by Warren Adler
Outside the Citadel, he took a more direct route. In the distance, the hills of Muquatt were suddenly visible again, their vertical sides, from which the ancient Pharaohs had carved their limestone blocks, showing red and pink in the diminishing light. Still, she would not leave him.
“Now who’s stubborn?” he asked. But he did not protest.
By the time they reached the City of the Dead it was pitch-dark, and they could barely see the outlines of the mausoleums. Only the glow of cooking fires, some in the streets, while others peeked from murky interiors, marked the way through the maze.
The darkness provided security and they reached the Al-Hakim mausoleum without incident. Si’s mind was filled with potential questions. He knew he had to lure the woman out alone, but he had postponed any specific plan. Perhaps, too, the men would be gone.
The area around the mausoleum was eerily quiet, and the interior was strangely dark, showing no signs of life.
“Where is everybody?” he whispered.
From somewhere down the narrow street came the sounds of voices, the clash of metal, shuffling footsteps. Then, coming closer, the clip-clop of a donkey cart and the inevitable squeak of an unoiled wheel. Si and Abdel moved deeper into the shadows.
The donkey cart came to a halt in front of the mausoleum entrance. A group of people milled about, adults and children carrying a variety of burdens, including the pots that had been clanking. The driver of the donkey cart alighted and walked slowly into the apparently deserted mausoleum. When he emerged, he carried what appeared at first to be a sack on his shoulders.
“Her,” Abdel said, her words frozen in the air like an icicle stabbed into space. His eyes had become accustomed to the dark and he saw the old woman’s dangling arms reaching lifelessly for the hard ground. The man threw the body in the back of the cart, as if it were a discarded mattress.
“Neck broke,” they heard the man say, as if it were necessary for him to provide the diagnosis to the circle of spectators.
“Where do they bury them?” Si asked.
“Not here. In a public pit. Many who live here wind up there.”
A shred of resignation had crept into her voice. They watched incredulously as the donkey cart moved away and the spectators began moving into the mausoleum, obviously co-opting the site for their new home.
The fact of death passed quickly, and soon the children became animated and the adults began conversing in excited tones, congratulating themselves on their good fortune. Si started after the donkey cart. It was only when he felt the restraining pressure of her arm that he stopped.
Chapter Twenty
Everything in the hotel room was awry. Whoever had done it was very thorough. Not a single object in his suitcase had escaped inspection, and the suitcase itself looked denuded, its sides torn out, its framework revealed. The mattress had been overturned. Even the sink had been dismantled and put together again, although the mechanics of this operation had obviously baffled the intruder.
The balcony door was open, showing, unmistakably, the mode of access.
“What the hell were they looking for?” he wondered aloud, patting his jean pockets, where his traveler checks and passport remained intact, grateful for his foresight. The concierge had asked for his passport to be held at the desk, but he had refused, placing a pound in the chubby hand, heeding some vague warning that he had overheard on the trip from London. “Your passport is your life. Give it to no one.”
Abdel said nothing, staring blankly at the mess. They were both exhausted, having walked most of the way from the cemetery. He had looked forward to a night’s sleep, time to restoke his mind, which seemed unable to grasp what was happening.
“Well, they know where we are,” Abdel said, moving toward the open balcony door. “They are surely watching.”
“Watching what? Us? Me?” He looked around the room. “All they had to do is ask me. I have no secrets.” His voice rose, as he remembered the old woman. “They must have broken her neck. Can you believe it? Over what? Why?”
Abdel shrugged, squatting on the floor. The mattress was leaning against the bed frame. He pulled it down to the floor, then lay on it, looking at the ceiling.
“They know where I am. Why don’t they come?” he said, clenching his fists. He resisted running to the balcony and screaming out his anger.
“I told you,” Abdel said, wearily. “Go away.”
“Away from what?” Why is everything a question? he wondered.
“From them,” she whispered.
“Them?” Earlier he had dismissed her fears as a fantasy of the powerless. To a child of the streets, almost anyone might seem a menace. He had finally gotten her point.
The connective link between the old woman and his mother chilled him. His mind buzzed with suppositions.
The blurred image of Isis surfaced in his mind, the edges becoming more distinguishable. Yet she was still out of focus, still struggling to emerge.
“Maybe we should go to the police,” he said. In America, that would be his instinctive reaction. She raised her head and looked at him as if he had gone mad.
“I know,” he said, remembering her earlier admonition: “They keep order. They don’t redress wrongs. Besides, what would I tell them? And they would say to me, ‘Why did you go to the City of the Dead in the first place? Americans do not go to that place.’ I would wind up the guilty party. Perhaps they will deport me.”
“Well, then,” Abdel snickered. “They will give you sensible advice.”
“You’re not so smart yourself,” he said, finding just enough humor to break the tension. “You had a good deal going until you met me.”
He closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t.
The past gnawed at him, as if in recalling it he might understand the present. His mother had been protective, smothering sometimes, and even now, he felt the terrible loss of her.
“Let the boy go,” his father had urged when he had determined to go to Cornell. It had not been easy for him to make that decision. “He’s not your baby anymore, Farrah. He’s a man now. Someday we won’t be around to protect him.”
He heard Abdel stir, reminding him of his loneliness.
“Come here,” he said, patting the mattress beside him. “You need rest.”
He sensed her hesitation, then patted the mattress again. Soon he felt her weight beside him. From her breathing, he knew she was not sleeping.
“What would it have been like for her?” he asked.
“Her?”
“Isis.”
He was patient, knowing she was groping with her own thoughts.
“A girl without a family is nothing,” she said quietly, surely thinking about herself.
“Do you think the old woman loved her?”
“Love!” He sensed her confusion.
“The love of a mother,” he explained. “A father.”
He heard her swallow deeply, and he was silent for a long time.
“What choices would she have?” he asked suddenly.
“Choices?” It was purely rhetorical, since they both knew the answer. “There were no choices,” she said. It seemed the bedrock of her knowledge, and he knew she could not resist the answer. “Not for her. She would simply have been grown, like a weed. She would not go to school. She would not be able to read.” There was a long pause. “I can read. I have gone to school,” she said proudly, as if to compare herself to the hapless Isis. She seemed reluctant to continue.
“And then?” he pressed, opening his eyes, looking at the ceiling. The stained and flaking plaster looked like a bas-relief of a lifeless planet.
“More than likely, a whore.” She was hesitant, embarrassed. “A child whore. A plaything for men.”
“For money,” he asked. “That kind.”
He knew that she was nodding, but he did n
ot look at her.
“When? What age?”
“Sometimes very young,” she said. “But there could be other choices,” she said, quickly. “Labor. Like an animal. Or marriage. Babies. It is the same thing.” He caught a glimpse of her own aspirations in the answer. She was engaged in her own struggle. It was, he understood now more than ever before, easier to be a male in this land.
He tried to relate it to his own experiences. But it was futile.
“Could she have risen above it?” Si asked. “Not gone that way. Become educated? Lived a better life.” He checked himself. Better was a concept with many definitions. Education in his context could mean many things to her.
“Do you know what I mean?” he pressed.
He felt himself focusing on her, Abdel. He was sure it couldn’t be her name. They were talking, he realized, in her language but not on her terms. She might have been on another planet. Perhaps, after all, America was the illusion and Egypt was the real world. He wanted to ask her more about herself, her life. She merged with Isis in his mind.
“Do you think she’s alive?” he asked. It was another question impossible to answer. Perhaps he was asking it really to the ibis-headed god engraved on the glass panel that separated the toilet? He was surprised when she answered him.
“I hope so. For your sake.”
He wondered what she meant, but decided to remain silent. There was also an inexplicable hint of waspishness in her tone.
Again, he remembered the old woman’s words. I brought her to him at the university. To whom? If only he had pressed her further.
Fatigue finally gripped him and he felt his mind flicker. Outdoor noises faded. He assured himself that he was sleeping. Something touched his forehead, a tiny gust of cool breeze, barely touching. A kiss, perhaps.
Chapter Twenty-One
He woke up with the idea bubbling on the surface of his consciousness, alert immediately to his surroundings. Abdel slept like an embryo, balled against the side of his body. She did not stir when he rose. Cautiously, he opened the balcony shutters a crack and peered out into the street. As always, people patrolled the pavement like walking phantoms. He sensed that he was being watched and closed the shutters.
Gathering his clothes, he stuffed them in a shirt, which he buttoned, closing off the neck to make a hollow sack. He signed a traveler’s check for the approximate amount of his two days’ stay, and using an end of moist soap, pasted it on the chipped mirror that hung beside the open shelving.
“What is it?” Abdel said, rubbing her eyes.
“Alexandria,” he said. “Isis was born in Alexandria in 1951. December first. My mother was explicit about that. There must be a record of the birth. Some clue.”
“They’ll follow us,” she said. The possessive pronoun jarred him. Now he was using her shamelessly.
Ignoring his guilt, he rummaged among the litter of clothes and pulled out a pair of faded jeans and a cotton shirt. “Come here.”
She obeyed him, standing as he measured the jeans, ripping them at the legs to conform to her size. “Now put these on. And this shirt as well.”
She was confused, hesitating as she stared at the altered jeans.
“I’ll turn around,” he said, smiling at her delicacy. He listened to her movements as she changed.
In her new outfit, she seemed metamorphosed, almost a woman, although the oversize clothes made her seem lumpish. She held the jeans at the waist, looking distraught, and the cotton shirt hung on her like a loose shroud. He took off his belt, redundant with his own tight jeans, and fastened it around her. When he finished, he stepped back and could not resist a smile.
“You’ll do,” he said, shaking his head.
“For what?” she asked, showing a flash of belligerence.
“Where does the train leave from? To Alexandria?”
“The main station. In Ramses Square. Not too far. A fifteen-minute walk.”
“Good.”
He pressed his clothes into her arms. “I want you to climb down that balcony. Then cut out. With any luck, you might look like me in the dark.” He smiled again. “A smaller version. But they’ve got to be watching and probably won’t make the distinction. If anyone can lose a pursuer, you can.” It was a thought dredged up from the plot of an old movie. She nodded.
“We’ll take the first train out for Alexandria. I have no idea when it leaves. But I’ll buy the tickets.”
“What class?” she asked. The question seemed to attack his smugness. “There are three. Buy a third class. More crowds.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you. Near the gate.”
He felt a pang of concern. What she was doing was dangerous. They would be inflamed by the deception, especially if it worked.
“Let them see you at first. Then disappear.” He gripped her shoulder, rubbing the frail blade under the oversize shirt. “Can you do it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“You’re mad,” he muttered, watching her open the shutter, walk out onto the balcony and climb over the ledge, the stuffed shirt tied to a loop of her jeans like some giant bustle.
Hidden in the shadows, he watched the street below as she descended slowly enough to ensure detection. As she reached the street and headed in the direction of the river, he saw two men move simultaneously after her. In a moment, they were all running.
Without delay, he slipped into the corridor and quickly descended the stairs. The untidy lobby was deserted, except for a clerk who banged away intently on a noisy, old-fashioned adding machine while an old man slumbered in the cab of the elevator. He passed them without detection and headed for Ramses Square.
Light was edging along the sky when he reached the antiquated railroad station. An elevated overpass ran past the giant seated statue of Ramses II. Cairo was awakening and the crowds were thick on the overpass. The square below was choked with traffic. A line of droshkies, their leather bonnets glistening in the first rays of the morning sun, waited in a line at the station entrance for the initial fares of the day.
Inside the station, people seemed on the edge of hysteria as they crowded around the ticket kiosks or fought for space on benches or the station floor. They were a motley, overburdened populace of every imaginable shade of skin, in costumes of endless variety. The smells, a mixture of rotted fruit, garlic, sweat, hash, urine, and lubricating oil, formed its own special effluvia, permeating everything. He felt a nagging concern for Abdel. It was, he knew, wrong to involve her, wrong to endanger her, wrong, too, to be saddled with her. He bought two third-class tickets and proceeded to the departure platform.
The first train for Alexandria was scheduled to leave at seven. A crowd had begun to gather on the platform.
Women in black malayas sat cross-legged on the platform floor clutching their offspring. This country is a swamp of fecundity, he thought. Soldiers in sloppy black uniforms stood around with fixed bayonets watching the crowd with disinterest and boredom.
Settling at a place near the gate behind a man who stood waist-high in a pile of caged chickens, he observed the main waiting room, a whirlpool of humanity. Obviously, the British engineers who designed the station had not foreseen it being used by so many people.
The train was already in place, although the doors had not yet opened. Growing impatient, he surveyed the unruliness, noting how easily the concept of the British queue had dissolved in the Egyptian ferment.
He purchased two brioches and a Turkish coffee from a vendor, quickly returning to his vantage point, eating one brioche, sipping the tepid coffee. He put the other brioche in his pocket, anticipating Abdel.
Something disturbed the chickens and they began to cackle. Occasionally, eyes turned toward him, but they seemed more curious than predatory, more evidence that he had not fully stitched himself into the Egyptian fabric.
He watched the main entrance to the station, hopin
g he might see her coming. The minute hand of a large battered standing clock jittered toward the top of the hour. Its reliability was suspect. His own watch was six hours ahead of it.
The train door shuddered open and the carriages sucked up the assorted passengers like a gigantic vacuum cleaner. A loudspeaker blared an incoherent announcement, although he caught the words Alexandria and leaving.
When he felt he had waited for the last possible moment, he moved into the train, slipping into a crowded shabby interior. All the seats were quickly taken, and the overflow passengers sat on the floor. He edged himself through a wall of grumbling bodies. Continuing to stand, his height gave him the advantage of being able to continue to view the station platform.
The train grunted forward, spilling him against the passengers. Regaining his balance, he pushed his way through the crowds to keep the entrance gate in view. His anxiety grew. Where was Abdel? The wheels creaked, stopped, then squeaked forward again.
“Filthy louts,” an unshaven man dressed in a wrinkled white shirt and bow tie said to him in broken English, obviously trying to impress him. “Not like in the old days.”
Si ignored him and moved away, elbowing through a knot of firmly planted black-shrouded women. The train began to pick up speed. He yearned to resolve his apprehension about Abdel, to put it away the guilt, hoping he might prod himself to indifference. Perhaps they caught up with her? Hurt her? He had no right to expose her to such risks. The entrance gate moved out of sight.
Then he saw her. She was sprinting along the platform, her face tense and glistening with perspiration, the shirt bundle still attached to her belt, bouncing as she ran. He waved frantically. She saw him. Straining to reach the carriage door, he had to elbow his way through the crowd, sprawling across grunting bodies.
A chorus of shouts tried to stop him, and by the time he reached the door, he was nearly horizontal, but he managed to turn the latch, and Abdel bounded into the carriage. Her success in getting onto the train softened the complaints of those who had suffered by his actions, and as everyone righted themselves, the mood became good-natured.
