by N E. David
Suddenly he panicked and felt overwhelmed with an irrational desire to know – but rather than go back to reception he decided to walk the ship to look for him. He took a twenty-minute tour, checking out the sun-deck, the Forward Lounge and all the public areas. But despite exploring every nook and cranny, all he could find was a recumbent Mrs Biltmore, sprawled out on a sun-lounger, the paperback she’d evidently been reading now covering her face as she snoozed. Nearby, Ira paced the deck like a restless teenage boy.
But there was no sign of Reda, and when he’d exhausted all the possibilities Blake began to feel foolish and ashamed. What did he think he was doing?
Rather than hang about waiting, he decided to take an early lunch and afterwards sloped back to his cabin and resorted to compiling his notebook before lying down on the bed for an hour’s rest. After the excitement of that morning’s adventures, there seemed little point in exerting himself. But unlike the previous two days, when he’d fallen asleep and had missed important occasions, he was determined to stay awake and deliberately lay listening to the sounds of the ship. Somewhere towards the stern, probably in the engine room, a metallic clanging reverberated repeatedly, and through what must have been an open porthole he could hear the shouts and laughter of the kitchen staff preparing dinner. The same voice that had filled the dining room before breakfast was easily recognisable – someone, at least, was happy in their work. He vaguely recalled the tune – was it a traditional Egyptian song? Or some Western dirge delivered in a Middle Eastern style? It was hard to tell but whichever it was, it was certainly soporific and soon he found himself drifting…
He was woken by a repeated knocking on his door. Thinking the worst, he hurried to open it, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Keith stood in the corridor, hands in pockets, looking relaxed.
“Sorry – did I disturb you?”
“Not really…”
“Have you done anything about tonight?”
“Tonight? What about tonight?”
Still half asleep, Blake felt rather fuddled. Had he missed something?
“You know, the Egyptian Evening?”
With the events of the morning having taken precedence, Blake had forgotten all about it but he vaguely recalled seeing something in his itinerary.
“Ah yes…”
“Well we’re supposed to be in fancy dress so we’re going to need to get kitted up. We’ve organised a trip into town. Reda says he knows a place along the Corniche.”
I’ll bet he does, thought Blake.
“Anyway, you’re welcome to join us. We’re meeting in the foyer in ten minutes.”
“Thanks…”
He repaired to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face and hurriedly got changed.
A few minutes later he found himself downstairs, waiting with the others.
He was relieved to see that Lee Yong was already there, standing by the doorway in her now familiar outfit of Cuban heels, jeans and rock-band T-shirt. She caught his eye and came across to speak.
“Ah, Mr Blake. So, how were your birds?”
“Very good, thank you. And how was your temple?”
Funny how he could always manage more for her than he could for Keith.
“Also good. When we have time, I will tell you about it – perhaps over dinner. But now…”
She looked around her, as if she were searching for someone. Behind her, in the foyer, the others had been steadily assembling and they shuffled out as a group onto the sun-drenched Corniche.
Reda himself had arrived and was busy negotiating with the gaudily dressed owner of a fleet of horse-drawn caleches. A row of carriages and their emaciated ponies were waiting. There was the usual flurry of guttural Arabic voices, then the flash of white teeth and a handshake.
“This way,” announced the young Egyptian. “Special price…”
Suitably encouraged, they clambered into their assigned transport.
Much to his annoyance, there was a mix-up in the seating plans and Blake found himself sharing with Mrs Biltmore and Ira. His intention had been to find a place next to Lee Yong, but she had been summarily whisked away elsewhere. The caleche was designed for two passengers but presumably as part of his deal, Reda had arranged for a third. It was a tight squeeze – but Ira was not one to complain, and at present neither was Blake. As for Mrs Biltmore, he assumed that she’d no space to breathe as she remained curiously quiet.
Up in front, after a moment’s wait the cabby clicked his tongue, slapped the horse’s reins and they trit-trotted off in silence.
Chapter Twelve
Tonight at 8.30…
Blake studied the notice board closely and wrinkled his brow. Somewhere there should be some instructions…And if he was lucky, he’d find the excuse he was so desperately seeking to enable him to go back to his room and get changed.
He felt acutely self-conscious and had done so from the moment he’d left his cabin a few minutes earlier. Fancy dress was not his forte and the idea that he should put on a peculiar set of clothing and parade himself in front of the ship’s company in a vain attempt to look like someone he was not was alien to his nature. He had enough trouble being himself, never mind anyone else.
It was not a disguise in which he could readily hide himself. On the contrary, it made him aware of his own existence to a highly unnatural degree – and it struck him that if he could see through it himself, then surely so must others. Even the requirement to wear dinner dress at Embassy functions had made him uncomfortable. He’d hated those false and pretentious affairs and had borne them out of necessity rather than any feeling of pride. But he’d realised that other than retreat to the sanctity of his own quarters and hide way, there was little he could do about it. And tonight, having scanned the board from top to bottom, he’d failed to find anything of help and had concluded there was no other option – if he was to survive the evening, he would have to grin and bear it.
He was beginning to wonder how he might cope when he was interrupted by a voice from behind.
“Very nice…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your costume – I said it’s very nice.”
He turned and found himself face to face with David – although for a split second he failed to recognise him as his head and the lower half of his face were obscured by the folds of a giant white turban.
“Oh, yes, thank you. I’m sorry. I was miles away. Looking at the notice board.”
“The Egyptian Evening?”
“Yes.”
“Half past eight in the Forward Lounge.”
“So I see.”
“You’re going?”
“I think so…”
Of course he was going – why else would he have got all dressed up? Although, his outfit was far plainer than David’s and he was starting to feel drab by comparison – perhaps he really could avoid detection.
Together with the others, he’d spent the afternoon in the shop along the Corniche, choosing what they were going to wear that evening. He’d never been one for gaudy clothes and had gone for a simple galabeya and a Nubian cap. ‘Traditional’, Reda had called it. When he’d tried it on and stood in front of the mirror, he’d felt more like a peasant than a Pharaoh. But it suited him nevertheless.
Conversely, David had really gone to town. As well as the turban he wore a silk shirt and baggy trousers, fastened at the calves and bound together at the waist with a broad sash into which was tucked the curve of a vicious-looking dagger. His feet sported a pair of pointed sandals of the type that curled up at the ends. His get-up was certainly impressive – although it was anything but Egyptian. In fact, you’d think he’d stepped straight out of The Arabian Nights.
“You’re looking rather splendid.”
Blake returned the compliment of earlier.
“One has to keep up appearances,” said David. “Actually, it was the only outfit they had which covered up the hair and the moustache. Never seen an Egyptian with
a silver moustache and I was damned if I was going to shave it off. Anyway, if you think this is exotic,” he pulled at the hem of his robe, “you should see what Joan’s wearing.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, she’s gone completely over the top. As far as Joan’s concerned, there’s only ever been one Egyptian woman and that’s Cleopatra. So she’s gone and got herself a full-length gown, Pharaonic headdress and jewellery to match. She’s upstairs now, finishing off her make-up and nails. When she comes down, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s found a couple of hand maidens to carry her train. I should have known better than to let her loose in that shop – it’s cost me a bloody fortune. She wanted me to dress up as Julius Caesar but thankfully they didn’t have any Roman costumes – not the done thing, apparently.”
No, thought Blake, in Egypt it was probably not.
“Anyway, she’ll be down any minute so I’d better cut along or I’ll get it in the neck. See you up there.”
He shot off toward the stairway.
Blake glanced at his watch. Twenty past eight. Still time to visit the gents and make himself comfortable. A thought crossed his mind and he slipped the watch off his wrist and dropped it into the small carry-case he was holding. Despite the paucity of his clothing, he might as well try and look as authentic as possible.
At 8.30pm he found himself standing in the queue in front of the Forward Lounge, waiting for the doors to open. There was a crush in the narrow corridor outside and he had inadvertently become wedged between a bare-chested Nubian slave and what appeared to be a High Altar Priest. With their extravagant costumes and make-up, they could have been auditioning for a West End musical. He no longer felt so out of place as now, everyone looked ridiculous.
The doors swung open and the crowd surged forward. Blake followed unhurriedly behind, anxious to avoid any unseemly rush, although there were plenty of tables to be had and he soon found one in a good position overlooking the dance floor. A babble of conversation filled the room but when it had died down, he realised there was background music as a famous female Egyptian singer began trilling like a nightingale.
Looking around, the Forward Lounge had been changed yet again. The dance floor in the centre had been cleared and there was some coloured lighting of a sort. In one corner, next to the bar, a small band of musicians had assembled and after about ten minutes, as the voice of the famous singer faded, the band leader gave a nod and they struck up a lively and typically Middle Eastern tune.
At this point the doors at the far end were flung open and Joan made her grand entrance. Dressed in full royal regalia, the would-be Cleopatra appeared to the oddly rhythmic strains of the modest Egyptian four-piece, and although something altogether more grandiose such as the Arrival of the Queen of Sheba might have been more appropriate, the overall effect was dramatic enough. She strode imperiously into the room, ably supported by Keith who looked equally as impressive in a long dark-blue robe edged with gold trim, his height and craggy looks enabling him to carry off a suitably aristocratic bearing.
They were followed by two characters in white – David the desert sheikh and Janet, whose veiled headdress, bodice, bare midriff and long pantaloons made her look as if she were a member of his harem. Given the theatrical nature of all four’s appearance, the crowd let out a prolonged “ooh!” and broke into a spontaneous round of applause.
The group approached Blake’s table and sat down. Any pretence at grandeur was immediately undermined as David tore off his turban and threw it onto the couch in a fit of pique. Whatever intention he may have had of disguising his hair and moustache had obviously been abandoned.
“Thank God that’s over – have you any idea how hot it is in this thing?”
“I wish you’d stop making a fuss,” scolded Joan. “You’ve done nothing but complain ever since you put the damn thing on. I don’t know why you bothered.”
“Because you told me I had to, that’s why. I seem to remember you saying that you were damned if you were going to the trouble of dressing up as the Queen of Egypt if I was going to saunter around in what looked like a set of 18th -century night clothes.”
“Well you weren’t making any effort, David.”
“Effort? You’re accusing me of not making any effort? May I remind you…”
But whatever David was going to remind her of had evidently eluded him as he threw up his hands in a gesture of mock despair.
“Oh, somebody get me a gin and tonic for Christ’s sake before I explode.”
The row which must have started in their cabin had followed them downstairs and into the public domain, and he’d clearly determined to put an end to it before it became too much of an embarrassment. But Joan was not in a forgiving mood.
“You’re not allowed to drink,” she retorted. “You’re supposed to be a Muslim, remember? Muslim’s don’t drink – I told you that earlier.”
“I hardly think you’re in a position to tell me about the practices of Muslims. I’m the one that used to live in the country, if you recall. Anyway, you can’t hold me to it – and if you so much as even try, I’m renouncing my religion,” said David, trying to make a joke of it. “Bugger it, I’m parched.”
Then, as if to add insult to injury, Joan came back at him again. “Mine’s a white wine by the way, if anybody’s buying.”
“I’ll get them.” Blake decided to intercede. Their bickering had begun to annoy him and if his offer to buy drinks failed to stem it, then he could at least spend a few moments away from them at the bar. But their party was not yet complete and he hesitated. “Do you think I should wait for Mrs Biltmore and Ira?” he asked.
Keith shook his head.
“I wouldn’t bother if I were you. I don’t honestly know if they’re coming. It’s probably not their sort of thing.”
Although the words were hardly out of his mouth when they appeared.
They were never going to upstage Joan but their entrance did not lack an element of drama. And if David and Janet, the sheikh and his paramour, were figures in an Arabian tableau then Mrs Biltmore was destined to play the part of the tent. Unable to find anything that would fit, she had been persuaded to wear a burka of voluminous proportions. The benefit was that it covered literally everything, and rather than stride in like Joan, she rolled along like a galleon in full sail, the folds of her outfit billowing about her like the sea itself. Somewhere in her wake, it was as much as Ira could do to prevent himself from drowning in the excess of fabric.
Blake took the orders and joined the queue at the bar. He returned with a tray of drinks to find that the advent of the new arrivals had not succeeded in putting a stop to the ongoing spat.
Joan was on the point of lighting a cigarette. David, who had slumped into a position of feigned exhaustion on the couch, interpreted this as a provocative act and immediately objected.
“If you’re going to do that, then I shall have to go and sit somewhere else.”
He roused himself and stomped off to the other end of the table, presumably in retaliation for the earlier remark about Muslims.
But Joan was not to be put off that easily.
“Oh for God’s sake, David, don’t be so stupid. You’re just like a child sometimes.”
And she continued to light up, exhaling smoke in what looked like a deliberately exaggerated manner.
Blake set down his tray and handed out the drinks. There was an embarrassed silence around the table and not even the incongruous sight of Queen Cleopatra with a cigarette dangling from her lips could detract from the tension.
Fortunately, it didn’t last long. After a few frosty moments the band came to a halt and everyone’s attention was drawn to the stage as the boat captain, Mr Mohammed, stepped forward.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our traditional Egyptian event. We have much entertainment for you this evening. But before we begin, let me introduce you to our band.” He indicated the group of musicians in the corner, then named them one by
one. “And now for our floor show…”
He was about to announce the first act of the night when the band burst back into life somewhat earlier than expected. Unable to compete, Mr Mohammed smiled unctuously and retreated to one side. His moment of glory had passed.
The lights dimmed as two shadowy figures crept onto the dance floor, but then went up again to reveal – another pair of whirling dervishes. Blake tried to compare their act to the one he had seen on the night of their arrival, but could detect no difference. For all he knew, they might be the same artistes.
Keith seemed impressed and cried out, “Bravo!”
“Shh!” scolded Janet, mildly embarrassed at his outburst.
The act ended to enthusiastic applause and Blake expected Mr Mohammed to reappear but the following turn introduced itself. Or rather, herself, as no sooner had the whirling dervishes departed than a woman dressed as a belly-dancer ran in from the wings and out onto the centre of the dance floor. Her costume consisted of the traditional skirt and decorated top but she had added a set of finger cymbals and a veil to enhance her sense of mystique. She would have liked to have called herself young, but unfortunately she was not and the years had added an extra layer of flesh to the areas that mattered most. It was a feature which David clearly found attractive as he immediately sat up and began to take notice.
The band set off with a different rhythm and the dancer followed suit, jerking her hips to the music and undulating her ample belly. Excess folds of flesh wobbled enticingly. Sweat began to glisten.
“Now that’s what I call a woman,” said David, downing the last of his gin and tonic as if trying to cool himself off.
Joan, who was appreciably slimmer by comparison, had finished her smoke and now resumed her role as queen by huffing and turning away.
The dancer responded with ever more violent gyrations. Her finger cymbals clanged, demanding attention. Soon, she would come looking for a partner…
Blake retreated behind the safety of the table and pressed himself into the shadows – he had no intention of being selected. Although David, sitting just a few paces away, seemed a more than willing candidate.
