by Joan Hess
“Ever since what?” demanded Caron.
“The discovery of the tomb of King Tutankhamun,” I said quickly. “In 1922, by Howard Carter. Nearly ten million tourists come to Egypt every year.”
Inez gazed at me. Unlike Caron, whose sole preparation for the trip had been to watch Lawrence of Arabia and shop for sunglasses, Inez had read everything I had at my bookstore, then moved on to the Farber College library. I’d overheard her trying to teach Caron a few words of Arabic. I could tell from Inez’s expression that she knew about the terrorist attack at the Temple of Hatshepsut in 1997 and the more recent incidents at resorts on the Red Sea. She also knew how Caron would respond if the topic was aired.
“Oh yeah,” Caron said, examining the omelet on her plate for any hint that an alien ingredient might have been slipped inside it despite her vigilance.
I asked a waiter to bring me a pot of tea, then forced myself to eat a piece of toast and a few bites of melon. The tedious trip had not only exhausted me, but also confused my body. We’d been plied with food and drink along the way, although not with any reference to my internal rhythm. It would be wise, I thought, to take things easy for a day or two until I was acclimatized. Caron and Inez appeared to have already done so, but they were seventeen and thought nothing of staying up all night to watch movies, feast on junk food, and paint their toenails cerise.
“Howdy, ma’am and little ladies. You reckon I might join you?” The speaker, a tall man with thick gray hair combed into a sculpted pompadour, pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. He wore a white suit, ornately detailed leather boots, and a bolo tie; all that was missing was a broad-brimmed hat with a rattlesnake band. “Please send me off with my tail between my legs if I’m interrupting, ma’am. I’ve spent the last week minglin‘ with the natives, and I was thinking it would be right nice to talk to some Americans for a change. Name’s Sittermann, from Houston in the great state of Texas. I’m what you call an entrepreneur. I’m lookin’ into building a theme park outside of Cairo, with a roller coaster, water slides, rides, and costumed characters like King Tut and Cleopatra.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” I said inanely, since he already had and was waving at a waiter.
“This your first time in Egypt?” he asked.
Caron and Inez were both glaring at him. I frowned at them, then said, “Yes, it is, Mr. Sittermann, but not yours, I gather.”
He spoke in Arabic to the waiter, then sat back and said, “You’re very astute, Mrs….?”
“Malloy. This is my daughter, Caron, and her friend, Inez.”
“I hope you enjoy yourselves. There’s all sorts of places to see in Luxor, presuming you like to look at old rocks. The Temple of Luxor’s right next to the hotel, but you got to walk a good ways to the entrance to go inside.”
Inez regained control of herself. “Primarily built by Amenhotep, from 1390 to 1352 B.C., on the site of a sanctuary built by Hatshepsut and dedicated to the deities Amun, Mut, and Khons. Amun was the most important god of Thebes, later worshipped as Amun-Ra.”
Caron threw her napkin on the table. “Enough, okay? I am not going to spend the next two weeks in a dreary documentary that drones on and on about every stupid little name and date. I would rather throw myself off the balcony. Mother, promise that you’ll take my body home for a proper burial. I don’t want to spend eternity being gnawed by jackals.” She shoved back her chair. “I’m going up to the room to see what’s on TV. I’m sure Egyptian cable will be more fascinating than this.”
She stalked into the hotel. After a moment, Inez placed her napkin next to her plate and followed her. A waiter swept in and removed their glasses and plates. A nondescript brown bird fluttered to the table and began to peck at crumbs.
“We’re all tired,” I said to Sittermann. “We arrived late yesterday afternoon.”
“No need to apologize, Mrs. Malloy. I know how it is with young folks. One minute they’re all courteous and charming, and the next minute they’re spoiled brats. Jet lag brings out the worst side in some folks.”
“They are not spoiled brats,” I said with a trace of coldness, not mentioning that this was hardly their worst side.
“Why, I’d never imply they were. I was just making a general observation. I’m sure that your young ladies will recover their good spirits when they’ve rested up.” He refilled his coffee cup from the small pot. “Will Mr. Malloy be joining you soon?”
Only as a mummy, I thought, resisting the urge to giggle at the image that popped into my mind. Carlton Malloy, my first husband, was residing in the cemetery in Farberville, due to an unfortunately close encounter with a chicken truck on a snowy mountain road, and, more unfortunately, in the company of one of his more curvaceous blond students. The scandalous details had been hushed up by the college administration, but their exposure by a romance writer had resulted in murder. Lieutenant Peter Rosen had had the audacity to suspect me, then almost crossed the line by accusing me of flouncing. It had made for a tenuous start to our relationship. “I very much doubt that,” I said, then took a sip of tea.
“It’s brave of you to travel without a man to watch out for you. Egypt’s not as bad as some of the Arab countries, but pretty women like yourself are liable to attract unwanted attention.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said, “but the girls and I are capable of taking care of ourselves.”
“All the same, I’d be honored to escort you all on any of your excursions. I’ve been doing business over here for a long while. I can’t say that I understand how they think, but I know for a fact that they’re more than willing to take advantage of single women, especially Westerners. Be real careful about being overcharged, even by the hotel staff. Any man who so much as opens a door for you will expect baksheesh, but just brush ’em off like flies. Don’t ever get in a taxi without settling on a price first.”
“Thank you for your advice,” I said, wondering if he was distantly related to the hotel manager. “However, my husband will be joining us this evening, so you need not concern yourself further.”
I expected my boorish companion to question this, but he merely shrugged. “That takes a load off my mind, Mrs. Malloy. I just didn’t want to think about you and the little fillies being pestered and cheated on account of your sex. How long will you be staying here in Luxor?”
“I really couldn’t say, Mr. Sittermann. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to check on the girls. It’s a long drop from the balcony, and my daughter is capable of almost anything.”
“You must be staying in the Presidential Suite. I hear it’s right fancy.”
“Good day,” I said, then went into the hotel. After a brief debate, I tackled the stairwell and arrived, albeit panting, on the third floor across the hall from our suite. As I opened the door, I heard Inez’s voice from their bedroom.
“‘Her heart began to pound as she studied his cruel gray eyes and the sneer that tugged at his lips. She knew he was watching her while he twirled the jewel-encrusted dagger in his calloused hands, watching for any sign of weakness from her. What more could he want from her? He’d brutally ravished her that first horrible night. She felt heat color her face as she remembered how he’d torn off her blouse, and then seized her breasts as if he owned them. Despite her cries of protest, he’d overpowered her and forced her to surrender to his despicable desires until the sun rose over the dunes.’”
Inez turned the page of the book she held, oblivious to my intrusion. “‘She vowed, as she had done every waking moment since he’d kidnapped her at the oasis, that she would never bend beneath his piercing stare, nor submit willingly to his brutish demands. He could have his way with her body, she thought bitterly, but she would never allow him to forget that he was a filthy native, a dark-skinned heathen worthy of nothing more than her contempt, while she was a lady of breeding. No, she would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her weep or plead for mercy.’”
“What are you reading?” I asked, appalled.
>
“The Savage Sheik.”
Caron, who was flopped across the bed, raised her head. “It should be called Gone with the Sirocco. I’m sure it must have titillated the upper-class British ladies back in the nineteen-twenties, but it’s impossibly silly these days. She practically swoons every time he exhales.”
Inez pulled off her glasses and cleaned them on her shirt. “Then I won’t bore you with it anymore.”
“Fine with me.” Caron flopped back across the bed and fluttered her hands. “Bring me my smelling salts. I am overwhelmed with repressed lust for the filthy native and his deadly dagger. Ravage me, you savage!”
“You have no concept of period literature,” Inez said huffily.
I decided both of them needed a nap before they lapsed any further into hostility. I could not suggest such a juvenile thing, so I opted for tact. “Why don’t we go out for a little while? I need to change some money, and there’s a bank right outside the hotel entrance. We can wander around and look in some of the shops, then come back here for lunch and a rest. Then, if you’d like, we can have tea on the terrace and wait for Peter.”
Caron brightened at the idea of shopping and began to rummage through her suitcase. Inez reluctantly put down her book and disappeared into the bathroom. I went to the master bedroom, noting that the bed had been made and the bathroom supplied with fresh towels, and made sure I had my passport and a few hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. Even though I’d been dazed when we arrived at the hotel, I had noticed the shops’ windows cluttered with jewelry and designer fashions. I am not miserly by nature, but I’d struggled to earn a living from my beloved bookstore. It had seemed like a dream when I’d leased the old depot and carefully stocked it with racks and shelves of books. Within three months, reality had settled in like a bad head cold. My competition came from the chain bookstores at the mall and, more recently, from online sources. I relied on the campus community and a decreasing number of regular customers with eclectic taste or a fondness for pop fiction genres they preferred to purchase discreetly.
In this situation, which was admittedly peculiar since very few couples take teenagers with them on a honeymoon, Peter insisted on loading me up with traveler’s checks. When I protested, he countered with the price of a single airplane ticket to Luxor. There was a flaw in the logic, but I’d acquiesced with a becoming blush. Even brides slightly over forty years of age are allowed such things, as long as they don’t flutter their eyelashes and simper. Or swoon.
“Let’s use the stairs and go out through the New Winter Palace lobby,” I suggested as we went into the hall. I spotted Abdullah watching us from behind a cart laden with cleaning supplies. I gave him a small wave, then followed the girls down to the less impressive lobby. Several of the male employees (I’d yet to see a female one), all dressed in white coats and red fezzes, nodded at us as we went outside.
Within the walls of the hotel compound was a walkway lined with shops. Caron and Inez paused at a window filled with T-shirts and hats, while I went into a tiny bank branch and armed myself with a thick stack of Egyptian pound notes. I caught up with the girls at a shop selling scarves and perfume.
“This stuff is so expensive,” Caron said morosely. “Some of the T-shirts are eighty pounds. There are some cute sandals for a hundred pounds. I know Peter wants us to buy things, but this is ridiculous.”
“Divide by five for dollars,” I said. “Before you get too carried away with these shops, let’s look into some local ones. There’s a mall of sorts just past the corner.”
“A mall?” echoed Inez.
“More like an alley,” I said. “The man at the bank told me about it. This is a tourist area, so the prices will still be on the high side. We might as well have a look, though.” I did not add that we would pass by a bookstore on the way. It’s an addiction that cannot be easily explained and can rarely be overcome.
The temperature was warm but comfortable, as promised by the guidebook. We strolled along the side of the corniche, ignoring the carriage drivers and shoeshine boys clamoring for our attention. Shop owners came out and begged us to consider their offerings, which were, of course, available at the best prices in Luxor. Inside a newsstand, two boys were playing a game on a computer. An ancient man shaped like a pear sat on a folding stool, scowling at his Arabic newspaper and puffing on a water pipe. Many of the men wore long white robes and some had sweat-stained cloths tied around their heads. A gaggle of schoolgirls passed us, wearing dark scarves and long skirts but also sandals adorned with plastic flowers and glass beads.
A sandwich board announced the so-called mall. We turned into the passageway crowded with souvenir shops and racks of T-shirts. I looked around curiously as the girls cooed over plush toy camels and plastic sphinxes. I had managed to walk by the bookstore without a whimper, but I could feel its seductive allure. I decided I could interest the girls in postcards on our way back to the hotel. I drifted away from the T-shirt racks and began to look at jewelry in a window. I needed to take back a gift for Sergeant Jorgeson and his wife, who’d hosted our wedding in their garden, and one for Luanne Bradshaw, my best friend and confidante. I needed to find something that was either hysterically tacky or incredibly tasteful for her. A piece of antique jewelry might fit either category.
Caron caught my elbow and dragged me into a tiny shop overpowered with shelves of tablecloths and tea towels. “Mother,” she whispered, “I think we’re being followed.”
“I’m sure we are, dear. We’re tourists. We might as well have bull’s-eyes pinned on our backs proclaiming us to be rich and foolish.”
“No, I saw him at the hotel, too. He was sitting near the exit, pretending to read a newspaper.”
“Maybe he was reading a newspaper,” I said.
“He looked right at us when we walked by him.”
I grinned. “He may be planning on making an offer for you. How many camels are you worth? A hundred? Should I hold out for more?”
Caron’s lower lip shot out. “You are So Not Funny. What if he’s trying to figure out how to kidnap us?”
Inez scuttled into the shop and began to wheeze. “He spoke to me,” she said between gasps. “I was looking at this really cute puppet when he brushed against me and said, ‘Ahlan wa-sahlan.’ I think that’s what he said, anyway. I almost screamed.”
I frowned. “Any idea what it meant?”
She gulped. “If I heard it right, it means ‘hello.’”
“And then …?” I said.
“He turned away and said something to the owner, who laughed and said something back. I know they were talking about me.”
“What are you going to do, Mother?” demanded Caron.
Gazing solemnly at them, I said, “I’m going to pop in that bookstore and see if they carry books in English. If they do, I may browse for an hour and perhaps buy some postcards. After that, I’m going to go back to the hotel and have a light lunch on the patio. Would you two care to join me?”
“What if he’s stalking us?” demanded Caron.
“That’s a strong word,” I said, shaking my head. “Is he Egyptian?”
Inez shrugged. “Arab, anyway, with a droopy mustache and a scar across his cheek. He has on sunglasses, a plaid sport jacket, and wrinkled trousers. He looks like the villain in an old movie like Casablanca.”
I glanced out the shop window. “I don’t see anybody who looks remotely like that.” The shopkeeper was moving in on us, his eyes bright and his smile painfully broad. I nudged the girls toward the door. “Let’s go to the bookstore. If you spot this man, you can point him out to me.”
“Then you believe us?” Caron said.
I didn’t, but I also didn’t want to linger and end up with a tablecloth and matching napkins. “I believe you captured the attention of an Arab gentleman who most likely thinks the two of you are attractive and charming, and is hoping for an opportunity to make your acquaintance.” I lowered my voice. “Then fling you across his camel and carry you to hi
s oasis, where he will ravish you nightly and force you to wear emeralds in your navels.”
“Mother!”
I allowed them to sputter while I herded them back to the bookstore. Neither claimed to see their less-than-dashing sheik, and eventually they began to look at postcards. The bookstore was much mustier than mine, and dusty enough to elicit several explosive sneezes from me. I dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief while I examined the shelves of worn covers and titles in a bewildering array of languages. I was looking at an ornithology guide when Caron and Inez tracked me down and admitted they were tired.
The two salesclerks did not look up as we left. We turned onto the corniche and headed for the hotel. The grand staircase that led up to the lobby of the Winter Palace looked daunting, so we continued past the low wall to the entrance of the New Winter Palace.
Abruptly Caron stopped. “There he is!” she squeaked. “Going in the lobby! Do you see him, Mother? The same man!”
I paused. “I see a businessman returning to his hotel.”
“That’s the man,” Inez said, squeaking less vehemently than Caron but doing her best. “The one who has been following us.”
“Now’s your chance to reciprocate,” I said, “unless you want to stand out here and dither the rest of the day. I’m not in the mood for lunch. I’m going to buy a newspaper and go up to our suite. You can either eat lunch downstairs or come up and order room service.”
Ten minutes later I was on the balcony, reading the previous day’s newspaper and listening to snores from the bedroom on the far side of the parlor.
Thus far, my honeymoon had been less than romantic—but the moon had yet to rise above the Nile.
CHAPTER 2
Caron, Inez, and I were having tea on the terrace when Peter arrived. He was accompanied by an Egyptian man in a rumpled suit, who waited at a polite distance while Peter greeted me as warmly as he dared in front of the girls. “I hope you all made it with a minimum of fuss,” he said.
