THE GOD'S WIFE (11 page)

However, it wasn’t really the magic that inspired her; it was the quiet confidence she’d picked up from that other world. Somehow, there she existed as more than a confused and harassed sixteen-year-old girl. She was a woman of style and grace, one whom others looked up to and called “a star.” Neferet gazed into the sky, even though it was day, and wondered if she really could exist in the heavens some day as a star. That’s where the pharaohs went when they died: to the imperishable stars. Maybe if she could just visit the stellar lights, she’d learn always to have the self-assuredness she needed to be a God’s Wife whom people heeded, instead of a victim who suffered the taunts of bullies, such as Zayem. Even a politically favored marriage to Kamose could not make up for the fact that, right now, Neferet needed a protector. She hoped to dispel that image and become an imposing figure in her own right. Right now, it took more effort than she had available to her.

As she strolled among the greenery, her skin cooled and the perspiration dried. Footsteps tapping behind her made her turn her head. It was Kali, the temple worker who had taught her so much about the proper ministrations to Amun. Neferet owed her much gratitude, and she smiled in greeting to the woman hurrying along the path.

“Neferet, my lady,” Kali said, bowing.

“Don’t bother with formalities, Kali. You are my friend,” Neferet said, pulling her by the hand to an upright, standing position. Kali’s amber face flushed.

“There is news from the temple,” she said.

A tingle ran through Neferet’s body as she expected to hear that Zayem had been caught. She inclined her ear, waiting for the information.

“They inspected the Holy of Holies and found an illegal entry point. They now know how an intruder sneaked in.”

Not the news she wished, but it a sign of progress nonetheless. She made a movement with her hand indicating Kali should continue.

“Well, there are boards on the side that show signs of having been moved. On the rear of the chapel, there is a false backing. There is space between the false walls that has just enough room for a man to stand. Someone pried open the inner wall so it would allow a thin person to slide inside.”

Neferet bit her lower lip. Zayem stood as skinny as a snake. He must have squeezed into the false back of the shrine until he heard the approach of Neferet or even poor, dead Maya. Then, probably, he slipped inside the shrine and hid behind the statue. All very slick.

“What have they done to remedy the situation?” Neferet asked, bidding Kali to sit at a nearby bench.

“Several young priests are at work now repairing the wooden slats. There will be no more room for an intruder to squeeze in when they are done working.”

“And Amun?”

“He remains untouched in his normal position. There is no worry about disturbing him.”

“Praise the gods.”

Neferet realized she perspired again despite the cool air. Now that she knew how Zayem sneaked inside the sanctuary, could this be the prudent time to publicly accuse him of the crime? Ordinarily, her mother would have her head if she made such a claim that was not supported by solid proof. However, Kali shot down that idea with her next statement.

“It seems something else has been discovered. The half-prince Zayem …” Kali hesitated, her voice unsteady.

“My half-brother, yes, I know,” Neferet said, nodding.

“He’s gone missing. Not only did Kamose’s men find no trace of him, but Zayem’s quarters have been cleaned out of clothing and personal items.”

“So he’s gone into hiding.” The coward. It’s to be expected.

“It appears that way. The Great Wife has made no public statement about it. But it seems there’s some trouble in the palace, because she refuses to be seen in public. She’s repaired to her apartments and won’t come out.”

So, that’s the effect of my conversation with my father, Neferet thought.

Neferet got to her feet and smoothed the linen gown so it unwrinkled as if by magic — a trick the high priests used to impart a sense of awe.

“I must attend to an errand,” she told the mystified Kali, who nodded her head and stood ready to return to the temple. They parted with smiles. Neferet hurried down the path toward the palace. If there ever was an occasion to cultivate spies of her own, the time was now. Everything had to take place in its own way, however. She couldn’t force things. At the moment, she rushed to find friends of Kamose. It was too early to be seen going to him, but sending a message ranked of high importance. With Zayem on the lam, mischief could break out at any given instance.

Before she could exit the garden, a messenger from the palace stopped ahead of her. He greeted her with the usual, tedious formalities and then delivered news that pounded her in the gut.

“The Great Wife Meryt desires your attendance at the palace,” he said, after bowing so low he practically scraped the ground with his nose.

Neferet shrugged and turned, about to continue on her way, when the sentry’s voice became urgent.

“That would be immediately, Divine Adoratrice. She is waiting now.”

Rebecca grabbed Sharif by the arm and yanked him through the front door, away from her roommates, who stared like gapers at a traffic accident.

“What the hell are you doing here?” She felt hot, upset that her invitation had been purloined, worried about making time for a shower, wondering what to wear, and now — like a magic — this man shows up in a tux. It was all too much.

Sharif gave her a look that she saw as transparently insincere. He had plenty of explaining to do.

“Don’t you need someone to escort you to the dance-company dinner?”

Steam built up inside Rebecca’s head. How could he have known about this evening’s predicament? And who packs a tux on a brief visit to Chicago? Didn’t he say he was here only through Tuesday? Which was tomorrow? Baloney.

“Wouldn’t I be going to a dinner with Jonas, my boyfriend? What gives you the idea he isn’t on his way over right now?” She narrowed her gaze. “How do you even know I was invited to anything? I didn’t even know myself until about an hour ago.”

Sharif put his hands together and gave her a formal bow.

“I’m afraid someone took the liberty of lifting the invitation from your mailbox at the dance company,” he said. When he straightened, his eyes pierced her like laser bolts. “As for your Jonas, well, we hoped you’d have such a last-minute surprise that he’d be too preoccupied to accompany you. An educated guess, that one.”

Rebecca resisted the impulse to slap him across his toffee-colored cheeks. Raiding the contents of her mailbox, indeed. And who would do that? Only one person.

“Lenore?”

Sharif didn’t react, neither did he answer. His sandy-brown, curly hair ruffled in the breeze coming through the front window. With his dark-lashed eyes and regal demeanor, he excited something deep in perturbed Rebecca. His glance dazzled; he had a way of grabbing hold of her eyes and dancing with them. There was nothing model-handsome about him, but his skin exuded a sensuality that made Rebecca sense her control slipping away. He held her in his gaze, and she saw herself wanted and pampered. Reason told her she was in love with Jonas. She shook her head to dislodge the seductive thoughts.

Rebecca needed to decide to go with him to the dance or send the impertinent jerk packing. Logic said this interloper ought to go out the door on his ass. However, she found she couldn’t pull away from him. He knew so much about her from that night at Stroll the Waterfront. They shared fantasies, stories of Egypt. What else did she give away? A conflicting anger and irrational allure coursed through her veins. While she knew she could attend the dinner alone without causing a flutter at the dance company, she wasn’t happy about the battle going on in her emotional world.

“Go over there on the couch,” she said to Sharif, more commanding than she intended. This allowed her to put off the decision while she went off to think. “I’ll go find something in my closet, I have almost no time to get ready for this bash.”

She began to run toward her bedroom then whirled about.

“And don’t think this is a date. I just need an escort. We would only be going to the same place at the same time. Got it?”

Sharif bowed again before sitting. Rebecca wanted to gag at his obsequiousness.

Allison followed her into the bedroom, all giggles and questions. Rebecca wheeled on her, telling her that Sharif was just an acquaintance, that Jonas was not to know about this unwelcome visitor and that she could help best by finding a suitable dress. Allison, pouting a bit, dug through the dresses and costumes that were wedged into the tiny space the landlord called a closet and emerged with a navy blue, sparkling formal. It had been the company costume for the Twyla Tharp number the company did three years ago. Rebecca had forgotten to return it.

“That? I hate navy blue.”

“But it’s a formal dress. I don’t think you have any others.”

True. On a dancer’s salary, Rebecca got by with clothes picked up at discount stores and used-clothing shops. Nothing in her Iowa background had anything to do with designer attire. Occasionally, Jonas surprised her with a new blouse or something sexy. Not being on the social circuit, she never had the need for a formal dress. So, this glittery number was going to have to do. She hoped Randy wouldn’t be irritated with her for hanging onto the costume so long.

“Okay, okay. Let me shower, put it on, and I’ll get some makeup.”

Rebecca dashed into the bathroom. Her head raged, full of thoughts:
That damn Sharif is making himself too familiar. Why? He knew all about Jonas. How? And what’s going on between Sharif and Lenore?

Ten minutes later, Rebecca stepped out of the bathroom, and Greta looked her over.

“It’s not like Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ but it’s an amazing transformation.”

Rebecca was so pleased she almost forgot the alarming male presence in the living room. She glanced over at Sharif, who was aglow in admiration. Inside, she was thrilled with her appearance, but she wasn’t going to let this troublemaker see that. Anyway, she’d made up her mind she’d go with him — but only because he was handy. If he made a move for her, he was history.

“Let’s get out of here,” she barked to Sharif, while grabbing an evening bag and starting down the stairs without waiting for a reply.

He raced ahead and hailed a cab. Rebecca mentally started counting how much money this mode of travel was going to cost her. However, Sharif opened her door and mentioned the cab ride was on him. Instead of sighing with relief, she ended up grumbling under her breath. She wanted it clear that she was putting up with his largesse for only a finite amount of time. The less she owed him, the better.

They arrived at the studio, and she sneaked in ahead of Sharif, leaving him to deal with the cabbie while she strode through the front doors by herself. Inside, something brightened inside of her as she saw the main studio transformed into a replica of a Pharaoh’s feast hall. A long table sat beneath model palm trees. Blue lotus flowers and potted papyrus plants decorated the spread. The walls featured the “Aïda” scenery, and Rebecca delighted in seeing the colors had been brightened as she had requested.

Randy caught her eye and rushed up, gathering her hands in his.

“Oh, the Tharp dress. I remember that. You look to die for.”

She did a dancer’s curtsy and was opening her mouth to explain why it took her so long to return the gown, when a tall body barged in between the two.

“There you are. I thought I lost you,” a breathless and ubiquitous Sharif said. He adjusted his bow tie with precision.

Randy turned an inquisitive eye on the interloper and arched an eyebrow at Rebecca. She felt herself sink a few inches into the floor.

“This is Sharif …”

“Sharif Cadmus, Egyptologist, Alexandria, Egypt,” the buttinsky said, pumping Randy’s hand. Randy had a pained look in his eye, as if Sharif was squeezing too hard.

“As I was about to explain,” Rebecca said, with frost dripping from her words, “Jonas had to work late. Sharif just popped up.” She mimed the last two words and Randy smirked.

“Too bad.” Randy covered his mouth as he spoke and then coughed, as if his phrase had been indelicate. “But another guest is always welcome.” He nodded his head at Sharif. Rebecca pulled Randy by the arm and called to Sharif that they needed to discuss some company business. They left him accepting a champagne flute from a waiter dressed like an Egyptian noble.

“Listen,” she said,
sotto voce
. “This guy, he’s not my date.”

“I gathered.”

“He’s here because Lenore stole my invitation and gave it to him. He’s been following me for some reason, so I’ve been trying to give him the bum’s rush.”

“Lenore stole it?”

Rebecca nodded and looked across the floor in horror to see Sharif rounding on Emmylou Sailor. The man was determined to meet all the movers and shakers of this production. What was his interest in a mere Chicago dance company?

Randy scanned the crowd, probably searching for Lenore so he could scold her. Rebecca knew the last thing she needed was a scene.

“Randy, just stay advised, and let’s not do anything about it now.”

He nodded and shot his cuffs before heading into the crowd. Rebecca mingled with a few dancers, declining the champagne but accepting a club soda with lime, talking the whole while about the difficulties of making their tight rehearsal schedule. Her stomach was in knots.

A young man announced dinner, and a number of dance cronies and well-meaning moneybags Rebecca recognized started crowding the table, reading the place settings. Rebecca found her place card next to an elderly dentist whose wife was one of their biggest donors. On her other side, the seat sported a place card for Jonas Jones. With a twist of her mouth, Rebecca realized who’d be taking his place.

“Here you go,” Raven said, plunking Sharif down in Jonas’ seat. She sent a quizzical look Rebecca’s way. Rebecca mouthed “at work,” but Raven didn’t understand and walked away with a befuddled expression.

“Can’t avoid me, now can you?” Sharif said as he flicked his napkin and set it in his lap.

“In America, we call it ‘ditching’ someone,” Rebecca said with a soft snort. “And that was exactly what I was doing. May I repeat: this is not a date.”

Sharif nodded without looking at her. He started a conversation with a female dancer who sat next to him.

“Oh, an Egyptologist,” Rebecca heard her exclaim.
Good. Be impressed. It’ll take the pressure off of me.

Throughout the evening, they dined on figs and fruits of the Mideast region. They ate a couscous dish with roast duck, Sharif complaining all the while that the meal was more Moroccan than Egyptian. Rebecca pretended not to listen. During the dates and honey dessert, Randy stood up to make the usual pronouncements about the necessity of helpful financiers to keep a show like “Aïda” running. He introduced Rebecca, who took a bow. Then he announced Raven, Ricky Ramon and a few other dancers. Emmylou received the biggest ovation, for even the dentist from Evanston could appreciate the name of a New York star.

Randy led a question-and-answer session about the production, which lulled Rebecca into a stupor. When she shook off her sleepiness, she found herself staring into the porcine little eyes of Lenore. She glared back, and Lenore retreated behind a napkin.

A band struck up some music from the “Aïda” score, and Sharif turned to her and asked if she wanted to dance.

“Not at all,” she said with scorn. “I just want to get home as soon as possible.” However, soon was not possible as all the old couples began filling the dance floor, two-stepping and failing to catch up to the ambitious Verdi rhythms. Although she tried to fend him off, Sharif lifted her into his strong arms and whisked her around the perimeter of the room.

The minute he touched her bare arm, her skin began to sizzle. This was not like dancing with Jonas at all. Sharif cinched her waist and drew her close to his pelvis, and her own nether regions tingled in response.
Oh, no!
She thought she might explode from the physical overload. His touch, his movement, his eyes were all meant for the bedroom — and here she moved, captivated by him. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, tickling the skin on her neck, raising her body temperature.

“Wouldn’t you like it if I took control of the show?” he intoned. Her feet kept moving, but her heart froze. Despite her attraction, she worried about Sharif ’s motives. Now she remained convinced that he barged in as a committed meddler.

“What gives you the idea anyone would let you?” she asked as he spun her off to another corner. The whirl altered her world as if he shot her off to the sky.

“My powers of persuasion are honed to perfection, my dear,” he said, as drew her close again. “You see how Sailor enjoyed my discussion of Egyptian themes.”

“Oh, really,” Rebecca said, trying to sound unimpressed. A sneer worked its way into her voice. “She’s a rather tough nut to crack.”

“Oh, she thinks the world of you. But I intend to make myself invaluable to her, also.”

“For what reason, Sharif ?” He maintained a mysterious silence as they stepped around a middle-aged duo of gay men. Rebecca found herself wondering who made the decision to lead in that sort of pairing.

To answer her question, Sharif turned up the corners of his lips in something that resembled a genuine smile. It gave Rebecca tingles up her back. When the music ended, she knew she had to escape this man and the frightening complexity of sensations she experienced: attraction, anger, lust and guilt about Jonas. She made an excuse about the frigid blast of air conditioning and ran back to the table for her shawl. Anything to get away.

She hurried off to the ladies’ room. The outer door slammed shut to reveal Lenore standing at the sink.

“Nice job, robbing my mailbox,” Rebecca said to the purple-haired midget.

Lenore tossed her head in smug dismissal. Rebecca leaned against the wall, crossed her arms and glared at her adversary. Lenore continued to primp in front of the mirror but began to lose interest in whatever cosmetic she was applying. She tossed it into her purse and swooshed out the door. Rebecca, feeling victorious, stalked to the mirror and opened her evening bag to reapply her own makeup, all the while running through methods of escape from the dinner. Feign a headache? Just disappear out the back door? Would that be fair to Randy? After she steadied herself, staring into the mirror, she decided duty came first. At that thought, she perceived an altogether different face staring back at her. One with exaggerated eyeliner and thick black bangs. She, too, was dutiful. Honorable. Did her job with grace.

Rebecca shook her head and the image disappeared.
Seeing things.
What’s next? Channeling voices?
However, that face in the mirror steadied her and gave her purpose. She decided she needed a blast of that cold air and pulled open the bathroom door for another encounter with her tormentor and seducer Sharif.

The band was on break and to Rebecca’s horror, Sharif was addressing the crowd just as if his speech were on the agenda. She scanned face after face, looking for Raven but couldn’t pick her out. Sharif ’s words were familiar: a discussion of the state of Egypt at the time of the action in “Aïda.” She’d heard that speech at Ravinia before she had fainted dead away. She watched Randy eating up the information. Emmylou stared open-mouthed at this impromptu discussion.
Oh, my God, Sharif really is going to take over.
Rebecca fretted, picking at her fingernails. Someone nudged her with care on her exercise-sore back. She turned. Raven stood expressionless.