“There were all sorts of clues,” I say, “but they just ignored them.”
“I don’t like Agatha Christie,” Lissa says. “Murder and trying to find out who killed who. I’m never able to figure out what’s going on. All those people on the train together.”
“You’re thinking of Murder on the Orient Express,” Neil says. “I saw that.”
“Is that the one where they got killed off one by one?” Lissa’s husband says.
“I saw that one,” Zoe’s husband says. “They got what they deserved, as far as I’m concerned, going off on their own like that when they knew they should keep together.”
“Giza is nine miles west of Cairo,” I say. “You have to take a taxi to get there. There is all this traffic.”
“Peter Ustinov was in that one, too, wasn’t he?” Neil says. “The one with the train?”
“No,” Zoe’s husband says. “It was the other one. What’s his name—”
“Albert Finney,” Zoe says.
Chapter Four: Places of Interest
The Pyramids are closed. Fifty yards (45.7 m.) from the base of Cheops there is a chain barring our way. A metal sign hangs from it that says “Closed” in English and Japanese.
“Prepare to be disappointed,” I say.
“I thought you said they were open daily,” Lissa says, knocking sand out of her sandals.
“It must be a holiday,” Zoe says, leafing through her guidebook. “Here it is. ‘Egyptian holidays.’” She begins reading. “‘Antiquities sites are closed during Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting in March. On Fridays the sites are closed from eleven to one P.M.’”
It is not March, or Friday, and even if it were, it is after one P.M. The shadow of Cheops stretches well past where we stand. I look up, trying to see the sun where it must be behind the pyramid, and catch a flicker of movement, high up. It is too large to be a monkey.
“Well, what do we do now?” Zoe’s husband says.
“We could go see the Sphinx,” Zoe muses, looking through the guidebook. “Or we could wait for the Son et Lumière show.”
“No,” I say, thinking of being out here in the dark.
“How do you know that won’t be closed, too?” Lissa asks.
Zoe consults the book. “There are two shows daily, seven-thirty and nine P.M.”
“That’s what you said about the Pyramids,” Lissa says. “I think we should go back to the airport and get our luggage. I want to get my other shoes.”
“I think we should go back to the hotel,” Lissa’s husband says, “and have a long, cool drink.”
“We’ll go to Tutankhamun’s tomb,” Zoe says. “‘It’s open every day, including holidays.’” She looks up expectantly.
“King Tut’s tomb?” I say. “In the Valley of the Kings?”
“Yes,” she says, and starts to read. “It was found intact in 1922 by Howard Carter. It contained—”
All the belongings necessary for the deceased’s journey to the afterworld, I think. Sandals and clothes and Egypt Made Easy.
“I’d rather have a drink,” Lissa’s husband says.
“And a nap,” Zoe’s husband says. “You go on, and we’ll meet you at the hotel.”
“I don’t think you should go off on your own,” I say. “I think we should keep together.”
“It will be crowded if we wait,” Zoe says. “I’m going now. Are you coming, Lissa?”
Lissa looks appealingly up at Neil. “I don’t think I’d better walk that far. My ankle’s starting to hurt again.”
Neil looks helplessly at Zoe. “I guess we’d better pass.”
“What about you?” Zoe’s husband says to me. “Are you going with Zoe or do you want to come with us?”
“In Athens, you said death was the same everywhere,” I say to him, “and I said, ‘Which is what?’ and then Zoe interrupted us and you never did answer me. What were you going to say?”
“I’ve forgotten,” he says, looking at Zoe as if he hopes she will interrupt us again, but she is intent on the guidebook.
“You said, ‘Death is the same everywhere,’” I persist, “and I said, ‘Which is what?’ What did you think death would be like?”
“I don’t know … unexpected, I guess. And probably pretty damn unpleasant.” He laughs nervously. “If we’re going to the hotel, we’d better get started. Who else is coming?”
I toy with the idea of going with them, of sitting safely in the hotel bar with ceiling fans and palms, drinking zibib while we wait. That’s what the people on the ship did. And in spite of Lissa, I want to stay with Neil.
I look at the expanse of sand back toward the east. There is no sign of Cairo from here, or of the terminal, and far off there is a flicker of movement, like something running.
I shake my head. “I want to see King Tut’s tomb.” I go over to Neil. “I think we should go with Zoe,” I say, and put my hand on his arm. “After all, she’s our guide.”
Neil looks helplessly at Lissa and then back at me. “I don’t know.…”
“The three of you can go back to the hotel,” I say to Lissa, gesturing to include the other men, “and Zoe and Neil and I can meet you there after we’ve been to the tomb.”
Neil moves away from Lissa. “Why can’t you and Zoe just go?” he whispers at me.
“I think we should keep together,” I say. “It would be so easy to get separated.”
“How come you’re so stuck on going with Zoe anyway?” Neil says. “I thought you said you hated being led around by the nose all the time.”
I want to say, Because she has the book, but Lissa has come over and is watching us, her eyes bright behind her sunglasses. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a tomb,” I say.
“King Tut?” Lissa says. “Is that the one with the treasure, the necklaces and the gold coffin and stuff?” She puts her hand on Neil’s arm. “I’ve always wanted to see that.”
“Okay,” Neil says, relieved. “I guess we’ll go with you, Zoe.”
Zoe looks expectantly at her husband.
“Not me,” he says. “We’ll meet you in the bar.”
“We’ll order drinks for you,” Lissa’s husband says. He waves goodbye, and they set off as if they know where they are going, even though Zoe hasn’t told them the name of the hotel.
“‘The Valley of the Kings is located in the hills west of Luxor,’” Zoe says and starts off across the sand the way she did at the airport. We follow her.
I wait until Lissa gets a shoeful of sand and she and Neil fall behind while she empties it.
“Zoe,” I say quietly. “There’s something wrong.”
“Umm,” she says, looking up something in the guidebook’s index.
“The Valley of the Kings is four hundred miles south of Cairo,” I say. “You can’t walk there from the Pyramids.”
She finds the page. “Of course not. We have to take a boat.”
She points, and I see we have reached a stand of reeds, and beyond it is the Nile.
Nosing out from the rushes is a boat, and I am afraid it will be made of gold, but it is only one of the Nile cruisers. And I am so relieved that the Valley of the Kings is not within walking distance that I do not recognize the boat until we have climbed on board and are standing on the canopied deck next to the wooden paddlewheel. It is the steamer from Death on the Nile.
Chapter 5: Cruises, Day Trips, and Guided Tours
Lissa is sick on the boat. Neil offers to take her below, and I expect her to say yes, but she shakes her head. “My ankle hurts,” she says, and sinks down in one of the deck chairs. Neil kneels by her feet and examines a bruise no bigger than a piaster.
“Is it swollen?” she asks anxiously. There is no sign of swelling, but Neil eases her sandal off and takes her foot tenderly, caressingly, in both hands. Lissa closes her eyes and leans back against the deck chair, sighing.
I toy with the idea that Lissa’s husband couldn’t take any more of this either, and that he murdered us al
l and then killed himself.
“Here we are on a ship,” I say, “like the dead people in that movie.”
“It’s not a ship, it’s a steamboat,” Zoe says. “‘The Nile steamer is the most pleasant way to travel in Egypt and one of the least expensive. Costs range from $180 to $360 per person for a four-day cruise.’”
Or maybe it was Zoe’s husband, finally determined to shut Zoe up so he could finish a conversation, and then he had to murder the rest of us one after the other to keep from being caught.
“We’re all alone on the ship,” I say, “just like they were.”
“How far is it to the Valley of the Kings?” Lissa asks.
“‘Three-and-a-half miles (5 km.) west of Luxor,’” Zoe says, reading. “‘Luxor is four hundred miles south of Cairo.’”
“If it’s that far, I might as well read my book,” Lissa says, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Neil, hand me my bag.”
He fishes Death on the Nile out of her bag, and hands it to her, and she flips through it for a moment, like Zoe looking for exchange rates, and then begins to read.
“The wife did it,” I say. “She found out her husband was being unfaithful.”
Lissa glares at me. “I already knew that,” she says carelessly. “I saw the movie,” but after another half-page she lays the open book face-down on the empty deck chair next to her.
“I can’t read,” she says to Neil. “The sun’s too bright.” She squints up at the sky, which is still hidden by its gauzelike haze.
“‘The Valley of the Kings is the site of the tombs of sixty-four pharaohs,’” Zoe says. “‘Of these, the most famous is Tutankhamun’s.’”
I go over to the railing and watch the Pyramids recede, slipping slowly out of sight behind the rushes that line the shore. They look flat, like yellow triangles stuck up in the sand, and I remember how in Paris Zoe’s husband wouldn’t believe the Mona Lisa was the real thing. “It’s a fake,” he insisted before Zoe interrupted. “The real one’s much larger.”
And the guidebook said, Prepare to be disappointed, and the Valley of the Kings is four hundred miles from the Pyramids like it’s supposed to be, and Middle Eastern airports are notorious for their lack of security. That’s how all those bombs get on planes in the first place, because they don’t make people go through customs. I shouldn’t watch so many movies.
“‘Among its treasures, Tutankhamun’s tomb contained a golden boat, by which the soul would travel to the world of the dead,’” Zoe says.
I lean over the railing and look into the water. It is not muddy, like I thought it would be, but a clear waveless blue, and in its depths the sun is shining brightly.
“‘The boat was carved with passages from the Book of the Dead,’” Zoe reads, “‘to protect the deceased from monsters and demigods who might try to destroy him before he reached the Hall of Judgment.’”
There is something in the water. Not a ripple, not even enough of a movement to shudder the image of the sun, but I know there is something there.
“‘Spells were also written on papyruses buried with the body,’” Zoe says.
It is long and dark, like a crocodile. I lean over farther, gripping the rail, trying to see into the transparent water, and catch a glint of scales. It is swimming straight toward the boat.
“‘These spells took the form of commands,’” Zoe reads. “‘Get back, you evil one! Stay away! I adjure you in the name of Anubis and Osiris.’”
The water glitters, hesitating.
“‘Do not come against me,’” Zoe says. “‘My spells protect me. I know the way.’”
The thing in the water turns and swims away. The boat follows it, nosing slowly in toward the shore.
“There it is,” Zoe says, pointing past the reeds at a distant row of cliffs. “The Valley of the Kings.”
“I suppose this’ll be closed, too,” Lissa says, letting Neil help her off the boat.
“Tombs are never closed,” I say, and look north, across the sand, at the distant Pyramids.
Chapter 6: Accommodations
The Valley of the Kings is not closed. The tombs stretch along a sandstone cliff, black openings in the yellow rock, and there are no chains across the stone steps that lead down to them. At the south end of the valley a Japanese tour group is going into the last one.
“Why aren’t the tombs marked?” Lissa asks. “Which one is King Tut’s?” and Zoe leads us to the north end of the valley, where the cliff dwindles into a low wall. Beyond it, across the sand, I can see the Pyramids, sharp against the sky.
Zoe stops at the very edge of a slanting hole dug into the base of the rocks. There are steps leading down into it. “Tutankhamun’s tomb was found when a workman accidentally uncovered the top step,” she says.
Lissa looks down into the stairwell. All but the top two steps are in shadow, and it is too dark to see the bottom. “Are there snakes?” she asks.
“No,” Zoe, who knows everything, says. “Tutankhamun’s tomb is the smallest of the pharaoh’s tombs in the Valley.” She fumbles in her bag for her flashlight. “The tomb consists of three rooms—an antechamber, the burial chamber containing Tutankhamun’s coffin, and the Hall of Judgment.”
There is a slither of movement in the darkness below us, like a slow uncoiling, and Lissa steps back from the edge. “Which room is the stuff in?”
“Stuff?” Zoe says uncertainly, still fumbling for her flashlight. She opens her guidebook. “Stuff?” she says again, and flips to the back of it, as if she is going to look “stuff” up in the index.
“Stuff,” Lissa says, and there is an edge of fear in her voice. “All the furniture and vases and stuff they take with them. You said the Egyptians buried their belongings with them.”
“King Tut’s treasure,” Neil says helpfully.
“Oh, the treasure,” Zoe says, relieved. “The belongings buried with Tutankhamun for his journey into the afterworld. They’re not here. They’re in Cairo in the museum.”
“In Cairo?” Lissa says. “They’re in Cairo? Then what are we doing here?”
“We’re dead,” I say. “Arab terrorists blew up our plane and killed us all.”
“I came all the way out here because I wanted to see the treasure,” Lissa says.
“The coffin is here,” Zoe says placatingly, “and there are wall paintings in the antechamber,” but Lissa has already led Neil away from the steps, talking earnestly to him.
“The wall paintings depict the stages in the judgment of the soul, the weighing of the soul, the recital of the deceased’s confession,” Zoe says.
The deceased’s confession. I have not taken that which belongs to another. I have not caused any pain. I have not committed adultery.
Lissa and Neil come back, Lissa leaning heavily on Neil’s arm. “I think we’ll pass on this tomb thing,” Neil says apologetically. “We want to get to the museum before it closes. Lissa had her heart set on seeing the treasure.”
“‘The Egyptian Museum is open from 9 A.M. to 4 P.M. daily, 9 to 11:15 A.M. and 1:30 to 4 P.M. Fridays,’” Zoe says, reading from the guidebook. “‘Admission is three Egyptian pounds.’”
“It’s already four o’clock,” I say, looking at my watch. “It will be closed before you get there.” I look up.
Neil and Lissa have already started back, not toward the boat but across the sand in the direction of the Pyramids. The light behind the Pyramids is beginning to fade, the sky going from white to gray-blue.
“Wait,” I say, and run across the sand to catch up with them. “Why don’t you wait and we’ll all go back together? It won’t take us very long to see the tomb. You heard Zoe, there’s nothing inside.”
They both look at me.
“I think we should stay together,” I finish lamely.
Lissa looks up alertly, and I realize she thinks I am talking about divorce, that I have finally said what she has been waiting for.
“I think we should all keep together,” I say
hastily. “This is Egypt. There are all sorts of dangers, crocodiles and snakes and … it won’t take us very long to see the tomb. You heard Zoe, there’s nothing inside.”
“We’d better not,” Neil says, looking at me. “Lissa’s ankle is starting to swell. I’d better get some ice on it.”
I look down at her ankle. Where the bruise was there are two little puncture marks, close together, like a snake bite, and around them the ankle is starting to swell.
“I don’t think Lissa’s up to the Hall of Judgment,” he says, still looking at me.
“You could wait at the top of the steps,” I say. “You wouldn’t have to go in.”
Lissa takes hold of his arm, as if anxious to go, but he hesitates. “Those people on the ship,” he says to me. “What happened to them?”
“I was just trying to frighten you,” I say. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. It’s too bad Hercule Poirot isn’t here—he’d be able to explain everything. The Pyramids were probably closed for some Muslim holiday Zoe didn’t know about, and that’s why we didn’t have to go through customs either, because it was a holiday.”
“What happened to the people on the ship?” Neil says again.
“They got judged,” I say, “but it wasn’t nearly as bad as they’d thought. They were all afraid of what was going to happen, even the clergyman, who hadn’t committed any sins, but the judge turned out to be somebody he knew. A bishop. He wore a white suit, and he was very kind, and most of them came out fine.”
“Most of them,” Neil says.
“Let’s go,” Lissa says, pulling on his arm.
“The people on the ship,” Neil says, ignoring her. “Had any of them committed some horrible sin?”
“My ankle hurts,” Lissa says. “Come on.”
“I have to go,” Neil says, almost reluctantly. “Why don’t you come with us?”
I glance at Lissa, expecting her to be looking daggers at Neil, but she is watching me with bright, lidless eyes.
“Yes. Come with us,” she says, and waits for my answer.
I lied to Lissa about the ending of Death on the Nile. It was the wife they killed. I toy with the idea that they have committed some horrible sin, that I am lying in my hotel room in Athens, my temple black with blood and powder burns. I would be the only one here then, and Lissa and Neil would be demigods disguised to look like them. Or monsters.
The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993 Page 32
