by N E. David
They’d met only the day before and yet in that short space of time she’d all at once succeeded in frustrating, infuriating and intriguing him. At first he’d deferred to her looks, although he’d convinced himself it was with the intention of being polite. Then, at the tombs, her behaviour had interested him and he’d taken delight in observing her. But when they’d returned to the ship he’d found her trick of dramatically appearing at the dinner something of a cheap charade.
From that moment on she’d dominated his thoughts and now he was gripped by the last view he’d had of her, standing on the sun-deck, more beautiful than ever, her silver evening dress rippling in the moonlight. He was immediately plagued by a terrible and frightening thought. Was it possible that he’d fallen in love with her? Was that what this obsession was about? He sincerely hoped not – love was an inconvenient if not impossible emotion, and in this instance could only lead to disappointment – but somehow the conclusion was hard to resist. Perhaps, after all these years…He shuddered and tried to push the idea away but despite his best efforts, he could not deny that there remained some form of longing.
He attempted to clear his mind and sought to convince himself that any feelings he might have were purely for her situation rather than for Lee Yong herself. To him she represented what he was not – young, passionate and forward-looking. All he could count on was the cynicism of age and his memories, or more to the point, the lack of them. Whatever other emotions she might have aroused in him, he’d never felt more remorseful than he had the night before, watching her at the ship’s rail. He’d envied her then and he envied her now, waking up this morning with the whole of her life in front of her. All he had to dream of was the past – such as it was.
A lump the size of a blackbird’s egg was forming in his throat. He sensed the onset of a debilitating melancholic mood and before it could start to devour him, he determined to set his mind in another direction. His intention had been to finish his bird list – and for his own sake he decided he must do so now. He took a firm grip on his pen and forced himself to write.
Spur-winged Plover…
But he’d hardly set the words down on paper when he suffered his first interruption of the day.
“Morning, Michael.”
“Morning…”
David had also decided on an early breakfast. He pulled out a chair and sat himself down opposite, then poured out a glass of orange juice.
“I’m surprised you’re not up on deck.”
“Things to do,” muttered Blake. “Trying to catch up…”
“Well, you missed a wonderful sunrise. Here, have a look at this.”
David offered up his mobile phone and showed Blake the photograph he’d taken on it. It depicted a huge red disk looming over a row of palm trees and across its centre, a line of birds in flight.
“Any idea what they are by the way?”
Blake inspected them closely.
“Hmm…From the shape of their bills, I’d say they were Glossy Ibis.”
Regrettably, it was a species he’d not yet seen on the trip. For all that he’d achieved by sitting around and indulging in a bout of introspection, now he wished he’d gone up on deck.
The dining room was beginning to fill. The voice from the kitchen had already ceased its carefree song, drowned out by the tide of chatter that had started to flood amongst the tables. One by one, the remnants of their party drifted in and took their seats – Janet and Keith, Joan, Mrs Biltmore and Ira. But there was one predictable and notable exception as Lee Yong was once again conspicuous by her absence.
Blake began to wonder as to why she missed her meals. His mind automatically went back to the vision he’d kept of her from the night before. The last he’d seen of her, she’d been deep in conversation with the young Egyptian. A second, and more dreadful, idea now occurred to him. Perhaps, after he’d gone, the two of them had linked arms and wandered off to her cabin and rather than face the others over breakfast she had chosen to stay in bed, lying in the arms of a newly found lover.
The image tormented him and he found himself burning with a shameful glow of embarrassment. Why did he insist on thinking about these things? It could only cause damage and he cursed himself for being so weak-willed as to consider it. Two people had spoken to each other – so what? It didn’t have to mean anything, it happened all the time for goodness sake.
He determined to dismiss it as fanciful imagination and he told himself he should return to his bird list. But with the river of noise in the dining room now in full spate he was unable to concentrate, and despite his earlier assertion that he would sit there and finish it no matter what happened, his record remained incomplete. He ate his breakfast in a sombre mood and went directly back to his cabin.
At 10am the passengers reassembled in the Forward Lounge for the introductory tour meeting. The room had been transformed overnight, any evidence of the cocktail reception had been cleared away and the tables were freshly laid out with cups and saucers and complimentary pots of coffee. On each side, the sets of heavy red curtains had been pulled back and in order to disperse any fug which might have accumulated, the windows had been flung wide open. Outside, the Nile was now visible in all its glory and on either shore banks of lush vegetation slid steadily by. Looking at them now, it seemed to Blake that if anything the ship had increased its speed, a fact he had noted through the porthole at breakfast.
The meeting was opened by the captain, a slim young man of unctuous appearance, who introduced himself as Mr Mohammed. He affected an oily charm, giving his passengers an effusive welcome and assuring them of the best attention of both himself and his crew at all times. He hoped everything was to their satisfaction but if there were any problems, be they ever so trivial, they were to inform him at once and he would attend to it, day or night. If their shower didn’t work, he would send a plumber. If the food was not to their liking, he would speak to the cook. If a light bulb was broken, he would find an electrician. In short, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure their enjoyment – his mere existence depended on it.
But with his very next breath he was forced to make an apology. He regretted that it had taken so long for them to get everyone together, but with the visit to the Valley of the Kings and the pressing requirements of the gala dinner, this was the first opportunity that had presented itself. But as they could see (he gestured toward the recently opened windows) they were making good progress and he hoped to have them in Aswan by the following morning. Given the vagaries of the country and its people, Blake thought it an overconfident boast.
When the captain had finished his talk the passengers split up into their various groups for details. Blake and his companions gathered in a convenient corner and waited as Keith, ever the one to take the lead, began pouring coffee and handing out biscuits. A management team had supported Mr Mohammed and of the trio of tour guides, it was the young Egyptian who came across to supervise their particular party. With recent events fresh in his mind, Blake determined to pay particular attention.
Looking at him now, he still found it hard to believe how un-Egyptian the young man appeared. His smooth rounded features, his boyish looks, his slightly bulky figure – he might have been Far Eastern himself. Perhaps this was why Lee Yong found him companionable. His manner of speech was gentle too, lacking the harsh consonants of the typical Arab. And yet he was as Egyptian as any – the incident at the quayside and his attendance at the late-night bonfire had proved that.
He began by telling them he was called Reda – a traditional Egyptian name. He was to be their leader, their guide and their mentor for the week that they would be together. And just like Mr Mohammed before him, his sole objective was their enjoyment and the fulfilment of their desires, and any problems they encountered were to be referred to him for resolution. (This gave rise to some confusion as to whom they should speak to in the event of any trouble, but the general feeling was that double cover was better than none).
He aske
d how they were finding the ship. Were their cabins satisfactory? Was there anything they required? He needed to make them aware that there were certain changes to the itinerary and asked if they’d brought along their copies of the schedule as requested. He and his fellow guides had conferred as to the best arrangements in terms of the timing of visits so as to avoid the crowds and he laid their revised suggestions before them. As to the occurrence of what he termed ‘hassle’ he assured them that the further south they went, the less of a problem this would become and they were not to assume that the practices of Cairo (or even Luxor) would be repeated in Aswan.
As to contact, he gave each of them a business card which contained his name and a mobile phone number where they could reach him at any time. He finished by hoping they would find the trip both pleasurable and educational and looked forward to showing them the delights of his country. If there were any questions, he would be pleased to deal with them and for that purpose he proposed to remain in the lounge until mid-afternoon.
It was a polished and professional performance. Allied to the speech he’d given at Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple, it showed that the Egyptian both knew his material and how to present it.
Blake felt a surge of resentment. Here were gifts that were denied him but that were readily given to others. His knowledge was probably as great as the tour guide’s but when it came to projecting it, he was a novice. And if he’d hoped to see his assumed rival falter, stumble over some phrase or fact in an ill-judged attempt to impress, he was disappointed as it contained no such imperfections and remained solid throughout. In the end, he was forced to grant the young man a grudging respect.
Meanwhile, there was still no sign of Miss Malaysia.
The talk around the lunch table was all about the enforced alterations to the itinerary. Up until then the balance of opinion had been weighted heavily against the management and their changes. No-one wanted to be forced into doing something they didn’t like – it was a matter of principle. Keith pressed the point.
“But if I understand it correctly, we don’t have to go on any of these excursions if we don’t want to, do we?”
“No,” said Joan. “But what else are we supposed to do? If you think I’m going to sit round on the ship all day doing nothing…”
On further examination the revised plan meant that rather than visit temples en route in the heat of the afternoon, they would push on to Aswan that night. This would give them another day ‘at leisure’ when they would be free to explore the city or take up one of the extra trips on offer. A further day in Aswan was universally welcomed – but there was disagreement about what to do with it, and as a consequence they all decided to go their separate ways. Mrs Biltmore elected to stay on the boat (her feet were blistered after the exhausting tramp to the tombs) while Joan persuaded David to take her shopping, an excursion without which it seemed no holiday of hers could possibly be complete.
Blake did not find either of these alternatives appealing. For him it was a straight choice between an outing to a Nubian Village or a boat trip round the islands. The first offered a look at local arts and crafts, but when he discovered the second was actually a nature tour taking in the indigenous flora and fauna, he decided he was definitely going – it meant there was birding on the agenda. So as soon as lunch was over and he had been back to his cabin to collect his wallet, he returned to the Forward Lounge to get signed up.
Chapter Nine
The atmosphere in the Forward Lounge had altered significantly since the meeting that morning. The room was effectively deserted and although the windows had been left open for air, the curtains had been redrawn to ward off the heat of the afternoon sun. It was dark inside and here and there a few of the table lamps had been turned on to provide a dim and eerie light. The general impression was that of a nightclub the morning after the night before.
Reda was in attendance as promised. He’d removed his jacket and tie, loosened his collar and was now sitting in one of the booths along the far wall. On the table in front of him lay a plate containing the remains of a hastily eaten lunch while next to it a cigarette smouldered in a glass ashtray. Smoking was a habit Blake deplored, but one to which Egypt was unfortunately addicted. After his striking performance that morning, he instinctively marked the young man down.
He was hunched over the illuminated screen of an open laptop and as Blake approached, he quickly shut the lid. In the half-light of an adjacent lamp, Blake caught a glimpse of a web page with pictures and a bold headline. He was left with the impression that Reda had been doing something he should not, or at least something he wanted to keep private. ‘Inappropriate use of the internet’ sprang to mind, but with his boyish looks and rotund frame, it was hard to imagine him as the type. Even so, he appeared embarrassed at being caught unawares, stubbing out his cigarette and standing to greet his visitor.
“Hello? Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I was thinking about going on one of the tours tomorrow.”
“Aha! May I recommend the Nubian Village?” advised Reda. “It’s a fascinating place.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. The Nubian Village is a living museum. You will see much of the culture of the region there. And Nubia forms an important part of the development of Upper Egypt. In fact, some of our greatest Pharaohs were Nubian. In particular, during the 12th dynasty…”
Blake cut him short. He’d heard enough history lessons the day before and was in no mood for another.
“Actually, I’m more interested in the boat trip. My understanding was that it’s primarily a nature tour.”
“And indeed it is – but the Nubian Village has other, interesting features…” Then, seeing that Blake was not to be persuaded, he assumed a resigned look and motioned to an adjacent chair. “Please take a seat.”
Blake made himself comfortable while Reda sat back down and shuffled his papers.
“And you are?”
“Blake. Michael Blake. Room 23.”
Reda stopped shuffling and glanced up. His expression of disappointment had changed and now there was an interested glint in his eye.
“Ah yes – the gentleman who looks at birds. Aren’t you what they call a ‘twitcher’?”
“No, actually, I’m not.”
Blake’s response was rather snappy. ‘Twitcher’ was a description he abhorred – he thought it placed him in the same nerdy category as ‘train-spotter’. He would have preferred to have called himself an amateur ornithologist but that sounded overly pretentious. All the same, he left Reda in no doubt that he’d touched a raw nerve.
“I’m a bird-watcher – there’s a big difference.”
“Sorry, I meant no offence.”
“None taken.”
Although it was a sure way of getting off on the wrong foot.
Where had that information come from? Someone must have told him, it wasn’t on his file. Surely that wasn’t what he and Lee Yong had been discussing? Didn’t they have better things to do?
“You will enjoy this trip very much I think,” resumed Reda. “There will be many birds – many, many birds.”
The statement aroused Blake’s curiosity – it seemed out of context.
“You’re coming on it?” he asked.
“Oh, no no no!” Reda’s hands waved back and forth in enthusiastic denial. “No, Mr Blake, you misunderstand me. I know nothing of such things. My interest and expertise lies purely in the history – I leave matters such as wildlife to others. There will be a guide, a very good guide, and he will look after you. But no, I am afraid I will not be joining you.”
“Ah…”
The young Egyptian began preparing the necessary paperwork and rather than let the conversation lapse into silence, made a typically polite enquiry.
“You are English?”
“Yes, but I’ve lived in Cairo for many years.”
This qualification was not strictly necessary, but Blake felt he wanted to differentiate himself from the ‘
others’. And it was not just in Reda’s eyes that he desired to make the distinction – his purpose was universal. He was not – and never would be –‘English’ in the conventional sense of the word. He’d been away too long for that.
“Really? Whereabouts?”
“Dokki.”
It was a suburb on the west bank of the city, known primarily for its plush villas and private hospitals. It was also a place of mixed social class. Reda would probably assume he lived in the fashionable area near the sporting club, whereas in fact he’d chosen an apartment in the poorer market quarter to the southwest. It had felt more in keeping with his desire to be thought ‘Egyptian’. The explanation as to why would involve more than he was presently prepared to give so he elected to turn the question around.
“And you? Where do you come from, Reda?”
“I too am from Cairo – the Old Town. My mother still lives there. She has a small flat just off the Sharia Salah Salem. You know it?”
“Yes, I do.” Blake nodded. In fact, he knew it well – he’d once had a place there himself.
“Then you will know how crowded and hectic and dirty it is, Mr Blake. And in the summer, the heat is almost intolerable. I have tried to persuade her to move on more than one occasion, but she insists on staying there.”
“A true Cairene then…”
“Precisely.”
“As stubborn as the mule that passes by her window…”
It was an old Arabic saying. In one form or another, it was one Blake had heard many times and in many places. He risked the wrong interpretation, but it was intended to show empathy rather than give offence. He waited for a reaction.
Reda’s eyes narrowed as he considered the line. For a moment it looked as if it had gone awry, but then he gave a smile of appreciation.
