Goldsands

by William Maltese

  His bathroom had the luxury of a shower/bath combination, allowing him an almost sinfully long soak in very hot water, followed by a quick rinse in cold spray (the latter not doing anything to deflate his almost-painful erection). He tried to pay no attention to his boner, certainly not to the possible cause of it, as he dried off with a large Turkish towel that, as far as he was concerned, had to be one of the finest contributions to civilized society ever conceived by man.

  Once finished, he draped the towel over the side of the bathtub and faced the full-length mirror that, still faintly steamed, covered one whole wall. He took a perhaps-too-critical look at what he saw reflected. As with his facial features, he found the rest of his body (including his stiff dick) a bit on the sunny side of merely adequate. His skin was certainly flawless—divided, into two distinctly tanned sections, top and bottom, by the horizontal stripe of white left by the bathing suit he'd worn in his local gym's tanning salon. The contrast between his tan and his otherwise creamy whiteness was certainly not unattractive, and it emphasized his circumcised cock and balls that were clearly adequate (maybe even more-than). His waist was slim, his legs were nicely muscled. The rigors of his recent trips to the gym and his stringent work-outs with a personal trainer had paid off in spades, as far as his well-delineated pectorals and his almost-defined-enough-to-be-called six-pack belly muscles.

  Not too bad, he told himself and then frowned. Although apparently not better than a speckle-breasted peregrine falcon! He immediately chided himself for that absurd comparison, wondering why he still remained upset about Peter having rushed off the minute the bird had made its appearance in the lobby. It wasn't as if the bird was an attractive man. It was that Gil didn't have the faintest idea of how to compete with a falcon.

  Compete? He caught himself immediately on that one and wondered what he could possibly be thinking. He was making it seem as if he were out to get Peter (pshaw! in fact, quite the opposite). The last thing he wanted was Peter Donas or any other man. He wasn't one of those gay men who needed to be hooked up with someone to feel complete. As for one-night stands, he had had more than his fill of those during his recent go-all-out-to-the-point-of-excess celebration in having miraculously managed the long-desired but never-before managed transformation from chubby-tubby to physically fit; one-nighters invariably left him feeling unsatisfied and not eager for repeats. While he still wasn't a convert to the you-have-to-be-married-before-you-get-it-on school of thought, he had come to think, after having overdosed on promiscuous sex, that love probably would, somehow, make sex more meaningful. The idea of finding love, however, certainly wasn't any kind of likelihood on Gil's immediate horizon, so he was determined to remain celibate until something better (including better than Peter Donas) came up (no pun intended).

  He shook his head to clear it and left the bathroom, suspecting his lapse into useless musing had been caused by the cloyingly hypnotic moist heat that remained within the bathroom after his bath. He was sure he would be able to think more clearly in the air-conditioned comfort of the room beyond.

  He selected a blue cotton shirt and a dark-blue sports coat with matching slacks. Not that he had much choice. He had learned from past experience that it was best to travel as lightly as possible, since lugging all sorts of baggage onto the desolated sites of major archaeological digs was no mean feat. And while Hierakonpolis was only seventy miles north of the civilization offered by Aswân, those were seventy miles of dust and heat and bugs. The fact that the Nile would be only a short distance to the east didn't mean much, either. Correspondence with Professor Charles Kenny of the University of Chicago, the man who was supervising the dig, had alerted Gil that there had been a good deal of effort expended in trying to find suitable accommodations in a nearby village; the dig itself was about as “hospitable as a graveyard.” Actually, Professor Kenny hadn't been speaking figuratively. A cemetery was included within the area in which the present archaeological search was concerned. Through the years, several teams had moved in and out of the area, one actually having mistakenly thought it might have stumbled upon the tomb of the early Egyptian ruler, the Scorpion King, who had long been suspected as having come from the vicinity and who was associated with the original irrigation of the Nile Valley. Professor Kenny was the latest to have supposedly pinpointed such a tomb, and Gil agreed with the professor's theory that it was the right one. Peter Donas—naturally—was of quite another opinion. Based on obscure papyri references, Peter believed the Scorpion King had been buried farther north, near modern Luxor. Gil would have liked nothing better than to be on the spot when Peter Donas was proved wrong. That, Gil figured, would give Peter at least partial repayment for having been quoted in the press as calling Gil's Crete-Atlantis theory poppycock. One of the main reasons Gil had accepted this assignment, rather than another offered him at Sybaris, was that definitive evidence might turn up at Hierakonpolis to prove Peter wrong.

  Anyway, Gil had hardly expected much of a social life in Egypt, so his shirt and sports coat and slacks, all easily packed, had been his major concessions to any chance of needing a bit of dress-up.

  He spotted his reflection in yet another mirror. What he saw, this time, made him go for his copy of Archaeological American, brought with him, and partially read the previous evening. He thumbed through the magazine until he found the picture taken at the recent meeting of the Archaeological Association of the Three Americas, held in New York City. He pinpointed himself in the photograph and held up the magazine to one side of his reflection. He recognized immediately that he was seeing two seemingly different people. The G. Goldsands in the picture had his hair slicked back, and he wore glasses, and he was baby-fat chubby. Gil's weight problem had existed from a very early age and had only recently been satisfactorily deposed. The Gil Goldsands in the hotel mirror was slimmed-down and additionally morphed by a hairstyle specifically created to suit his new-you by a Seattle hair stylist who had charged fifty dollars. Gil hadn't questioned, at the time, why he had suddenly chosen that moment in his life to begin a seriously strenuous gym exercise program, opt for the talents of a hairstylist, and get corrective eye surgery, nor did he intend to probe the matter too deeply now. But the truth remained, he had done all of it directly on the heels of having received notification that he had been signed on at Hierakonpolis and knowing full well that Peter Donas was going to be there.

  Nonsense! Peter Donas had absolutely nothing to do with it! Gil had merely decided it was time he got over any and all remaining guilt he might have had about always seeming less-than-trim, and being called tubby four-eyes all through high school (and probably, behind his back, even through college).

  His glance strayed downward to the caption under his magazine photograph: “G. Goldsands.” G., not Gil or Gilford. The “G” had been a personal affectation that he'd adopted with his very first published article which had discussed the possibilities of Italy's Herculaneum having been a seaport prior to the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in A.D. 79.

  Possibly, then, there had been a good reason why Peter hadn't recognized Gil in the Egyptian Museum, quite aside from bad lighting and the fact that the two had never met before. The absence of a previous meet-up was no rarity in a profession in which members were so often scattered to the far corners of the globe. A few years back, Gil had almost attended a seminar at which Peter was the main speaker but, just before the plane's scheduled flight time, Gil had come down with a major attack of stomach cramps and the shits. He was sure he had gotten food poisoning from some fish eaten the previous night; his doctor had concurred.

  When Gil considered how differently from most of his photographs he now looked, he felt intuitively better. It reasonably explained how Peter, who surely must have seen at least one picture of Gil, somewhere along the way, hadn't had a clue during their afternoon meet-up. If Gil would, now, only slick down his hair with gel ... and dig through his suitcase for the pair of glasses he had brought along, just in case ... he'd look more like his old self,
and Peter might well recognize him for whom he was. That said, Gil liked his hard-won new self, and he was reluctant to backtrack just by way of better cluing Peter in on the reality.

  He still remembered how it had been when he'd first realized some genuinely attractive men, even in the gym, were suddenly taking second notice of him, once his pounds had been shed, and his muscles had begun to show. The sudden availability of gay sex for him, with a new, more elite, segment of his peer group, had been so thoroughly unexpected and so thoroughly euphoric (although he had quickly satiated on promiscuity), that he'd never had serious thoughts (nor did he now) of returning to the old G. Goldsands.

  He checked his wristwatch. It was seven-thirty. That gave him half an hour before he was supposed to meet Peter downstairs. He went down to the lobby, anyway, surprised to find Peter waiting. Gil would have been a little upset, but hardly surprised, had Peter shown up late, or not at all, with excuses of having become so caught up in some discussion on the health, food, transport, and molt of peregrine falcons that he had completely forgotten his “date” with Gil.

  No doubt that Peter looked strikingly handsome in a white long-sleeved shirt, white silk sports coat, black silk tie and pants, as well as polished-to-eye-blinding shine black English riding boots.

  "You look great!” Peter said and provided a look that few men, until recently, had ever given G. (Gil) Goldsands.

  Peter smiled, and his teeth were made whiter by the depth of his attractive tan. His eyes smoldered like gilt-tinged suns, drawing Gil in as though caught within the tremendous gravitational pull of twin stars.

  "I thought maybe you would have sighted another peregrine falcon,” Gil said, immediately regretting having done so. After all, Gil, had been the one to insist Peter not mention falconry as a condition of their dinner that evening.

  "You're going to love the place I've picked out for us this evening,” Peter diplomatically changed the subject. “It's admittedly a bit touristy, but it simply isn't to be missed during anyone's visit to Cairo. Maybe, though, you've already been to Filfila.” Gil shook his head, amused to see how glad Peter seemed to be in being able to treat Gil to a Cairo “first". It was obvious that Peter liked the spot, and Gil began to find Peter's excitement infectious. “Unfortunately, it's very popular with the tour groups who stop off by the busload,” Peter bemoaned. “But I've an in with one of the waiters who guarantees us the best table in the house."

  The restaurant was on Hoda Sharawi, a side street of the Sharia Talaat Harb. They passed the busy kitchen on the way in—a cramped open area with a stand-up counter for those whose budgeted time forced them to eat catch-as-catch-can and run. The aromas were undeniably exotic. Mouth-watering was about the only term, trite or not, that Gil could find to describe them. The place was very busy which, under the circumstances, Gil preferred over a more intimate candlelit setting. The latter might have led to a strained atmosphere, considering he still couldn't believe he was with a man who had early-on become a subject of avid fascination for a young boy whose poor romance-starved mother had so eagerly (and perversely?) hooked Gil onto the tragic romance and death of Geraldine Fowler at Thebes.

  The waiter, whom Peter specifically asked for at the door, and who did indeed seem happy to see him, led them into one of two back rooms filled to overflowing with people whose very number seemed to threaten the stability of their tables mainly made from large sections of split tree trunks. Gil, prior to being seated at a corner table for two, thought he heard English, French, and German emerge from within the general babble.

  There were windows along both sides of the narrow room, and the walls were painted in an assortment of scenes typical of Egypt: graceful date palms, camels at an oasis, Arab musicians. The menu was printed on disposable place mats, and Gil found himself automatically searching for hamama, although he had no intention whatsoever of ordering pigeon. What he finally did decide upon was molokhia—an exclusively Egyptian dish he had tried several times previously. He had never been able to find out what name was given the strange flat leaves that, cut up, were placed in a light meat broth to make the dish. The foliage vaguely resembled grape leaves, but he had been told it was related to the mint family. The thick soup that resulted, however, had not a trace of mint in its decidedly unique and strong flavor.

  After making sure that it came from the sea instead of the river, Peter ordered samak—the fish of the day—which turned out to be sole. Although the restaurant had made a name for itself with the tourist trade and could probably be trusted, as regarded the food it served, Peter, like Gil, had learned that fish from the Nile, especially if caught as far downriver as Cairo, could very well be (and most likely was) contaminated. For side dishes, Peter ordered torshi which, while translating vaguely as “pickle,” included a diversity of vegetables that had been soaked in a very spicy brine; ara einab which were grape leaves stuffed with small quantities of rice; and khalta, a rice dish made with raisins, nuts and chunks of meat and liver. The bread, aish baladi, was unleavened, made of coarse whole-wheat flour and baked into wedges; it was like crisp crackers. Gil and Peter both drank shai bi-na'na—a mint tea whose deliciousness had to be tasted to be believed. Unlike the Hilton that served its tea in a small pot, with an accompanying selection of milk, lemon and sugar, the Filfila offered its tea pre-sweetened in small glasses.

  Halfway through the meal, Gil decided that Peter made for quite enjoyable company; immediately, he tempered that judgment with one that weighed in with the possibility that it might very well be just the place and just the meal that were so enjoyable and not Peter. However, it had been Gil's experience that fun people usually gravitated to fun places and participated in fun things. In fact, more than once during the two and a half hours they spent at the restaurant, Gil found himself wishing he wasn't Gil Goldsands and Peter wasn't Peter Donas and that sordidness hadn't touched both of them via an incident in their families’ pasts. Gil was particularly aware of wishing that changes of identity could be as easily achieved as a change of hairstyle and/or eye surgery (losing weight hadn't been all that easy). During the course of their conversation, Gil found himself looking at close range into the hypnotic depths of Peter's sunny eyes. Gil found them so large, so golden, so warm and inviting, he embarrassedly pulled back, not having heard a word of what Peter had been saying about a plate of calamari—squid—that had just been ordered by a tourist at one of the larger adjoining tables.

  By the time Peter suggested they walk for awhile and, then, have dessert elsewhere, Gil was back to thinking himself silly in looking on all of this as ominously connected to things that had happened prior to either of them being born. It was ridiculous to harbor suspicions (as his mother would possibly even agree, were she alive) that an ill-fated romance so many years earlier could taint happenings in the here and now. After all, Gil was Gil Goldsands, not Geraldine Fowler, even if someone had once told him he “kind of” had the same looks as his tragically dead grandmother. Peter, except for having black hair, certainly didn't look like Frederic Donas. Frederic had been a mere boy, whereas Peter was definitely a man. Frederic had been slim, whereas Peter was all muscle. Frederic had been....

  "A piaster for your thoughts,” Peter interrupted Gil's train of thought and brought Gil back from his reverie; a piaster was a low-denomination Egyptian coin vaguely equivalent in value to a penny. Peter paid the bill and led Gil though the boisterous chattering crowd to the comparative quiet of the street.

  "I was thinking what a delightful meal that turned out to be,” Gil said belatedly.

  "Yes, wasn't it,” Peter agreed.

  Once again, Gil contemplated telling Peter who he was. He was even prepared to forgive Peter the nasty things said about Gil's theories on Crete and what remained of the lost continent of Atlantis. In retrospect, he could remember several different occasions, although in private and never for publication, when even Gil had smiled at some fellow colleague's reasoning, convinced that what that archaeologist had proposed as probable did
n't quite convince in the final analysis. Disagreement in professional life wasn't necessarily a matter for personal vendetta or bad feelings. Disagreement was healthy; it made archaeologists think, sit back, and reevaluate in attempts to plug loopholes. If a put-forward theory was sound, it eventually managed to weather any storm, coming through to stand on its own merits. Just as Gil was sure that, when the excavation was completed, there would be no doubt that the Scorpion King had been buried at Hierakonpolis as Gil believed, not at Luxor as Peter believed. In a way, he felt a little sorry for Peter who was destined to be proved wrong. Gil's concern said something about the remarkable change that had come over him during the past couple of hours.

  He didn't tell Peter who he was, though, because he was enjoying the moment too much as it was. There would be plenty of time later, and Peter would find out at Hierakonpolis anyway; their little joke to share.

  They strolled leisurely, neither uneasy within their mutual silence. Someone had once told Gil that the best indicator of whether two people were at ease with each other was a “pause” able to be shared in comfort. Not that the absence of sound was complete; the city, despite the lateness of the hour, bustled with activity.

  Gil was disappointed when Peter suddenly hailed a passing cab and hastily ushered Gil into the back seat. Gil wasn't really anxious to be returned to their hotel, quite yet, especially since he'd been looking forward to more walking (he enjoyed physical exercise more now that he was thinner and fitter), followed by a stop at some late-night sidewalk café where they could smile at each other over dishes of mahallabiyya—sweetened cream of rice topped with crushed pistachios (his having become thinner didn't make him less hungry for dessert).