Candice laughed. “Of course, we could’ve buried the drugs. Now that pilot’s just going to sell them.”
Nevada pulled herself upright. “You haven’t met many pilots, have you? He’s going to have a crazy weekend and that’ll be the end of that. Besides, throwing them away? Terrible for the environment. We’d end up with a bunch of raging cokehead camels.”
“I don’t think there’d be much difference,” Candice observed. Inside the ring, two of the camels were spitting at each other. “Of course, now you’re going to have to explain to Jacques how you’re nice all of a sudden.”
“He’s got the reward money for Farouq coming in. He’ll be fine. And do not ,” Nevada insisted with sudden stringency, “go around telling people I’m nice. Maybe that’s okay in Britain, but if word of that gets out in the States, people start getting on you to put your groceries in tote bags and give blood.”
“So you let everyone think you’re a cast-iron bitch?”
“Works for New Yorkers.”
Candice chuckled harshly. “It’s so cute how you Americans think New York is hardcore. New York has Broadway . Now, spend a weekend in Glasgow—”
“Honey bean, I’d spend a weekend with you anywhere.” Nevada gave Candice her most charming grin. She could see that Candice barely eked out being amused over being charmed. “So, grandad. How will we know him?”
“CANDICE CUSHING!”
The voice boomed out like a foghorn. Nevada’s hand automatically dropped to her gun at the loud noise, and she turned to see the crowd clearing, making way for the man who had spoken. He was elderly but vital, a youthful energy melting away the years. He could’ve passed for a man in his forties. His body, tall and spindly, was clad in the traditional white jellabiya and dark vest, but instead of a turban or skullcap, he had a New York Yankees cap on his head. His beard fell down to his chest, as white as city snow, with soot tracing down his chin and the edges of his mustache. A similarly unruly head of hair, bushy and fuzzy, was partially pulled back into a bun behind his head, while the rest fell down his back in graying dreadlocks a foot long. On his face, round spectacles set in wide, old-fashioned frames gave him an even more scholarly, chipper air. A scar wrapped around his head and covered one eye like a set of half-glasses. It looked like it had been made by a sword.
He repeated the call, arms thrown wide into the air as he marched down the corridor the crowd had made for him. “My darling granddaughter!” he announced to everyone present, and in near-earth orbit. “Gone from me fifteen years! I see her again now!” Now within range of Candice, he clapped his hands on her shoulders. “I see my son’s eyes looking at me once more. Subhan Allah!”
A scattered chorus of subhan Allah went up among the crowd as Candice’s grandfather hugged her. Evidently unsatisfied with this, he drove one fist up into the air while keeping his other arm around her.
“Subhan Allah!”
“ Subhan Allah! ” the crowd echoed back loudly, and he finally released Candice and turned to Nevada.
“And you must be her associate,” he continued in a smaller, almost reedy voice. Nevada held out her hand and he trapped it in both of his, shaking it effusively. “It is no less a pleasure to meet you, of course.”
“You speak very good English for a Hadendoa,” she said, a little suspicious.
“Thank you! You speak very good English for an American!”
“Ha!” Candice burst out.
Her grandfather appeared to politely not notice. “You may call me Usama.”
“Oh,” Nevada said, chagrinned, “like the—”
“Like the famous terrorist, yes.” Usama shrugged. “Naming a child, it is, how would you put it—a ‘crapshoot,’ yes?”
“Yeah,” Nevada agreed. “I had a roommate once named John Tesh… maybe I should call you by your last name.”
“Yes, that would be Hussein.”
“Nevada,” Candice said gently, “maybe we should be considerate of our host’s feelings, since he’s going to be helping us so much?”
“Of course!” Putting an arm around each of them, Usama led them through the crowd. “I have consulted the tribal maps since I received your message, and there was once a doubled tree in the area you spoke of. Apparently a cedar tree was growing in the desert when a bird dropped a seed on top of it. The seed grew into an acacia tree, with roots going down the cedar tree.”
“An epiphyte,” Candice said, nodding. “That makes sense. It’s rare, but not unheard of.”
“You Googled that,” Nevada said accusingly. “Usama, can you take us there?”
“It would be my esteemed pleasure! As the Qur’an says, ‘and to parents do good and to relatives, orphans, and the needy. And speak to people good and establish prayer and give zakah .’”
“Thanks, Usama.” Nevada saw a sheen of refracted sunlight shooting through the dusty market and craned her neck to see a row of cars lined up for sale alongside a herd of goats. Patting Usama on the back, she broke loose from him. “You two catch up. I’ll get us a ride.”
“Do you even speak the language?” Candice asked.
Nevada held up a wad of bills. “They speak mine.”
“That’s not going to be enough for a car,” Candice said.
“I know. You have money, right?”
Candice unthinkingly reached for the money belt under her clothes. “For emergencies.”
“This is an emergency. I’m cash-poor.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m poor,” Nevada said bluntly. “C’mon, what else are you gonna do, give it to charity?”
“You are a charity.” Candice took a stack of bills out of her belt and slapped it into Nevada’s hand. “And I want change!”
“So did Barack Obama, and look how well that worked out.” Nevada flicked through the stack. “Wow, this is enough to get Julia Roberts to kiss you on the mouth.”
“Go!” Candice insisted.
Nevada disappeared into the crowd and Candice wheeled on Usama in disbelief. “You see what I’ve been dealing with.”
Usama gave a sage nod. “I have traveled the deserts all my life. I would very much like to do so once more… with air conditioning.”
With nightfall, the Beja in the marketplace concluded their sales and their haggling, rolling up their merchandise or packing up their purchases for the pilgrimage back home. They lugged their unsold straw mats, wool rugs, and firewood like they were carrying prized possessions.
There was something… invigorating about being in their midst as Candice walked with Usama. Though she doubted many of them had Dinka blood, she still recognized much of her family in their features, the way they moved and carried themselves, even the way they talked. Maybe they didn’t speak her native English tongue, but this was a sound that felt as familiar as an old nursery rhyme.
And yet, the men wore jellabiyas identical to Usama’s, and the women conservative but colorful thawbs. How could Candice not feel out of place in her shirt, pants, and sun hat? It made her think of the expression ‘stranger in a strange land.’ But was she a stranger in a familiar land or the other way around?
The Beja camp was a good half-hour’s walk from the city, and as they walked, she updated Usama on how her parents were doing, and he told her about her various cousins, nephews, and nieces among the Hadendoa. Candice was unable to find it very interesting, not after she’d seen two men shot under the same sun that was now setting—one more way she felt like she didn’t belong even when she should . But she let Usama talk and gave every indication of listening. He was a man who liked to talk about his family. She wouldn’t deprive him of his chance.
Around dusk, they reached the camp, an elaborate colony of tents. They were made of everything from palm fronds to goatskin to straw mats, with even some modern nylon tents looking ridiculously colorful among the darker shades of the traditional tents and the brown sands. The women were tidying up for the night, bringing in dates that had dried in the sun and solar panels
that had finished recharging batteries. Now, with those batteries plugged in, lamps came on and radio music fluttered through the campsite.
Usama led Candice to his arish at the center of camp, a portable house made from the split trunks, stems, and fronds of palm trees, with mangrove poles holding it together. A barjeel soared up to catch cool, clean air from high above the hot sands and funnel it down into the arish, making it sweetly temperate inside. Once they’d stepped through the wool flaps protecting the interior of the dwelling, Usama seated himself under the barjeel and groaned happily to have its manmade wind blowing the desert heat off him. It was so much how any old man would rest his tired bones that Candice felt a swell of affection for him. There were so many grandparents in the world; he was hers.
Usama opened his eyes. “When I heard word of your coming, I prepared a feast that I think even your Western tongue will agree with. Behold.” He gestured to a brass tray with stubby legs holding it off the floor. “Pizza from the Domino’s. One large pepperoni and one large cheese. With Pepsi alongside.”
“Thanks,” Candice said, taking a slice. She sat down across from him on a cushion—one of the sparse furnishings in the room; its opulence was in its size. “It wasn’t very nice, playing a joke like that on Nevada.”
“What joke?” Usama asked as he prepared tea in welcoming ritual. He used an electric hot plate to heat it, but other than that, it was the oddest preparation Candice had ever seen. For a filter, he lay grass across the opening of the coffee pot.
“Usama Hussein?”
Usama spread his hands equivocatingly. “It is bad luck for a Hadendoa to give his true name to a stranger. Everyone knows that.”
“You couldn’t have picked a better name?”
“What name could be better at putting that funny look on her face?”
Candice smiled despite herself. “Oh, you two are going to get along famously… You know she’s doing the same thing?”
“Her name is false?” Usama asked, leaving the tea alone to brew.
“Easy Nevada?”
Usama reached for the pizza boxes. “It seems a reasonable name for an American. I am told there is a very famous woman whose parents named her Lady Gaga.”
“Easy’s not quite that unlucky. I’ve heard her real name.”
Her grandfather pried a slice of pepperoni pizza away from the pie, looking distrustfully at the trail of cheese it left behind. “This Domino gentleman is a strange baker… A Hadendoa, of course, only tells their true name to family.”
“We’re not that close,” Candice assured him, thinking privately, Thea and I . Taking that thought back and keeping it to herself. “The only thing we have in common with family is that she drives me insane.”
“I try now to think about something which I do not care about which still has the power to drive me insane.” Usama took a bite of pizza. “ Bismillah! What a fine way of delivering cheese!”
“It’s pretty good,” Candice agreed.
“And if your friend is keeping her name a secret, we are doubly lucky.”
“Guess that leaves me the odd man out.”
“Odd man…?” Usama shook his head. “You are not an odd man…”
“It’s an expression,” Candice said quickly. “It means… you and Easy both have something in common, and I don’t. Because I use my real name.”
“Then Candice Cushing is your real name?”
Candice dropped her hands to her lap. “Oh, we’re getting philosophical?”
Usama sprang up, pouring the tea into two demitasse cups and adding pepper to the brew. “Your name now is Candice Cushing, because you were taken to a strange land when you were small, and that name was easily spoken there. But now you are here in the desert, and the land of the name Candice Cushing is far behind you. Perhaps there is another name you are known by here. Something you were called as your mother and father dreamt of you, long before you had flesh or blood.”
Candice took the full cup he offered her, wondering if this was some put-on, but he was too intense to write it off as a joke. “If there is a name like that, it doesn’t apply to me. Candice is the only name I’ve ever known.”
“But is it the only name you ever will know? You have heard where this name, Candice, comes from, yes?”
“ Kandake ,” she said, and took a sip. Somehow, his eclectically prepared tea tasted wonderful—perfectly suited to her taste buds. “It’s the word for ‘queen’ in Nubian.”
“You talk like you have forgotten the desert. But it is in the very sound of your name.”
A gunshot rang out. Frigid water poured into Candice’s veins. It brought a fearful tremor with it, but also propelled her into motion. She hurled herself into Usama, knocking them both to the ground and covering him with her body as two more gunshots cracked, sharp as ice breaking. Then she heard brake pads hissing against tires, dragging some huffing, chugging beast of a car into stillness.
Usama laughed richly. “Not that I would cast aspirations on a woman’s figure, Candice, but you are getting a bit big to hug me so recklessly.”
“I thought…” Candice trailed off as she got up and helped him to his feet without another word.
“Merely a car backfiring,” he said. “You’re becoming skittish. Most definitely in need of tea.”
“Yeah,” Candice said. “Skittish.” She remembered how she had cast her eyes about, looking for a weapon in that moment of panic. She hadn’t felt skittish.
Outside, the sun’s heat had been replaced by the moon’s icy glare. Candice hugged herself to keep warm. Many of the Hadendoa were unimpressed with the commotion; others had formed a crowd at the edge of camp surrounding a white Land Cruiser. It was the kind of vehicle that looked like it had taken steroids at some point—a clunky, boxy thing that could’ve come out of Mad Max, with scratched paint, pitted metal, cracked glass, and threadbare tires.
Candice caught the breath she’d lost. “Please tell me you did not pay money for that thing.”
“Barely.” Nevada leaned out of the driver’s window, elbow resting on the doorframe. “I drove a real hard bargain.”
“What, did you promise to drop it off at the junkyard for them? It doesn’t even have a rearview mirror.”
Nevada looked at the stump where one should’ve gone. “You worried about tailgating?”
Candice put her hands on her hips. “How old is that? Was it even built this century?”
“It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage,” Nevada told her.
“What’s the mileage?”
Nevada paused for a long moment. “The tires are very nice,” she finally said. “These are great tires… radio works…” She turned it on. A quavering broadcast of Maître Gazonga’s mellow “Les Jaloux Saboteurs” played. Nevada bopped her head slightly. “Of course, I’m guessing your grandpa might not be much for modern music. I don’t know much about Islam, but I figure it works on the same basic principle as that town in the eighties that wouldn’t let Kevin Bacon dance.”
“You nailed it,” Candice said.
“Thanks. Anyway, I decided to make a playlist with songs we could listen to that aren’t about drugs, drinking, or sex.” She reached down and opened the console between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s seat. “So I got a bunch of Hank the Cowdog tapes.”
“We’re going to be listening to a bunch of children’s stories about talking animals?”
“In Texas!”
“I know you like to condescend to me, but isn’t this taking it a bit far?”
“I do not condescend to you,” Nevada said firmly. “Now have you gone potty? It’s going to be a long car ride.”
Usama came out of the crowd, cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. “Do you mean to leave now? It is almost nightfall.”
“Truck has headlights,” Nevada replied.
“We should not travel at night. The desert is easily angered.”
“Are you gonna anthropomorphize the desert the whole time?”
>
Candice patted her arm. “Be nice. But also, good word use.”
“ Danke. ”
Usama arranged his glasses on his ears and across the bridge of his nose before speaking. “Whatever you hope to find, it will still be there in the morning, and better appreciated with a good night’s rest and a vessel fully loaded with supplies. Come. There’s tea.”
Nevada glanced at Candice. “No wonder your family did so well in Britain—”
“Shut up,” Candice said, reaching past her to turn up the radio, which had cut to a news report in Arabic.
“What is it?” Nevada asked. The way she said it made everything worse—all full of concern and sympathy. Candice could only imagine the stricken look on her own face that had prompted it.
“It’s Pike’s camp,” Candice said. “A truck bomb went off next to it—Khamsin’s claiming responsibility—and they’re still… They’re not even done counting the bodies.”
With the camp’s recycling bin tucked under one arm, Nevada walked along the length of a dune, jamming empty cans and bottles down into the sand so they stood upright in a row. When she was done, she tossed the bin aside, walked up to Candice, and pulled a gun from her belt.
“Browning Hi Power. Oldie but a goodie—one of your grandad’s toys. I already cleaned it, dry-fired it, should shoot fine. You know how to load it?”
“It’s not exactly assembling a cabinet from IKEA.”
Candice didn’t feel the lighthearted banter, which usually inspired a weird blend of assurance and irksomeness. Whatever she said, Nevada would always knock it right back at her like a volleyball, but at least there was consistency in that. Maybe that was why they kept it up, despite Candice being able to see in her eyes that Nevada didn’t feel it any more than she did.
Nevada demonstrated how the magazine went in. “Slide it in, slam it home with the heel of your hand, then rack the slide. That takes the first bullet out of the magazine, puts it in the chamber. You’re ready to rock and roll. I don’t suppose I have to go over basic gun safety with you?”
Candice tried to keep things light, think of some quip, but it was like climbing up a mountain. It was weird to think of things being easy with Nevada—possibly the most aggravating, frustrating individual she had ever met—but in comparison to this, anything would be easy. “Why don’t you anyway?”
Candice Cushing and the Lost Tomb of Cleopatra Page 11
