Goldsands

by William Maltese

  "A bit stylized, isn't it?” Abdul asked. “My primitive ancestors were into abstract art, were they?"

  The truth was that the figure might well have been something other than a scorpion. There were professionals who argued it was definitely something else, who said seeing it as a scorpion was just wishful thinking. Gil, though, disagreed with the dissenters, as did Professor Kenny, and as did a few others who had a hunch about such things. And hunches were often what archaeology was all about. It had been a hunch that had convinced Carter that Tutankhamen's tomb was somewhere in the Valley of the Kings when experts had laughed at any such notion.

  If Abdul was little impressed with the ancient artwork, he was even less impressed with the supposed Scorpion King burial site. “This is what the fuss is all about, huh?” He shook his head as if he really found it a little hard to take in. The rectangular hole was still mostly filled with debris that had tumbled in when, thousands of years earlier, grave robbers, or the elements, had collapsed the roof and ravaged whatever was inside. But it was important, even if it had been robbed of its contents, even if it hadn't once housed the body of the Scorpion King, because it showed a hole chiseled into solid bedrock at a time in Egyptian history when most graves consisted of shallow diggings in dirt. That greater care had been taken in the construction of this grave suggested that a very important someone had been laid to rest here. And if the Step Pyramid at Saqqâra was a link between mastabas and the perfection of the later pyramids at Giza, here was indication of an even earlier transition from common earth-grave to burial-vault-in-stone.

  "I don't know why, but I always pictured archaeologists as being forever poised on the brink of some pharaoh's tomb, chipping away at a large seal bearing the inscription: Death will slay with his wings whomever disturbs the peace of the pharaoh,” Abdul said. “And what do I find instead? A group of people thoroughly caught up in the simple sifting of sand, totally delighted by a few kernels of grain, some animal bones, and—perish the thought—treasured pieces of dried feces.” Gil had spent the morning taking Abdul on a tour of the dig, ending up at the no-longer-being-excavated grave site. Gil thought that the sheikh's misconceptions were no more distorted than those of the majority of laymen who really knew so very little about archaeology aside from what they saw in the movies.

  "Well, this is what an archaeologist is and does ninety-nine times out of a hundred,” Gil said, leaning against one of the large slabs of sandstone that composed the surrounding outcroppings. “There are few discoveries of pharaohs’ tombs anymore—certainly not of the kind Carter came up with a Thebes. Nor is that altogether a bad thing, if you must know the truth. Not that Carter handled his find badly, because he was as methodical as they come. But prospects of great treasure often get searchers too concerned with materialistic values to remember the intrinsic and historical value to be had from a single kernel of grain. Grain tells us about a primitive people's agriculture; bones show hints of its animal husbandry; believe it or not, those coprolites you were wrinkling your nose at can give us vital clues as to diet. The mad rush once on for Egyptian valuables often did far more harm than good,” Gil continued, although he couldn't really be sure Abdul was all that interested. Actually, Gil was talking, and had been talking most of the morning, merely to keep himself from using “poor” Abdul as Father Confessor regarding the state of Gil's present unsatisfactory relationship with Peter. “Someone sees a glittering piece of gold,” Gil proceeded, realizing his mind had been drifting, “and the human reaction is to grab it up immediately without any real concern for where that piece has rested in relationship to its surroundings, in relationship to accompanying less valuable artifacts, or in relationship to soil layers. Many archaeologists, being only human, have ended up spiriting off obviously valuable pieces, only later to find they can't actually date them because they removed them too quickly from their vital context. Follow?"

  "Mmmmmm,” Abdul replied—which could have meant anything, even that he'd heard it all before.

  "Take the case of the Narmer palette.” Gil said. “I mention it, because it was found right around here. Not of gold but of carefully carved dark green slate, its value as a historical artifact was quickly recognized by the archaeologist who found it. However, the archaeologist, who should have known better, didn't bother to keep accurate records, only delighting in the obvious importance of his find. To this day, we still don't know whether the piece originated as part of some cache from an Old Kingdom storehouse, or whether it was brought in and deposited at a far later date as part of a later-found group of antiques. Not even the archaeologist could remember, since he had been, at the time, solely intent on getting his prize, and others, off for display before his admiring peers."

  "Mmmmmm,” Abdul responded, once again, making Gil think for sure that the sheikh was bored. “Actually, I'm probably more interested in what's gone wrong in your personal world,” Abdul confessed, sending Gil into an overreaction of denials that wouldn't even have convinced someone far less astute than Abdul. “Come on, Gil!” Abdul chided when Gil finished. “Did a snake somehow manage to slither into your and Peter's Garden of Eden?"

  So, since Gil had really wanted to tell Abdul all along, he let it all come spilling out—even the part about the untimely arrival of the gold-vertebrae neck chain. The latter brought immediate apologies from Abdul. “Though it isn't really the neck piece that's to blame for any of this, is it?” Gil assured, not wanting the sheikh to think Abdul was in anyway to blame. “If I hadn't made such a fool of myself in the Land Rover, Peter would have trusted any explanation I might have come up with about the neck piece. The way it was, though, he didn't even bother sticking around to ask for one."

  "So, you've had one lovers’ quarrel,” Abdul said dismissively. “Surely, the two of you can get passed that, can't you?"

  "Maybe not,” Gil had to admit, although it pained him to do so.

  "Don't be a fool once again, Gil!” Abdul warned, leaning against the adjoining section of rock. They were in one of the few pockets of shade left to them. The sun was climbing higher, and most of the team was probably already at the house after a day that had started for them before sunrise so they could take advantage of cooler working conditions. “It's obvious you still have this strong attraction for him,” the sheikh continued. “I certainly see no signs that Peter has stopped wanting you."

  "Do you really think so?” Gil asked, not missing the irony of seeking reaffirmation of one man's desire from another.

  "Oh, yes. Take my word for it,” Abdul said. He laughed and shook his head at Gil's need to hear it said. “I'm the one who told you he was out to get you in the first place, right?” the sheikh added, his wide grin making his attractive face even more handsome. “Are you now going to accuse me of being mistaken? Besides, has he come right out and told you he's no longer interested?” Gil shook his head. “His problem,” Abdul continued, “is no different now than what it has always been. He has a tendency to drag his ass. He is also overly confident that he can take his own sweet time and still come out on top of things. It makes me jealous as all hell, by the way, that he's probably right, too. You would go running to him if he would just open those strong arms of his in forgiveness, wouldn't you?” Gil didn't answer; he didn't have to. “So, you see!” Abdul said, successfully hiding whatever jealous hurt he did feel. “I know it, you know it, and Peter certainly knows it. He's probably out to make you suffer a little while longer before once again deigning to share himself with you. You put far too much stock in the parallel between you, Peter, and that long-ago business between your grandmother and Frederic Donas.” While Gil might have reached the point of not blaming his problems directly on Peter's grandfather and Geraldine, he would have acted far differently if he hadn't been preprogrammed by that tragedy. “Anyway, I'm somehow inclined to be more sympathetic to Gil Goldsands than to Peter Donas,” Abdul said. “Why do you suppose that is?"

  "I don't know,” Gil replied, knowing very well, and he placed a
thank-you rest of his hand against Abdul's arm “I am glad you're here!” Then, actually finding himself glancing around for signs of Peter, who might have misinterpreted the hand-on-arm as something more than a sign of grateful appreciation, he broke off the touching with an obviousness that made Abdul laugh.

  "Gil, Gil, Gil,” the sheikh said, his voice full of amusement. The chant had Gil immediately remembering how Peter had kept repeating Gil's name while they made love. As usual, memories of that past event did very little to dispel the despair of Gil thinking there would be no repetitions of those wondrous moments between them. “What you should have done just now,” Abdul confided in a conspiratorial whisper, “having expected as you so obviously did that Peter was waiting to leap out at us with accusations, was to have carried right on through with a big bear hug of me and, maybe, even a demonstrative big wet kiss right smack on my lips."

  Gil was embarrassed that his paranoia had been so easily recognized. “I'm in enough hot water the way it is,” he replied apologetically.

  "But you want your man back, don't you?” Abdul asked, probably finding it thoroughly charming that Gil was so innocent he didn't seem to have the foggiest notion of how to play the love-game. Then, possibly remembering Gil had more than once been adamant that relationships were serious business ... not games ... Abdul didn't make any such reference.

  "Of course, I want him back,” Gil answered, taking the pause offered by Abdul's inner reflection as an indication that the sheikh had expected Gil to answer.

  "Then, let me be the first to assure you that you're already well on your way to a reconciliation,” Abdul said, continuing in his unselfish role of matchmaker. “I could see that the minute I noted the expression on Peter's face when you told him you were going to take this morning to show me around the site. Did you or did you not recognize his sudden relapse into that same monosyllabic way of speaking he used that time he discovered us kissing in the Serapeum?"

  "Do you really think he's jealous?” Gil asked; he hoped he didn't sound desperate but rightly suspected he did.

  "Damn right he is!” Abdul confirmed. “And he should be. I mean, just take a look at this charming, debonair, handsome chap who has suddenly shown up on the scene! Peter has probably spent the whole morning stewing over how he might just have waited a bit too long before coming up with his magnanimous show of forgiveness. It was one thing when he had the monopoly on masculine good looks in the area, but he's got to whistle another tune now that this Sheikh of Egypt has come riding back onto the scene. Look at how quickly he came rushing to you at Thebes when he'd stewed long enough about my having had you all to myself on that cruise ship."

  "He came to Thebes because he wanted to break the news about his getting Professor Kenny's job instead of me,” Gil reminded, wanting to hear Abdul give all the right arguments to the contrary—which the sheikh willingly obliged in doing.

  "Ah, that might well have been part of Peter's original rationale!” Abdul proclaimed like a wizard revealing mysteries to an attending neophyte. “But did he tell you anything in Thebes other than that he had the hots for you?” Gil, knowing Abdul must have intuitively sensed the extent of what had happened in Thebes, felt a little guilty in being unable to repay kindness with nothing other than friendship. How much easier it would have been if Gil could have loved Abdul instead of Peter. “Of course, Peter didn't end up telling you about his getting the professor's job, and do you want to know why?” Abdul asked. “One, he had never really come to Thebes to tell you that—well, not just that. Two, he knew if he did tell you, at least in the wrong way, you might hightail it out of Egypt before the two of you had enough time for extended fucking and sucking. So, eventually, he figured it might be better to reveal the news to you after he got you to Hierakonpolis. Then, you'd be faced with exiting back over that monstrously wretched road between here and Idfu that no one in his right mind would be anxious to re-travel any time soon. Certainly, I'm not looking forward to it!"

  Gil smiled, unable to help himself. He felt good. He felt better than he had in a long time, and he knew the reason why. Abdul made him feel good. The sheikh always made Gil feel good, whereas with Peter it was a constant roller coaster of depressing lows and exhilarating highs. Gil tried to tell himself he preferred the even-keel emotion offered by Abdul, only to remember the soaring heights of pleasure to which Peter had taken him. “I'm glad you came!” Gil said, kissing Abdul on the cheek, not caring if Peter came out of the rocks to accuse Gil of taking up with Abdul once again. Gil had known from the expression on Peter's face when the neck piece had arrived on Gil's doorstep that Peter held such suspicions anyway. Well, Gil had suffered and apologized enough for his mistakes. From here on out, it was going to be another ball game. “I really am glad you came,” he repeated for emphasis.

  "I'm glad you're glad,” Abdul said. “Now, do you want to head back for lunch with you-know-who, or cause more gossip by joining me and my bodyguards for another of my famous desert lunches?” Gil couldn't help shivering slightly at his memory of the climactic ending to their last desert lunch on the outskirts of Saqqâra. The sheikh apparently sensed Gil's thoughts and sought to assuage them. “I can't actually guarantee such exciting entertainment as last time, you understand,” Abdul told him.

  "In that case, what guy in his right mind could turn down such an invitation from a handsome desert sheikh?” Gil asked, echoing what he had answered that other fateful time at Giza. “Besides which, I'm starving. What's being offered in the picnic basket this time around?"

  "Cold white wine, cold chicken and turkey, cold asparagus in aspic, cheese and juicy tangerines,” Abdul enticed, taking Gil's arm as the two maneuvered through the rocks toward the Land Rover which was waiting. There was still no electricity from Abdul's touch, like there was from Peter's touch, but Gil didn't care. Abdul had compensations that were unbeatable at that particular moment in time and place.

  Having had three armed bodyguards in attendance of Abdul for all morning, morning, Gil was still made uneasy by them. At the same time, he hoped to God they would always be able to prevent any recurrence of those frightening events at Saqqâra. Gil got in the front seat with Abdul, and the three guards all crowded in the back. Gil touched his hand gently to Abdul's forehead, something he had been going to do all morning but which had been prevented by his suspicions that Peter would see and misinterpret the gesture. “Looks as if it's healing nicely,” he said, speaking of the scar from the bullet wound.

  "Nothing spectacular like some of my other scars,” Abdul said, starting the Land Rover and putting it in gear.

  Gil remembered how those scars had looked on Abdul's near-naked body, remembering the unscarred perfection of Peter's body as Peter had walked toward Gil in that hotel room across the Nile River from Thebes.

  They drove deeper into the desert, finally stopping in a spot that would have seemed no different from any other, except that Abdul seemed to recognize it. “We have arrived!” he said, flashed a smile and stopped the car. Immediately, all three gunmen exited the vehicle and fanned out. Only then did Abdul and Gil get out. “We'll let my people make the site a little more hospitable for lunch while the two of us take a short walk, shall we?” Abdul suggested. “I've something I want to show you."

  As they set out, Gil noticed the sheikh kept one of the three bodyguards with them, even if the man remained at a discreet distance that afforded them their privacy.

  "Who could guess there was once so much water in this desolation?” Abdul said as he led the way along a gentle rise of sandstone dusted with its own loose sand.

  "The once substantial rainfall made this area at one time very special in Egypt, indeed.” Gil took his cue. “Usually along the Nile, settlements grew up close to and paralleling the course of the river. Here, though, they also extended virtually miles on the perpendicular."

  "You mean that it actually once rained enough out here to support life?” Abdul asked, making Gil a little confused. The sheikh's previous stat
ement about rainfall had led Gil to suspect Abdul already knew the answer. The sheikh must have read the confusion on Gil's face. “Oh, I see!” he said suddenly. “You thought I had meant rain when I talked of all the water. Actually, I was talking about an ocean. We just got our references mixed by a few million years."

  "Like maybe you confused an archaeologist with a geologist?” Gil suggested in good humor.

  "Actually, I'm not confused at all,” Abdul bantered. “You're the archaeologist; I'm the geologist. Nothing confusing about that."

  "You're a geologist, are you?” Gil wondered why that came out sounding as if he was so surprised. Except, possibly, he was surprised.

  "As much as a degree in geology is apt to make me one,” Abdul answered. “I'll be the first to admit that there are those in the field far more up on their facts than I am. I've diversified to the point where I seldom trust myself in geological matters without seeking a second or even a third opinion. Quite frankly, it was an associate who spotted the potential of the area around here."

  "Its potential?” Gil asked, again confused. Then, he connected what Abdul was saying with the business Gil knew the sheikh was in. “Ah, for oil, you mean?"

  "Yes, oil,” Abdul admitted, “that gooey stuff—” He smiled widely. “—that has the capability of thrusting a poor nation into rich-nation status overnight. People in the know feel that we're presently standing atop a great reservoir of the stuff."

  "Right here?” Gil's knowledge of what existed far-far below the very few soil levels that had supported human existence—his interest in what lie there, as a matter of fact—was limited.

  "Sometime between five- and ten-hundred million years ago, right here, I'm told, there was an ocean teeming with countless tiny sea creatures,” Abdul said, “that, when they died, sifted down to the bottom of that sea like the dust that settles here, now. There, the decaying sea life mingled with decaying vegetable matter, and with the fine silts washed in by rivers; all eventually squeezed by geological forces to combine and make oil."