Eyeliner of the Gods

by Katie MacAlister

  His eyes widened as he stepped closer to me in a move that I was sure was supposed to intimidate me. As if! I took a step forward, too, so that the tips of my sneakers brushed against the toes of his boots. It was safe, after all. He wasn’t likely to grab me like the other guys, not with him being gay and all. So I refused to give ground, lifting my chin until our noses almost touched.

  “You have something to say to me, go ahead, say it. Take your best shot.” I was so close I could see that his eyes weren’t really black, there were a dark, velvety brown with little red and gold flares. I could also smell him—but it wasn’t a bad smell. It was part spicy, part leather. It was nice, actually, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Are you challenging me?” he asked, the thick, long black lashes that framed his eyes making me a little bit jealous. Being a redhead, I had wimpy, red-brown eyelashes that took tons of mascara to become visible without a microscope.

  I shrugged. I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, other than enjoying standing really close to him, breathing in the spicy leather smell, admiring his eyes, and thinking again about running my fingers on the smooth, brown skin of his bicep…

  “Ya rooh roohi,” he said softly, his breath fanning out over my face. “Ma fish Kahraba!”

  I would have made pouty lips at him, but standing as close as we were, I probably would have ended up kissing him, and that was the very last thing on my mind. Not to mention his!

  “That is so not fair. I’m not speaking to you in a language you don’t understand.”

  “What sort of a person goes to another country without bothering to learn the language?”

  “One who just found out four months ago she was going, and who had to pass all sorts of early exams just so she could spend a month working on an archaeological dig, and who didn’t have time to learn Arabic on top of everything else. Besides, that’s part of what I’m supposed to be learning during my month here. What did you say?”

  He went still for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “You’re working on a dig?”

  “Yeah, a very important one, too. It’s outside of Luxor, in a place called the Valley of the Servitors. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it—”

  He groaned and stepped backwards a couple of feet, his eyes closed for a second. “I might have known…”

  “You might have known what? And what was that ya roohi rooh thing?”

  “Ma fish Kahraba. It means there’s no electricity there,” he said, tapping the side of my head.

  “No electricity…oh! That’s an insult! Well, you’re not the brightest bulb in the pack either,” I said in a huff, jerking the strap of my bag over my shoulder as I turned and stormed toward the door, pleased that I had stood up to him without calling him a poop as he deserved, or pointing out just how wrong he was about everything.

  Everyone knows that tact is an important part of journalism.

  “Like it’s okay for him to judge people by whether or not they had their hair and arms covered, and then tell me I don’t have any electricity in my brain! The rat!” I muttered to myself as I slipped outside after a quick scan for Beard Man and his sidekick. Neither was in sight, although the street seemed to have filled with even more people, donkeys, dogs, kids, cars, and lovely, wonderful smells that almost had me drooling. “All right, I’m calm. Even if he isn’t respectful, I will be. This isn’t my culture, so despite the fact that I think that parts of it are wrong—inappropriate, ha! No electricity, double ha with a side of slaw!—I will not make judgments. Journalists are always impartial. I am here to enjoy being immersed in another society and broaden my mind while experiencing a one-of-a-kind archaeological dig…oh, great. Now I’m even more lost.”

  I stood at a four-way intersection, buffeted by people as they hurried by me, my senses overwhelmed again by the bright colors, spicy smells of cooking food mingling with something much less pleasant (donkey poop), and the sheer volume of noise in the streets. Seth had called it a bazaar, which I knew was a really old marketplace, but this didn’t seem so much like an ancient mall as it did an obstacle course. Not content to have stuff piled up in front of the open storefronts, all four streets were a positive minefield of objects pouring out of each shop: carpets, clothing, wooden statues, silver and gold vases and decorative objects, incense lamps, bags and purses, colorful furniture, baskets, spices, replicas of ancient treasures, bead and cloth curtains, herbs, henna paints, religious stuff like prayer beads, pictures made up of painted sand, mirrors…I stopped trying to ID everything and clutched my bag tighter so I wouldn’t inadvertently knock anything over with it.

  “The question is, which way is it to the Luxor Hotel?” I gnawed on my lip as I looked for signs in English, but in the end, I decided to follow my nose. I turned left and went down a street that had the most delicious odors of roasting meat wafting down it, teasing and tantalizing me until my stomach growled non-stop.

  I was halfway down the street before I realized it had narrowed so much that cars couldn’t even go down it, just people. The pathway was clogged with old ladies in galabiyyas (loose robes) and hijabs, old guys in their robes, and younger people in normal clothing, although I suppose what was normal for me wasn’t necessarily normal for them.

  I still got some stares from a couple of the guys as I did a sort of fish spawning upstream thing down the road, but at least no one decided to grab me again. My stomach chose that moment to growl and had my gazing longingly at the food cart where a pretty woman in a turquoise hijab was selling what looked like kebabs. “Walking. Walking is good. Walking is not fattening. Walking is healthy. Just make it back to the hotel, and then you can have dinner.”

  My stomach protested the thought, and I decided that although walking might be good for me, a taxi would be better. I came to another intersection, and took a right, down a road that had few people on it. Fewer people meant more cars, and cars meant taxis, and taxis meant a ride to the hotel where I would apologize to the Dig Egypt! person for being late, and tuck into a lovely, wonderful, lifesaving dinner.

  “This has got to be the right way. Fewer shops, fewer people…um…hi!” Two men in jeans and white shirts loomed up in front of me. They were fair-skinned and blonde, so I assumed they were tourists like me. “You wouldn’t happen to speak English, would you?”

  Blonde number one (my height, short hair, goatee) looked at blonde number two (taller, skinny, shoulder-length hair) before turning back to me. “Yes, we speak English.”

  He had a kind of singsong accent, like something Scandinavian, but it was perfectly understandable. “Oh, thank god. I’m trying to find the Luxor Hotel. Do you know which way it is?”

  “It is this way.” Blondie One pointed down a dark alley that was sandwiched between two rows of buildings.

  “Really? okay. Thanks.” I started down the alley, nervously looking over my shoulder as the guys followed me. Yeah. I know what you’re thinking: Brilliant move, Jan. A dark alley is just where you want to be with a couple of guys you don’t know. Maybe they were staying at the same hotel? I stopped and turned back to them. “You’re probably going to think this is really stupid, but my mother told me to never walk down a dark alley with guys I don’t know. You wouldn’t be some weirdo perverts who attack innocent American girls, would you?”

  I was smiling when I said that, thinking they would laugh at the joke and assure me that no, they weren’t perverts, they were simply optometrists/policemen/chiropractors who were lost, too, but damn if Blondie One didn’t grab my arm and hiss, “Where is the handmaiden?”

  “Where is the what?” I asked, really starting to panic as Blondie Two moved in front of me.

  “The handmaiden. The old man said you have it. We want it. You will give it to us now.”

  “Oh, the handmaiden,” I said, planning my escape. If I kneed Blondie One in the happy sacs, and nailed Blondie Two dead on the nose, I could probably get away.

  “Give it to me now!” Blondie One hissed in a low, cruel tone. He jerked m
e toward him, which was his mistake. My brother August made sure that both April and I went to self-defense classes with him, and one of the first things they teach you is how to take your opponent off guard. Rather than pulling away from Blondie, as he expected, I threw myself toward him, jamming my knee in his crotch as hard as I could. I twisted away from him as he shrieked and doubled over, slamming my fist in Blondie Two’s nose before racing the opposite direction. Fifteen steps later I realized two things—first, I’d never outrun them, not with a duffel bag that weighed approximately the same as the entire population of the Solomon Islands, and second, dark alleys have a bad reputation for a reason.

  The Blondie Twins had me pinned up against the dirty wall of one of the buildings before you could say ma fish Kahraba.

  “I don’t know a handmaiden, I swear!” I told the furious Scandinavian as he tightened his hand around my neck. Blondie Two said something in a language that I didn’t understand.

  “The old man said you took it,” the first guy snarled. “You have not had time to get rid of it. You will give it to me now or Erik will take it from you.”

  I glanced over to the thug formerly known as Blondie Two, and swallowed. Hard. He was cracking his knuckles while giving me a slow, evil smile. He didn’t look at all as if he was threatened by me, but I figured I had to try to intimidate them. Maybe if I sounded as tough as they did they’d leave me alone? There is a time and a place for lying through your teeth, and this was clearly it. “I told her to take off. Two streets back. I told the handmaiden to take a hike, so I don’t know where she is. okay? Buh-bye.”

  Erik said something to Blondie One, who narrowed his already icy blue gaze on me. I was willing to bet my entire year’s supply of Chapstick it was not at all nice. Or polite. Or respectful.

  “Now, this is where I’m going to start screaming for help,” I warned Blondie as Erik came toward me, his evil grin making me sick to my stomach.

  “Now we will search you,” Blondie One said, his voice making my skin crawl. “You may scream all you like. There is no one to help you.”

  I did scream then. I screamed for all I was worth when Blondie One walloped me. Hard. Right across the cheek. As if that wasn’t bad enough, my head slammed backwards against the hard stone building, making me see stars for a second.

  I slumped down the wall, blinking madly, feeling but not seeing hundreds of hands groping me, nausea swelling up in a wave of pure misery.

  BIKER GANGS RUN RAMPANT IN MYSTERIOUS CAIRO BAZAAR!

  A dull roar filled my ears as my stomach turned around a couple of times, and decided it was going to empty what remained of lunch. I was just about to heave when the roar that I thought was blood in my ears stopped, and all of a sudden the hands searching my pockets me were gone.

  I lay there for a few seconds with my eyes closed, trying to convince my stomach that barfing wasn’t really a good idea, when slowly, bit by bit, I became aware of the noise of guys yelling and grunting, accompanied by odd crashes and assorted whump sounds. I opened my eyes and stared in wonder as a man in black decked Erik. He slammed backwards into the opposite wall, bounced twice, then fell flat on his face and didn’t move. Blondie One was out cold, draped halfway over a box of garbage.

  I looked back to the man in black, his eyes so filled with fury it made me shiver despite the heat. I looked at the motorcycle leaning up against the wall. I looked down at myself, more than a little surprised to find my arms and legs where I had left them.

  “Wow. I mean, wow! That was awesome!” I said as Seth strolled over and stood glaring down at me. “You’re like some sort of biker dude? That was so cool!”

  “Why did I know it was going to be you causing all this trouble?” He shook his head as he reached down and grabbed my wrist, more or less hauling me to my feet. I wobbled a little when he let go of me.

  “Steady,” he said, holding onto my waist while I waited to see if my legs were going to agree to hold me up. “Did they hurt you?”

  “That guy with the beard belted me.” I wiped the dirt off my mouth while he gently touched my cheek.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure according to you I had it coming what with all my bare arms and hair showing and stuff, but they weren’t Egyptian.” I pushed myself away from him and looked around the alley for my duffel bag. It had been forgotten in the scuffle, but evidently a couple of guys had fallen over it during the fight, because one of the handles was torn, the zipper was busted, and some of my things were spread out on the ground.

  “No, you didn’t deserve that. No one deserves to be attacked. All I was trying to say earlier was that although Egypt is a progressive country, a lot of people here stick to the old ways.”

  Progressive? I could dispute that, but instead grabbed a handful of my underwear that was covered in dirt and shoe prints, and stuffed it into my bag. “Whatever. Thanks.”

  “Did they try to—” He paused for a second. “—sexually assault you?”

  “No. They thought I knew someone they were looking for. A maid.”

  “A maid?”

  I took the hairbrush and pair of sandals that Seth had picked up, and crammed them into the bag along with a pair of jeans and two skirts that I had brought for times when I needed to dress up. “A handmaid. Thanks.”

  Seth held out my pair of tie-dyed tights that my sister April had made me for a birthday present, and the ugly bracelet the old man had shoved on me. The tights were torn and filthy, and for some reason just seeing their pretty pink and blue and purple colors all tattered and dirty in Seth’s hand made me want to bawl

  “You’re crying,” he said as I took the torn tights.

  “No, I’m not, I’m a journalist, and journalists don’t cry,” I said, wiping my dirty face with the tights. My throat ached with a lump of tears that I wanted to let loose, but there comes a time in every girl’s life when she has to draw the line, and standing in a dark, dirty alley in Cairo with a sexy guy with long hair was where I drew it. I swallowed back the tears and wiped my nose on the tights.

  “I don’t think anyone will think less of you because you’re crying,” he said. “You’re young to be a journalist. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen in three months.” I sniffled back another lump of tears and hoped it was too dark for Seth to see that my face was all blotchy the way it gets when I cry. “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen on Eid al-Fitr.”

  “Huh?”

  “The end of Ramadan. It’s a big feast. This year it falls on my birthday.”

  “Oh, Ramadan, I read about that starting a couple of days ago. We can’t eat during the day, right?”

  “Muslims fast, but it’s not expected for visitors.” He waved the bracelet at my duffel bag. “Here’s your bracelet. Get your bag, and I’ll take you to your hotel.”

  I started to reach for the bracelet but just as I was about to take it a rat the size of a bulldog chose that moment to come thundering out from behind the wooden crates of garbage and head straight for me. I screamed, “oh my god it’s a rat!” and ran to hide behind Seth. He stomped the ground a couple of times, which scared the big ugly thing off.

  I peeked around from behind him, and wouldn’t let go of his back until he swore it was gone.

  “Sorry to be such a big baby,” I said as I released his shirt and prodded my duffel bag a couple of times with my toes to make sure it was rat-free. “It’s just that I have this thing about rats. My brother used to keep them, and they were always getting out, and for some reason, they liked to walk on me while I was asleep, and if you’ve ever woken up to find rats walking all over you, you’d be a bit weird about them, too.”

  Seth just gave me a look, and nodded toward my bag again.

  “The zipper is broken,” I said, and then the oddest thing happened. I don’t know if it was the hassle with the guys, or the punch I’d taken, or the rat or the time difference or what, but suddenly I burst into tears. Over
a zipper!

  I couldn’t see Seth well because it was getting really dark, but the way he stood made me think he was uncomfortable. Oddly enough, it made me feel better. “You don’t have any sisters, do you?”

  “No.” He waited a minute, then asked, “Why?”

  I dug a small package of tissue out of my duffel bag and blew my nose so I didn’t sound all snarfy. “When I was crying you didn’t tell me to get a grip like my brother March would, or to stop sniveling like August would have. You didn’t even tell me I sound like I have a sock stuffed up my snot-locker, which is what Toby says.”

  “Toby?”

  I wrapped my tights around the bag, tying it shut so my stuff wouldn’t fall out of it. “It’s short for October. He’s my little brother.”

  He took my bag and hoisted it onto the back of the motorcycle seat. “Your brothers are all named after months?”

  “Five of us are. The other five have normal names. My mom named them, but got tired of thinking up names by the time August came around, so my father named the rest of us. He wasn’t very good remembering things, so he named us for the months we were born in.”

  He looked at me funny for a moment. “What’s your name? April? May? June?”

  “January. Jan for short. How come you’re named Seth? It’s not a very Egyptian name, is it?”

  “More than you know,” he muttered, swinging a leg over the bike, nodding his head toward me. “Are you coming or not?”

  I looked at my bag sitting behind him.

  “You’ll have to hold it on your lap,” he said, revving the motor. I recognized the dull roar of it as the noise I’d heard just after Blondie belted me.

  “OK, but…” I looked over to where the two men still lay. Erik was moving, but Blondie was still out. “Shouldn’t we do something about them? What if they’re seriously hurt?”

  “They aren’t,” Seth said, revving the motor again.

  “How do you know?”

  Even in the dark I could see him roll his eyes. “Because I didn’t intend on hurting them seriously. Do you want a ride or not?”