gave him some pleasure to see them confused. Why should he bother to enlighten them?
As to the other member of their party, he had no idea and neither, it seemed, did anyone else. Someone would eventually arrive, that was certain – a place had been laid, a napkin provided and there was a room card with a number on it such as they all had. But who it belonged to and when they might appear remained a mystery.
“In that case,” said Keith. “I think we should all go and get something to eat.”
He rose, and led the way across the dining room.
Once they’d queued, their selections provided them with an ideal topic for discussion. Keith, who’d already appointed himself as the elder statesman of the group, started them off.
“I’ve really been looking forward to the food on this trip. I’ve never eaten Middle Eastern cuisine and I quite fancy trying it.”
“You’ll need to watch out for the sheep’s eyes,” joked David.
“Sheep’s eyes!” exclaimed Mrs Biltmore. “Oh my, I don’t think I could cope with sheep’s eyes.”
“Just kidding,” said David.
“Well I sure hope you are,” said Mrs Biltmore, her hand at her throat. “Why, I feel quite ill just at the mention of sheep’s eyes. I don’t see how anyone could eat such a thing. We don’t do that back home, do we, Ira?”
“Nope,” said Ira, tucking into a second helping of fruit cocktail. “We sure don’t.”
Although whether he meant this for better or for worse wasn’t clear and much to everyone’s relief the subject of what they did eat at home, like anything else that resembled sheep’s eyes, was left untouched.
But the ice had been broken and the conversation, which had previously been no more than a trickle, soon became a flood.
Later on, over coffee, a discussion arose as to practicalities.
“What are we doing tomorrow?” asked David. “Is there a plan?”
“Haven’t you looked at the noticeboard?” said Keith.
“No, what noticeboard? I didn’t see one.”
“The one in the foyer. We’re going to the Valley of the Kings. It’s a six o’clock start apparently.”
“You’re joking!”
“That means I’ll have to be up at five,” interjected Joan. “I can’t possibly go anywhere without washing my hair.”
“Good God!” said David. “And I thought this was supposed to be a holiday…”
Blake inwardly smiled. For all their faults and prejudices, these were refreshingly ordinary people. Before long they would be showing each other photographs of their children and sharing family intimacies.
He knew them well. White, middle-class and British, their relatives staffed the Embassy and filled the ex-pats clubs. The Biltmores were of the same stock – they were only the Brits whose ancestors had escaped to the other side of the Atlantic. They could all sound crass and terribly bigoted, but when put to the test as a body they were ultimately reliable – even if they were a little dull. At one time the British had ruled the world. Twice in the previous century they’d saved it – and afterwards they’d immediately gone back home to tend their gardens. They had no interest in foreign affairs – and unless it impinged directly on them, the machinations of Middle Eastern politics and the struggle between the Israelis and the Arabs meant nothing to them. History, for the most part, left them cold. Predictable and solid, they would certainly not surprise him. Sometimes, he felt that all he had in common with his countrymen was a language…
He managed to suppress his smile, but could not stifle a yawn.
“You’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. It’s been a long day and I’m rather tired.” He pulled back his chair and got up from the table. “I’ll bid you goodnight and see you all in the morning.”
He received a perfunctory farewell. His presence would not be missed, and for all that he had contributed to the evening, they could carry on easily without him.
The truth was, he wanted a breath of fresh air before turning in. He returned to his cabin to find a pullover and pick up his binoculars. His infallible rule was that if he left them behind, there was bound to be something he’d want to look at – a silhouette perched on the ship’s rail, or the outline of an owl in a distant tree. Experience had taught him to go prepared.
He climbed up to the open top deck and made his way between the tables and the sun-loungers toward the stern. It was a bright, starry night and although there was still some warmth in the air, the temperature would soon drop sharply and it would turn cold. Beneath him, the Ni
le glistened in the moonlight, its regular flow inducing an enduring sense of calm. All was at peace, and for a moment he could stop and listen to the sounds of the night.
From the mud-walled houses on the far bank came the anguished cry of a young child. Somewhere in a nearby village, a dog began barking in response, echoing across the water. He turned to look for it and became aware of an orange glow emanating from an adjacent field to his right. Someone had lit a fire. A group of men had gathered round it and, raising his binoculars, he saw amongst them the porters from the quayside, sitting cross-legged, warming their hands and passing their cigarettes one to another. Other, younger men had joined them and were engaged in earnest conversation. One of the faces looked familiar and he instantly recognised the young Egyptian from earlier in the evening. He’d exchanged the suit and tie of management for a galabeya and was now indistinguishable from his compatriots, talking and smoking with the others. It seemed quite a heated debate.
Blake’s face broke into a knowing grin. For all the trivia at the dinner table it had been an interesting evening. Yes, you could count on the British not to surprise you – but you could always rely on the Egyptians to do exactly the opposite. And if he knew anything about them they would be there late into the night, arguing and talking politics. He laughed to himself, folded his binoculars away and went off to bed.
Earlier, he’d felt excluded, as if he were a visitor to a club of which he was not a member. The need for small talk had bored him, but now the life of the land he loved had reclaimed him. Who needed to travel the world, he thought, when you could live in Egypt and see it all?
Chapter Six
By 7am the following morning, Blake’s feeling of smug self-satisfaction had turned to one of distinct frustration. He was an hour into the second day of his much-awaited trip and as he would have put it, he was not yet ‘in amongst the birds’. As Keith had predicted, they’d set off at six and when the bus made a brief stop at the Colossi of Memnon, he’d admittedly discovered a pair of Spur-winged Plover in the cultivated fields (possibly three, there may have been another hidden in the vegetation). There had been Palm Doves too, perched on the telegraph wires and softly cooing, and probably Barn Swallows, glimpsed from the bus as it wound its way through the villages. But where in Egypt could you not find Palm Doves and Barn Swallows? So now, here he was, standing amongst the crowd on the vast concourse in front of the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut, his teeth chattering in the nithering wind.
He zipped his fleece up a little further and let out a yawn. Considering he was as yet unused to the bed, he’d slept well but it had indeed been an early start. Coffee and rolls had been taken in the dining room at half past five. The thought of conversation at that hour had been too daunting to contemplate and thankfully, the meal had been conducted in silence. The fact that the eighth place at the table was still unoccupied had consequently passed without comment.
An early morning breeze was wafting up from the Nile. It was cold, unexpectedly so for Egypt, and even Blake had underestimated the conditions. The rest of the party certainly had and for the last five minutes he had been listening to Joan bemoaning the fact, continually rubbing her bare upper arms until at last she had snatched the coat David had thought to bring for himself and flung it around her own shoulders. Mrs Biltmore on the other hand, who with the addition of a floppy white sun-hat was dressed in exactly the same unbecoming outfit as she had worn at dinner the previous evening, seemed utterly impervious to the weather, her inner body presumably insulated by her outer layers of flesh. Standing next to her and looking emaciated by comparison, Ira’s coat remained buttoned up to his chin.
They were supposed to be listening to the tour guide who, in his obvious enthusiasm for his subject, seemed equally as oblivious to the conditions as the American.
“…one of which also boasted myrrh trees which Hatshepsut personally acquired from the Land of Punt in a famous expedition that is depicted along one of the facing walls…”
Blake’s attention drifted. The history of the region, both ancient and modern, was well known to him. The only point of interest lay in the fact that the tour guide was the self-same Egyptian from the night before. The young man whom he’d last seen in a peasant’s smock next to a late night fire had now reverted to his more conventional dress. As he’d already had chance to observe, these people played many parts – and in a country where you did what you had to in order to survive, the boy was no exception.
On another occasion Blake might have dwelt on this but for the moment his thoughts were elsewhere. He was convinced that the rocky, arid landscape in which he found himself was inhabited by at least one species of bird, and to pass the time before they moved on he’d set himself the task of finding it. He was hoping for wheatear (preferably one of the pied variety, Mourning or Hooded, either of whose distinct black and white markings would make it easy to spot) and he’d just completed his second visual scan of the surrounding ground when he became attracted by a movement to his right. Yes! Here was a bird surely – although it did not have the black and white plumage he was expecting. Something more plain and grey-buff was strutting about amongst the stones. Probably a lark then – but was it Desert or Bar-tailed? He needed a closer view to decide and raised his binoculars to look.
He was inwardly debating the finer points of bill size and plumage when he became aware that he himself was being watched. Somewhere to his rear, a pair of eyes was focused intently on him and, like a carpenter’s auger, he could feel them boring a hole in his back. They carried an angry message. What are you doing? Why are you wasting your time fiddling around with birds when you should be listening to the history of mankind? A feeling of acute embarrassment came over him, and gently lowering his glasses he turned his head slowly toward what he perceived was the source of the scrutiny.
Some three or four yards behind him stood a young woman (he was tempted to say ‘girl’, she was so slight) of South East Asian appearance. Her eyes and face were of a deep brown colour, and to judge from her Western style of dress, he would have said Philippino or possibly Malay. She had on jeans and a pair of Cuban heels, which she presumably wore to make herself look taller as she was barely above five feet in height. She’d wrapped herself in a heavy three-quarter length jacket, the collar of which was turned up against the wind while her neat black hair blew about in the breeze. A pair of large round silver earrings dangled down each side of her neck. She was undoubtedly pretty, if not beautiful, although at the moment her face was contorted into a disapproving stare.
Blake smiled weakly back by way of apology. He slowly let go of his binoculars and told himself to face forward toward the tour guide and pay more respect. There was something unnerving about the girl’s presence he did not quite yet understand. She possessed an intensely serious appearance, a feature made all the more daunting by her obvious good looks, and this outward force of character made him feel as though he were an errant schoolboy and she a teacher scolding him, as if he’d been caught shirking his lessons.
Keeping his head as still as he could, he risked a glance at the stony patch to his right where the lark had been just a few moments earlier – but the place was now empty. The bird had literally flown and any chance of confirming its identity had gone with it. He frowned ruefully to himself. Hopefully there would be other occasions when he might not be put off so easily. His attention returned to the young Egyptian who had fortunately reached the end of his speech.
“And now, if you would like to follow me, we will make our way up to the Middle Terrace…”
Cursing his luck, and the young woman who had so distracted him, Blake fell into line. Soon, he thought, they would be able to get back on the bus and out of the chilling wind.
Much to his disappointment, the ruins of Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple were entirely devoid of birds and after what seemed like an eternity, the bus moved further up to the Valley of the Kings.
Their tickets had been booked in advance and included entry to three
of the tombs. The question was whether to stick with the programme or to pay extra and visit the sepulchre of Tutankhamun – but it was expensive and the tomb was allegedly empty. Keith didn’t think it was worth it, but Joan took a different view.
“I didn’t get up at five o’clock this morning and slog all the way up here just to be told I can’t see it.” She’d already given David his coat back and was standing in what was now warm sunshine, soaking up the heat like a reptile. “Frankly,” she continued, glancing round at the arid surroundings, “it’s probably the only thing up here worth looking at.”
Mrs Biltmore, who had said relatively little all morning and was allegedly suffering in the heat, professed herself happy to go with the crowd. “Whatever you people decide, why that’ll be just fine by me.”
She stood in the shade of the bus, fanning herself with her floppy white hat. As for Ira, no-one thought to ask. And with Keith remaining adamant that he would prefer to walk to the head of the valley rather than waste his money, they split into two groups, David and Joan heading off toward the ticket office while the rest set off up the main path and into the interior.
It was, as Joan had suggested, a desolate and unforgiving landscape that confronted them. Above ground there was nothing but stones and shale and without a tree or any form of vegetation in sight, the only shade was afforded by the occasional tin-roofed shelter erected at the side of the path. Here and there were the entrances to tombs, pin-pricks in the rocky hillside, those that were open signed and lit with tunnels deep into the earth, those that were not, dark and barred off by iron grilles. It was a formidable place. If the intention of the ancient Kings of Egypt had been to hide themselves away in the middle of nowhere, then they had certainly chosen wisely. As to what birdlife it supported, Blake was doubtful.
By this time it was mid-morning and a fierce heat had begun to beat down on them. The coats they had relied on earlier were discarded and replaced by sun-cream and headgear. Blake donned a favourite Panama (it was rather battered after years of constant use) and to protect the back of his neck, he tied off a linen scarf he’d brought for the purpose. Janet and Keith put on bush hats while Mrs Biltmore jammed her white affair back on her head and was busy lathering her flabby arms with a protective gel. Her legs were already covered by a voluminous denim skirt that reached down to her ankles, from beneath which protruded a well-worn pair of trainers. Their scuffed and shabby exterior did nothing to enhance her appearance. They grouped together at the start of the path and set off with Keith in the lead.
