True Love, the Sphinx, and Other Unsolvable Riddles

by Tyne O'Connell

  A brick?

  “A brick?”

  I wish I had a brick, I thought. I’d hurl it at her. Instead I said, “Your hangover will hit you like a brick tomorrow and we have to be up at six.”

  “Oh, I’ll be up and raring to go. I can’t wait to play hide-and-seek in the tombs with Salah. I bet there’ll be all sorts of romantic nooks and crannies for pulling.”

  Then she climbed out of her bed and gave me a cuddle. “I really do love you, Rosie, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying not to stay cross.

  “I don’t know what you said to Salah, but it must have worked.”

  I wanted to scream, “Why do you have to have every boy? I wanted Salah. I thought he wanted me. And he might have if you hadn’t set your sights on him. No boy can resist you and I hate you.” But, of course, I didn’t say any of that because I didn’t have the guts. All I said was, “Not a problem. Go to sleep now.”

  Octavia climbed back into her own bed. “You’re right about Sam by the way,” she sighed, nuzzling into the Egyptian cotton of her sheets. “I think he’s adorable. I saw you from the boat. You two look great together.”

  A sudden idea occurred to me. “I know, why don’t you pretend to like Sam? I bet that would really make Salah jealous.”

  Octavia looked thoughtful. “Really? You wouldn’t mind me doing that?”

  “No. Go right ahead,” I insisted as I lay there wondering if there wasn’t still a microscopic chance that if she spent enough time pretending to like Sam she might actually realize she really did like Sam. Which would leave Salah … then she said the words that sealed the tomb on my hope.

  “Isn’t it so, so perfect that we’re not the sort of girls who fight over boys, darling?”

  I couldn’t even answer I felt so ill. And more than a little bit two-faced.

  Tuesday, Day 2

  Nefertiti sails to Esna

  Sunrise: 06:24 Sunset:17:57

  06:00 Wake-up call

  06:30–07:00 Breakfast in the Nefertiti restaurant

  07:00 Visit the West Bank by bus

  12:00 Nefertiti sails to Esna

  13:00 Lunch in the Nefertiti restaurant

  17:00 Teatime on the lower deck

  20:00 Cocktail & presentation in the Ankh bar Dress code: Elegant attire

  20:30 Dinner in the Nefertiti restaurant

  22:00 Nubian show in the Ankh bar

  23:00 DVD in suites: Death on the Nile

  Overnight in Esna

  Chapter 9

  Sam

  Every man for himself!

  Salah and I bumped into Yo, Astin, Artimis, and Perdie on our way down to our cabin. They invited us in for a drink even though it was clear they wanted to be alone. You could almost hear them muttering under their breath, “Please say no, please say no.”

  So I said, “sounds great!” just to jerk them around. Salah didn’t even stop to say hi. As if he was the one with a gripe. If anyone had a reason to be pissed, it was me. And after a couple of glasses of the local vino, I was prepared to set the record straight.

  I headed back to our room, figuring he’d have some big apology prepared. But he was in bed, reading.

  “You’re a real jerk, you know that?” I told him, flinging down his stupid suit jacket, which I’d hung on to for some reason.

  He looked away from his book and held my gaze. “Believe me, I didn’t want the whole kiss thing.” The way he spoke in a totally calm way when I was burning up inside made me even angrier.

  “Yeah? Well, it didn’t look like that to me. Or to anyone else.”

  “As if I had a choice. I did pull away.”

  “Yo and Astin didn’t think you did.” Which was a straight-out lie, but I continued anyway. “ ‘Oh, I speak the language.’ They were Texans! Since when do you need Arabic to speak to Texans?”

  He held my gaze for a beat as if weighing what I’d said—and deeming it unworthy of a reply, he turned back to his book.

  That fueled my anger even more, so I turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness even though I wasn’t remotely ready for bed. I stood there for a minute, feeling like a total loser, unable to see where my bed was. Eventually Salah turned on his reading lamp. “Sure you don’t need some light?”

  That really pissed me off—his cool attitude. How dare he just act like nothing was wrong after kissing my girl! “I’m fine, thanks,” I told him sarcastically.

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I repeated. Whatever that meant. He was making me feel like I was the jerk. I felt like storming out of the room, but the rest of the boat was either partying in their cabins or sound asleep. I had no choice but to go to bed.

  • • •

  I honestly didn’t expect to see Octavia at six the next morning. I figured she would still be sprawled in bed, her head hammering away with Nubian drums like any respectable Manhattan princess who’d consumed cheap wine on an empty stomach. But there she was at six a.m., more glorious than any creature I had ever seen. She walked in, arm in arm with Rosie. Rosie looked about as miserable as I felt.

  Not only was Octavia looking happy, but she was dressed for a night of clubbing in killer heels, jeans, and a white strappy camisole. I swear to God you could not avoid noticing Octavia. She was something else. She was also holding a big lime-green hat and Jackie O sunglasses. It was definitely not your average hangover outfit.

  Rosie looked great too, in orange capri pants and a black lace top, with an orange bikini peeking through. I watched Salah’s eyes as the girls bounced over to us—searching for who he was checking out, but he didn’t so much as glance at them. He kept on reading the stupid Egyptian newspaper he’d got off Mohammed, even though he admitted he was struggling with the Arabic.

  Rosie was wearing an orange straw cowboy hat and big black sunglasses. Her shoes were even higher than Octavia’s but not as dainty.

  “Morning, darlings!” Octavia breezed, air kissing first me, and then Salah. “Isn’t it a perfect day?”

  I pointed out that it was, in fact, still dark. The Elderly boat, which had been moored alongside us the night before, had departed. We could just see the sun beginning to glow on the horizon.

  “Oh but it’s a beautiful desert dark, darling, so evocative, so romantic. Aren’t you madly excited about our trip to the Valley of the Kings and Queens?” she asked, plonking down beside Salah and flooding my nostrils with a faint scent of something intoxicating. Something I never wanted to stop smelling. “Loving the shirt, Sam,” she added, lightly pulling on my collar.

  “Thanks,” I said, pathetically grateful she’d deigned to touch me.

  Rosie had already gone off to grab some food. It was just a few minutes after six and most people weren’t up yet. Mohammed was sitting at the teachers’ table with Mr. Bell and Ms. Doyle. There was no sign of Carol and Nigel.

  “Doesn’t Mohammed look all forlorn over there at the teacher’s table? Like a little boy being punished for something he didn’t do,” Octavia remarked. “I really think we should try and bring him over to our side, Sam, don’t you? What do you think, darling?” she asked, nudging Salah.

  “Go for it,” Salah replied without looking up from his paper. I swear to God he was being deliberately cool. I kicked him under the table. “Yes, darling, what do you think?” I asked him, hoping to get some sort of rise from him.

  He looked up. “Huh?”

  “Octavia thinks we should kidnap Mohammed and show him a good time.”

  Salah looked over at Mohammed, who was morosely drinking his thick Arabic coffee. “I think that is Mohammed’s way of having a good time,” he reflected before returning his attention to his paper.

  I looked at Octavia and rolled my eyes meaningfully, but she was looking at Rosie, who was returning from the buffet. “What did you get me?” Octavia asked, peering excitedly at Rosie’s plate.

  “I thought you’d get your own,” Rosie replied flatly as she s
at down next to me.

  “Rosie, you are funny sometimes.”

  “What do you want? I’ll go up for you,” I offered, seeing my chance to shine, even if it was in a blatantly suck-up way. “Pastries? Eggs?”

  “Oh, darling, everything. Just pile it on,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “I’m famished. Oh, and can you have them make me an espresso? I’ll simply die if I don’t have my morning espresso. This coffee …,” she added, pointing at the pot on the table as if it were a pot of sewage, “it’s just so wrong.” Then she shivered as if even being in its presence were a form of torture.

  “I’ll move it,” I suggested, but Salah placed his hand over mine as I reached over to grab the irksome matter. “I like it,” he said, looking straight at Octavia. What was his problem? One minute the guy’s telling me he isn’t interested in Octavia, then he goes and tongues her, then he acts all confrontational.

  As I rose from the table, Rosie looked at me and rolled her eyes. “You do realize she’s completely mad, right?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that, darling. It’s getting tired,” Octavia groaned, laying herself across the table.

  “See!” Rosie said, pointing at Octavia’s face, which was now flattened on the table. “This is not how sane people behave. She’s completely crazy.”

  “That’s okay,” I told her. “Ask Salah, I love crazy,” I told her truthfully, because it was partly Octavia’s totally wild behavior that turned me on so much. She dared to be at odds with the mainstream. It occurred to me that I was even prepared to forgive her flirting with Salah. If anything, last night had made me determined to do whatever it took to make her mine. I stood up to go to the buffet.

  “I’ll join you,” called Rosie, rushing out of her chair.

  “It’s okay, I can handle it,” I told her.

  “No. I don’t think you can,” she told me in a weirdly significant way. And as her hand brushed mine as we both reached for the eggs, I wondered if she might be flirting with me.

  “Tell you what. You probably know better than me what she likes,” I said, and turned back for the table.

  When Rosie returned with Octavia’s breakfast, she glared at me. I was definitely going to be avoiding eye contact with her from now on. I so didn’t need any more complications on this trip. No, I’d keep my focus on Octavia and her needs.

  Her needs included her request—before we boarded the bus—to carry her backpack containing two gallons of water and a ton of makeup.

  “Not a problem,” I insisted.

  “Can you take Rosie’s stuff as well, Sam?”

  “Sure, why not?” I agreed, slinging the extra load over my other shoulder. Rosie started to tell me it wasn’t necessary, but I cut her off and snatched the bag from her.

  Nigel and Carol eventually surfaced, looking worse for wear. As we were boarding the bus, they fumbled around, feeding each other painkillers, still wearing the same clothes from the night before. Mr. Bell and Ms. Doyle exchanged significant looks. The rest of us busted out laughing. You had to see it, but I swear to God, imagining puny little Nigel and Carol together was beyond hilarious.

  Octavia nudged Nigel and called him an “old dog.”

  He was apparently too paralyzed by his hangover or embarrassment to respond.

  In the end, we didn’t get going until 7:30. Despite my maneuvering, I’d ended up beside Rosie and Octavia was in the window seat beside Salah. Mohammed stood at the front with his mic.

  “You really don’t need to carry my stuff,” Rosie started up again, but I shushed her to listen to Mohammed. “So America and England, hope you are well this morning. I want to give you some blah, blah, blah about the Egyptian peoples but first I like to say, God Save the Queen and Yankee Doodle Dandy. And I will warn you about some bad people you will find at the Valley of the Kings!” He shook his finger at us in warning. “These men they will try to give you gifts.”

  “Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Octavia, clapping her hands.

  “No, not lovely,” Mohammed warned her sternly. “You know what you do with these gifts?”

  “Treasure them,” Octavia said firmly. “Oh, and say … what’s that word for ‘thank you,’ Salah?”

  “Shookron,” he said flatly.

  “Shookron?” Mohammed echoed. “No! You don’t thank these people. You throw their gifts on the ground,” Mohammed insisted angrily, demonstrating with one arm the force involved.

  I was watching the way Octavia teased Mohammed, ignoring Salah and Rosie, who were looking out the window at the traffic of sad donkeys pulling carts of vegetables; women draped in black, carrying jugs and even boxes on their heads; and the usual stream of caleches, trucks, and cars. I took a few shots of the scene—mainly out of habit. I hadn’t even checked my shutter speed.

  “I assure you, Octavia, it is not rude,” Mohammed continued. “These men, they give you scarf, scarabee, T-shirt. They say, ‘For you welcome to Egypt, I am your friend, where are you from, my friend? You are my sister. Take this gift, no charge for you.’ But then after you return from the Valley of the Kings. They catch you!” he raged, eyes glinting as he made a melodramatic grabbing gesture. “And they say, ‘Where’s my money?’ They say, ‘Give me bloody fifty pounds sterling for that scarf.’ They are not good peoples. No, they are bad peoples. If you want these things you can ask me and I can take you to the shop and get the good price.”

  “Well, I think the Egyptians are simply lovely!” Octavia exclaimed, clasping her hands to her heart theatrically. She touched Salah as she said this, but he didn’t turn around.

  “Thank you, Octavia.” Mohammed bowed. “Yes, we are lovely people. But not all. Even in England and America, you have some bad men I am thinking.”

  Normally it was Nigel and Carol’s job to interrupt Mohammed, but they were snoring in the back of the bus, as were Old Man Bell and Doyle. Everyone else was cracking up at the banter between Octavia and Mohammed. Even Yo was laughing under his visor. Although it could have just been because he had beheaded a mummy with his virtual chainsaw—it’s hard to tell with Yo.

  Salah and Rosie were both stone-faced.

  “Now, after the boat across the Nile, we see the funeral mortuary temple of the Queen Hatshepsut,” Mohamed explained.

  “Oooh, we love her,” Octavia cried. “She wanted to build her father a big golden obelisk.”

  “The god Amun, yes, clever Octavia remembers. See, she pays attention,” Mohammed praised, glaring at the teachers. “Hatshepsut is completely crazy queen. But she was the only ruling queen of Egypt and ruled for two decades.” He held up two fingers so we could absorb this factoid.

  “After she died, they destroy many inscriptions and statues of her. But still much is left. We will see this and after we go to visit three tombs. Not Tutankhamen because that is forty Egyptian pounds more and bloody rip-off. No, we see Rameses II and then we see tombs with smallest queues.”

  By the time we arrived at the boat, Octavia was asleep, her head on Salah’s shoulder. He nudged her awake roughly and glared at me as if I’d done something wrong.

  “What?” I asked, but he didn’t reply.

  After we disembarked, I asked Salah again, “What’s up with you?”

  But Mohammed interrupted. “Take your water! It’s hot,” he yelled.

  He was right. It was insanely hot and there was me, carrying a lifetime supply of makeup, sunblock, and four gallons of water plus my camera gear and other essentials, including my Knicks hat. I hadn’t put it on yet, figuring it might be wise not to broadcast my Americanism to the hustlers.

  I was thankful for the breeze on the barge we took across the river. The vastness of Queen Hatshepsut’s temple looked dramatic against the backdrop of the desert mountains. I got some great shots of the engine on the barge and some cool shots of feet. Salah looked miserable in his cream pinstripe suit. I couldn’t believe he was wearing a jacket but then so were Mohammed and the other Egyptians. Some of them were even in big woolen sweat
ers. It might be 100 degrees but as Mohammed kept telling us, it was winter to them.

  He was right about the gift-thrusting mafia too. They were all over us the moment we stepped foot on the west bank.

  “Hello, my friend. England? God save the Queen!”

  “American? Howdy pardner! Take this please my friend, my brother.”

  Some dude wearing a polyester sweater over his galabia tried to shove a sphinx carved of black stone into my hands. “Okay my friend, no problem, no charge.”

  Salah wandered ahead alone. Rosie rushed up to me and asked if she could walk with me. Oh no. I didn’t know when she’d gotten the idea, but I was pretty sure that Rosie had decided that the two of us should hook up. All that stuff at breakfast about Octavia being crazy—she was clearly trying to turn me off of Octavia. I couldn’t exactly say no, but I didn’t want to be alone with Rosie either. “Yeah, sure. But I bet Mohammed would walk with you,” I suggested, pointing out Octavia, who was skipping along with Mohammed, who was making sure no one pressed anything on her.

  “Well, I kind of thought we could have a chat. On our own,” Rosie added, looking at me significantly.

  Crap.

  She linked her arm though mine. The last thing I needed was Octavia thinking I liked Rosie. I pulled my arm away to point out Yo, who was stumbling by, swiping at something the rest of us couldn’t see. The hustlers were all standing aside to let him pass, eyeing him up with his long, flailing limbs as if he were dangerous. “Check out Yo!” I said, laughing too loudly.

  That was when the hustler took me aside and thrust a stone sphinx on me. I tried to give it back but he pressed it on me forcefully. “It bring you the heart of the one you love,” he said with a wink. “You discover riddle, you win her heart, my friend.” Now that was a sales pitch I could buy. I grabbed it and hugged it to my chest like the promise it was.

  “You’re not supposed to accept that,” Rosie warned me. “Now you’ll have to throw it on the ground.”

  I rebelled by doing what Octavia had suggested and said “shookron” instead.