by Jerry Dubs
Giving in to her heart, she leaned forward and kissed the air over his cheek, careful to not touch him. So young, so innocent, so beautiful, she thought. It is good that we don’t know our future.
Straightening, she rested her hands on her lap and watched them sleep ... a girl she had never met and the love she would soon lose. She sat there, patiently watching them, comparing Tim’s young features to the face she had known, a face lined with anguish and loss.
He had been worried and confused tonight, she thought. Worried about the health of his daughter, fearful of the modern world he was re-entering. The next time he sees me he will be distraught, his spirit broken.
There isn’t anything I can do to prevent it. But I will help him, she thought, smiling a sad smile. It was so, and so it will be.
Her hands tightly clasped on her lap to keep her from reaching out to him, she felt a tear form. Slowly, as if exhausted from carrying the weight of sorrows future and past, the solitary tear escaped her eye, slid down her cheek, followed her tilted jaw line and fell to the floor.
***
Breathing in the yeasty, earthy innocence of his daughter’s unwashed scalp Tim awoke as Imhotep. He felt his arm move slightly, raised by Maya’s deep breathing. Smiling to himself he moved his arm to bring his hand up to caress her head.
Her skin was dry and cool. The fever had broken.
And he suddenly remembered where he was.
Opening his eyes, he slowly moved his head and saw an institutional green wall decorated with a yellowed eye chart.
Slowly his ancient personality receded and he became Tim Hope, displaced American.
He started to roll to his right, sensed the emptiness and, swinging his arm behind him, he felt for the other cot.
“You’re awake,” Akila said quietly.
Tim froze at the sound of her voice.
“You are in the Helwan University clinic. I’m Akila, the doctor. It is August second, 2027. No one knows that you and Maya are here except myself and Brianna.”
Tim tried to roll onto his back, but there wasn’t enough space on the cot.
A shadow moved against the wall and then there was a soft scraping sound. He felt something bump against the cot.
“You can roll over now,” Akila said.
Moving cautiously, Tim felt the other cot beside him. He shuffled his hips backward to the second cot and then slowly pulled his arm out from under Maya’s head.
The arm had fallen asleep. Rolling onto the empty cot, Tim swung his feet around and onto the floor. Leaning forward, he let his numb left arm hang and then began to massage it with his right hand.
Akila laughed softly and knelt before him.
“Let me do that,” she said. With practiced familiarity she put a hand on either side of his forearm and rubbed briskly. She focused on his arm, not trusting herself to meet his eyes while she touched him. As she worked, Tim flexed his fingers, making and releasing a fist.
Soon he nodded and she stopped.
“Thanks,” he whispered. “That happens a lot. You’d think a man my age would have figured out how to sleep.”
Akila smiled. “You’d think so. Maybe you’re a slow learner.”
He looked at her and their eyes met. He saw humor and expectation. She saw questions, and the hint of a smile.
Unconsciously she had continued holding his arm, her thumbs gently rubbing him. They both became aware of the extended contact at the same time. He looked at her again and she squeezed his arm a last time and then rose to her feet.
“She feels like the fever is gone,” Tim said to fill the awkward silence.
“She’s young and the drugs are powerful. As long as she gets a lot of fluids, she should be fine,” Akila said. She walked around the end of the cot to the doorway.
“Brianna went home,” she said, “otherwise I’d send her out for some breakfast.”
“Father?” Maya said, stirring in her cot.
Tim turned to her and, sliding the second cot away, sat down beside her.
“Good morning, Maya,” he said.
“I’m hungry.”
“There’s a restaurant just down the street,” Akila said. “Yes, Tim, I understood her.” She smiled at him. “I think a little fresh air and a walk would be good for her. Don’t worry, she’s young and won’t remember any of this.”
Walking out of the examination room, she said over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”
In a moment she returned carrying a small stack of clothing and a pair of worn sandals. She laid the clothing on the empty cot.
“I brought you some clothes. I don’t want you walking around Helwan wearing that clown costume,” she said, nodding at his galabia and smiling.
For a small moment, no more than a blink of time, she worried that she had offended him. Then his mouth curled into a huge smile and deltas of wrinkles spread from the corners of his mouth and from his eyes, evidence of his frequent happiness. He started to laugh, his mouth open, his shoulders shaking away the accumulated tension.
Akila laughed with him, relieved and happy to see his spirit slipping out from beneath his burdens.
“A friend made it from a drawing I gave her. Is it that bad?” he asked, tugging at the cloth.
“Not the workmanship. Just the design. Oh, I don’t know,” Akila said, cocking her head and studying the galabia. “Maybe it does look a little retro-Bedouin. Who knows? You might start a fad.”
Tim picked up a pair of tan chino slacks that were atop the small stack of clothing. Holding them by the waist he let the legs fall free. Then he held them to his waist. The uncuffed legs ended at his ankles. Pulling the pants close to his hips he saw that the waist size was right for him.
There were no store tags on the pants, which were soft, clearly worn before. Tim looked up from the slacks to Akila.
“The shirt will fit, too. Well, maybe a little loose,” Akila said. She saw Tim processing the information. Before he could ask more questions, she said, “I’ll let you get changed and then we’ll get you and Maya some food.”
***
They walked south from the university, down tree-lined campus streets and under an arch-covered pedestrian walkway. Tim was surprised at the amount of traffic noise, something he hadn’t heard for seventeen years. Maya wanted to run ahead and explore everything she saw.
In the Two Lands Imhotep would have let his daughter run where she wanted. Here, Tim worried about traffic, about Maya falling on the abrasive asphalt, about a stranger swooping in and grabbing his daughter. He insisted on holding her hand.
Akila touched his elbow. “Tim, she will be fine. There are no cars here on campus.”
“What did she say?” Akila asked Tim.
Akila squatted in front of Maya. “I said that you are a brave and beautiful girl,” she told Maya in ancient Egyptian. She held out her arms. Smiling, Maya stepped toward her and allowed Akila to pick her up.
“You are so big,” Akila said as she resumed walking, carrying Maya in her arms.
“What is this?” Maya answered, touching the small silver ring that pierced Akila’s lip.
“I don’t know that word,” Akila said to Tim in English.
Tim shook his head and shrugged. “It is a mouth ring,” he told Maya in ancient Egyptian.
“It is pretty,” Maya said.
“Thank you,” Akila said, squeezing Maya closer. “And you are as pretty as a lotus blossom.” She glanced at Tim as she spoke, watching for a reaction, but there was none.
“Down this way,” she said as they approached a walkway intersection.
In a few minutes they saw tables on the sidewalk ahead of them and a pair of large, white awnings on either side of a doorway in a sandstone building. A sign above the door identified the restaurant as the Condetti Restaurant and Cafe.
“We’re here,” Akila said, putting Maya back on the sidewalk.
Tim stood for a moment looking at the brown, vinyl-back chairs and the small, round, marble-toppe
d tables. They were such a simple convenience, such a normal sight, yet so strange to his eyes. He thought of silverware, ceramic plates, glasses filled with ice water, cleverly folded napkins, all normal, everyday appointments, yet something that even King Djoser hadn’t possessed.
We all live better than kings, he thought. Better food, more leisure, fewer concerns about getting from day-to-day.
Then he thought about the unrelenting poverty in many of the world’s largest cities, the desperate poor living in a shadow world while the glitterati strolled red carpets and sniped about fashion and hair styles. He thought of homeless beggars and of children sold into prostitution while the wealthy fought for better tax breaks and obscenely rich athletes competed to build the most outrageous homes.
And suddenly the unnecessary underside of the modern world overwhelmed him and, holding his stomach and bending forward, he fought to not throw up.
“Are you OK?” Akila asked, suddenly at his side.
Tim shook his head, surprised at the powerful physical reaction he had to his dislike of the modern world.
“I don’t belong here,” he said weakly.
“I know,” Akila said. “I know, Tim. Let’s get Maya something to eat and then we’ll get back to campus and figure out what to do next.”
Straightening and breathing deeply, Tim looked at his daughter. Maya, who hadn’t seen her father’s distress, was trying to climb up onto one of the restaurant chairs. He smiled wanly and nodded his head to Akila. “I’ll be fine. You’re right. Let’s take care of Maya.”
***
Akila ordered for them, asking for a mushroom omelet for Tim, a salmon crepe for herself and a croissant with jam for Maya. Once their coffee was served and Maya had been taught to use a straw to drink her orange juice, Akila said, “My husband and I used to come here every Saturday. After he was killed, I couldn’t come here for the longest time. Then I decided that I couldn’t stop thinking about him whether I was here or not, so I started coming here again.
“We had a favorite table inside. For the longest time I couldn’t bring myself to sit there. I would look at it and picture him there.”
She stopped talking abruptly, as if ending a rehearsed monologue.
Imbued with the ancient importance of names, Tim asked, “What was his name?”
“Fahim,” Akila said. “Fahim Bayoumi.”
They stopped talking as the waiter reappeared with their food.
Tim helped Maya with her croissant and then turned to his omelet. Akila sipped her coffee and watched Tim and Maya. The heavy silver fork felt clumsy in his hand and it took Tim a few seconds to remember the right grip and pressure to cut through the omelet with the edge of his fork.
Smiling to herself, Akila cut and began to eat her crepe.
Tim closed his eyes as he chewed the first bite of his breakfast. Akila watched him chew slowly, savoring the taste, the texture and the warmth of the food. I’m enjoying watching him as much as he is enjoying the food, she thought with an inward grin.
When he looked up at her, she demurely lowered her eyes and focused her attention on her own breakfast.
“What happened to Fahim?” Tim asked.
Akila sighed. “He was active in the Arab Spring protests. I thought he would be imprisoned or killed then. But instead he returned from Cairo with a new light and fire in his eyes. The protests successfully pushed Mubarak from office. We had less than a year of celebration, then the generals began to crack down on freedom. Fahim was so depressed. He thought that everything had happened for no real reason, that we would soon be under the same kind of dictatorship, with a different name.
“Then there were the Riots for The Prophet.”
Tim cocked his head in question.
“An American released a movie mocking Islam. The people were looking for an excuse to vent their anger and the generals were happy to point them at America, to divert the protesters' attention from themselves.
“Fahim was afire with indignation. He believed that religion was a binding agent, something that provided both a balm for the poor and a common sense of purpose for us all. He was willing to view Americans as an evil target if it could help unite the populace. He believed it would help to re-energize a rebellion against the military.”
She paused and carefully cut her crepe.
“There was more violence?” Tim asked softly.
Akila nodded. “Fahim was arrested as an instigator. I wasn’t allowed to visit him. When I tried, he refused to see me. I learned later that he had disavowed me, claiming that we had separated because we disagreed about politics. Of course it wasn’t true. He was trying to protect me.”
She rested her fork and knife on her plate and looked into her past.
“He hanged himself in jail.”
Tim leaned forward and put his hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry, Akila.”
She looked over at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “The first wave of protest leaders had been convicted by then. They were show trials, of course. When the men were convicted, their families lost everything, their wives, if they had jobs, were dismissed, their children expelled from schools.”
“He wanted to spare you,” Tim said.
She nodded her head.
“He sounds very brave.”
Akila raised her napkin to her face and dabbed her eyes dry. When she looked up again she was composed, a small smile on her face.
“What’s wrong, father?” Maya asked.
“I had some sand in my eyes,” Akila told her.
Maya nodded. “I get sand in my eyes. Mother puts a wet cloth on my face. This juice tastes funny. When are we going home, father?”
“Soon, Maya. I want to make sure that you are all healed.”
He turned to Akila. “How did you know I was coming? And the clothes, they fit me perfectly.”
Akila turned her attention back to her crepe. “Your food will get cold,” she said.
Tim took another bite of his omelet. “This is delicious,” he said while he chewed. “How did you know I like mushroom omelets?”
Akila smiled, happy that Tim’s mood had changed from fearful to inquisitive.
“I was told that you would be arriving in the parking lot of the Saqqara complex near midnight on August first. You would have your daughter Maya with you and I was to help. And I was told to give these to you.”
She leaned over and lifted a large, loose bag she had carried with her from the clinic. Reaching into it she retrieved two manila envelopes. When she laid them on the table, Tim almost mis-swallowed again. Each envelope was identified with a cartouche. The first cartouche encircled three symbols – a feather, an owl and an unrolled papyrus scroll – the hieroglyphs for the name ‘Imhotep.’ The second cartouche showed a bird in profile, five lines forming a straight-edged spiral, an owl and a crook – symbols for the name ‘Ahmes.’
Tim discovered that he wasn’t surprised to see Imhotep’s name on one of the envelopes. But he couldn’t imagine how Akila could know about the young artist.
“You know Ahmes?” he asked in astonishment.
“There’s a cat,” Maya said, pointing to a black and white cat that had appeared on the sidewalk and was nonchalantly approaching their table, pausing to stretch at every other step.
Akila looked at Maya’s plate, saw that the girl had eaten most of her croissant and said in English, “Do you mind if she plays with the cat?”
His thoughts occupied with trying to understand how Akila could know about a peasant artist who lived five thousand years ago, Tim didn’t hear her.
“You can play with the cat, Maya,” Akila said. She picked some of the salmon from her crepe. “You can feed him this,” she said, handing the food to Maya.
“Who told you about Ahmes? How can you know him?” Tim asked. Suddenly all the strangeness of the past twelve hours flooded over him ... the tampered lock, Akila waiting for him, Brianna’s sudden emotion when they talked about the Tomb of the Time Traveler, Akila orde
ring his favorite breakfast, and, now envelopes that revealed not just his ancient identity, but Ahmes’ name as well.
Akila leaned across the small table and took his hand.
“Everything is fine, Tim. Please don’t worry. I know this seems very strange, but I can tell you, I promise, that no one wants to harm the great Imhotep.” She smiled at him, looking down for a moment and then, her lips pushing together to keep her smile modest, she looked back at Tim’s startled eyes, his open mouth.
“Yes, I know that Tim Hope is Imhotep.”
“How? How is that possible?” Tim asked.
She shook her head and squeezing his hand reassuring she said, “I can’t tell you, Tim. But I can promise you that the person who gave me these envelopes would never do anything to harm you or Ahmes.
“Quite the opposite. This is all meant to help you. I can’t tell you more, it could ruin things. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I agree with you, this seems unnecessarily mysterious, but there are reasons. You’ll just have to trust me. Please. You aren’t supposed to open the envelopes until you are ... home. And be sure to give this one to Ahmes.”
She squeezed his hand again, trying to impart both the importance of what she was saying and her concern.
Tim pulled the envelopes closer.
“What happens next?” he asked, trying to understand the plan of the unseen puppet master who was manipulating him, trying to see a way to escape from him.
“I honestly don’t know.” Akila said. She squeezed Tim’s hand once more and then withdrew her own. “Maybe we could finish breakfast and then walk back to the clinic. I’d like to check Maya’s blood and urine again. She seems to have recovered unbelievably quickly. I’d like to run some tests so that I can believe it.”
“And what happens to me and to Maya?” Tim persisted.
Looking down at her plate, Akila picked at her food for a moment and then, not meeting his eyes, she said, “I don’t know.”
Return to the Two Lands
With Maya peacefully sleeping behind him, Tim sat on the edge of the cot and strained to hear sounds from the clinic office. He had stripped off his shirt, pants, underwear and sandals and pulled on the blue-striped galabia. Now he sat impatiently waiting for Akila to fall asleep.
