True Love, the Sphinx, and Other Unsolvable Riddles

by Tyne O'Connell

  “What’s up,” Astin said—more as an announcement than a question. He was fit, in an overly manicured and pressed kind of way. Normally I’d want to muss a boy like him about, but I was too knocked out by the heat, so I snuggled up to him. Artimis was giving me a warning look, so I winked to reassure her she had nothing to worry about. I had other prey on my mind. I was just putting on a performance that I knew would get back to Salah—and hopefully make him get his skates on in the pulling department.

  “You do realize,” I scolded Astin, “that the gorgeous creatures who inhabit this room are my dearest friends.”

  “You do realize I’m in a towel,” Astin pointed out in the most despairing attempt at an English accent. I didn’t want to indulge him and endure the entire cruise with Americans taking the piss out of the way we spoke. Even though we do it to them all the time. “Darling, don’t speak like that, it’s tres, tres nonamusing,” I chided.

  Rosie laughed.

  “Sorry, I was just screwing around.” And then he made his eyebrows dance.

  I love a boy who can make a fool of himself. Not that I’d ever pull that sort of boy, but I think it shows a certain amount of self-confidence. “Now, back to my point, my American friend from across the Atlantic. I do hope your intentions are dishonorable. Otherwise I shall be very severe with you and perhaps even speak to Carol.”

  “Totally dishonorable,” Astin reassured me.

  I eased myself away from him and sat by Yo. A girl should never show too much attention to any one boy for too long. “And what about you, Yo? Are your intentions disreputable?”

  “You’re awesome, you know that?” he replied.

  “Darling, of course I know that. I know that and much, much more. Now, to your friends, Sam and Salah, pray tell, where do their intentions lie?” I asked as if I didn’t really, really desperately care.

  “Sam is as dishonorable a guy as you’ll find,” Yo assured me proudly. “And Salah?” He looked to Astin.

  “Only when it suits him,” Yo said.

  I arched a brow. “And does moi suit him, do you think?” I asked, expressing my marked disinterest this time by blowing on my toenails.

  “I don’t think there’s a guy alive you wouldn’t suit,” he told me.

  Charming but not the hoped-for confirmation that Salah was smitten to the point of illness with me. Still, they thought I was awesome, that should filter back to Salah. My work here was done. “Well, loving and leaving, darlings. I’m off to sun worship before tonight’s belly dancing. Shall we all meet here for a few drinks before going up for dinner?” I asked the room.

  “Definitely,” Artimis replied, her baby-blue eyes still glued to Astin in a scarily worshipful way. “Astin’s nicked a bottle of Sharazad!” she boasted, holding up a bottle of the local white wine. It looked less than promising. One of the upsides of living in my crumbly mansh with its lack of heating and leaking roof and moldy furniture is the ancient cellar, which can always be relied upon for a choice vintage wine. Papa hasn’t caught on to my little business of selling off the really, really good stuff at auction. It was Mumsy’s idea but she didn’t know how to go about it, so I take a bottle to Sotheby’s every so often and we split the profits. Occasionally I don’t get that far and I end up drinking it with my mate-age. It’s been tres, tres educational.

  • • •

  Rosie and I had been stretched out on the upper deck in our bikinis for a while and I was just about to drop off when I overheard Salah and Sam talking on the downstairs deck.

  SAM: So, seriously, who’s going for the Goddess?

  SALAH: That’d be me. She likes the way I speak the language, remember?

  The way I speak the language. What on earth could that mean? And then I realized, of course, he must be talking about “the language” of fine tailoring.

  SAM: Okay, very funny. Yeah, you definitely made an impression there, but seriously, I can go for her, right?

  SALAH: Yeah sure, you go for Octavia. Be my guest.

  I swear I was so not being vain in assuming that I was the Goddess. Not that I was pleased that I was being passed along like a parcel. Bloody Sam, staking a claim on me when Salah fancied me!

  After my heart stopped pounding, I nudged Rosie awake and told her that the Salah situation was now officially a red-alert crisis.

  “What?” she mumbled drowsily.

  “The boys. You need to shuffle them, Rosie!” I hissed. “Salah’s given Sam the green light on me.” Then I told her word for word what I’d overheard.

  “So now you see what a mess this all is!”

  “Not really. Sam likes you. Sam’s fit. He’s really nice. He’s funny.”

  “I’m not after funny, darling. You know I don’t date funny. Funny isn’t sexy. The point is, as nice and fit and funny as Sam may be, he is not Salah.”

  “No,” she agreed. “He’s not Salah.”

  “There’s clearly been a misunderstanding. I mean, look, I’ve got a plan, why don’t you have Sam?”

  “Well, that’s charming!”

  “What?”

  “You’re passing Sam along like a parcel now. And me for that matter.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It just sounded as if you really liked him, that’s all. You do like him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I like him but …”

  “See? So that’s perfect. Now can you pretty please go and explain to Salah that I quite fancy him.”

  “No! Octavia, you know I can’t. It’s just too weird. Anyway, think about it for a minute. If Salah really liked you, why doesn’t he just go for you? It sounds to me like he’s the one passing you along to his mate.” Then she stood up and left me on my own before I could think of a comeback.

  Not that I could think of a suitable comeback. I felt suddenly cold with fear as I went over the conversation in my head and realized Rosie was completely right.

  • • •

  Rosie and I never made it to Artimis and Perdie’s room for a glass of Sharazad because we were too busy working out what to do with the Salah situation. I’d decided I was still going to go for him even though he was very bad to tell Sam he could go for me. Then again, maybe I hadn’t been clear about how much I liked him. I explained this to Rosie. “I have been flirting rather terribly with all the boys, so it isn’t really his fault he got the wrong idea.”

  Rosie shrugged. As I came up with strategy after strategy—all of which Rosie shot down in flames—we snacked on some hellishly ancient vintage from my parents’ ever-diminishing cellar, and a jar of caviar, which someone had given us for Christmas.

  “Can you imagine? The thought of my parents eating caviar, darling. Papa’s taste buds run no further than overcooked meat and soggy puddings. Mumsy’s not much better.”

  We had to scoop out the black eggs and eat them with our fingers. It was all quite a lot of fun and so I just blurted out, “Isn’t it perfect that we never quarrel about boys, Rosie? I couldn’t bear that. I mean, I’m sorry I’m obsessing about Salah, but I just don’t understand what I could have done to give him the impression I wasn’t interested in him.”

  Rosie gave me a cuddle. “Oh, Octavia. I’m sure it’s nothing you’ve done. Maybe, erm, well, is it possible that even though he thinks you’re hot, you’re not, erm … his, erm … type?”

  I grabbed at my heart in shock. “Darling! You heard Astin, I’m everyone’s type!”

  Rosie rolled her big cherub eyes and smiled. “You do know you’re mad, right?”

  Of course I knew I was mad, but still, I was beginning to get annoyed by the way she kept saying it all the time.

  As I walked up the stairs in my Manolos (a gift from Rosie) I realized I might be slightly more tipsy than I thought, but then maybe a bit of Dutch courage was what was needed in a situation like this. After my bottle of Chateau Margeaux, Rosie had broken out the vodka. We’d only had a tiny taste to go with the caviar but while she was in the bathroom getting ready, I took a few extra mouthfuls.
I’d overdone it slightly. We arrived late for dinner and ended up being seated alone.

  I opened a menu describing exotic Arabic delicacies I’d never heard of. The waiters were carrying platters piled with spicy aromatic dishes. It was an intoxicating feast of colors and aromas.

  The teachers were all at their own table, which was awash with bottles of wine. Yes, a civilizing drink was what we needed, I decided as I called to the waiter, who had a helpful little name tag attached to his dinner jacket.

  “Could we see the wine list, Adel, please?” I asked. But he said—and this is true—“No!”

  “What do you mean, ‘no’ ?” I asked him, standing up from my chair. “Are you refusing to serve me?” But he walked away from our table, his face as impassive as a temple statue.

  I complained to Rosie, who was gazing off in the middle distance. I followed her gaze and that’s when I saw that hungry, boy-longing look on her face. Sam was at the opposite end of the room seated with Salah, Astin, Yo, Artimis, and Perdie. So there it was. Now I had the proof. She did fancy Sam!

  “I knew it, darling.”

  “Knew what?” she asked.

  “You do fancy Sam, see!” I pointed over at Sam, only I may have spoken a bit too loudly.

  “Shhh!” Rosie shushed me crossly. “Octavia, are you drunk?”

  “No!” I insisted. “Well, I don’t know. I might be a bit squiffy. I took a shot or two of Dutch Courage while you were getting ready.”

  Rosie put her head in her hands and groaned.

  Chapter 7

  Salah

  For the first time in my life, I wanted something from someone else. Worse than that, I wanted something that I wasn’t one hundred percent certain I could have.

  After dinner we were ushered upstairs to the bar for a Dervish dancing demonstration. Octavia was totally wasted. And not in a fun way. Sam wanted to do something about the situation before she got busted and sent home. If the teachers weren’t so drunk themselves they’d have noticed her lurching around the room—but then maybe they were used to lurching because of Yo and his visor.

  Mohammed, still dressed as Indiana Jones, was attempting to read his speech about the dance program. He was fighting off interruptions from the teachers.

  Reading from his note cards he explained, “The dance of the Dervish has been performed for over seven hundred years. It is the dance of the Sufi.”

  “They’re a mystical order of Islam, aren’t they?” piped up Carol.

  “And they go into a kind of trance state,” added Nigel.

  “I wish Nigel would go into a trance state,” Octavia stage-whispered, and everyone muffled laughter.

  Rosie nudged her, which almost knocked her flying into Mohammed.

  Mohammed looked flustered, like he’d lost his place. He shuffled his cards. “The dervish is chanting, ‘la illaha illa’llah’ during his dance.”

  “Ah yes, ‘there is no God, but God,’” Nigel added proudly, standing up like he was waiting for applause.

  “Fantastic, Nigel. Fantastic!” Carol clapped her approval.

  “Yes, brilliant, Nigel Octavia drawled.” “We truly are in the presence of genius!”

  Mohammed mopped some sweat from his brow and continued. “But you see, many of the dervish dancers prefer simply to say ‘Allah’ in the event they die while in their trance. Then the last word on their lips would be Allah.”

  “Well Allah to that!” Octavia declared and started clapping. She looked ridiculous but thankfully everyone was distracted by the lights, which were dramatically dimmed and the glass stage in the middle of the room was transformed into a kaleidoscope of lights. Dervish music pounded through the room. A tall guy dressed in a traditional dervish costume with a full skirt and tall hat stepped onto the dance floor and began to spin.

  Octavia almost knocked him flying as she careened across the dance floor and pushed her way outside, onto the deck. Rosie chased after her.

  I nudged Sam.

  “I think we’d better check on your goddess.”

  “What’s up?”

  “She ran out to the deck. Rosie just went after her.”

  I’d planned to be the one to help Rosie, but Sam was out the door and onto the deck before me. The girls were leaning over the railing, looking at a boat moored next to us. Inside the top cabin of the boat, some kind of a disco seemed to be in progress.

  “How are you traveling, my Queen of the Nile?” Sam asked Octavia. She was leaning over the side of the boat as if she was going to be sick. Rosie was rubbing her back supportively. I resisted an urge to rub Rosie’s back.

  “Oh, that’s right, you won me in some game of craps or something, didn’t you?”

  Sam and I looked at one another. “I think she’s drunk,” I suggested quietly.

  “We just came up for some air,” Rosie explained, looking at me directly. “Octavia wasn’t feeling very well.”

  “Come on, Goddess Octavia, let’s take a walk around the deck,” Sam said, taking her arm and putting it over his shoulder.

  I looked at Octavia. She was even drunker than I had thought. I felt sort of sorry for her. She seemed to have everything going for her—looks, wealth, and popularity—and here she was, incapable of even focusing. She was a total mess.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so drunk,” Octavia apologized, as if she knew what I was thinking.

  “ ’Course not. Let’s get moving,” Sam said, gently supporting her as they began to walk around the deck.

  I put my hand lightly on Rosie’s back and steered her toward the comfy white deck sofas. “It’s okay. Sam will look after her,” I told her.

  “She’s not usually like this,” Rosie explained.

  “No?”

  “Oh, what am I saying?” She sighed, dropping down beside me. “She’s always like this,” she admitted. “I don’t mean drunk. I don’t mean that. Of course not, but you know, she’s always a bit out there.”

  I nodded, totally gripped by the sound of her voice and the closeness of her lips.

  “She’s always the center of attention. Which is good. I’m not jealous or anything because I’m completely shy and useless with new people and actually I prefer the shadows to the limelight but you know sometimes it can be exhausting. Sorry I’m babbling, which is something I usually never do. Well, not very much. Usually I’m the really quiet one. The girl no one notices.”

  “I noticed you,” I told her quietly.

  “Oh, I’m not complaining. Oh god, I am complaining, aren’t I? How selfish. I mean, of course people notice me, otherwise they’d be bumping into me all the time, and yes, you did notice me. You listened to my music.”

  “How’s it going? The piece you were working on,” I asked. I wanted to keep her talking.

  “The key change thing you suggested was just perfect. I meant to say thank you this evening, but then everything went all, well, pear shaped.”

  “Yeah, not exactly according to plan.”

  “No.”

  After that we sat in companionable silence looking up at the sky. This was my first night in Egypt in years, but as I looked up and saw the stars, I felt like I’d never been away. Even in the artificial Egypt of the Nefertiti, I felt like I was home.

  “That’s Osiris,” I said, pointing up at the sky.

  Rosie leaned back on the sofa, and her head rested on my arm. I took the finger of her right hand and guided her around the clear sky.

  “Wow. We’re actually looking at Osiris in Egypt. That’s him, right? The one with the funny hat?”

  I laughed. “That’s the man. God of the underworld. He’s the guy who judges the souls of the dead.”

  “And he married Isis. Mohammed told me that.”

  “That’s the one. He married Isis. She’s the one you see holding the ankh, with the moon in her hair,” I explained.

  “It’s so glorious,” she said with amazement. “I suddenly really feel like I’m in Egypt. I love how the stars seem so close I feel like we
can just reach out and grab them.”

  “I know. You know the Bedouins can track their way across the desert with them.”

  “How envy making you are,” she said, smiling at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just know so much. But why wouldn’t you! You are Egyptian and, oh, shut up, Rosie,” she cried, slapping her hand over her mouth. Before I realized what I was doing, I reached out and pulled her hand away.

  “No, don’t stop,” I told her, smiling.

  “But I’m babbling again. My brothers are always telling me to shut up.”

  “I’m not telling you to shut up. I’m telling you not to shut up,” I insisted. “And for the record, I miss seeing the night sky too. We don’t have stars in New York. Well, not these kinds of stars.”

  “I much prefer these stars,” she said quietly, after a pause.

  “Me too,” I replied.

  “Do you miss Egypt? I’m sure I would. If I came from here, that is. Not that I have a clue. This is my first time and I’m just seeing it as a tourist, but I love the feel of it and the liveliness of it. I even love Mohammed, don’t you? He’s so cool. Did you know he went to Oxford?”

  “I imagine there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye. He’s an interesting guy.”

  Suddenly Octavia landed beside me. I looked around for Sam but he’d disappeared.

  “They look like they’re having fun,” Octavia announced, pointing to the boat moored next to ours. There was a group of older people dancing, having the time of their lives.

  “Yeah they do,” I agreed, though I was focusing beyond the boat to the shore, where there was a different kind of activity going on. Brightly decorated horse-drawn caleches were taking tourists around Luxor, street vendors were selling souvenirs, and outdoor cafes were buzzing with domino-playing locals.

  “Unlike this boring lot here,” Octavia groaned. “Hardly party central on the good ship Nefertiti tonight, is it?”

  “I’m enjoying the quiet. It clears my head,” Rosie told her.

  “What a fibber. I bet you’re composing something and your head is as noisy as an orchestra,” Octavia told her, reaching over my lap to take Rosie’s hand and give it a squeeze.