Death on Tour (9 page)
Travel by air over 500 miles to the desert resort town of Aswan, where you will see the gigantic Aswan High Dam. En route to your luxury hotel overlooking Elephantine Island, stop to view the famous Unfinished Obelisk. In the afternoon, board a launch and visit the island of Agilika with the fabulous Temple of Isis, transplanted from the submerged island of Philae. In the evening, board a felucca and sail across the sapphire waters of the Nile to the lush botanical gardens on Kitchener’s Island. End your evening with a gourmet buffet, listening to music under the stars.
—WorldPal pamphlet
On the way to the airport, the bus stopped at the officially sanctioned papyrus factory shop, another of our obligatory learning/shopping experiences. En route, Anni went to great lengths to explain that many places sold fake papyrus and that we should not buy papyrus just anywhere. She made it sound as though, left unsupervised, all of us would stampede away from the bus, cash clenched in waving fists, accosting bystanders and demanding counterfeit papyrus. By the time she had finished, we knew far more about papyrus than we ever wanted to know, but we left the bus with the smug feeling that at least we now had the inside scoop. No one could cheat us and pawn off inferior papyrus like they would to those unlucky schmuck tourists who were not on a WorldPal tour.
The door was located on the side of the building, down a flight of stairs guarded by a rickety metal railing that descended steeply below street level. Seedy hardly described it adequately. Had we not been part of a tour, I most definitely would not have gone into that shop, and as it was I could see Nimmi and Dawn both giving Anni questioning looks. However, the Peterson boys charged ahead, jumping down the last three steps with a loud slap of tennis shoes on concrete and vanished inside. The rest of us followed more slowly, held up by Charlie and Yvonne, who somehow reached the stairs and started down clutching each other’s arms. We waited more or less patiently for them to either descend or fall.
Once inside, we found ourselves in a long low room. The floor was covered with worn mint green carpet, the wood-paneled walls covered with dozens of framed paintings. Four relatively young Egyptian men and two young women stood in strategic positions around the room, waiting. They were wearing western clothes, although the women, like Anni, wore headscarves. In the middle of the room, a large flat table held pans of water and a variety of instruments. The fluorescent lighting was overly bright and, reflecting off the carpet, gave our faces an odd greenish cast.
As we drew near enough to get a good look at the papyrus paintings, I couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment. The paper itself was made of light tan strips of reed that reminded me very much of the bamboo shoots that came in a dish of almond chicken. They were pressed together in the way that kids wove strips of paper together at Easter to make little place mats. Of course, the Egyptians had figured out some way to press the reeds together strongly enough to form a solid sheet, but the strips were still visible. More surprising, the paintings themselves were in the most garish colors imaginable, and although there were many pieces with traditional Egyptian cartouches and icons, more than a few were painted with westernized subjects, including kittens and little birds. Some of it would have been right at home in a Gas ’N’ Go in Arkansas.
“Thank God this is the authentic stuff,” Kyla whispered to me. “Just imagine what the cheap crap would look like.”
She slipped away while the rest of us approached the table to watch a small middle-aged man demonstrate how to soak and pound papyrus reeds. After whacking on a piece of reed the size of a broom handle, he made a cut with a lethal-looking knife and then peeled off a long strip of wet fiber. The faint remnants of enthusiasm fluttered around his movements, but it was either too early or he’d repeated this performance once too often to summon anything more. Listlessly, he held out the mallet for one of us to try. Chris Peterson leaped forward and took it. In another instant, he was hammering away as hard and fast as he could. Bits of reed flew in all directions. Showing a good deal of bravery, his mother grabbed his wrist and twisted the hammer out of his hand before he could mash the reed or someone’s fingers to a pulp. Reluctantly, he handed the mallet over to Yvonne and stepped back, his mother hissing something in his ear. I was trying not to laugh out loud when Alan came up beside me.
I glanced up at him. He looked good, even in the sickly glow of the fluorescent lighting, which made his eyes more gray than green. His lashes were the same light brown color as his hair.
“So what do you think?” he asked, tipping his head to where Yvonne was slamming the mallet down with impressive force. The fact that she missed the reed altogether did not deter her in the least.
“Very interesting,” I lied. Certainly not as interesting as talking with him. I glanced around to see where Kyla was, but she was not paying any attention to us.
“Really?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“No.”
He laughed out loud, causing the Peterson boys to turn around eagerly. Susan pinched an arm with each hand and forcefully turned them back to the demonstration.
“Sorry, boys,” he said under his breath. He grinned at me. “So I guess you won’t be making some sales guy happy today.”
“Unlikely. Although actually, I might buy a little one, just to have something to show my students. It would be nice to find something that didn’t look so…” I searched for the word.
“Hideous?” he supplied helpfully.
“I was going to say modern, but hideous works too. The colors seem too bright.”
“To be fair, I think this may be the way the paints looked on the real deal when everything was new. We’re so used to seeing everything faded by three thousand years of sun and wind that bright colors seem fake.”
I considered. “So you’re claiming that ancient Egypt looked like Munchkinland in the pre-Dorothy era?”
“No, that is not what I am saying. I … oh, never mind.” He suddenly realized I was messing with him and gave me a look that made me laugh.
Pleased with each other, we moved a little to the side, viewing the pictures that lined the walls. His shoulder brushed mine as we walked, and I wondered if it was on purpose. I gave him a sidelong glance to check, but he was still focused on the papyrus paintings. A little disappointed, I dutifully directed my attention to the wall.
Alan stopped in front of a particularly large papyrus depicting hundreds of small figures floating around a very large cobalt blue scarab. “I bet that would look good in your living room,” he said.
“It would certainly complement the overall dung-beetle theme I’ve got going on,” I agreed.
He had no chance to respond. A skillful saleswoman stepped between us and began extolling the virtues of the paintings to me, pointing out a large ornate scroll positioned prominently on the wall.
I shook my head. “It is very beautiful, but too expensive.”
She instantly snatched a smaller framed picture from the wall and waved it. “This one is very good, very elegant, and quite affordable,” she said in lovely accented English.
I caught a flash of blue and gold. “I’m sure, but there’s no way I can get a framed picture back home without breaking it.” I smiled to show there were no hard feelings and tried to edge away.
“Ah no, but look! We use only the finest unbreakable glass in our frames.”
I caught Alan’s eye as she rapped on the picture with her knuckles and then actually hurled it to the ground. He almost doubled over in silent laughter. Right then, I decided that I would buy whatever it was bouncing off the carpet, just so I could remember this moment.
* * *
The Cairo airport was a madhouse when we arrived for our flight to Aswan. Several tour buses pulled up to the curb at the same time and coughed up their occupants onto the pavement in front of the domestic terminal. Afraid of being swept away in the ebb and flow of humanity, we clutched our carry-ons and followed the bright pink Hello Kitty umbrella as if our lives depended on it.
Around us, people were speaking in every possible language. French seemed to be the most common after Arabic, but I heard snippets of German and Italian as well. Somehow, though, we fell into the correct line behind Anni and began the arduous passage through two separate security checks. Anni led the way, holding all our tickets in one hand, and no one asked for our identification at all. They screened our carry-ons very thoroughly, however, taking their time with each bag. As Kyla’s bag went through, the bored security inspector perked up and made a gesture to two guards, who pulled her aside.
To my surprise, Alan immediately wheeled out of line and stood just behind Kyla, like a protective brother. Or so I hoped. I tried to hang back to wait for her, too, but Anni hurried over.
“Go and wait by the luggage and make sure your bag makes it onto the cart,” she ordered.
Airports make me nervous anyway, but any hint that my bag might not be where it was supposed to be made my adrenalin surge. I rushed over to the cart and to my relief saw both my bag and Kyla’s. A couple of porters began straining against the huge overflowing cart, pushing it away to be loaded onto the plane. I looked back and saw Kyla and Alan still talking with the airport security people. From this angle, it looked as though Alan was searching through Kyla’s bag while she was busy arguing with the guards. Very odd, but maybe he was trying to prove there wasn’t anything in there. More importantly, was he just being friendly with me in the papyrus shop, or had we actually had a moment? Maybe he was interested in Kyla after all. What puzzled me was why he seemed so interested in her bag.
Anni joined them and began sorting it all out. Frowning to myself, I joined the rest of the group and found myself beside Nimmi.
“I’ll be surprised if we see any of our luggage again,” she said. “You’d think security would be a little tighter here. Look at them, just taking all the bags in one great big pile.”
“I’m sure they run them through a scanner,” I said. “That’s pretty much what they do at home.”
Still, she did have a point. The bright red WorldPal baggage tags seemed to be giving our suitcases speedy and preferential treatment.
“Where’s your lesser half?” Ben Carpenter cheerfully asked Nimmi. Lydia had apparently just finished a cigarette, and the two of them were rejoining the group. The faint smell of smoke hovered about them like an acrid perfume.
Nimmi rolled her eyes and gestured with her chin. “Look at him. Like a big kid.”
We followed her gaze to a group of small shops, hardly more than stalls separated by racks of merchandise, lining a wall. To my eyes, each one was almost identical. Racks of scarves, cheap tote bags, t-shirts, and small souvenirs crammed into the space of a small closet. The only variation as far as I could tell was the volume and intensity of each respective shopkeeper. They called, shouted, flattered, and wheedled every passerby with incredible enthusiasm. Or, I should say, every non-Egyptian passerby. The Egyptians were able to walk by in relative peace. In front of one stall, we could see DJ haggling happily with a vendor for some trinket or other. Big and boisterous, he looked like he was having the time of his life, a huge smile flashing white in his dark face. I felt a little envious. Even here in the airport, I was too intimidated to try my hand at haggling.
Nimmi now looked around, then turned to Lydia. “Your niece? Where is she?”
“Sitting over there,” answered Lydia, pointing. “She’s better, but still pretty weak, poor thing. I was worried she’d be too dehydrated to travel, but Anni is going to arrange for her to go directly to the hotel when we get to Aswan. Anni’s quite marvelous, isn’t she?”
We all agreed that Anni was indeed marvelous. I glanced over to where the niece was sitting and saw a dark-haired girl wearing dark glasses slumped forward in one of the uncomfortable plastic airport seats, resting her forehead on one hand. I couldn’t see her face, but she did indeed look miserable.
At last, Anni, Alan, and Kyla rejoined us, and Anni began counting to make sure we were all there.
“What happened?” I asked Kyla.
“They thought my curling iron was a pipe bomb or something,” she said through clenched teeth. “I didn’t think they were going to give it back. Luckily Alan stopped to help. They seemed to pay more attention to him.” She gave him a flattering glance from under her long lashes, and he looked a little embarrassed.
Why anyone would bring a curling iron to Egypt was beyond me anyway, but I wisely didn’t say anything.
Anni said, “Go and make sure your bag is on the cart.” She hurried away to give the same instruction to the others.
Alan obeyed, giving me a quick glance that I couldn’t read.
“He’s a nice guy,” I said.
She pursed her lips, not entirely happy. “Yeah, he is.”
“You don’t like nice guys?”
“I don’t like them too nice.” She grinned. “But at least he stuck around and protected me from the guards.”
Alan turned, noticed us staring at him, and gave an uneasy grin. Probably wishful thinking that made it seem directed at me. He joined us, and Kyla immediately began thanking him for coming to her rescue. She shifted on one foot so that I was subtly on the outside of their intimate little circle. I had a sudden strong urge to pinch her, then felt a little shocked at myself.
“Where are they?” I heard Anni asking. She raised her voice. “Does anyone see Fiona and Flora?”
And sure enough, the ditz duo were missing again. Ben took Hello Kitty and began waving it rather wildly. DJ saw the motion, wrapped up his deal, and hurried back. Fiona and Flora did not appear.
Anni began handing out boarding passes, more concerned with the seat numbers than with the actual names printed on the passes.
“Hey, this isn’t mine.” Jerry Morrison looked down at his boarding pass, sounding irate.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Anni. “This way you can sit with your daughter.”
