Oasis of Night

by J. S. Cook

  That was the other thing, I’m originally from Philadelphia, but a lot of things happened back in Philly that would make it pretty hard for me to go back there anytime soon. For a while, I just drifted, rootless, wondering what the hell I was going to do with myself.

  Then my old pal Frankie Missalo had come along. “Listen, Jack, why don’t you come up to Newfoundland with me? They’re building all kinds of stuff up there and the whole place is ripe for the picking.”

  Frankie and I had grown up together, roaming the mean and dirty streets of Kensington, earning a place for ourselves with our wits, as well as our fists. How we managed to stay out of real trouble is beyond me. By then the Irish mob had much of Philly under its thumb and boys like us were easy targets for guys like Dean O’Banion, fellas who wouldn’t hesitate to enlist us as runners or worse. Maybe it was because of the church—Frankie was an altar boy and my old lady made sure I went to mass almost as often as I brushed my teeth—or because Father Danny O’Keefe patrolled the streets like a modern day knight errant, but we managed to escape our early days in Philly more or less unscathed. It was said that Father O’Keefe carried a blackjack hidden underneath his cassock, and if he caught you swearing, chewing, smoking, or taking the Lord’s name in vain, he’d let you have it—and if the Father let you have it, you’d get it again when you got home, sure as shooting. Even Frankie’s old lady, who was crippled with arthritis, wasn’t above cutting him a few sharp cuffs about the ears when he deserved it.

  There wasn’t all that much to do in Philly when we were young men, apart from running guns or illegal whiskey or both. Frankie and I both said we’d probably go into the army; we joined up long before the whole thing went to hell at Pearl Harbor. Only thing was, he stayed in while I got kind of… waylaid. You’d think that with a war on, they’d want as many able-bodied men as they could get, but I guess that didn’t extend to my kind. When Frankie suggested we light out for Newfoundland, I was game—not that I’d ever heard of the place. “Lots of Army contractors up there, and lots of Yanks like us needing somewhere to get a proper cup of coffee. Come on! Ain’t you always said you wanted to have your own place?”

  It sure started that way. And then Sam walked in, and after a while I figured, hey, this is getting kind of cozy, maybe there’s something more here than meets the eye. I let myself believe that he was something I could count on—that this handsome, debonair Egyptian had come into my life to save me from myself. All that was before Sam disappeared.

  I got a late-night phone call, the way people do in the movies. “Where are you calling from?”

  “I am in Cairo.” A long sigh, and silence before he spoke again. “Something curious has happened to me, Jack. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything. I don’t remember how I got here or why I came.” He began to weep, and the sound of it nearly broke my heart; I clutched the phone as if I could will myself to him through the wires.

  “Hold on, Sam. Just hold on. I’ll be there in the morning.”

  Before he disappeared, Sam had given me a gold cartouche on a chain. I was wearing it around my neck. In my suitcase was the tiny diorite bowl handed off to me by the mysterious man known only as Mr. Blount. He’d made a point of contacting me at my cafe just so he could give me the artifact.

  “Last week, we were moving one of our exhibits, and we found something that doesn’t belong. This is a diorite bowl, Mr. Stoyles. It is Egyptian, late third dynasty. The Museum does not have the financial resources to send someone to Cairo, and yet the bowl must be returned.”

  Why me? He’d said the bowl was found in the Newfoundland Museum, along with the gold cartouche that Sam had given me; that either of these items ended up there was incredible. I had a strange feeling that this was just the beginning, that there was much, much more to Sam’s disappearance than merely bad luck or the satisfaction of some wartime grudge.

  “Normally we’d land at the airport in Heliopolis, but you know how things are these days.” The blond kid was back with another cup of coffee, which I gratefully accepted. It was strong and hot, just the thing to clear the clinging web of sleep from my mind. “We’ll be putting down at a little airstrip just outside of town. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, that’s just fine. It’s not like you guys need my personal permission.” I knew they had to be careful. It was only a few weeks ago that Rommel’s brazen push toward Cairo had been stopped at El Alamein, and it was pretty much guaranteed that he’d try it again. Things weren’t going so well for the Nazis in North Africa, and we all hoped that if Rommel made a second assault, Monty’s boys would stop him in his tracks.

  The level rays of the rising sun glanced off the wing as the pilot banked the plane sharply, and suddenly the city of Cairo seemed to spring up out of the earth like one of those pop-up books they sell for children. I forgot everything—the blond kid, my coffee, the fact that I was even in an airplane. I’d never seen anything like it. I had expected a dusty desert landscape, but what I saw instead was the broad sweep of the Nile River, with lush green plains stretching north as far as the eye could see. On the other side, there was the Sahara, with its miles and miles of gently rolling dunes colored golden by the rising sun. It was more beautiful than I had imagined, and I remembered a daydream I’d had one day, standing on a bridge straddling the Delaware River. I was sailing on the Nile, borne away and drifting before the prevailing winds, serene and unencumbered.

  I’d climbed that bridge to kill myself, but there had been a tiny sailboat tacking before the wind, venturing down the Delaware like it had every right to be there and then some. It had stopped me cold, and the sight of it reminded me of a picture I’d seen somewhere, of graceful feluccas sailing on the Nile. Right then, I had wanted to go to Egypt more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life. I didn’t know how I’d get there or when. I just knew that I was going to Egypt. It was fate. I hadn’t counted on any of the things that had happened to me the past few months: my spur-of-the-moment move to Newfoundland, the cafe, a new life. I’d been miserable in Philadelphia, caught up in something dark and horrible and ugly, something I figured I could never escape—and before I even knew what was happening, I had a cafe of my own in downtown St. John’s, a sexy Louisiana bartender named Chris, and a brand-new lease on life. And Sam Halim.

  I met Sam when he came into my cafe looking for directions. That wasn’t so unusual; tourists did it all the time. But Sam had been different. After the hard time I’d had back in Philadelphia, I wasn’t looking to fall in love with anybody. No, sir, I’d had my fill of love and everything that went with it.

  “I am looking for a particular building, which I believe is somewhere around here. They told me it has an arch on the front. It is a red brick and sandstone building. Do you know it?” I’d never heard a voice so deep and rich, full of sun and desert heat and exotic sensuality. He wasn’t particularly tall—maybe five eight or so. But, my God, he was beautiful: huge, long-lashed brown eyes in a lean face, a sensuous mouth under his tightly groomed mustache. I’d felt my knees go weak just looking at him. All it took was a glance, brother, and I was gone for good.

  “There’s the airstrip.” The blond kid nudged me with his elbow. “We’ll be on the ground in a minute. Better buckle in.”

  I fastened the safety belt and tried to quell the jumping in my stomach. It wasn’t the flight or the prospect of our imminent landing that was doing it to me, but that finally I was in Egypt. Finally, I was going to find Sam and help him remember.

  I HAILED a cab outside the little terminal building and climbed inside. The heat, even this early in the morning, was incredible; it rose off the ground in shimmering waves, and the air felt like a hot, dry blanket. “You ever get used to the heat around these parts?”

  The driver was a young fellow perhaps twenty years of age, wearing native dress. “The heat? I do not notice, effendi. My name is Shiva.” His English was excellent. “Where might I be taking you today?”

  I gave him directi
ons to Shepheard Hotel on the Shari’ Muski in the Ezbekieh district. Frankie Missalo had given it the thumbs-up as far as hotels went. I knew nothing about Cairo, and I hadn’t wanted to take a chance on ending up in some fleabag buried out in the native quarter. If Frankie thought Shepheard’s was the best place to stay in Cairo, I believed him.

  The Cairo streets were absolutely jam-packed with vehicles, people, and animals, all seemingly intent on getting ahead with little regard for anyone or anything. Shiva merged fearlessly into what appeared to be a never ending swarm of traffic and, horn blaring, blasted through an intersection with utter disregard for other cars, many of which were forced to a screeching halt to avoid us. A donkey cart, piled high with fresh produce, swerved in front of us, mounting the sidewalk in a last-ditch bid to avoid a motorcycle carrying two young men and a goat. Two blocks later, Shiva executed a right-hand turn that involved multiple hand signals (some of the offensive variety) and a sudden and unexpected slalom across three lanes of traffic.

  “Hey, maybe you should slow down there, Shiva.” I was suddenly glad I’d opted to sit in the back seat instead of the front. “You’re liable to hit somebody.”

  “It is fine.” He smiled over his shoulder at me. “In Cairo, everybody understands the way the traffic works.”

  There were no stop signs or traffic signals that I could see, and I figured the lines painted on the road were there for decoration, since nobody seemed to care what lane he was—or wasn’t—in. Add to that the sheer confusion created by people, vehicles, and animals, and by the time Shiva dropped me at the front entrance of my hotel, I was ready to fall on my knees and kiss the ground. I even tipped him extra, as thanks for getting me there alive.

  Shepheard’s was incredible. I’d seen luxury in my time, but this was something else completely. I could have shaved using only my reflection in the marble floors. I wasn’t sure what sort of picture I made, standing there grimy and unshaven from endless hours in an airplane, with my duffel bag slung over one shoulder and my luggage heaped up in a pile around me. I’d also brought my .45 Colt automatic with me, but unless they specifically asked, I was keeping that particular bit of info to myself. “Jack Stoyles. I have a reservation.”

  The young woman at the desk was one of several clerks who were busy being officious.

  “Mr. Stoyles, of course. North Atlantic Command advised us to expect you. Your room is ready. Please, follow me.”

  North Atlantic Command? She had me all wrong, but the thought of a hot shower and clean clothes overrode my innate honesty, so I kept my mouth shut. She showed me to a suite decorated in cream and gold and blue, dominated by a huge bed that you had to walk up a flight of steps to get to. “Wow.” I dropped my bag on the floor. “This is really nice.”

  She handed me my key. “My name is Tania. Should you need anything at all during your stay, Mr. Stoyles, please call down to the front desk, and we will be happy to oblige.”

  I reached into my pocket for a tip, but she held up a beautifully manicured hand. “All costs have been taken care of, including gratuities.” She handed me a small, buff-colored envelope. “This message was left for you at the desk.” And before I could thank her, she was gone. I closed the door and tore open the envelope, expecting to find a note from my old pal Frankie. A slip of yellow paper, neatly folded in half, fell out onto the floor. I bent to pick it up. The handwriting didn’t look at all familiar to me. Mr. Stoyles, it read, you will please meet me on the terrace for tea at four o’clock this afternoon. Observe the red flower.

  Red flower? What was that all about? I turned the note over, but there was nothing written on the back. Whoever had sent it hadn’t bothered to sign it. Frankie had told me how, in the old days, people would make appointments to have tea on the terrace at Shepheard’s, that it was a kind of see-and-be-seen ritual. You knew you were somebody if you took afternoon tea in the English tradition on the terrace. Well, I didn’t know if I was somebody, but if Red Flower wanted to meet on the terrace, I was game.

  I stripped off my grimy clothes and went into the bathroom. The tub was huge, as lavish as everything else, and I was hoping there was plenty of hot water. I turned the shower on full and just stood under the spray for a while, letting the water wash away the dust of my journey. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe I was just missing him, but I found myself thinking about Sam. I closed my eyes and let my imagination run wild, and pretty soon the water started to feel like somebody’s hands on my body….

  …like Sam Halim’s hands on my body. Oh yeah, now there was one hot fantasy: naked with Sam under a blood-warm stream of water, touching him and being touched in return, smoothing my palms over his wet skin, his mouth on mine. It was like those dreams I’d started having right after I met him, of sailing on the Nile and making love under the hot Egyptian sun. We’d never done anything, had never gone any further than a kiss, but I somehow knew the things he’d like, the way he’d want to be touched and the caresses that would make him cry out, make him forget himself, make him come.

  I wrapped one hand around my cock and let the other slide across my chest, touching, teasing my nipples and the flat of my belly. The hot water thundered down on my nape and shoulders as I stroked myself, and somehow it seemed like Sam’s hand was covering mine, and his arm was around my waist, holding me. I came like a freight train, my knees almost buckling from the force of my orgasm. And through my half-closed eyes, I could almost see him standing there in front of me, water dripping down his face and beading on his lashes. This is what I want, as well as you.

  I turned off the water, staggered to the bed, and was almost instantly asleep.

  WHEN I stepped out onto the terrace at five minutes to four that afternoon, the waiters were wearing native dress and the typically inscrutable expressions you see in all those desert movies. I’d slept for what seemed like days and woken with a raging appetite. I hoped that the tea here was a full English affair, with sandwiches and pastries. I felt like I could eat the proverbial horse, dressed with a little mayonnaise and nestled between two thick slices of San Francisco sourdough.

  I wondered when Red Flower would show up and introduce himself. It turned out I didn’t have long to wait. Someone brushed against my elbow in passing, and I smelled a hint of some exotic perfume. The red flower was a giant hibiscus pinned to the lapel of a pink dress.

  Red Flower was a woman.

  “Mr. Stoyles.” She wore a broad brimmed hat that partially shielded her face, but I could see that she was beautiful—dark-haired and dark-eyed with a neat figure. I wondered who she was and who had sent her, and I wondered if I needed to worry. “I have taken the liberty of reserving a table away from the crowd. If you would care to follow me?” She led me to a tiny table already set for two, located behind a group of potted palms. A silent waiter appeared to seat us. Red Flower said something to him in Arabic, and he disappeared.

  “Doesn’t this sort of ruin the effect?” I gestured at our surroundings. “I thought the point of having tea on the terrace was to be seen.”

  “Is that why you came here?” She leaned over the table. “To be seen?”

  “Maybe I should be asking you the same question.” It felt like being interrogated, and I didn’t like it.

  “Mr. Stoyles”—she looked up as the waiter reappeared, bearing a pot of tea and a three-tiered tray loaded with dainties—“will you take tea?”

  I was more than capable of fixing my own plate or anybody else’s, but I reminded myself that this was their country, and they did things differently here. She selected sandwiches and tiny cakes and poured the tea.

  “Thank you.”

  “You no doubt are wondering who I am and why I have summoned you here.” She gazed at me with her beautiful liquid eyes, and I figured this was some kind of ploy. I’m naturally suspicious, and I’d heard about all the different tricks your average Egyptian employs to get himself a little of your tourist baksheesh, but she didn’t seem the type.

  “Yeah, you could say I�
�m a little curious.” I sipped my tea. It was excellent. “Maybe you can tell me what your game is.”

  A muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Mr. Stoyles, I know you are here looking for Samuel Halim.”

  I’d been buttering a scone; I stopped. “Yeah?” There was something not right about this. No. Strike that. Everything about this wasn’t right. I had the distinct feeling I was being set up.

  “I, too, am very interested in finding Samuel Halim.”

  I put my knife down with a clang. “Is that so? Suppose you tell me what for.”

  Her dark eyes were suddenly full of tears. “My name is Tareenah, Mr. Stoyles. Samuel Halim is… my husband.”

  I was glad I hadn’t taken a bite of my scone because I’m pretty sure I would have choked. Yeah, I knew Sam was married; it was one of the first things he’d told me once we got to know each other. I just couldn’t figure out what she was doing here, or how she knew about me. “I’m… pleased to meet you, Mrs. Halim.”

  She covered her face with her hands and cried, and something inside me just crumbled. Call me a sap if you like, but I can’t handle seeing a dame cry. I pulled out my handkerchief and offered it to her, mumbling what I hoped were comforting words. But I didn’t dare touch her. I knew better. Your average Egyptian male doesn’t take too kindly to a foreigner looking at, never mind pawing over, a native woman. I’d end up beaten to a pulp and dumped in an alley somewhere—if I were lucky.

  “Thank you.” She accepted my handkerchief and dabbed at her tears. She really was the most astonishingly beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I could tell she hated losing her composure like that, and in front of a foreigner. “Mr. Stoyles, you are wondering how I came to know about your… friendship with my husband.” She pleated the damp handkerchief in her hands as she talked. “You are wondering why a woman like me would take such chances, meeting you in a public place.”