“I found this in my pocket at the — well, I found this in my pocket and I have no idea what ‘Until Tuesday’ means.” She held the mysterious business card up, but Sharif didn’t bother to lean in and read it, so she plunged ahead with her questions. “What happened to me last night? I can’t remember you giving this to me. I can’t remember a thing at all.”
Sharif stared into the middle distance, not meeting Rebecca’s eyes. The far-away look had a dreamy appearance, and Rebecca couldn’t stop staring at his high cheekbones and long eyelashes. So Mediterranean, so different from anyone she had ever met.
“You don’t remember me saying I’m leaving for Alexandria on Tuesday? We talked about it being my home-town. About how I’m a mixed-blood Egyptian, part Copt, part Cypriot. You were fascinated with that.”
“No. I don’t recall that at all.” She knew her eyes were widening, and she couldn’t get the alarm out of her system. “Alexandria?”
Sharif sighed and leaned forward toward Rebecca’s seat. She found herself afraid of looking too interested and pulled back. Then she tried to disguise this involuntary flinch as a mere adjustment in posture. Her uneasiness gave itself away, and she didn’t want to let Sharif get the upper hand in this encounter.
“Last night, we had quite a talk,” he said, tilting his head to the side, looking as if he were retrieving memories. “It was spellbinding. I spoke of the ancient Egyptians and the meaning of your “Aïda” role. And you told me of your fears.”
“My fears?”
“Mainly a fear of losing consciousness on stage. You felt it would ruin the performance. And then you said the most extraordinary thing.”
“What? What?” Rebecca felt her stomach clench hearing that she had spoken of her dreaded phobia. She was losing her grip, too, losing patience with Sharif ’s slow, deliberate gestures and distinctive, well-chosen words.
“You said you feel like an Egyptian. An ancient Egyptian.”
He dropped his gaze to the floor and went silent. Rebecca felt her chest tighten and found it hard to breathe. Did I gave away all of my secrets? That smell — that desert wind — enveloped her again. He wound that spell around her without even looking her way.
“And then?” Rebecca nerves were jangled. She tensed, desperate to get to the point.
“And as you told me this, your eyes clouded over, and you seemed to be sleepwalking. You didn’t respond to any of our attempts to snap you out of your trance.”
“‘Our’ attempts? Who else was involved?”
“Well, I called Lenore over, since she’s the friend who invited me to the party.”
“Lenore, oh, my God …” Rebecca sank into her seat, her back to Sharif, facing the stage. With this knowledge, she’ll have me kicked out of the show.
“What is wrong? Have I offended you?” Sharif tapped her on the shoulder and offered a starched white handkerchief. So European. Or Mid-Eastern. Definitely not an American gesture. She took the handkerchief but just twisted it in her hands. There were no tears.
“It’s just that … it’s because she … oh, just tell me what I did next.” Rebecca slumped in misery.
“We sat you down and tried smelling salts from a first-aid box. I’ve never seen them fail on anyone who wasn’t comatose, but they had no effect on you.”
“Was there a nurse there?”
“No, no. Everyone had gone home by then. We eventually got you on your feet and walked you to Lenore’s car and called a few people. Then we got directions to your apartment.”
“And then my roommates took over,” Rebecca finished for him. She leaned over and let her long hair spill over her body. She held the handkerchief to her damp forehead. Sharif coughed but didn’t add any more to the story. She felt his dark eyes on the back of her neck.
I’m finished, she thought. Ruined. I might as well pack my bags for Iowa. Not to mention I’m probably dying of a brain tumor.
Something popped into her mind as she moaned over her fate – something that might provide a clue.
“Did I say anything in this trance?” She turned to look at Sharif, who narrowed his gaze, as if thinking with effort.
“You did. You said …
‘Kamose.’” “Kamose? What the hell does that mean?” Her tone became razor-sharp.
“I have no idea why you said it, but it’s a fairly common Egyptian name.”
“Did I do anything bizarre?”
“Not bizarre, just something sweet. When you said ‘Kamose,’ you leaned your head on my shoulder.”
Rebecca stared at him, horrified. She had no intention of getting intimate with this strange man from Alexandria, no matter how alluring he could be. Yet, there was no doubt he attracted her, softened her insides, blurred her ability to think. She had to break this subtle seduction before it became too dangerous.
“You know I have a boyfriend?” Do I anymore?
“Yes, Lenore told me all about your Jonas.”
Lenore again. Rebecca drooped her shoulders and sighed. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sharif smiling in a smug, almost arrogant manner. There were still things he withheld, she surmised. He had nothing more to say, so she could do little more than part company, clinging to the business card.
#
Rebecca spent the rest of the afternoon stomping around the side streets near the Midland Theater. She still sported the dingy track suit Jonas had thrown to her, so she didn’t feel she’d be welcome in the chic Michigan Avenue stores. A couple times, her cell phone rang, and she lifted it from her pocket to see Jonas’ name and number on the display screen. Still in Sharif ’s exotic spell, she didn’t pick up the calls nor did she stop to play the voice mail messages that surely were from Jonas. Eventually, she turned the phone off, ensuring that no one would be able to find her.
The role in “Aïda” had consumed her ever since Randy gave her the nod. Now it looked to be in peril — her whole career hung in the balance, not to mention her health — and Rebecca didn’t know what she would do if she had to give up dancing. All those years in dance school, the four years at the University of Iowa, majoring in dance. Tap class. Modern dance class. Ballet. Jazz. She was brilliant at all of it. She’d studied so much movement theory that the trajectory of her life was set. She wasn’t sure she could do anything else. Couldn’t type. No math skills. Couldn’t even draw.
No one else supported her choice, especially when she decided to pack up and move to Chicago. Mom just wanted her married off to a nice Iowa boy. Dad called her “princess” and sometimes asked on the phone if she felt ready to come back home. Neither one of her parents had seen a dance performance of hers since she was a little girl. Her next-door neighbor Patty went once or twice, but no family members ever popped up in the audience for the high school shows. There was that one disastrous trip to Chicago a year ago, when the family drove out during a rainstorm and promptly became lost in the vast grid of sodden city streets. They never did make it to the performance. Dad packed the family back into the sedan and headed straight back to Iowa. They never even spent the night in the hotel.
Her high school friends — all of them from the school’s drama and musical productions — considered her intention to dance professionally as weird as wanting to walk on the moon. Everyone knew you couldn’t be an artist for a living. What was Rebecca thinking about when she moved to Chicago to dance? Her old boyfriend Roger just cut the relationship off the minute she mentioned her upcoming move.
“I’m not one for drawn-out farewells,” he had said, his blue eyes shining with defensive dignity. “If you’re gonna leave me, then do it right now.”
So, Rebecca had loaded the trailer herself, hooked it up to her compact car and headed across Interstate 80 alone, off to find fortune — or maybe just to find herself. To her great surprise, Chicago had been so welcoming to her. Despite what she’d been told, the people were friendly. An apartment service found her a large walk-up advertised by roommates Allison and Greta, who needed a third party to
make the rent. Meeting them resonated as if hooking up with old pals. Used to being the fifth wheel at every social event, Rebecca found herself in convivial company. The relief felt like slipping an anvil off her shoulders.
As for her dance career, she encountered another miracle. Miss Marvella must have done something right, because she skipped over the sweat and poverty most dancers endured and landed a spot at the Waterfront Dance Company during her first audition. She stood in the back of the audition studio, with the rest of the hopefuls, biting her nails, not daring to talk to anyone, sure she’d be sent home. That’s what her mother predicted. Then she heard her name announced for the next day’s classes. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did.
Her paycheck stunk, and the family back home wasn’t impressed, but just being with Waterfront assured her that her modest launch would skyrocket. Her dreams were percolating into reality. So, why would a simple meeting last night with a strange, enchanting Egyptian man bring her down now? And whatever did she do to Lenore to make the woman hate her so much?
She passed by a swank eatery and watched well-dressed people devouring pizzas with Thai or Mexican toppings and drinking colorful drinks. The hot sun hurt her nose, and she remembered she wasn’t wearing sunblock. Spring had come on fast and she hadn’t been prepared. She shrugged and moved on.
Chicago had welcomed her like a loving aunt. Why would anything go wrong? Well, maybe it won’t. I still have allies.
Her relationship with Ms. Sailor had been a surprise bonus in the “Aïda” rehearsal process. How many dancers could say they inspired the imperious choreographer, much less conversed casually with her at lunch? The woman hardly ever gave press interviews, yet she chatted with Rebecca as if they were school buddies.
Randy loved Rebecca. He praised her dancing from the first rehearsal. Surely, he wouldn’t let anyone speak against her.
Still, Lenore could create disaster if she wanted to. It wasn’t a question of whether Lenore decided to screw up this chance of a lifetime, it was a matter of how and when. She wasn’t close enough to Randy to burst in his office and announce Rebecca’s blackouts to him. She’d never dare approach Sailor — no one came near the woman. Probably, Lenore would style a whispering campaign. When enough gossip had gone around the company, Randy would have to call Rebecca into the office for a chat. And the chat about losing consciousness and spacing out in public would lead to Rebecca stepping down from her coveted role. She began to shiver when a lake breeze blew down the street.
She passed the company’s old studio on Kinzie Street, just where the humble, unfashionable road dove under Michigan Avenue. A new dance company had moved in, and through the open windows, she could hear the steady ker-plunk of the ballet class piano. Rebecca never really realized why the instrument was called a percussion instrument until this minute. With steady chords, the slightly off-key piano marked each leap and each plié of the dance exercise. She could imagine students burning with desire to be where Rebecca was now. Legs flying in the great leap of grand jeté. Spinning with fierce determination in pirouette. Toes and ankles angled perfectly for dancing on pointe. What if these kids knew how quickly stardom could be taken away? Would they still sweat as much, still dream of a dressing room of their own?
She faced into the south wind and kept walking, a long and lonely trudge, under the elevated train tracks, until she found herself in front of the city library. The Harold Washington Library, all done up in neo-Gothic style, with ravens and owls baring their talons and looking down three stories above street level. She adored the blatant excess of the architecture.
Slipping inside, she discovered the room where public-access computers sat in rows. She chose one and began to login to her e-mail account. A missive from Jonas: “Where are u? Pls call me.” She ignored it. She wasn’t exactly angry with Jonas anymore, but she still needed time alone. She toyed with websites until she found herself on a medical page, searching again for blackouts. Her focus was intense until she felt strange eyes scrutinizing her.
To her left sat a little man with a Moe Howard haircut, reading her screen with scrunched-up eyes. He wore a tweed jacket that looked as if it had been picked up from the Salvation Army. A musty elbow nudged her in the side. He smelled of old cigarettes and soot.
“Blackouts? Yeah, blackouts. I had those. Or I did.”
Rebecca didn’t reply but attempted to avoid any eye contact with this drifter.
“You know how it goes. You got a little whiskey and then someone orders a round. Next thing you know, you’re drinking in your room. Man, I’ve had whole weekends I couldn’t remember,” he continued, unaware that Rebecca was edging her chair away from him. “Sometimes, I didn’t even know what town I was in. Is it like that for you?”
Rebecca kept her eyes on the screen and said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “I don’t drink.”
“Sure you don’t. None of us did,” he started laughing so loudly that people began to look up and stare. The man started patting pockets until he drew out a card. “Well here’s a group of people — I’m sure you’ve heard of them — who helped me out. Got me off the bottle-a-day habit. They’ll help you, too.”
He slipped the business-sized card onto her carrel, picked up a few of his books and left. When Rebecca felt he vanished, she picked up the card. It was an Alcoholics Anonymous prayer. On the back of it was a listing of meetings in the downtown area.
If only drinking were my problem, she thought. At least then I’d know what’s wrong with me.
Grateful for no more interruptions, she found low blood sugar or hypoglycemia on the medical website. This was described as a possible cause of blackouts. Excited to be closer to an answer, she sent the pages to the printer, then stepped up to the desk to pay the librarian the requisite two quarters for the printouts.
Low blood sugar. I’m not eating right, that’s it! Actually, like most dancers, she hardly ate at all. It seemed a likely diagnosis. She searched the stacks and found a few books on hypoglycemia, checked them out and then dodged outside straight into a subway station. She read the entire way back to her home stop on Sheridan Road.
Jonas stood waiting in her apartment vestibule when she turned the key to the outer front door. She met his blue eyes with embarrassment.
“What does it take to be alone around here?”
“You did a pretty good job of avoiding me all afternoon.”
“There was something I had to do. Personal.” She tried to push her shoulders into his torso, squeezing enough room for escape, but he only caught her in his strong arms. He held her and she began to feel like a foolish child. He gazed at the books she clutched.
“Babe, hypoglycemia is not only rare, but it hardly ever causes blackouts.”
“But it can.” Rebecca tried to hide the titles, even though he had already read them.
“Okay, we’ll follow the diet together then and see if it helps you. I’ll be the control eater in the experiment. But I’ve got to ask you,” he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face to meet his soft eyes. “Who is this Arab man you’ve been meeting? Someone called Lenore called me and said secretive meetings are going on.”
So that’s how Lenore is going to engineer my downfall, she thought. She’s going to cut off all my friends, everyone I’m close to.
Rebecca leaned against Jonas and felt the last vestiges of her anger drift away. It’s Jonas I love, not Sharif. Love didn’t come easy in Rebecca’s life, and here she had been turning away the best thing she had ever found. The warmth of his body began to soothe her nerves.
“You know better than to listen to that Lenore,” she said into his t-shirt. She grabbed fistfuls of the cotton material as if she were trying to keep from drowning. Drowning in a downfall of tears. She looked up at him with wet eyes, a stray drop ran down her check, stinging her sunburned skin.
“Let’s go eat,” she said. Jonas responded by kissing her with all the intimacy she desired.
Chapter Eight
&
nbsp; The victory feast was as lavish as any state dinner Neferet attended, but on this occasion, she ascended the seat of honor on the raised stage next to her parents, the royal couple. This marked the first time at a sumptuous, regal dinner when she felt like anything more than a part of the Pharaoh’s brood or a dressed-up acolyte for the priests. Sitting there, eating spiced duck and game bird next to the ruling couple, her position as second-highest female, perhaps second citizen (give or take the role of the Grand Vizier) in Kemet was a striking reality. She gazed at her wooden staff, which took on more significance every time she held it. The higher and more proudly she bore the standard, the more awe she derived from the crowd. This could become pleasant.
If only she could relax into the role and lose that shy, inner sixteen-year-old who spent her life being bossed around by others. Being a princess didn’t live up to its reputation. It meant marching to impossible ideals while being shuttled from one lesson to another. Now she set the standard. That didn’t hold the satisfaction she might have imagined.
A little to her right sat Meryt, rigidly upright at the table, flinging fine, gnawed bones into the pottery vessel at the front of the table. She neither looked at Neferet nor acknowledged her presence. Neferet pondered the evil things her mother had been whispering during the parade and began to see the situation in a new light. Below them, near the common rabble, sat Zayem, gulping wine with abandon. He was the creator of all the rumors that the God’s Wife was not doing her job, so why not call him out tonight? Her torso swelled with each new breath, and she sat taller in her chair. She caught a slight glimpse of Kamose, who perched on the platform at his father’s right. He shone as the royal son, the man Zayem never would be.
The servants busied themselves, bringing out the sweets — dates in a rich dairy froth. As they rattled the plates and whisked away the remains of dinner, Neferet began to compose words in her mind. She pushed the dates around the plate, unable to eat as she worked on her post-dinner comments.
THE GOD'S WIFE Page 9