Time is the Fire

by Connie Willis

  I consider cheerier possibilities. “What if we’re not going to Cairo?” I say. “What if we’re dead?”

  Zoe looks up from her guidebook, irritated.

  “There’ve been a lot of terrorist bombings lately, and this is the Middle East,” I go on. “What if that last air pocket was really a bomb? What if it blew us apart, and right now we’re drifting down over the Aegean Sea in little pieces?”

  “Mediterranean,” Zoe says. “We’ve already flown over Crete.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask. “Look out the window.” I point out Lissa’s window at the white flatness beyond. “You can’t see the water. We could be anywhere. Or nowhere.”

  Neil comes back with the water. He hands it and my aspirin to Lissa.

  “They check the planes for bombs, don’t they?” Lissa asks him. “Don’t they use metal detectors and things?”

  “I saw this movie once,” I say, “where the people were all dead, only they didn’t know it. They were on a ship, and they thought they were going to America. There was so much fog they couldn’t see the water.”

  Lissa looks anxiously out the window.

  “It looked just like a real ship, but little by little they began to notice small things that weren’t quite right. There were hardly any people on board, and no crew at all.”

  “Stewardess!” Lissa’s husband calls, leaning over Zoe into the aisle. “I need another ouzo.”

  His shouting wakes Zoe’s husband up. He blinks at Zoe, confused that she is not reading from her guidebook. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “We’re all dead,” I say. “We were killed by Arab terrorists. We think we’re going to Cairo but we’re really going to heaven. Or hell.”

  Lissa, looking out the window, says, “There’s so much fog I can’t see the wing.” She looks frightenedly at Neil. “What if something’s happened to the wing?”

  “We’re just going through a cloud,” Neil says. “We’re probably beginning our descent into Cairo.”

  “The sky was perfectly clear,” I say, “and then all of a sudden we were in the fog. The people on the ship noticed the fog, too. They noticed that there weren’t any running lights. And they couldn’t find the crew.” I smile at Lissa. “Have you noticed the turbulence stopped all of a sudden? Right after we hit that air pocket. And why—?”

  A flight attendant comes out of the cockpit and down the aisle to us, carrying a drink. Everyone looks relieved, and Zoe opens her guidebook and begins thumbing through it, looking for fascinating facts.

  “Did someone here want an ouzo?” the flight attendant asks.

  “Here,” Lissa’s husband says, reaching for it.

  “How long before we get to Cairo?” I say.

  She starts toward the back of the plane without answering. I unbuckle my seat belt and follow her. “When will we get to Cairo?” I ask her.

  She turns, smiling, but she is still pale and scared-looking. “Did you want another drink, ma’am? Ouzo? Coffee?”

  “Why did the turbulence stop?” I say. “How long till we get to Cairo?”

  “You need to take your seat,” she says, pointing to the seat belt sign. “We’re beginning our descent. We’ll be at our destination in another twenty minutes.” She bends over the Japanese tour group and tells them to bring their seat backs to the upright position.

  “What destination? Our descent to where? We aren’t beginning any descent. The seat belt sign is still off,” I say, and it bings on.

  I go back to my seat. Zoe’s husband is already asleep again. Zoe is reading out loud from Egypt Made Easy. “‘The visitor should take precautions before traveling in Egypt. A map is essential, and a flashlight is needed for many of the sites.’”

  Lissa has gotten her bag out from under the seat. She puts my Death on the Nile in it and gets out her sunglasses. I look past her and out the window at the white flatness where the wing should be. We should be able to see the lights on the wing even in the fog. That’s what they’re there for, so you can see the plane in the fog. The people on the ship didn’t realize they were dead at first. It was only when they started noticing little things that weren’t quite right that they began to wonder.

  “‘A guide is recommended,’” Zoe reads.

  I have meant to frighten Lissa, but I have only managed to frighten myself. We are beginning our descent, that’s all, I tell myself, and flying through a cloud. And that must be right.

  Because here we are in Cairo.

  Chapter Two: Arriving at the Airport

  “So this is Cairo?” Zoe’s husband says, looking around. The plane has stopped at the end of the runway and deplaned us onto the asphalt by means of a metal stairway.

  The terminal is off to the east, a low building with palm trees around it, and the Japanese tour group sets off toward it immediately, shouldering their carry-on bags and camera cases.

  We do not have any carry-ons. Since we always have to wait at the baggage claim for Zoe’s guidebooks anyway, we check our carry-ons, too. Every time we do it, I am convinced they will go to Tokyo or disappear altogether, but now I’m glad we don’t have to lug them all the way to the terminal. It looks like it is miles away, and the Japanese are already slowing.

  Zoe is reading the guidebook. The rest of us stand around her, looking impatient. Lissa has caught the heel of her sandal in one of the metal steps coming down and is leaning against Neil.

  “Did you twist it?” Neil asks anxiously.

  The flight attendants clatter down the steps with their navy blue overnight cases. They still look nervous. At the bottom of the stairs they unfold wheeled metal carriers and strap the overnight cases to them and set off for the terminal. After a few steps they stop, and one of them takes off her jacket and drapes it over the wheeled carrier, and they start off again, walking rapidly in their high heels.

  It is not as hot as I expected, even though the distant terminal shimmers in the heated air rising from the asphalt. There is no sign of the clouds we flew through, just a thin white haze, which disperses the sun’s light into an even glare. We are all squinting. Lissa lets go of Neil’s arm for a second to get her sunglasses out of her bag.

  “What do they drink around here?” Lissa’s husband asks, squinting over Zoe’s shoulder at the guidebook. “I want a drink.”

  “The local drink is zibib,” Zoe says. “It’s like ouzo.” She looks up from the guidebook. “I think we should go see the Pyramids.” The professional tour guide strikes again.

  “Don’t you think we’d better take care of first things first?” I say. “Like customs? And picking up our luggage?”

  “And finding a drink of . . . what did you call it? Zibab?” Lissa’s husband says.

  “No,” Zoe says. “I think we should do the Pyramids first. It’ll take an hour to do the baggage claim and customs, and we can’t take our luggage with us to the Pyramids. We’ll have to go to the hotel, and by that time everyone will be out there. I think we should go right now.” She gestures at the terminal. “We can run out and see them and be back before the Japanese tour group’s even through customs.”

  She turns and starts walking in the opposite direction from the terminal, and the others straggle obediently after her.

  I look back at the terminal. The flight attendants have passed the Japanese tour group and are nearly to the palm trees.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” I say to Zoe. “We’ve got to go to the terminal to get a taxi.”

  Zoe stops. “A taxi?” she says. “What for? They aren’t far. We can walk it in fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” I say. “Giza’s nine miles west of Cairo. You have to cross the Nile to get there.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says, “they’re right there,” and points in the direction she was walking, and there, beyond the asphalt in an expanse of sand, so close they do not shimmer at all, are the Pyramids.

  Chapter Three: Getting Around

  It takes us longer than fifteen minut
es. The Pyramids are farther away than they look, and the sand is deep and hard to walk in. We have to stop every few feet so Lissa can empty out her sandals, leaning against Neil.

  “We should have taken a taxi,” Zoe’s husband says, but there are no roads, and no sign of the refreshment stands and souvenir vendors the guidebook complained about, only the unbroken expanse of deep sand and the white, even sky, and in the distance the three yellow pyramids, standing in a row.

  “‘The tallest of the three is the Pyramid of Cheops, built in 2690 B.C.,’” Zoe says, reading as she walks. “‘It took thirty years to complete.’”

  “You have to take a taxi to get to the Pyramids,” I say. “There’s a lot of traffic.”

  “‘It was built on the west bank of the Nile, which the ancient Egyptians believed was the land of the dead.’”

  There is a flicker of movement ahead, between the pyramids, and I stop and shade my eyes against the glare to look at it, hoping it is a souvenir vendor, but I can’t see anything. We start walking again.

  It flickers again, and this time I catch sight of it running, hunched over, its hands nearly touching the ground. It disappears behind the middle pyramid.

  “I saw something,” I say, catching up to Zoe. “Some kind of animal. It looked like a baboon.”

  Zoe leafs through the guidebook and then says, “Monkeys. They’re found frequently near Giza. They beg for food from the tourists.”

  “There aren’t any tourists,” I say.

  “I know,” Zoe says happily. “I told you we’d avoid the rush.”

  “You have to go through customs, even in Egypt,” I say. “You can’t just leave the airport.”

  “The pyramid on the left is Kheophren,” Zoe says, “built in 2650 B.C.”

  “In the movie, they wouldn’t believe they were dead even when somebody told them,” I say. “Giza is nine miles from Cairo.”

  “What are you talking about?” Neil says. Lissa has stopped again and is leaning against him, standing on one foot and shaking her sandal out. “That mystery of Lissa’s, Death on the Nile?”

  “This was a movie,” I say. “They were on this ship, and they were all dead.”

  “We saw that movie, didn’t we, Zoe?” Zoe’s husband says. “Mia Farrow was in it, and Bette Davis. And the detective guy, what was his name—?”

  “Hercule Poirot,” Zoe says. “Played by Peter Ustinov. The Pyramids are open daily from eight A.M. to five P.M. Evenings there is a Son et Lumière show with colored floodlights and a narration in English and Japanese.”

  “There were all sorts of clues,” I say, “but they just ignored them.”

  “I don’t like Agatha Christie,” Lissa says. “Murder and trying to find out who killed who. I’m never able to figure out what’s going on. All those people on the train together.”

  “You’re thinking of Murder on the Orient Express,” Neil says. “I saw that.”

  “Is that the one where they got killed off one by one?” Lissa’s husband says.

  “I saw that one,” Zoe’s husband says. “They got what they deserved, as far as I’m concerned, going off on their own like that when they knew they should keep together.”

  “Giza is nine miles west of Cairo,” I say. “You have to take a taxi to get there. There is all this traffic.”

  “Peter Ustinov was in that one, too, wasn’t he?” Neil says. “The one with the train?”

  “No,” Zoe’s husband says. “It was the other one, what’s his name?”

  “Albert Finney,” Zoe says.

  Chapter Four: Places of Interest

  The Pyramids are closed. Fifty yards (45.7 m.) from the base of Cheops there is a chain barring our way. A metal sign hangs from it that says closed in English and Japanese.

  “Prepare to be disappointed,” I say.

  “I thought you said they were open daily,” Lissa says, knocking sand out of her sandals.

  “It must be a holiday,” Zoe says, leafing through her guidebook. “Here it is. ‘Egyptian holidays.’” She begins reading. “‘Antiquities sites are closed during Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting in March. On Fridays the sites are closed from eleven to one P.M.’”

  It is not March, or Friday, and even if it were, it is after one P.M. The shadow of Cheops stretches well past where we stand. I look up, trying to see the sun where it must be behind the pyramid, and catch a flicker of movement, high up. It is too large to be a monkey.

  “Well, what do we do now?” Zoe’s husband says.

  “We could go see the Sphinx,” Zoe muses, looking through the guidebook. “Or we could wait for the Son et Lumière show.”

  “No,” I say, thinking of being out here in the dark.

  “How do you know that won’t be closed, too?” Lissa asks.

  Zoe consults the book. “There are two shows daily, seven-thirty and nine P.M.”

  “That’s what you said about the Pyramids,” Lissa says. “I think we should go back to the airport and get our luggage. I want to get my other shoes.”

  “I think we should go back to the hotel,” Lissa’s husband says, “and have a long, cool drink.”

  “We’ll go to Tutankhamun’s tomb,” Zoe says. “It’s open every day, including holidays.” She looks up expectantly.

  “King Tut’s tomb?” I say. “In the Valley of the Kings?”

  “Yes,” she says, and starts to read. “‘It was found intact in 1922 by Howard Carter. It contained—’”

  All the belongings necessary for the deceased’s journey to the afterworld, I think. Sandals and clothes and Egypt Made Easy.

  “I’d rather have a drink,” Lissa’s husband says.

  “And a nap,” Zoe’s husband says. “You go on, and we’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  “I don’t think you should go off on your own,” I say. “I think we should keep together.”

  “It will be crowded if we wait,” Zoe says. “I’m going now. Are you coming, Lissa?”

  Lissa looks appealingly up at Neil. “I don’t think I’d better walk that far. My ankle’s starting to hurt again.”

  Neil looks helplessly at Zoe. “I guess we’d better pass.”

  “What about you?” Zoe’s husband says to me. “Are you going with Zoe or do you want to come with us?”

  “Before, you said death was the same everywhere,” I say to him, “and I said, ‘Which is what?’ and then Zoe interrupted us and you never did answer me. What were you going to say?”

  “I’ve forgotten,” he says, looking at Zoe as if he hopes she will interrupt us again, but she is intent on the guidebook.

  “You said death is the same everywhere,” I persist, “and I said, ‘Which is what?’ What did you think death would be like?”

  “I don’t know . . . unexpected, I guess. And probably pretty damn unpleasant.” He laughs nervously. “If we’re going to the hotel, we’d better get started. Who else is coming?”

  I toy with the idea of going with them, of sitting safely in the hotel bar with ceiling fans and palms, drinking zibib while we wait. That’s what the people on the ship did. And in spite of Lissa, I want to stay with Neil.

  I look at the expanse of sand back toward the east. There is no sign of Cairo from here, or of the terminal, and far off there is a flicker of movement, like something running.

  I shake my head. “I want to see King Tut’s tomb.” I go over to Neil. “I think we should go with Zoe,” I say, and put my hand on his arm. “After all, she’s our guide.”

  Neil looks helplessly at Lissa and then back at me. “I don’t know . . .”

  “The three of you can go back to the hotel,” I say to Lissa, gesturing to include the other men, “and Zoe and Neil and I can meet you there after we’ve been to the tomb.”

  Neil moves away from Lissa. “Why can’t you and Zoe just go?” he whispers at me.

  “I think we should keep together,” I say. “It would be so easy to get separated.”

  “How come you’re so stuck on going with
Zoe anyway?” Neil says. “I thought you said you hated being led around by the nose all the time.”

  I want to say, Because she has the book, but Lissa has come over and is watching us, her eyes bright behind her sunglasses. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a tomb,” I say.

  “King Tut?” Lissa says. “Is that the one with the treasure, the necklaces and the gold coffin and stuff?” She puts her hand on Neil’s arm. “I’ve always wanted to see that.”

  “Okay,” Neil says, relieved. “I guess we’ll go with you, Zoe.”

  Zoe looks expectantly at her husband.

  “Not me,” he says. “We’ll meet you in the bar.”

  “We’ll order drinks for you,” Lissa’s husband says. He waves goodbye, and they set off as if they know where they were going, even though Zoe hasn’t told them the name of the hotel.

  “The Valley of the Kings is located in the hills west of Luxor,” Zoe says and starts off across the sand the way she did at the airport. We follow her.

  I wait until Lissa gets a shoeful of sand and she and Neil fall behind while she empties it.

  “Zoe,” I say quietly. “There’s something wrong.”

  “Umm,” she says, looking up something in the guidebook’s index.

  “The Valley of the Kings is four hundred miles south of Cairo,” I say. “You can’t walk there from the Pyramids.”

  She finds the page. “Of course not. We have to take a boat.”

  She points, and I see we have reached a stand of reeds, and beyond it is the Nile. Nosing out from the rushes is a boat, and I am afraid it will be made of gold, but it is only one of the Nile cruisers. And I am so relieved that the Valley of the Kings is not within walking distance that I do not recognize the boat until we have climbed on board and are standing on the canopied deck next to the wooden paddle wheel. It is the steamer from Death on the Nile.