Death on Tour (10 page)
He looked ready to argue, but Anni determinedly turned her back on him and continued handing out the passes.
I took the two passes she handed to me and gave one to Kyla. I looked at the card I was holding. “Apparently I am Mrs. Kim today,” I said.
“I’m Mr. Gavaskar,” said Kyla with a grin.
DJ loomed over her and laughed. “Take good care of my reputation,” he boomed.
“Hey, what did you buy?” she asked him.
He held up a black statuette of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the afterlife. “Ten pounds,” he said enthusiastically. “We started at fifty.”
We looked at him admiringly. Ten Egyptian pounds translated to roughly two dollars. I couldn’t believe you could buy anything for that amount in any airport in the world, and the triumph of having bargained the price down from fifty was stunning.
He held out the little statue, and I took it eagerly. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, and I turned it over, looking at it from every angle. Real, authentic Egyptian crap. Probably made in China. A little chip on the bottom revealed white plaster under the black paint. Maybe two dollars was a fair price after all, but it didn’t matter. I wanted one. I handed the statue back and reached in my purse to check the small wad of bills I carried in my wallet.
Kyla immediately held out her hand. “Gimme a one. Think I’ll make a pit stop.”
Reluctantly, I handed her the most tattered bill I had. “Don’t spend it all in one place. And you owe me.”
She took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger and headed in the direction of the ladies’ room.
Foreign money never seems quite real anyway, and Egyptian currency was particularly difficult because apparently most of the bills had been printed during the reign of Ramses II. They were universally tattered, grimy, and faded. En masse they had a distinctive odor not unlike sweaty socks. Available in tiny denominations, they ranged from fifty piastres, which were worth about ten cents, up to fifty pounds, which were worth about ten dollars. The smaller the bill, the harder it was to obtain, too. Egyptians loved their one-pound notes, which were useful as baksheesh in places like the public restrooms. Almost everywhere, restrooms were guarded by grim attendants who doled out a few squares of toilet paper in exchange for baksheesh. The traditional sum was one pound, but when you have to go, you’re not going to argue about getting change. Yesterday, I’d gladly handed over a ten-pound note, although considering the amount of toilet paper I’d received in return, I might as well have used the bill itself. At the hotel, I’d bought some postcards just so I could glean a few grimy one-pound notes in change. Somehow they seemed more valuable than the wad of tens I had crammed into my wallet.
Alan had circled back around after getting his ticket and now stood by my shoulder. Surely that was on purpose, I thought, pleased.
He glanced down at the bills in my hands. “Flashing your cash around, are you?”
“It’s the only way to command real respect, and I’ll thank you to show me the reverence that a couple hundred of these babies deserve,” I answered.
“I would certainly have been more deferential if I had known you were loaded. Your highness,” he added for good measure.
“That’s much better.” I grinned at him. “Hey, how much do you think I should pay for one of those cheesy gold pyramids?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the nearest booth.
He followed my gaze. “Ah, madam has exquisite taste. Would you like me to find out for you?”
“No, thank you. I’m just trying to get up the nerve to haggle, and I’d like to know what I should be shooting for. I’ll do it another time.” I put my wallet back in my purse and zipped it.
“You’ll have plenty of chances if Aswan is anything like Cairo.”
Kyla returned just as boarding for our flight was announced. Anni looked around frantically, then threw up her hands, which still held two boarding passes. Fiona and Flora were nowhere to be seen.
“Go get in line,” she told us, then hurried off to speak to one of the officials behind a counter. A few minutes later we heard an announcement over the speakers requesting that they rejoin their party. Most of our group had already passed through the doors when they popped up from the direction of the restrooms. Fiona’s jet black wisps were wilder than ever. In fact, if they hadn’t had the sex appeal of runny cheese, I’d have guessed at an illicit liaison in the ladies’ room.
“Damn, they made it,” Kyla said under her breath.
“Were they in the bathroom the whole time?” I asked.
“Not while I was in there,” she answered. “They probably got lost and took a crap in a broom closet.”
The flight to Aswan was uneventful. From the air, the Nile was a great green ribbon winding gracefully across the vast barren waste of the Sahara, and it was easy to see the vast power that water had in this desert country. In Cairo, the edges of the river’s influence were blurred and obscured by human building, but away from the sprawling city, verdant life along the river banks stopped as if a great hand had drawn an uncrossable line in the sand. No wonder the ancient Egyptians had been so obsessed with death—it was visible on the horizon at every waking moment.
After leaving the airplane, we were met by a new bus that whisked us through the streets of Aswan for a quick overview. We stopped and saw the immense Aswan dam and were more impressed by the many guards carrying machine guns than by the giant slab of concrete that blocked the Nile. I found Lake Nasser impressive. A huge blue miracle in that dry land, although somehow sterile. No boats, no ramshackle piers selling ice and bait, not one fisherman in sight. Along the shores, a few scrubby plants grew in defiance of the desert, but beyond three or four feet, rock and sand held dominion.
We took a few perfunctory pictures and then thankfully hopped back on the bus, out of the wind and away from the machine guns. We zipped through the town, past the vast and fairly creepy cemetery, pausing for a few minutes at the Unfinished Obelisk, then on to our hotel, all at breakneck speed as if we were completing items on a checklist. Aswan High Dam, check. Unfinished Obelisk, check. Town market, check. It was a relief to stop and walk to the ferry that would carry us at its own slow pace to our hotel. Once there, however, we had only just enough time to check in and drop our carry-on bags in our rooms before rushing on to our next activity.
We had been promised a ride in a felucca, the traditional Egyptian boat with the huge triangular sail that seemed larger than the vessel itself. However, by the time we reached the docks, the khamsin wind had picked up again, tugging at our clothing and whipping a brownish haze of sand into the dry air. Little white-tipped waves scuttled across the surface of the water. From where we stood, we could see a lone felucca skimming rapidly over the surface of the Nile, its huge triangular sail leaning at an impossible angle. We looked at it doubtfully.
Anni was talking into her cell phone in rapid Arabic and now closed it with a snap. “It is too windy to take a felucca,” she announced with regret. “We will have to travel to the gardens in a motor launch. I am very sorry, but as you can see, it would not be safe.”
“Will we be getting a refund?” asked Jerry, thrusting out his jaw and stepping forward.
Anni smiled and patted his shoulder. “No, but you can have an extra dessert at dinner.”
Jerry glowered, lips parting to start some kind argument.
From just behind him, Lydia said, “Sounds like someone needs a nap.” Ben laughed. Jerry continued to glower, but made no further protest.
The motor launch was large, lined with wooden bench seats along the rails and covered with a striped blue-and-white canopy. Kyla and I boarded first and sat together in the middle of one side. As the others streamed on board, Alan followed Yvonne and Charlie. I looked away quickly, but not before noticing he was looking particularly fine in the afternoon sun. Kyla lifted her head and gave him an eager wave, which he acknowledged with a lift of his hand. But he stepped past her and sat beside me. I was sure it was out of politeness, moving to the rear of the boat to leave room for others, but I was pleased anyway.
He wore jeans and a white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and I could see the sun-bleached hair on his tanned forearms. I was entirely too conscious that one of those arms rested on the railing behind my back and that a scant half inch of seat separated his thigh from mine.
So I babbled. I’m not even sure what nonsense spouted from my mouth. The sun was on my face, the wind in my hair, I was seated by a fabulous man, and I was in Egypt, floating on the Nile. And I was happy. Happy in a way I had not been for several years. I felt young and free and wonderful.
When we arrived at the island, Alan jumped up and helped position the gangplank from boat to shore. He then turned and took my hand to help me walk across. I felt his touch on my hand long after he released me. A special moment, it was ruined when he lingered to perform the same service for Kyla, and then Flora, and then every other woman on the tour. When he offered his hand to Ben, Ben just met his eye and said, “Watch it, mate,” and both men laughed.
Kitchener’s Island was a jewel, an emerald haven of life and beauty guarded from the looming dunes by the azure waters of the Nile. We climbed a steep hill from the landing and found ourselves in a miniature paradise. Hundreds of beautiful trees formed a canopy sheltering paths lined with flowering shrubs. Brilliant red hibiscus with blossoms as big as my head competed with miniature orange trumpets that gracefully climbed a trellis arching over the path. The powerful Egyptian sun filtered gently through a green filigree of leaves and branches. It was a gardener’s triumph, a token finger raised defiantly in the face of the Sahara. For, of course, Kitchener’s Island was a human creation just as much as any sphinx or pyramid. The land itself might be a natural formation, but all the plants had been collected from around the world by Lord Kitchener at the turn of the last century and brought to this place solely to satisfy the longings of a gardener far from home. That it had been protected and maintained during the intervening decades was a testimony to its beauty and scientific value.
A barefoot Egyptian boy waited at the top of the stair holding a packet of bookmarks made of papyrus and painted with colors that rivaled anything found in the garden. Out of long habit, we steeled ourselves to walk past without eye contact, but Anni unexpectedly stopped beside him and bought a set of bookmarks, then gestured to the rest of us.
“These are very nice and a good price. They make very nice small presents. Haki is asking only five pounds.” Which was a dollar.
We obligingly crowded around the boy, who grinned hugely, teeth white against his dark skin. He quickly exchanged packs of bookmarks for pound notes, not stopping to count the bills, as if afraid his good fortune would vanish before he could finish. He need not have worried. A quick glance at his poor hands, twisted and maimed by either accident or nature, explained Anni’s patronage, and we waited patiently for our turn. I bought five packs, figuring I could use them as rewards in the classroom or enclose them with my Christmas cards. He gave me an extraordinarily sweet smile and effusive thanks.
“
Shokrun
,
shokrun
, miss.”
At the top of the hill, under trees so dense that the shade seemed as blue as the Nile, Anni gathered us together. I couldn’t help looking about for Alan, but he was on the other side of our little circle. And he wasn’t looking at me. In fact, he was scanning the scenery as though expecting to see something, or someone. Puzzled, I looked around too, but other than a few tourists, I could see nothing unexpected.
“At the far end of the island is a small marketplace,” Anni said, pointing. “You cannot get lost here.” She smiled to herself at that. It had to be nice for her to have us all in a contained space where she didn’t need to watch us like toddlers. “We will meet there in one hour to look at the mausoleum of the Aga Khan and then return to the hotel. One hour!” she shouted at the disappearing backs of the Peterson boys.
The rest of us scattered too, almost before she stopped speaking. Kyla and I turned off the main path and headed straight for the water’s edge. We didn’t want to end up near anyone else and feel obligated to stick with them. The temperature was warm without being hot, the wind a mere breeze here in the shelter of the trees. I could see dozens of plants I didn’t recognize at all. And we had a whole hour on our own in this beautiful place. I sighed contentedly, relaxed and happy.
Kyla’s sigh coincided with mine, but the tone was somehow different. A little line appeared between her eyebrows and her lips were pressed together. You’d think that after all the years I’d known her that I could have read the warning signs better, but I was caught up in my own pleasure.
“A whole hour prancing around in the bushes, getting eaten alive by giant bugs,” she said.
“Hey, stand over by that leaning palm tree. It’s perfect—I can get your picture with the water and the dunes in the background.”
Kyla loved having her picture taken, but even this lure wasn’t enough to drag her out of whatever snit suit she’d decided to don. She just shook her head.
“Well, take mine then. It’s too perfect to waste.” I handed her the camera and went to lean against the tree.
She snapped the picture grudgingly and fast, without taking any time to line up the shot. Annoyed, I retrieved my camera and tried to view the picture, but the sun was too bright to see more than a figure by a tree. I’d just have to hope it was okay.
Kyla spotted a bench a few yards down the path and sat down, arms crossed over her chest. I followed slowly and stopped just out of reach.
“My super extrasensory perception is picking up a very faint signal. I seem to be getting something.” I held a hand to my head as if concentrating very hard. “Yes, it’s getting stronger. My powers induce me to believe that you might not be entirely happy.”
I just think it’s fortunate that people, and Kyla in particular, don’t have the ability to shoot death rays from their eyes because I would have been melted into a little puddle at that moment.
