That’s what he thought.
Chapter Eight
I
HAMID WAITED until we had assembled for lunch before making the announcement. There was the usual chorus of complaints from certain parties, but the sputtering and shouts of ‘Outrageous’ faded as Hamid went on to outline the alternatives. They were a good deal more generous than most companies would have offered.
That afternoon we would be transferred to the Winter Palace Hotel – all expenses paid of course. After the prearranged four days in the Theban area, passengers who wished to do so could board another cruise ship for Aswan, where they would spend several days before sailing back to Luxor. They might instead opt to return to Cairo by air for a two-week stay at Mena House or one of the four-star Cairo hotels.
‘What do you say, Vicky?’ Schmidt demanded. ‘What shall we do? Me, I vote for Cairo. Aswan is sehr interresant, but except for the nobles’ tombs – ’
‘We don’t have to make up our minds this minute.’
I couldn’t take my eyes off John. His face was as bland and uninformative as an oyster as he listened to Hamid. I had no doubt what his decision would be. He had known this would happen; he must have had a hand in arranging it. Mary was watching him too, her expression faintly troubled. She wouldn’t be consulted, but if I had been in her shoes (which God forbid), I’d have had my own reasons for preferring Cairo.
Shotgun wedding, I thought, savouring the ugly phrase. Mary’s daddy must be some guy. But he could never have cornered such an expert at elusion if John hadn’t had his own reasons for embracing matrimony. The ripe, juicy chunk of mango I was chewing tasted like sand as the inevitable calculations reeled off in my head. At least six weeks before she could be sure, maybe longer – a few more weeks making the arrangements for the wedding . . .
Months. It must have been going on for months. The same months during which he had . . . visited . . . me. While I sat there like some slack-jawed idiot in a country music ballad, bein’ true to my man.
I swallowed the loathsome morsel with a loud gulping sound. Schmidt looked at me in alarm. ‘Was ist’s? Are you going to be sick? You cannot be sick now, we have much – ’
‘I’m not sick, dammit! Stop fussing, Schmidt. Let’s go and pack.’
My elegantly appointed room and pretty little balcony had never looked more appealing. So much for that luxury tour I’d been promised; I’d never had the chance to enjoy it. Mother had always told me that if an offer seemed too good to be true it probably was.
The prospect of being Larry’s house guest offered some consolation. (It would certainly impress my mother.) I’d seen photographs of his Luxor establishment in some magazine; it wasn’t just a house, it was a whole estate, with beautiful gardens and a swimming pool and all the other odds and ends rich people consider necessary to happiness.
And I would be far far away from John and his pregnant bride.
I am not a neat packer, and my mood that day was not conducive to order and method; I tossed things at random into the bags and put them by the door. After a final check of closets and drawers to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, I opened the safe.
The reels of tape were gone.
I was squatting in front of the safe, fumbling in its interior in the hope of finding something – a gun, a message, a box of chocolates, anything to indicate interest – when the telephone rang. I snatched it up and yelled, ‘What do you want, Schmidt?’
‘I’m afraid it’s only me,’ an apologetic voice murmured.
‘Larry?’
‘Yes. You are going to accept my invitation, I hope. I intended to repeat it in person, but you left the dining room before I could speak to you.’
He had meant it, then. A little quiver ran through me, a mixture of pleasure, relief, and renewed alarm. The situation must be serious if he was anxious to get me to a safe place without delay. ‘It’s very kind of you. Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure it’s the best possible place for you.’
He didn’t have to spell it out. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Thank you. What about Schmidt?’
‘I’ve already spoken to him. He said he’d come if you did. So it’s settled. We’ll meet in the lobby in, say, half an hour?’
There was no point in hanging around my room, so I headed for the lounge. I expected to find Schmidt there, since Hamid had announced the bar would be open – a final farewell to the Queen of the Nile, for those who chose to take advantage of it. Schmidt hadn’t chosen, but several of the others had, including Alice and Feisal, who were engaged in earnest conversation. I joined them.
‘So what’s going to happen to you guys?’ I asked.
‘All friends must part at last,’ said Feisal with a theatrical sigh. ‘We part sooner than I had hoped; but not for a few more days. I will remain with the tour here in Luxor.’
‘And after that?’
His smile was dazzling. ‘Something good, for me at least. I’m not at liberty to discuss it just yet. Are you coming with me to the Luxor Temple this afternoon?’
I shook my head. Feisal gave me one of those patronizing masculine looks. ‘Primping for the reception instead? I will see you later at the hotel, then.’
He glanced at his watch and stood up.
‘I won’t be at the hotel. Larry has asked me to stay with him.’
Alice gave me a startled look and then laughed. ‘Congratulations. You’re the first single woman to be so honoured in years.’
‘He’ll be adequately chaperoned,’ I said. ‘Schmidt is coming too.’
Feisal grinned. He was in a good mood, all right. ‘He is not the marrying kind, as you say. And he is too old for you. You haven’t forgotten you promised to let me show you the night life of Luxor?’
‘I’d like that. Thanks, Feisal.’
‘Till this evening, then.’ He went off, collecting Suzi as he passed her table. I heard her shrill voice raised in pretended protest as he led her out.
‘Are you really staying with Larry?’ Alice didn’t wait for me to answer. Thoughtfully she went on, ‘You’ll be all right, then. That compound of his could withstand a siege.’
‘How about you?’
‘I’m out of it.’ Alice made no effort to conceal her relief. ‘They’ve asked me to accompany the group that will be going on to Aswan.’
‘Then you’ve talked to – someone?’
The lounge was emptying, but I was wary of specific references.
‘Not yet. I’m supposed to meet – someone – at the Luxor Temple later this afternoon. But I can’t imagine that my services will be required any longer. The people who – the people concerned won’t be going to Aswan.’ She drained her glass and rose. ‘I was going to resign anyhow. I’m too old for this sort of thing. See you later.’
I let her go on before I followed. She was undoubtedly correct. The passengers who opted for the Aswan cruise had to be innocents. The Cairo-bound crowd was the one to be watched.
The last of the shore-tour group was leaving the lobby when I got there, to find my escort waiting – Schmidt, Larry, and the inevitable Ed. The open doors led, not to the gangplank but to the lobby of another cruise ship. We had to pass throngh it to reach the dock. Sometimes there were as many as five moored abreast, Larry said.
The car waiting for us looked as if it had been custom-built for a sheikh, and I felt sure the tinted glass was bulletproof. Ed rode up in front with the chauffeur, which left the three of us in splendid isolation in the back. There was room for the sheikh’s four legal wives and a couple of concubines.
The Shari el-Bahr el-Nil, familiarly known as the corniche, runs along the riverbank. It is a handsome boulevard with a tree-lined promenade on one side and on the other a fascinating mélange of ancient temples and modern hotels and souvenir shops. We passed the Winter Palace, where our fellow passengers were to stay, and went on for another mile or so before turning into a narrow driveway. The walls ahead resembled those of a fort. They were topped with wicked-loo
king coils of barbed wire, and the closed gates appeared to be fashioned of steel. They swung slowly open as the car approached.
I pinched Schmidt. ‘You know, Schmidt, I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.’
It was like the sudden switch from black and white to Technicolor in the film. For the past mile we had driven past high-rise hotels and storefronts adorned with garish signs in Arabic and half a dozen other languages. Behind these grim walls were green lawns and flower beds bright with blossoms. Winding paths led between the trees to the buildings whose rooflines showed through the leaves. The main house was a low, unpretentious structure of pale brick. Two storeys in height, it was roofed with red tiles and had balconies sprouting out from the upper floor.
Schmidt didn’t answer. He was gaping in childish pleasure.
When we got out of the car a bunch of Munchkins descended on us. Two of them carried my bags up the stairs to my room, where a smiling, grey-haired maid was waiting to unpack for me. She expostulated when I insisted on helping, but I didn’t want her to see the condition of my underwear. I finally got rid of her by allowing her to carry off an armful of garments to be pressed.
There was mineral water in a cut-glass carafe, and a bowl of fruit on the table, not to mention a vase of fresh flowers. I hadn’t eaten much for lunch. Munching an apple (did they grow apples in Egypt? Did Larry have them flown in?) I wandered out onto the balcony.
I couldn’t see the ugly walls; they were screened by careful plantings of shrubs and trees. Sprays of water shone with rainbow glints, soaking the thirsty grass. I could get accustomed to living this way. It wouldn’t be any trouble at all.
Glancing down at my scuffed sandals and wrinkled skirt, I smiled wryly. I doubted Larry’s intentions were honourable – or even dishonourable, in the conventional sense. This was business. I’d settle for that.
He had informed us that he’d be busy for the rest of the afternoon, and told us to make ourselves at home – explore the house, the grounds, take a swim, check out the library, ask for anything we wanted.
I lay down on the bed. Just for five minutes.
I was awakened by the sound of thunder. Blinking sleepily at the sunlight striping the floor with gold, I cleverly deduced it wasn’t thunder. Someone was knocking at the door. Who else but Schmidt? Well-trained servants, as we sophisticates know, do not pound on doors.
‘Come in,’ I called, stretching like a cat.
He came. Or was it another Munchkin? His robe, striped in green and purple, left his plump calves bare. His little pink toes stuck out of his flip-flops.
‘Why do you waste time in sleeping?’ he demanded. ‘Already I have explored the house. You must see it, Vicky, he has some of the finest antiques I have seen – not antiquities, you understand, but Islamic art and furniture. But there is no time now. We are having the cocktails at the pool. Hurry and put on your bikini.’
It struck me as a good idea. I fished my suit – it was not a bikini, I am a modest woman – out of the drawer and retired to the bathroom. Schmidt reached for a tangerine.
‘Ah, that is very nice,’ he said approvingly when I emerged. ‘No, do not cover it up! You do not have a big stomach like mine, you do not have to – ’
‘Shut up, Schmidt,’ I said amiably, slipping into my robe. He led the way unerringly down the stairs and along a shadowy corridor that ended in an inner court, with its own high walls. Hibiscus and roses bloomed with tropical luxuriance; jasmine twined over a pergola at one end of the huge free-form pool whose blue waters sparkled in the sunlight. Larry rose from one of the chairs under the pergola and hurried towards me.
He was wearing black trunks and I think he was trying to suck in his stomach. In fact he looked a lot fitter than most men of his age; but I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention. Something else – someone else – had caught my eye.
He was poised, arms raised and knees slightly bent, on the diving board at the other end of the pool. He didn’t look in my direction but I knew he had seen me; the pose was designed to show off his tan and the lean lines of his body, and he held it a little too long before he sprang and dived, slipping through the air and into the water as smoothly as a water snake.
I turned to Larry. ‘What the hell – ’
I was so outraged I had forgotten Schmidt. Larry’s raised hand reminded me. Schmidt was trotting towards the pergola, but if I’d gone on at the same volume he would have heard me.
‘It’s as difficult to get out of this place as it is to get in,’ Larry said quietly. ‘I’d rather have him here, where I can monitor his activities, than on the loose in Luxor.’
‘He’s not stupid enough to make any false moves here,’ I insisted. ‘He knows he’s under suspicion.’
‘Stupid, no.’ Larry’s eyes were focused on John, who had pulled himself out of the water and was sitting on the edge of the pool. Schmidt came trotting up to him, waving a glass and calling out enthusiastic greetings. Smiling in response, John leaned back, supporting himself on his elbows. The movement stretched the muscles of his chest over the underlying structures of ribs and clavicles. He had lost weight – not much, he had never had much to lose, but those elegant bones were more visible now.
‘Stupid, no,’ Larry repeated. ‘Arrogant, yes. If we give him enough rope . . .’
‘His complexion is perfect gallows.’ I had proposed that once, as a fitting epitaph for John. Did they hang people in Egypt?
‘I need a drink,’ I said.
John slid back into the water. Schmidt peeled off his robe, flung it aside with the panache of Arnold Schwarzenegger (whom he did not in the least resemble), pinched his nose with two fat fingers, and leaped into the pool. A fountain of water billowed skyward. Averting my eyes, I followed Larry towards the pergola. Mary was there, stretched out on a deck chair, half-hidden by sprays of jasmine, and not much else. Her suit was very French – a few patches and a few strings. In her case the effect was cute rather than sexy; she was shaped as delicately as a child. Not a bulge anywhere.
I forced myself to stop counting. Feeling like a big blond ox, I lumbered pergolaward and took a chair next to Mary while Larry busied himself with glasses and ice. Very cosy and informal it was, no servants, just a small group of friends.
‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Mary said. ‘So kind of Larry.’
‘Uh-huh.’
From the far end of the pool two voices blended – to use the term loosely – in song. Apparently they were delving deep into the historical roots of country music, for this was a real oldie. ‘“If I had the wings of an angel, Over these prison walls I’d fly . . .”’
Not bloody likely, I thought. There was no way he’d get out of it this time. And nobody deserved it more.
II
When I got back to my room I found that my freshly pressed clothes had been returned to the closet. They smelled faintly of jasmine.
It wasn’t a closet, in fact, but an enormous gilded and painted cupboard, serving the same function as an armoire. My pitiful wardrobe occupied less than half of the vast interior. The cupboard was lined with sandalwood, and like every other piece of furniture in the room it was old, beautiful, and probably extremely valuable. I examined the paintings appreciatively, wishing I knew as much as I had claimed about medieval Islamic art. Like orthodox Judaism, Islam avoids the use of the human form in art. These designs featured flowers, animals, and the ornamental Kufic script. An ornate grille, gilded and pierced so cleverly that the openings formed part of an overall pattern, covered the top half of the doors. A good idea that, in a hot climate; it allowed air to circulate among the garments hanging inside.
In contrast to the bedroom, the adjoining bath was completely modern. There was even a built-in hair dryer, and I blessed Larry as I worked on my dank locks. I’d been a fool to let my hair grow long, it was thick and heavy and took forever to dry. I promised myself I’d have it cut as soon as I got home.
We were to dine, en famille, with our host at seven-fifteen. The
reception started at nine. I figured it would be pretty fancy, but the best I could do was my good old, slinky black cocktail dress. I had just slipped into it when Schmidt banged on my door. He was ten minutes early. I padded on stockinged feet to the door and opened it. Schmidt’s face fell. He’s always trying to catch me with my clothes off.
‘You are ready,’ he said sadly.
‘Not by a damn sight. Sit down, Schmidt, I’ve got to do my hair.’
‘It is very pretty hanging over your shoulders like that. Leave it so.’
‘It gets in my mouth when I eat.’
In white tie and tails Schmidt looked like a portly penguin. He wandered to the mirror and began preening, straightening his tie and adjusting the ribbon that stretched diagonally across his chest. The ribbon was purple. I’d been with him when he bought it. I had talked him out of buying a medal to hang on it.
I decked myself out in my jewels, including the gold locket and not including the enamelled rose. The locket had never looked tackier. Watching, Schmidt opened his mouth and then decided not to comment. He’s tried several times to buy jewellery for me, and in that area, as in anything to do with art, he has superb taste. He also has more money than he knows what to do with. So why hadn’t I accepted his gifts? Not because I suspected his motives. Schmidt loves me like a daughter and a friend. I suppose it was because I didn’t want our friendship to be contaminated by expensive and one-sided presents.
I can be a damn fool at times.
At the top of the stairs Schmidt offered me his arm and we strutted down them with slow dignity. I knew he was seeing us, not as a cute little fat man and a tall gangly female, but as King Rudolf and Princess Flavia descending to the ballroom between rows of curtsying courtiers. In a sudden burst of affection I squeezed his arm. He squeezed back but he didn’t look at me. He was smiling with regal condescension and matching his steps to the strains of the royal anthem of Ruritania.
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