Grains of Truth (11 page)

He carried the worn suitcase down four flights of stairs and tossed it into the trunk of his car. As he drove away from the drab beige building, clustered together with countless similarly drab beige buildings in the beige desert, he thanked Allah for his many blessings. He had married a good woman, a good mother to their two young sons. The twenty-year-old car he drove had seen better days for sure, but he was among a small minority who were lucky enough to have a car at all. Three years ago they’d been most fortunate to have won the opportunity, by lottery, to purchase the flat. 

The massive apartment complex, several miles to the east of Cairo, was originally built as part of a military compound. Its cheerless dwellings were not luxurious by any standards but provided the basic necessities. Mohamed hoped one day to be able to afford an air conditioner for their fifth-floor flat. With no elevator, lugging up groceries and young Yahiya was hard labor. Hardest on Shahida, who cooked and cleaned daily in the oppressive heat. She seldom complained, he thought gratefully, unlike many of the other wives who constantly wished and whined for new furniture, clothes and jewelry.

The same thoughts trudged through Mohamed’s mind for the thousandth time: Good jobs were few. Leading tour groups was certainly beneath a man of his qualifications, but he should be thankful for work of any kind. The horrendous attacks around the world by the Islamic Jihad left a permanent blot on travel in the Middle East. Egyptian tourism never fully recovered, resulting in millions of people finding themselves out of work. He knew all this by heart, but it didn’t make any of it any easier.

Mohamed now worried continuously about being able to make the mortgage payments. The tour companies used the drop in business as an excuse to cut the pay of all employees below the mandatory minimum wage. Permanently. The few tours he conducted dwindled considerably from the groups of thirty to forty or more of the past. This resulted in a drastic reduction in the gratuities that made up a large part of his income.

Some of the tour guides yielded to the temptation of selling jewelry and other trinkets to their groups to supplement their diminished income, but not Mohamed. He was a professional—an educated man, an accomplished Egyptologist. He would not demean himself in this way. Still, it was hard to spend so much time in the company of tourists who paid more for a gold chain than he needed to feed his family for a month.

Without Julia’s help, he would’ve lost the flat. He tried not to think of what might have been if they’d managed to be together, to start some business together. He tried not to think of her at all. His thoughts transcended into a reminiscence of something unearthly—a goddess—far removed from his all too mortal reach.

Chapter 15

After surely what could have been no more than a few hours of restless sleep, Julia swung her legs to the floor to squint at the clock. Doubting the numbers there, she padded to the window and pushed open heavy drapes. Over the tops of dusty palm trees, the Pyramids of Giza stood out against a cloudless sky, drenched in sunlight. Damn. She’d overslept. Heart now pounding, she dialed the operator and asked to be connected with Mohamed’s room.

What would he say? Would he be angry when he learned that she was his client from the New York publishing house and hadn’t let him know? Although he did his best to be supportive during her long illness, they hadn’t been in touch for almost two months now.

The phone rang and rang. She sighed, thinking how typical for him to not be there as planned. Nothing ever went as planned in Egypt. Finally, the operator came back on the line. 

“Please leave a message for Mr. Zahar to meet his client in the lobby. He will know her when he sees her.” Let him wonder about that.

Julia took her time in the shower, letting the powerful jets of water poke and prod her back to life. Then she dressed carefully in a white, long-sleeved, loose-fitting linen blouse and slacks. From past experience, she felt comfortable in this kind of attire as it covered her modestly, while allowing her to keep cool, more or less. Gathering purse, scarf and laptop case, she made her way to the opulent lobby.

Mena House, originally built as a hunting lodge on the very edge of the Great Pyramids, offered dramatic views of the last of the Ancient Wonders of the World. Julia stayed here on one of her previous trips, where she and Mohamed had spent long hours talking in the gardens, with the Sphinx raising its enigmatic head above mimosa trees in riotous red bloom.

Nostalgia enveloped her as she came down wide, thickly carpeted stairs to reach the marble floor and find him sitting in a corner chair. His dark, captivating eyes drew hers as she clung to the rail. Everyone and everything between them faded away.

She somehow managed to cross the room without bumping into anything. He stood, never taking his eyes from hers. “It is lovely to see you again, Madame Julia.” He offered a hand. “I hope that you are well.”

A rush of warmth surged through her limbs at the contact. Her other hand pleaded in vain to reach up to touch his cheek. “Thank you, Mohamed, I’m very well. I hope that you and your family are in good health.” 

He gestured to the opposite chair, and as they lowered themselves she said, “You don’t seem surprised to see me.” Her pulse raced. This was going to be more difficult than she thought.

“No, Julia, I am not surprised.” He smiled. “You could say that I knew you would return. It was only a matter of time.”

She let that sink in. Then they began to converse in the prescribed formality—for once, a welcome defense against emotion—and caught each other up on what was happening in their lives. Julia felt awkward as she spoke of her “book.” She’d never lied to him before. This deception made her distinctly uncomfortable. At last they came to the issue around which their words had danced.

“It is wonderful to see you again,” he said solemnly. “But, honestly Julia, we can be no more than friends.”

This came as no big shock. Julia said it herself any number of times. It was for the best that he appeared to accept it. Finally. They both knew it was for the best. Even so, the words stung.

Attempting to lighten the moment, she produced a smile. “Of course, Mohamed, but you would never forgive me if I hired another guide. Besides, I must have the very best and there is no finer Egyptologist in all the land.”

“Of course,” he echoed, sitting up straight and thrusting out his chest in a parody of manful pride, causing them both to laugh.

Thank goodness. It would be all right after all. They would be able to keep things on a professional basis and still be friends—just good friends. Relief washed over her, at least on that score. Not far behind, apprehension crowded in to supersede all else: apprehension about her real purpose here.

Try as she might, Julia couldn’t erase the image of Abeer Rashad from her mind. It haunted her, this image of a young woman, full of life, strangled in a poverty-stricken village, her body abandoned among the garbage and starving stray dogs.

And the morning papers were full of news of militant unrest throughout the region. Two days before, another explosion had ripped apart the lobby of a hotel in Sharm el-Sheikh, the Red Sea resort on the tip of the Sinai Peninsula. Western tourists no doubt were the targets in this luxury destination, but, as usual, it was mostly local workers who died in the blast. The entire region was like a ticking time-bomb. It made her want to scoop up Mohamed with his entire family and whisk them away to a safe place.

Sadly, she couldn’t think of one.

~

Revisiting the Giza Plateau took up several hours, after which Mohamed suggested lunch at one of the nearby restaurants they’d been to in the past. Julia’s purse was typically stuffed with pens for the children and baksheesh for the peasant women. Weary from the exhausting process of distribution, but pleased to make the effort, she gladly agreed to a break.

They were shown to the rear of the large, open-air room, where Julia removed the laptop case from her aching shoulder. It grew heavier as the day progressed. Mohamed ordered a typical Egyptian meal, always a favorite of hers. Tender roast chicken, hummus, couscous, stuffed grape leaves and olives were spread before them along with a platter of flatbread fresh from the stone oven, visible in the adjacent courtyard. She eyed the offerings warily.

“You’re not eating, Julia? Is something wrong, with you or with the food? You’re not hungry?”

Her gaze remained fixed on the mouth-watering feast while she slowly shook her head. She’d skipped breakfast and her stomach complained audibly.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. Everything looks delicious. And I’m very hungry. It’s only that,” she hesitated, “well, to be honest, I’m thinking of how sick I was after my last trip. I almost died, Mohamed. Feeling awful for months on end, and not knowing the cause was the worst thing I’ve ever been through. The possibility of that happening again is a very scary thought.”

He rolled his eyes. “Does this mean that you don’t plan to eat at all on this trip? You’re already much too thin, Julia. This is a respectable restaurant with a proper kitchen. Tourists eat here all the time. I know of no one who has died. As long as you stay away from the street food and drink only bottled water, everything will be fine. I will ensure that you always have a bottle of clean water.” He tapped the one standing between them on the table.

Unable to resist any longer, she reached for a piece of the still-warm bread and dipped it into a bowl of spiced hummus. He smiled approvingly as she ate with something approaching her old gusto.

~

They visited the Citadel and the magnificent Muhammad Ali Mosque. Regarded as the “founder of modern Egypt,” Muhammad Ali established in the nineteenth century a dynasty that would rule Egypt and Sudan for almost one hundred and fifty years. The impressive shrine, Julia thought, paid a fitting tribute.

Later in the day, they descended into the hub of central Cairo and went, as per her instructions, to a café she knew to have wireless internet. Julia chose one in Zamalek where she was a regular while staying previously on the island and was greeted like an old friend. The upscale neighborhood was home to a number of embassies and restaurants frequented by the international crowd. They drank cappuccinos while she sent the transmission and checked her email before crossing the river to the Egyptian Museum.

From the beginning, on that first fateful trip, this famous treasure trove had captivated Julia. The bulging collection of extraordinary ancient artifacts could fill ten museums. She never tired of visiting the lavish funerary gear of Tutankhamun, where the chariots, coffins and jewelry gleaming in gold opened a door to the past. Voices echoed from the flocks of tourists being herded through the cavernous building by guides reciting their lectures in too many languages to count. The richness of the collection almost made up for the lack of air conditioning, with windows open to the city’s perpetual pollution and grime. 

Julia felt the same thrill she did each time she beheld three-thousand-year-old wigs worn by priests to the gods of the ancients, tucked into unheralded corners and forgotten by the crowds. She tried not to dwell on the poor display cases bearing few labels to illuminate the past for the visitor. And, as her personal guide led her through the endless treasures, it was difficult to not be saddened by the sight of a deteriorating ostrich feather fan from the tomb of Tutankhamun; or the linen robes of a glorious ancient queen, with particles drifting away before her very eyes, simply turning into dust.

The orderly world of ancient Egypt departed long ago, thought Julia as she followed Mohamed out into the sunlight and down the museum steps. He left her sitting on a low, shaded stone wall in a familiar corner of the garden, away from the hustle and bustle of the crowd, while he went to get bottles of cold water.

She gazed up at the palm trees, standing regally like stoic sentinels, fronds rustling gently in the faint late-afternoon breeze. Beauty, she reflected as she often did, lies not in the eye of the beholder, but in the heart. One must open one’s heart to beauty before the eyes can acknowledge it. Plenty of unfortunate people saw only the dark, ugly side of things. Without question, there was plenty of ugliness in the world to see.  Sometimes it took immense effort to seek out beauty, in all its forms. These philosophical thoughts produced a deep sigh.

She turned her head to look around. This garden was always a favorite spot for her. Massive stone statuary from ancient Egypt’s glory days surrounded a central pond of water lilies and blooming lotus. Peopled by tourists from countries around the globe and overseen by armed guards, it also provided a constant spectacle of human diversity. 

Often, Julia felt irritation at the provocative way some of the tourists dressed and at their occasionally offensive behavior. When traveling in the Middle East, she always modified her dress, especially in public, to fit within the Islamic code of modesty and, quite frankly, to keep from drawing unwanted attention to herself.

The day was typically warm, and some of the women wore only skimpy bathing suit tops over short-shorts and men removed their shirts, leaving them bare-chested. They would undoubtedly take great offense if any of the “natives” made derogatory comments about their attire, or lack thereof. Small wonder the fundamentalists wanted these disrespectful “infidels” out of their lands. Not that there was any excuse for the excessive violent response.

What a mess people made of things.