“Obviously, they don’t have enough civilized facilities for relieving one’s self,” Lady Warton sniffs.
“Dinner is served with gold and silver utensils in his palace, but using one’s fingers is for his desert-warrior image.” Von Reich leans closer and says in a low voice, “When you sit, don’t have your feet pointing directly toward someone else. The Egyptians consider it bad luck.”
“Thank you. Anything else I should know?”
“Let the men do the talking.” He grins and gives me a wink. “Women are considered decoration.”
With that said, the two “gentlemen” leave us to mingle, abandoning me to her ladyship who scowls around with the sourpuss expression that appears painted permanently on her face.
“I need to quench my thirst,” Lady Warton says as she heads for a bare-chested man dressed only in big bellowing, yellow pantaloons, and a red turban. He’s holding a large silver platter filled with glasses of pomegranate juice.
Von Reich told us earlier that the foreign men attending the banquet will be mostly European businessmen and some military officers. I see a few other European women present, no doubt the wives of the men attending since a single woman would not have been invited, nor would any Islamic women.
The women remind me of those at the high-society tea parties I used to cover for the Pittsburgh Gazette—overdressed and overpowered. Like Lady Warton, they wear flowery silk or lace dresses that are fastened in the back with tiny buttons smaller than the tip of my pinkie, which require assistance from maids.
Making no claims to being a great beauty, I dress for comfort, preferring clothing that is simple, with little lace, frills, or those prickly petticoats intended to make dresses full, or as one dressmaker told me, “ladylike.”
Von Reich and Lord Warton had changed from their traveling clothes.
A few of the European men are in black or dark gray morning dress, the daytime version of white tie with its cutaway coats, striped pants, and silk top hats, but most wear the same type of white linen suits that Von Reich and the peer wear.
Military officers are all dressed pretty much the same, from pith helmets to boots with highly starched uniforms in between.
While a few Egyptians and Turks present wear Western suits and fez hats, the only men who seem to appear comfortable in the warmth of the afternoon are the ones in traditional Arab desert clothing that permits air to circulate—flowing white tunics with sleeveless cloaks made of cotton, linen, or silk, all of light colors, blue, green, yellow, that extend just below their shins, while loose tasseled belts of braided gold silk adorn their waist. Even their rope sandals look cooler than most footwear.
A weapon is one accessory all the males agree upon—the British with their Webley revolvers, the French with their officer’s version of the Chamelot-Delvigne. The Arabs have hanging from their belts scimitars or daggers decorated with pearls, diamonds, all sorts of precious gems, weapons that lack the range of a pistol, but no doubt as effective if one has been raised cutting his teeth on such blades.
I would not have been surprised to find women carrying derringers in their satchels, especially French women who tend to be worldlier than most other women because their country is at the crossroads of everything international.
It’s rather amusing to watch the British and French men sipping the rich, Turkish coffee out of those dainty little demitasse cups … the Westerners look so out of place, their pinkies sticking straight up in the air. I’m sure they’d rather be drinking a brandy but the Egyptians are teetotalers—at least in public.
A low rumble erupts that slowly vibrates into a loud, deep boom as a large gong is struck and bronze trumpets blare as a group of men arrives on camels.
It’s obvious that the man in front is our host—he’s riding the only pure white camel. His Bedouin robes are silk, not cotton or wool, and are trimmed with precious stones—glittering rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. But the real clincher is that a servant goes down on all fours beside the sheikh’s kneeling camel so the sheikh can step on him as he gets off the animal. I wince as he steps onto this human footstool … the sheikh is not a small man; he must be close to two hundred pounds.
He walks on a red carpet that has been rolled out from a table heavily guarded by Saracens with long swords—and pistols tucked in their waistbands.
“I’m afraid you ladies must fend for yourselves for a while,” Von Reich says. “His lordship and I have been invited to join the sheikh at his table.” There’s a little pride and male superiority in his tone.
As they head for his table I do a double take at someone who takes a seat next to the sheikh—Frederick Selous, the Dark Continent explorer who claims to have talked to a dead man on the beach.
Before I get over that surprise, another man emerges from a dark area behind the sheikh and joins them at the table—the marketplace magician, the one Von Reich called a Psylli.
I start to tell Lady Warton that I shall run screaming from the tent if John Cleveland materializes, but she has slipped away to get another drink. When she returns, I ask if Von Reich and her husband are friends of the sheikh.
“Von Reich met him in Cairo. My husband has never met the man, but they have a common interest—horse racing. My husband breeds racehorses, and the sheikh requested he join him to discuss their animals.”
“I love horses. I had one of my own. I’ve been in quite a few shows and won ribbons at county fairs in the States.”
“How nice.” She makes it sound as if I have won a consolation prize at a penny arcade.
Keeping a polite smile plastered on my face, I groan inwardly, telling myself that I have to stop trying to hold a civil conversation with this disdainful woman and simply make listening responses to whatever she says.
The sheikh sits down at his table and claps his hands. We are now allowed to sit.
The soulful wailing of a woodwind instrument fills the tent as bare-footed, veiled women enter. They’re dressed in lush purple silk garbs that cling to their bodies, emphasizing their graceful contour. Yellow scarfs, fringed with coins, are tied around their hips.
Every feature of these women is exquisite—long, silky black hair, golden skin, ample breasts, and well-endowed hips—and all are perfectly proportioned. Swaying to the hypnotic music, they extend their arms outward, beckoning us to join them. The top part of their garb slips ever so slightly off their shoulders as their hips sway in a circular, hypnotic motion to the rhythm of the music.
Tiny cymbals held between their fingers make quick snapping clangs, as incredible feats of flexibility are performed with their belly muscles. Gradually they bend backward until their tresses sweep the carpet. Shouts from the men grow deafening as they perform this inverted feature. Like the men, I find myself captivated with the women’s hips as they sway with such sexual precision, back and forth, till they are still. Then the yelling stops and I start breathing again.
What a gravity-defying, erotic movement to watch.
“Raqs Sharqi,” Lady Warton whispers, “the dance of the Orient, claims to be the oldest dance in the world.”
“Amazing,” is all I can say.
The gong shatters the silence and brings us out of our trances as the women leave as exotically as they came.
Male servants enter carrying silver platters laden with vegetables grown on the Nile Delta—carrots, onions, tomatoes, radishes, and turnips—wooded bowls filled with couscous, and crystal bowls overflowing with shredded coconut, honey, dates, figs, olives, grapes, and pomegranates.
It’s all so lavish, but also wasteful because it’s impossible for us to eat all this food. I’m sure that in Port Said there are families that would survive a month on just a few platters of the food served here.
Two men carry in a platter that holds a lamb and place it in front of the sheikh who plucks the eyes out of the lamb and pops them in his mouth.
I force myself to keep a poker face. He really looks like he’s enjoying them. But as my grandmother alwa
ys said, “To each his own, said the old lady when she kissed the cow.” I’m just glad I’m not eating the eyes.
He proceeds to cut off a leg and then takes a stuffing of dates and figs from inside the belly with his right hand. When he’s done the lamb is passed to another table where a man cuts out the tongue.
I’m quickly losing my appetite, but my real focus is not on food as I keep a surreptitious eye on the men at our host’s table.
No coincidence, is my reaction. I can’t tell what they are talking about, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it is about me, the key, and John Cleveland. And maybe the snake man is telling them he could put a cobra in my bed.
“Have you eaten something that disagrees with you?” Lady Warton asks. “You have the oddest look on your face.”
“No, I’m fine. I was just thinking about what a small world it is.”
She raises her eyebrows. “In what way?”
“Oh, all these people from so many places. Look—even the snake magician from the marketplace is here.” Unable to resist the temptation, I add, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Cleveland paid us a visit.”
She gives me a crocodile smile. “Let’s hope he does so you will be able to dismiss those silly notions about him being dead.”
Touché! Wonderland’s queen has chopped off my head again.
Dishes are cleared away and once again the gong booms. Dozens of men wearing the traditional long loose garments of cotton or rough wool, with full sleeves and hood, appear outside the tent.
The men lie down on the sand, arranging themselves in a row like sardines, side to side, each one pressed so close to the next there is not the slightest space between their bodies, as if they’re forming a floor. A man casually walks down the line of bodies.
Lord Warton and Von Reich join us after the sheikh leaves his table where Mr. Selous and the magician remain huddled together in what appears to be a deep conversation.
“Why is that man walking over them?” I ask Von Reich.
“To make sure that this human plank will hold.”
“Hold what?”
“They’re preparing for a ceremony called Doseh, which means treading.
“Treading?” I ask.
“Yes, but it’s best not to tell you what’s going to happen. After it’s over, if you like, I’ll explain why it’s done.”
Trumpets blare and the sheikh appears astride a white Arabian stallion led by two grooms. Its thick mane flows down his side, his tail high in the air.
The sheikh makes a clicking noise with his tongue and the grooms let go of the stallion.
The horse advances with long, exaggerated steps, stepping up onto the human plank.
The big Arabian stallion with the sheikh aboard must weigh close to fourteen hundred pounds.
And it’s walking on the men!
13
“The treading,” Von Reich tells us, enjoying his role as scholar, “is a ritual done in memory of a miracle performed by a Muslim saint. The saint rode his horse into Cairo over earthenware jars without breaking them. It’s believed that the sheikh who reenacts this ceremony cannot hurt the prostrate men, just as the saint didn’t break the jars. If any of the men die, it’s due to their sins.”
Another couple had joined us to hear the man from Vienna’s explanation.
“That’s horrible.” I see it as an act of arrogant oppression by the mighty against the helpless. I had gaped at the brutal spectacle, unable to move an inch, as the horse’s powerful hooves had come down like sledgehammers, on one man and then the next. “Why doesn’t the sheikh just use jars as the saint did?”
“And take the chance of cutting the hoofs of his prize stallion? His horses are much more valuable,” Lord Warton says.
Everyone—except me—gets a good chuckle over the sheikh prizing his horses over his subjects, egging the peer on. “The noblest of men and desert nomads love, admire, and cherish their horses—”
“Sometimes more than their wives,” Lady Warton interjects.
“I’m speaking of Arab men, my dear.” Lord Warton grins at the other men. “Wouldn’t you agree that if one has several wives, as many of these Arabs do,” he pronounces it A-rabs, “sometimes they’ll find sweeter dispositions in the stables than in the main house?”
The men enjoy another chuckle.
“There’s a line from Sir Walter Scott’s The Talisman,” Lord Warton says, “which describes the impression of the Crusader knights of King Richard the Lion-Hearted when they first encounter the magnificent Arabian horses in the Holy Land: ‘They spurned the sand from behind them; they seemed to devour the desert before them; miles flew away with minutes—and yet their strength seemed unabated…’”
“The prophet Muhammad said every man shall love his horse,” Von Reich adds. “Bedouins will go without food before they would let their horses starve.”
“But what about the men who have to endure the sheikh’s horse?” I ask in vain, knowing these people have no compassion for the underdog.
“The peasants consider it a privilege to be treaded upon,” Lord Warton says.
“Really? I wonder how any of us would feel if we had to lay on the ground back home and let royalty walk their horses across our backs.”
Von Reich gives me a small grin, but I get stony silence from the others. When they start comparing Arabian horses to quarter horses, I wander off, heading for the back of the tent in the direction I had seen Mr. Selous and the magician exit.
Strange bedfellows, the magician who was performing where a man was killed and the Brit who talked to the dead man. The two are huddled together, walking slowly, talking too low for me to hear. Very discourteous of them, not speaking loud enough for me to eavesdrop.
The two disappear into the ruins and rather than running to find them and making a perfect fool of myself by getting caught, I veer off to see the ruins by light of flaming torches that have been set up to permit guests to enjoy the antiquities.
It’s a bit eerie seeing the ancient monuments under the ghostly glow of the full moon and the flickering torchlight, but a few other people are wandering about, too.
I come around a pillar and find myself abruptly face to the face with the magician. He is not blocking my way, but not moving, either; just standing still, staring at me with the blackest eyes I’ve ever seen. I give a quick look about, but his British companion is not in sight.
Forcing a smile and a “Good evening,” I start to go around him when I spot a scarab hanging from a gold chain around his neck. Not a brother to the one slipped into my pocket, the magician’s amulet is a blood ruby, almost heart shaped and encrusted with precious stones.
Worth a fortune, I think, as I raise my eyes to meet his. Not at all what one would expect a marketplace magician to be wearing. Neither were his clothes, which were not the simple cotton he’d worn yesterday, but were black silk trimmed with pearls.
“Do you know the magic of the Heart Scarab?” he asks in heavily accented English.
“No, but I would certainly like to hear it.”
“A bearer of the Heart Scarab is assured of rebirth after death.”
“I see … and how does it do that?”
“When people die, the gods weigh their hearts. Hearts that are full of sin are heavy and are eaten by the destroyer of hearts. But if the dead person’s heart is replaced with a scarab before it is weighed, the sins are not discovered and the person is reborn.”
“Is that how Mr. Cleveland managed to get from the marketplace to the beach where he spoke to Mr. Selous? And stare at me through a porthole? His heart was replaced with a scarab?”
He gives me a glare that would cow a two-ton Tanis sphinx.
“You are on sacred ground where gods still walk. Their wrath falls upon those who mock them.”
His staff comes out from where it’s concealed beneath his robe and I flinch back but the rod taps the ground with a solid sound as he sweeps by me, leaving me cold at the bone despite the hot night.
That he wasn’t surprised when I mentioned a dead man talking to Frederick Selous didn’t astonish me; he probably got an earful of that subject at the sheikh’s dinner table. But he could have at least raised a curious eyebrow about a porthole Peeping Tom.
More regrets about having come on the excursion start stacking up in my head and I shake those out, too, determined not to let an Egyptian bogeyman keep me from my chance to soak in some more of the land of pharaohs. I’m happy to visit the ruins without Von Reich’s pedantic chatter and Lady Warton’s caustic view of everything, including me.
Night is falling, the sky taking an ashen glow as an early full moon rises behind a thin blanket of dark clouds. Torches have been placed in a number of places to light significant monuments for guests who wander out for a look, but I see only a man and woman, and I take a path different from theirs to have some solitude.
Tanis is a ghost city, its greatest monuments shattered, the dusty souls of its ancient dead scattered by the desert wind, but the faint moonlight takes just enough edge off of the darkness for a little imagination to bring its past glories alive. It’s not hard for me to imagine a pharaoh on a golden chariot, his soldiers using their spears to push back crowds staring with awe at the living god.
My feet take me far enough from the tent for the music and party sounds to fade, taking me past the Great Temple of Amun and beyond to where a short fence has been put up at an excavation site near the Temple of Horus.
A large cavity has been opened and fenced with stalks of river reeds, but the desert sand that coats everything makes it appear that the whole project had been abandoned years ago. The opening reveals a crudely excavated stone stairway, steep and broken with missing steps patched by wood supports. The broken stairwell disappears into a pool of darkness that the moonlight doesn’t penetrate.
The crudeness of the opening makes me wonder if it wasn’t done by thieves rather than professional archaeologists, and what priceless treasures the tomb held before tomb raiders vandalized it.
The Illusion of Murder Page 8
