by kc dyer
“A gentleman’s agreement—and lady’s,” he adds hastily as he shakes my hand. “Teamwork.”
I think it’s the handshake that does it. I’d been sitting almost motionlessly for the past hour, trying to quell the growing unease deep inside. But as I lean across the table to shake his hand, I realize there’s more than unease lurking inside me. And whatever it is?
Wants out.
I get as far as the door before the retching doubles me over. Suddenly nothing, not even the humiliation of vomiting in my greatest enemy’s room, can stop the tidal wave. Before I can move, Dominic is there, and rather than tossing the contents of my stomach all over his floor, I find myself barfing into the large decorative bowl from his table.
Those papier-mâché fruits are never going to be the same.
I’m kneeling on the floor, retching into the bowl by the time I realize that Dominic is still there beside me, holding my hair back out of the mess.
“Oh—this is so gross,” I groan, when I can finally speak. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s probably the grappa,” he says apologetically. “I bought it in Cyprus, and it’s really strong.”
I shake my head. My stomach’s feeling better already—as long as I don’t look at the contents of Dominic’s bowl.
“It’s not the alcohol. I think it might be the shawarma I ate for lunch.” I chug half the bottle of water at one go.
“You ate street meat—in Egypt?” he asks incredulously. “Not a great idea. But don’t worry—it doesn’t really count as sick until it starts shooting out the other end.”
My stomach rumbles again, and I dart a panicked glare at him before dashing for the toilet down the hall.
I just make it. As I sit there, listening to my body produce noises I’ve never even heard before, I pray he’s still back in his room. He might be my enemy, but no one deserves to hear that.
Twenty minutes later, when I’m feeling completely hollowed out, I risk heading back to my own room. The hallway is blessedly empty, but as I put my key in the door, Dominic emerges from his room. He’s carrying a new water bottle and a small white box.
My head feels wobbly on my neck, but I shake it anyway. “I don’t need medicine,” I mutter as I stumble inside. “I’ve had all my shots.”
He rattles the box. “They can’t give you a shot for traveler’s—uh—tummy,” he says.
“It’s okay. You can say diarrhea.”
He smiles and rattles the box at me. “I was trying to avoid the power of suggestion,” he says. “Take one of these. They’re antibiotics.”
But before I can even grab the box, I need to run back to the toilet.
I guess I might be suggestible after all.
chapter twenty-seven
IMAGE: Onward Routes
IG: Romy_K [Port Said, Egypt, April 2]
#RottenResearch #AReluctantAgreement
101
Waking the next morning is—no fun at all. Yes, I’m tucked safely into my own bed in the little guesthouse. I have a vague recollection that Dominic and I had spent at least part of last night talking in this very spot, but for the life of me I can’t remember how I got here.
Or what was said. Or if anything else happened.
I fling the covers back to find that I’m fully dressed in my usual night attire of t-shirt and boy shorts. My copy of the Verne book is sitting neatly on the night table.
I heave a sigh of relief. The evening appears to have been completely innocent, after all. Thank goodness. There will be no sleeping with the enemy on this trip.
I lie back in bed and pick up my phone, which has magically been plugged into my universal charger. The enemy. I need to know more about the enemy.
Having only the vaguest of recollections of our conversation last night—mostly due to the barf-o-rama that was happening at the same time—I do for the first time what I should have done long ago.
I Google Frank Venal. And what comes up? Is not good.
Frank Venal: Bon Vivant, Man About Town, and Real Estate Cutthroat
New York Post Exclusive
He might be known for his support of the Philharmonic, or his nights at the opera, but one of the richest self-made men on New York’s real estate scene has a secret ace up his sleeve—he loves poker. For Frank Venal, the path to success traces from a childhood steeped in poverty, but he joins the top-ten self-made men list this year with an estimated worth of $250 million. Much of this stems from the real estate brokerage empire he began building before the turn of the century, first with Bronx Builders, and later with his eponymous brokerage firm, Venal Ventures.
“I love my work,” he says between sips of coffee—black—in his palatial home. “I knew from the time I was a teen that real estate would be my calling. I’ve never been afraid to fail—and so I never have.”
Venal, sixty-one, has made his fortune acquiring, renovating, and reselling property in Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and beyond. Last year, his brokerage firm was responsible for the sale of almost $25 billion in real estate, netting more than half a billion in sales. When asked about expansion, Venal laughs.
“I could have a stable of a thousand agents by now, believe me,” he says. “I got an offer on the table from a firm in London as we speak. But I have to tell you, I like having my own fingerprints on my work. It makes it personal, you know?”
When asked about his humble beginnings, Venal, a notorious raconteur, uncharacteristically demurs. “Where you come from is less important than where you’re headed, huh? And I’m always going somewhere big.”
I flick my phone off and drop it on the bed. What chance have I got against this guy? He’s rotten to the core. And as I sit up, things go from bad to worse.
A pain that I’m sure has Frank Venal’s name on it sets my head spinning. And after the gut spinning of the night before, this isn’t good. Dominic’s antibiotics seem to have worked their magic with my digestive system, but my head is sore.
I swing my legs off to the side of the bed, and keeping my eyes down, rest my bare feet on the cool tile of the floor. This room smells of dust and maybe some ancient air freshener—nowhere near as good as Dominic’s room smelled last night, or at least until I filled up his fruit bowl.
I stumble down to the communal bathroom to brush my teeth, which helps a bit. Once I finish, I find I can actually stand completely upright for the first time. All the same, I’m going to need serious drugs for this headache.
Back in my room, as I reach for my Tylenol bottle, I notice something for the first time. Fear clutches at my still-sour gut, and I have to clench my teeth to stop from retching again. My computer is safely tucked in the back of my daypack, but all my papers—passport, visas, everything—are missing. Also? My wallet.
The clenching of teeth no longer does the trick, and I have to race back for the bathroom. It’s close—but I make it. For the next half hour or so, I alternate between throwing up and resting my face against the cool tile of the bathroom floor, grateful for Madame’s impeccable housekeeping standards.
I’m so sure Dominic has betrayed me, I’d cry—if I could only stop throwing up.
When the worst appears to have passed—literally—and I’m able to sit up long enough to wipe any stray splashes off the toilet seat, I hear a tiny noise behind me.
Clutching a fresh wad of toilet tissue to wipe my streaming eyes, I turn to see a young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, standing with both hands clutching a bucket.
“Madame see you?” the girl asks.
I stare at her blankly, clearly having vomited any intellect out along with whatever Dominic poisoned me with the night before.
“I clean,” she says, tugging at my arm. “Madame fix you, yes?”
“I’ll wipe it all up,” I say hurriedly. “As soon as I feel a bit better.”
The girl
makes shooing motions. “I clean,” she says again. “I clean sparkle.”
There’s no arguing with her, so I stumble back to the violated space that is my room. With no bottled water in evidence, and mindful of all the warnings I’ve been bombarded with since leaving Italy, I decide to head downstairs.
Zipping all the open pockets of my pack closed, I remember at the last moment to jam my legs into yoga pants and to don my shoes. I don’t even make it to the bottom of the stairs before Madame is there, bearing a steaming mug and a kind smile.
This morning she is wearing an eye-searing combination of hot pink tunic and flowy black trousers. Her hijab is a silk scarf patterned in jagged slashes of black and matching hot pink. She winks one perfectly kohled cat eye at me.
“You got headache?” she says. “I make tea.”
She sets the steaming cup on the table I was sitting at last night, and I flop bonelessly into a chair and pour half of it down my throat in a single gulp.
It is searingly hot, not just in temperature, and it tastes of something foul.
“That’s terrible,” I splutter, and the words are out of my mouth before I realize how insulting they sound.
Madame doesn’t look the least put out by my insult. “Is hideous taste, yes. But drink it all up. You need hydrated, yes? And painkiller?”
“I have more Tylenol,” I say, reaching for my pack, but Madame waves it away.
“You no need. Hold nose. Finish tea. I bring breakfast.”
“Oh, there’s no way I can eat anything . . .” I say, but she vanishes behind the bead curtain before I can finish my sentence.
I think about calling out for a bottle of water, but feeling too defeated, I slump back in my seat and stare gloomily at my phone. My Instagram numbers have been steadily growing, and with the crossing into Egypt, I’ve finally broken the hundred followers barrier. But, when I flip over to Dominic’s account, I see he is cruising in on eleven thousand followers. Eleven thousand. How can I ever compete with that?
Madame Nephthys bustles back carrying a basket piled high with steaming pita bread, and a bowl of what looks like a greenish sort of paste. It is a tribute to whatever is in Madame’s foul tea that I’m not sick at the very sight of the contents of the bowl.
“Oh, no . . .” I begin, but that’s all I have time for. Dropping the plates on the table, Madame lifts the cup to my lips.
“You drink,” she demands. “You better.”
I don’t know if she means I’d better drink or else, or I’ll be better if I drink, but either way, I have no fight left in me. The liquid has had a little time to cool, at least, though when I swallow it, it still retains its peppery fire. It might even taste deadlier than whatever Dominic was pouring last night. But as I set the cup down, I realize I can turn my head without pain. I gently move it forward and back and then side to side for good measure, but the worst of the pain appears to be gone.
Unfortunately, what Madame’s Miracle Cure brings with it is also a dose of reality. As the pain subsides, one thing is perfectly clear.
I’m in big trouble. Mr. ‘Let Me Help You’ Madison is following in some scary, evil footsteps.
Madame reappears, this time with a bowl of sliced citrus fruit. She takes up a quarter lemon in each hand and squeezes the juice over the contents of the bowl.
“You eat,” she says. “You feel better with food.”
“I already feel better,” I admit to her. “But, listen—this is important. You know Dominic—the guy from last night? He’s stolen all my stuff.”
Madame gives a little chuckle, and ignoring my words completely, takes a pita bread from the still-steaming pile.
“Like this,” she says, ripping the bread, and then expertly dipping it into the paste. “Fava bean. Delicious.”
And then, as if she were feeding a baby, she holds the loaded bread in front of my mouth. When I try to protest, she pops it in.
She’s right, of course. It is delicious.
My stomach groans so loudly, she nods her head. “You see? You need food. Your stomach call for food.” She reaches out to pat my hand.
“That boy no steal from you. He’s a good boy.” She points at my pack, sitting on the floor beside my chair. “He no take your stuff.”
“No!” I have to shake my head at her, because my mouth is still full. I swallow and try again. “He did. My wallet, my passport. I need to go to the police . . . or maybe . . . Where’s the nearest embassy? The American embassy? They must be able to . . .”
Before I can finish this sentence, the front door swings open and Dominic walks in, looking fresh as a daisy.
“Ah—Meester Dominic!” says Madame cheerfully. “You find what you need?”
“I have indeed, Madame,” he says, and lifts a piece of pita from my basket.
“You all packed up?” he says to me, eyeing my bag.
“Just a minute,” I splutter, spraying fava paste indelicately across the table. “Where’s my stuff?”
Dominic affects a hurt expression. “I’ve found us a way out of here,” he says, wolfing down another piece of bread from my basket. “This pita,” he says, turning to Madame and putting his fingers to his lips. “It is”—he blows her a kiss—“perfection!”
Madame turns bright red and giggles like a schoolgirl, but I’m not buying any of this.
“Where’s my stuff?” I repeat, more effectively this time, as I’ve stopped spraying food. “My wallet? My passport?”
Dominic swings one leg over the other chair at my table, and reaches into his pack.
“Look—I’m sorry you were worried. I thought for sure I’d get back before you even got up this morning, which is why I didn’t leave a note.”
He slides my wallet across the table. I open it to find that the small amount of Egyptian currency I’d changed with the otherwise unhelpful travel agent is still inside.
“You’re not going to believe this. I’ve got us both spots on an NGO helicopter—crewed by Swiss nationals—which is heading out to deliver supplies.”
He reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out both passports, visas safely tucked inside. “I needed to show them all our paperwork, to prove we are legit,” he says, handing mine back. “You weren’t worried, were you?”
I think back to the article on Frank Venal. Can I afford to trust this man? Can I afford not to?
In the end, I shake my slightly tender head, submit to a warm hug from Madame, and follow Dominic out the door.
chapter twenty-eight
IMAGE: Last Sunset Over the Sea
IG: Romy_K [Suez, Egypt, April 2]
#GoodbyeMediterranean #NGO #Choppertime
103
Madame Nephthys has a niece who has a friend called Abdul who has a car, which means that—for a price—we have a ride to our departure point. This turns out to be a helicopter pad in the middle of a dusty field. I spend the whole way there firing questions at my old enemy / new travel companion. Dominic admits that, last night he, too, was at his wits’ end about the next leg of the journey. But this morning, while I was trying to recover from his grappa—whatever that is—he was scoping out the neighborhood, thinking to hire a driver.
“Wait a minute,” I say, holding up a hand. “Why no hangover?”
He shrugs. “I drank some of Madame’s special tea before bed,” he says, “plus about a gallon of water. And after a second cup for breakfast—no problem.”
“So—you were out trying to find a driver?” I ask, dragging him back to the topic at hand.
“I drive for you!” pipes up Abdul, from behind the wheel.
“Yes, thank you, Abdul,” Dom says, grinning. Then he mouths a long-distance driver for my benefit.
Abdul fires a baleful glance into the rearview mirror. “I drive long distances,” he says. “Why you not ask me? I drive all the w
ay to Sharm El-Sheikh. To Wadi Halfa. You safe. I guarantee.”
“It’s all looked after, Abdul,” I say, rotating one finger to indicate Dominic should finish his story.
“We’re going to the helipad,” Dominic says to the driver, then turns back to face me. “I was on my way back to the Resta Ramal when I spotted a couple of men loading a truck with food and medical supplies. I chased it down the road to the airbase.”
“Airbase?” I say doubtfully as Abdul takes a final, sharp corner and screeches to a stop inside a wire fence.
“Airbase,” Abdul repeats, beaming. He sticks his hand, palm up, right into Dominic’s face.
As I step out of the car, the wind, which has been blowing out of the north all morning, suddenly drops, and the curtain of fine particles in the air slowly settles to the ground. The contrast to the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean could not be more pronounced—or dusty. Across the field, I spot a vast machine, with two figures running back and forth shoving boxes inside from the back of a flatbed truck parked beside it.
“Holy cow—that thing is huge,” I breathe.
The helicopter has twin rotors on the roof and a dusty, sand-colored body that blends in perfectly with the surroundings.
“It’s ex–U.S. Air Force,” Dominic says as he climbs out of the car. “Armored, so it’s heavy, but really fast, and can carry a ton of cargo.”
His eyes are gleaming in a way I do not like at all.
“Is it safe?” I ask, but my question falls on deaf ears.
Abdul, having collected his money from Dominic, whips around the back, pulls our luggage from the trunk, drops it in the dirt, and leaps back behind the wheel. He squeals away before either of us can react.
“Nice,” says Dom, and stoops to hand me my dust-covered suitcase.
One of the figures beside the helicopter catches sight of us, and waves.
“I don’t know, Dominic . . .” I say, but he’s already hurrying on ahead.
“It’s not an airplane,” he yells back at me. “Teresa never said anything about helicopters.”
