Oasis of Night

by J. S. Cook

  There was the sound of papers rustling. “Of course, Mr. Stoyles. Nick is a favorite with our guests. Shall I send him up to your room straight away?”

  “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.” I waited in my white hotel bathrobe, feeling a bit ridiculous and wondering if all this luxury was really necessary. Out there in the world, a war was raging, and the Nazis were doing their level best to capture North Africa, while somewhere, Sam Halim was caught up in it. Was this why I’d come to Egypt, so I could enjoy myself, sitting here in this fine hotel and soaking up the lush life? I didn’t have time to contemplate further because there was a polite tapping at my door, and I opened it to find six feet of lean, redheaded Texan gazing back at me. He had the well-developed arms and chest of a swimmer, and a swimmer’s narrow waist. His coppery hair was vaguely crew cut, but disheveled in a way that suggested somebody’d had their fingers in it recently. As soon as he saw me, he put down the portable massage table and reached to shake my hand.

  His accent was pure San Antonio. “Mr. Stoyles, it sure is good to meet another American. How’s about I come in and get set up?”

  “Sure, Nick.”

  “Most people call me Tex.” He grinned, the kind of smile that made me think some pretty dangerous thoughts. “Ain’t nobody but my grandma ever calls me Nick.”

  I stood back as he snapped open the massage bed and spread clean towels on it. A couple of minutes later, he was inviting me to strip off and lie down.

  If you’ve never had a real massage performed by a professional, let me be the first to recommend it. And if the idea of a perfect stranger rubbing and stroking you seems a bit much, trust me, you don’t know what you’re missing. Within ten minutes, I was relaxed to within an inch of my life. Within twenty, I was almost melting off the table as his strong, capable hands kneaded every ounce of tension out of my back and shoulders.

  The more relaxed I got, the more I found myself thinking of Sam and wondering where he was. The telephone call I’d received from him, back home in Newfoundland, confused me. 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. What did that mean? Was somebody messing with his memory? I understood why everybody was so tight-lipped. If Sam really was out of the country on secret wartime business, a misdirected word in the wrong quarters could get him killed. Then there was Sergeant Samir, a guy I was pretty sure had hated me on sight; I couldn’t figure it, since he didn’t know me from a bucket of rocks. Why the antagonism? Maybe he hadn’t liked me asking about Sam, or maybe Sam had entrusted him with secret information. That would tend to make him a bit twitchy. And that whole scene in the police station, pinning me to the wall like that. It wasn’t just my imagination. Something had passed between us, something that had nothing to do with police work.

  “You wanna turn over, Mr. Stoyles, and I’ll do your arms and legs?” Tex tapped the bottom of my foot, and I did as he requested. I figured he’d offer me a towel or something, but he didn’t, and then I wondered if maybe I wasn’t making too big a thing of it. I’d been naked in front of other men before. In high school, I’d run track, and played some baseball in college. I’d seen my share of locker rooms and what went on in them. You’d think I wouldn’t care one way or another, except Tex was really gorgeous, and he was looking me over now with frank appreciation. “You keep yourself in good shape, Mr. Stoyles.”

  “Everybody calls me Jack.”

  “You keep yourself in good shape, Jack.” He took my right hand in his and rubbed oil into my palm, gently squeezing and pressing. At first it hurt a little, but he kept it up and pretty soon it started to feel real good. “Most people hold a lot of tension in their hands. Nobody ever realizes how much time they spend clenching their fists.” He rubbed the tight web of flesh between my index finger and thumb, gently distributing the oil until warmth spread up my arm, dispersing into my chest. “Don’t mind if I chat, do you?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “It’s just that I don’t get much of a chance these days to talk to another American.” His grin did wonderful things to that gorgeous face. “I miss it.”

  “I see what you mean.” I grunted as his fingers dug into the tight muscles of my forearm. “How long you been in Cairo?”

  “Since before the war, but I bummed around quite a bit before that. You here on vacation?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Where you from?”

  “I’m living in Newfoundland now, but I’m originally from Philly.”

  “Philly, huh? My sister moved to Philly a few years back.” He started in on the other arm. “She was engaged to a guy there, but it didn’t work out.” He swept his thumbs in broad circles from my wrist to my elbow and back again.

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s dead.” His hands stopped moving and my guts twisted into a knot. “Yeah, she uh….” He went very still and very quiet, and when next he spoke, his voice was full of sorrow. “She wrote my mother she was coming home, and then we didn’t hear anything from her. It was kind of weird, because Judy—that’s what we called her; her name was Judith but she hated that name—Judy was real good about keeping her promises.” He leaned over me and began playing his hands down my torso in long, sweeping strokes. “That wasn’t too long ago… last year, in fact.” Something must have shown in my face, because all of a sudden, he was looking at me intently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you my whole life story.”

  “It’s okay.” I sounded like my throat was stuffed with cotton. “Was she… in an accident?”

  He shook his head. “No. She went to see one of these doctors. She was gonna have a baby, and I guess maybe she didn’t want that.” He smoothed warm circles into my hipbones. “Turns out he wasn’t really a doctor at all… not anymore.”

  “Jesus.” I’d driven Judy there that day and waited for her outside in my car. I offered to go in with her, but she didn’t want that. Maybe he’d been a doctor once, before the state medical board took away his license. Now he couldn’t even write a prescription, let alone perform abortions on women scared and desperate enough to go to him. Christ, I remembered it like it was yesterday, every sordid detail, and thinking about it now was making me sick. It was some kind of screwy odds that I’d ended up meeting Judy’s brother in a place like this, or maybe what they say about running from your past is true. No matter where you go, there you are. Yeah, maybe that was it.

  Tex’s hands spread more oil on my hips, his long fingers roaming toward my cock. I knew I didn’t want that. I gently caught one of his hands and smiled at him. “What say we skip the happy ending, huh? You don’t have to do that.” His face registered a subtle hurt, and I rushed to reassure him. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

  “Oh.” He turned away to wipe his hands on a towel. “I’m sorry. I just assumed….”

  “Not your fault.” I rolled off the table and went to get my wallet. I guess I was ashamed of myself, because I tipped him a lot more than the going rate. “Is it okay if I request your services again?”

  He looked at the money, then nodded and slid the bills into his pocket. “You’re a right guy, Jack.”

  No, I’m not, but you don’t need to know that. “Thanks, Tex. I’ll see you around, huh?”

  Tex had hardly gone before the phone in my hotel room opened up. It was Mrs. Halim. “I am hosting a small gathering this evening with a few of my husband’s friends from the community. I would like it very much if you were there. Someone else will be attending as well. I am hoping you might be able to… discuss some things with him.” She didn’t say it, but I knew she wanted me to come so I could size up the other guests. She was hoping this evening’s little shindig might provide me with some ammunition in my search for Sam. “I have just one request, Mr. Stoyles.”

  “Name it.”

  “You must not tell anyone you know my husband. Do you understand? Under no circumstances are you to mention you and my husband have
met or tell anyone the purpose of your visit to Cairo.”

  Chapter 2

  SHIVA’S TAXI let me out in front of an all white house in a residential district of Cairo. The house was the traditional, flat-roofed design, with the outer door opening first into an inner courtyard, complete with a small fountain and assortment of native plants. I sensed this last was Sam’s idea, and seeing the lush green aloes and Egyptian grasses made me miss him so much, it was almost a physical ache. The winding, tiled pathway leading up to the main door was accented in shades of cream and midnight blue, colors I knew he liked. Sam was the sort of man who lived life fully, with all of his senses; I’d known there was something special about him the first time I laid eyes on him. That feeling had remained, had grown and blossomed into something I hesitated to call love, but was devoted friendship for sure.

  My knock was answered by a huge Egyptian in formal dress. “Good evening,” I said. “Mrs. Halim invited me.”

  “Masaa’ al-khayr.” He peered narrowly at me, his dark-eyed gaze moving slowly over my features, as though he were committing my face to some internal rogues’ gallery. “Ma esmouk?”

  A hot flush crawled up my neck. I didn’t have the slightest clue what he was saying, or even why he was saying it to me. Was he asking for identification? A written invitation? “Uh, look buddy… sorry to disappoint, but I don’t speak Arabic, or whatever that is.”

  He gazed at me blankly. “Aasef! La moshkelah!” He smiled broadly, which could have meant anything at all.

  “Uh….” The heat in my neck bloomed on my cheeks and forehead, and I began to sweat. A nearby group of people stopped their discussion and drifted my way, clearly intrigued with what was going on. “Look, buddy, I don’t speak Arabic. English only.”

  “English.” His accent was thick, but understandable. “Good evening. What is your name?”

  “Jack Stoyles.” I was so relieved, I could have kissed him. “Mrs. Halim invited me.”

  “Excellent.” He bowed and indicated I was to follow him. “Right this way.”

  He led me through a stone archway into a great room where people were talking and laughing to a background of traditional Egyptian music. I saw no one I knew. My first instinct was to go away, but at that moment, I spied Ibrahim Samir standing by himself near a small alcove just off the main room.

  I stepped back into the shadows and watched him as he stood contemplating a large, framed portrait of Sam Halim in full uniform. This was a little odd. Most Moslems frowned on making images and confined their artistic efforts to such things as carpets and fine fabrics, but I was swiftly learning Sam Halim wasn’t your usual Moslem. The man in the picture looked stern and a little sad, and there were a lot of medals pinned to his breast; he wasn’t looking at the photographer but instead gazed off into the middle distance, absorbed in something only he could see. Samir raised his hand and touched the portrait’s lips, then touched his own mouth with the same hand—a shockingly intimate gesture. He murmured something I couldn’t quite hear, and I turned quickly, pretending absorption in a woven wall hanging. I figured I was already on Samir’s bad side, but I wasn’t interested in mixing it up with him, not here and certainly not now.

  “Salam alekum.”

  The little voice came from somewhere down around my knees and, glancing down, I saw a small boy, perhaps seven years of age, tugging at the hem of my tunic. In deference to local customs, I’d worn Egyptian dress. I wasn’t quite ready for the white, ankle-length burnoose but, acting on Shiva’s advice, I’d purchased a long-sleeved, dark green tunic with gold embroidery and a pair of loose white trousers. “Yeah, salaam to you, too.”

  “Have you seen my father?” His round, smooth face was Tareenah Halim’s, but his soft brown eyes and elegantly arched brows were all Sam. “I wish he would come home.”

  I crouched so we were at eye level. “Do you miss him?”

  He nodded, close to tears, and I was seized with the sudden urge to fold him into a hug. “He said he will bring me a toy monkey and some books. I’m too old for toys, really, but I like it when he reads to me.”

  Sam had shown me his photograph, back home in Newfoundland. These are my four children: Samuel, Hanbal, Stamos, and Tabia. They live in Cairo. I nodded as if we two shared a confidence. “I won’t tell anyone your secret.”

  A shadow fell between us. “Stamos, you are supposed to be in bed.”

  I stood up. “Mrs. Halim, good evening.” She was wearing a pale pink robe edged in gold, and gold shimmered at her wrists and earlobes. She was even lovelier than I remembered.

  She inclined her head. “Welcome to my home. Stamos, to bed.” The boy scampered off into another part of the house. “I would extend the hospitality of my household to you. Please partake of some refreshment.” She led me to a buffet table groaning with food and helped me to heap my plate with Egyptian delicacies. “I am glad you were able to attend.” She placed a glass of fruit juice into my hand. “It is good you are here.”

  “Mrs. Halim, why am I here?” I’d puzzled over it all the way here in the taxi. “You told me what not to do, but—”

  “Not now.” She ducked her head. “Please. Circulate, and listen carefully. There may be some among my husband’s intimates who know where he has gone.”

  I did as she asked, working my way slowly from room to room, pretending interest in the potted plants and the varied textures of Tareenah Halim’s rugs. It wasn’t hard to do: nobody knew me, I didn’t know them, and most conversation was conducted in Arabic. Three men in formal Egyptian robes were standing by a window, speaking quietly together. I made my way over there, but they must have realized what I was up to because they scattered like flies in a strong wind as soon as I came close. Two men wearing the khaki drill of the Long-Range Desert Group spoke to one another in accents that sounded vaguely English, but were probably Australian; a broad-shouldered giant of a man wearing a Greek colonel’s uniform came to stand nearby. A police siren sounded outside, and I went to the window, pretending curiosity. As it faded into the distance, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Sergeant Samir. “What is it you are doing, Mr. Stoyles?” Samir wasn’t in uniform, but all the same he looked real good. He was wearing a dark blue tunic over the traditional white trousers, and he smelled faintly of soap and sandalwood.

  “Going to ask me for identification, Samir? Or isn’t that your usual shtick?”

  “I have no idea what you are babbling about.” He looked me up and down disdainfully. “I am surprised to see you dressed like this.”

  “My cardboard box is at the cleaners.” I swayed closer to him—maybe too close, because he stepped back half a pace. “Mrs. Halim invited you, too?”

  “I am Captain Halim’s personal assistant, and a good friend of the Halim family.” He wasn’t comfortable out of uniform; without a Sam Browne belt, he had nowhere to rest his hands. “I am invited to all their gatherings.” He paused to let two ladies and a young boy pass by. I noticed he bowed slightly, but did not look directly at either of the women. Sergeant Samir’d had his manners drilled into him by somebody. Either that, or he was the world’s biggest toady. “You still have not answered me.”

  “I’m not required to, but since you asked so nice, I’ll tell you. Mrs. Halim invited me.”

  “Why did she invite you?” His tone was contemptuous. “You are… nobody.”

  For a second, it felt like being back at home in St. John’s. If I closed my eyes to the surroundings, I could have sworn the constabulary’s finest, Sergeant Alphonsus Picco, was dismissively grilling me. “Thank you very much, Sergeant Samir. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know a cop named Picco, would you?”

  His dark brows creased. “Pickle?”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Skip it. The Halims have a nice place, huh? Too bad Sam isn’t here to enjoy the party. Not like him to run away, though. I wonder what’s up.”

  I must have struck a nerve. His back stiffened, and he stared at me like I’d just opened my
fly and pissed against the wall. “Shut your mouth, Mr. Stoyles.”

  “Kind of makes you wonder where he is, why he isn’t here.” I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “I don’t suppose he’s run out on Mrs. Halim and the kids?”

  Samir’s hand lashed out, quick as a snake, and struck me a stinging slap across the face. Two elderly men standing nearby turned and stared. I reached out, grabbed Samir’s collar, and slammed him against the wall. “Take your hands off me,” he barked, “or I will—”

  “You’ll what?” I let him go, waited while he smoothed his tunic. “I’ve wanted to have a word with you, Samir, ever since the police station.”

  He raised his chin, his black eyes snapping. “I am ready whenever you are.” He inclined his head. “Perhaps we might talk in the garden?”

  “That suits me just fine. Lead the way.”

  The courtyard of the Halim house was circled by a tiled walkway that led down a forested slope toward the Nile. I followed Ibrahim Samir away from the house and toward the smooth swath of dark water; he led me to a tiny wooden structure set within a grove of trees at the water’s edge, and then stopped. He turned to face me, and slammed his hands against my shoulders, knocking me back against a wooden post. It was dark, and I wasn’t prepared enough to fend off his attack, which had caught me completely by surprise. And then he was close to me, his hands on my face, gentle.

  “Just what the hell are you doing, Samir?”

  He murmured quiet words in Arabic and drew back. “I should not have slapped you.”

  I floundered for a moment, dumbfounded at my reaction to him. “Still want to take me by force?” The waters of the Nile lapped gently against the wooden boards, and I held him there, my fingers digging into his biceps. “Or are we playing some other game now?” I could have him, I realized, if I wanted him. I could possess him here and now, and he’d let me do whatever I wanted.