Sphinx

by T. S. Learner

  I unwrapped the Was, the metal cool against my sweating palm. I hesitated, then made my decision. I would try again. I inserted the key into the mechanism and pushed on the dials, trying to change the dates. The pointer wouldn’t shift, and I knew that if I pushed any harder the key would snap. I gave up, irrational fear pounding in my gut. The pointer indicated that I now had just over three days to live. I sat down, fighting an almost suffocating sense of panic. I had run out of options. What I wanted now, more than anything, was simply to be rid of the thing, to return to the remnants of my old life.

  A tentative knock came at the door. I ignored it. A young monk shouted outside: ‘Mr Warnock, you have another visitor. A woman. We cannot let her into the sleeping quarters - you must come out to see her.’

  Rachel sat on the edge of the Well of the Martyrs, wearing a simple white dress. She looked like a young girl despite her air of apprehension. I led her into a smaller enclosed courtyard, secretly surprised at how elated I was to see her.

  ‘Mr Warnock, we cannot allow women to stay within the compound,’ called the monk who had told me that Rachel was here.

  Rachel squeezed my hand. ‘It’s okay, I have accommodation at the village.’

  ‘Half an hour of privacy is all I ask,’ I called back, and the cleric withdrew.

  ‘Ibrihim found me at the Cecil Hotel,’ Rachel said, handing me a letter. ‘He has some bad news. There are still men looking for you. Your villa was broken into again, despite the extra security. They even dug up the garden.’

  I scanned the letter quickly, trying to find something reassuring. ‘He didn’t think they were Egyptians,’ I noted, without looking up. ‘Thugs, he calls them, professional soldiers. ’ Now I lifted my head to look at her. Her expression confirmed my worst fears. I returned to the letter. ‘Also, Hermes Hemiedes’s assistant came looking for me - Hermes has been arrested and he wants me to try to influence his release. Apparently, Hermes has dual citizenship and he wants me to go to the British consul on his behalf.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me about Hermes, it sounds as if he’s playing on your fears, manipulating you,’ Rachel interjected.

  ‘But why would he bother? He’s the one in prison, not me.’

  ‘Maybe he’s still trying to get the astrarium.’

  I stared up at the moon. The crater-marked crescent was now rising over the wall.

  ‘Rachel, my death date’s unchanged. I have three days to go from dawn tomorrow, and the terrifying thing is that I’ve begun to believe it.’

  ‘Oliver! You have to cling to what’s rational, the actual facts . . .’

  ‘The actual facts? The fact is that this . . . thing has hijacked my life.’

  ‘You’re not going to die. At least, not in three days.’

  I heard her, but I wasn’t convinced. Suddenly, I thought of the oilfield again. I felt as if the astrarium was leading me there, but maybe there was more to it than that. It had been born into the present with the same earthquake that shifted the sands in the desert. Maybe, like closing the last link of a chain and joining the beginning and the end, I was meant to bring it to Abu Rudeis, bury it back into the depth of time where it came from? The thought of burying it beneath the sands was suddenly logical, attractive even. How would it feel simply to leave the astrarium behind?

  ‘Listen, I came here for another reason. My source came good - I’m en route to the secret summit I told you about.’ Rachel’s voice seemed to hang on the still air. ‘It’s a major break. The scoop of the century - I have to go.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Rachel looked around at the courtyard, lowering her voice. ‘I’ve been asked to witness a secret meeting between Sadat and Begin, to record it for posterity.’ She swung around. ‘It’ll take place in Port Tawfiq in a couple of days. I thought I would visit you halfway there. There’s a rumour that Sadat will visit the Knesset in person if the initial meeting goes well.’ Her excitement was apparent even in her whisper.

  ‘Peace, Oliver. Peace. Maybe Egypt is finally on its way.’

  Again, I had the sensation that surrounding events were beginning to line up and converge into a single point. Majeed’s frantic efforts to get the astrarium and his increasingly violent focus on Egypt’s weak spots began to make even more sense. A strong Egypt would stand in the way of his ascent to power. Sadat’s visit to the Israeli parliament, an unprecedented historical event, would be devastating to him.

  ‘Are you serious - Sadat in the Knesset? Do you realise how revolutionary that would be? Neither Syria nor Saudi Arabia would tolerate such a visit.’

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s going to happen and I’m going to be there. Fifteen years I’ve waited for an opportunity like this. Fifteen years, Oliver.’

  ‘You’ve worked hard for it. You deserve it.’

  ‘I do, don’t I?’ Rachel grinned, her face alive with an emotional intensity that was unfamiliar and yet not strange. I couldn’t help smiling back. Rachel’s enthusiasm and courage was infectious and I was glad to have her by my side. Selfishly, I realised I needed her companionship as well as her expertise if I was going to carry through my plan. ‘How are you getting to Port Tawfiq? Tomorrow I have to go back to Abu Rudeis with Moustafa to check out a prospective new field. That’s only a drive from the Port,’ I said. ‘We could give you a lift.’

  ‘Will it be safe?’

  ‘Moustafa’s an expert on back roads and military roadblocks. By the time we hit the camp itself it’ll be night and no one’s expecting me.’

  ‘I’m in.’

  I pulled her into a brotherly hug and suddenly the task didn’t seem so daunting. From somewhere in the shadows came a polite cough, and the fellah boy who had taken my letter to Moustafa appeared. We broke apart, smiling.

  ‘We leave early, around five,’ I told her.

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  I watched Rachel and the boy walk away towards the village that lay beyond the monastery’s walls.

  40

  To our left stretched the Mediterranean in a flat, pale blue monotone - infinity, a place I’d now have liked to escape to. To the right yawned the desert - the coastal track we were driving along was the dividing line. Between the dirt road and the beach were several villas - beach retreats for the wealthy. White sand and scrubland ran right to the edge of the sea - the lip of the ancient world, its desolate beauty captivating.

  Moustafa swerved the company jeep around the potholes and rubble. I bounced in the seat next to him, in my Coptic-monk guise and sunglasses, while Rachel sat in the back with the surveying equipment. We made a bizarre group but I wasn’t willing to take any chances of being recognised. Moustafa had been diplomatic enough not to ask any direct questions but I could see that the stress had begun to affect him. We’d taken the back roads via Ismailia, then across the Suez Canal and down towards Port Tawfiq, but with the heightened military tension, Moustafa was still worried about encountering army roadblocks. And there were rumours of clashes with Israeli troops on the border, sightings of both Libyan and Sudanese troops on the other frontiers. Nevertheless, I was convinced that we were going to be fine. So far we’d seen only a few farmers, a couple of tankers and a tourist bus.

  The astrarium was in my rucksack, hidden underneath the back seat. There were now fewer than three days to go until my death date and I was acutely aware that the visit to the oilfield was a gamble - if it didn’t reveal more information about the astrarium I’d wasted a precious day.

  A roadblock loomed up as the road curved around a sand dune. A soldier ran out onto the dirt track and flagged us down. As we drew nearer an army tank became visible, partially concealed behind a clump of palms.

  ‘What now, my friend?’ Moustafa asked me grimly as he pulled up beside the trees.

  ‘You are driving me to visit a Coptic family with a dying son,’ I said. ‘Rachel’s a missionary from America working with the church. Understand, Rachel?’

  She nodded nervously and I turned back to Moustafa
. ‘Think you can handle this?’ I noticed that his hands, still around the steering wheel, were clenched.

  ‘This is the last time, understand, Oliver?’ He sounded unhappy. ‘I am getting tired of playing this game. I have asked no questions so far, but there is a limit even to my patience.’

  The soldier was now almost at the window. I touched Moustafa’s hand reassuringly. ‘Thanks, friend.’

  After a tense glance at me, Moustafa got out of the jeep and started smiling and talking to the soldier, his arm on his shoulder - a strategy to guide him away from the vehicle and hopefully avoid a search. From the severe expression on the young soldier’s face it didn’t look as if he was buying Moustafa’s story. To my dismay, he called over two other soldiers who were lounging against the tank watching. They put out their cigarettes and sauntered towards us.

  One of them, an officer, circled the jeep slowly, staring in at Rachel and me through the windows. We both kept looking straight ahead.

  He stopped outside my door and my heart jumped into my throat. I tried to look as relaxed as possible. Abruptly, he pulled open my door. ‘You, out!’ he demanded in Arabic - to my relief, for it meant he thought I was local.

  ‘What monastery?’ he demanded.

  ‘Deir Al Anba Bishoy,’ I answered, praying he wouldn’t notice my English accent.

  He stepped closer, peering into my face. I noticed the glint of a fine gold chain at the neck of his open shirt. A cross?

  ‘I work with Father Mina, in the library,’ I elaborated, hoping that my hunch was correct.

  The officer smiled slightly, then leaned forward so the others couldn’t hear him. ‘Father Mina baptised me.’ He swung around, bristling with machismo once again, and shouted, ‘Let them go!’

  The two other soldiers and Moustafa looked surprised. ‘But, sir . . .’ the younger soldier began.

  ‘I tell you, they’re nobodies! Let the jeep through!’ A fourth soldier came out from behind the tank, but before they had time to argue amongst themselves Moustafa and I had climbed back into the jeep and accelerated away. None of us spoke for several miles. I heard Rachel exhale slowly.

  When the tank was well out of sight, Moustafa stopped and turned to me, his face serious. ‘Oliver, this has to stop! I am sorry that you are in trouble, but if you are serious about this new oil prospect I have to have your assurance that we will be okay. You understand?’

  ‘A few days more, I promise you, Moustafa, then all will be normal.’

  ‘Normal? What is normal? We were almost arrested back there, or worse!’ He hit the gas and we carried on along the desert track, picking up speed quickly.

  ‘The guy let us go! Moustafa, calm down, you’re driving like a crazy man. You’ll get us all killed!’ I tried to steady the steering wheel.

  Moustafa slowed down, then looked at me. I’d never seen him so grim. ‘You don’t understand. That fourth man, he wasn’t a soldier.’

  ‘But he was wearing a uniform.’

  ‘That’s just it - his uniform wasn’t right. I know the soldiers around here, Oliver, I even served myself. That fourth guy, the young one, I swear he wasn’t working for the government.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Secret police, government, maybe even higher up. Whoever it is, I don’t like them.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Rachel asked, leaning out of the jeep window.

  The mound loomed up to the left of the track. The area had already been fenced off, and the shothole scars where Moustafa’s seismic crew had inserted explosives to get the required seismic measurements were visible.

  ‘If you could read the land, you would hear it sing!’ Moustafa yelled as he revved the jeep’s engine over the rocky ground. ‘Tell her, Oliver! Tell her how we are driving over a miracle. How this land will make us both very rich!’

  He pulled up beside a boulder and I jumped out. Rachel followed while Moustafa started unpacking the surveying equipment. Opening the back door, I pulled out a shovel and pick. I turned to Rachel. To my surprise she looked uncomfortable.

  ‘What?’ I asked, swatting the flies away from my face. ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘I just think perhaps natural resources should stay that way,’ she said. ‘In nature, untouched.’

  ‘Rachel, it won’t just be Moustafa and me or our investors who’ll make a profit from this. Money will go to the government and in turn to the people. There will be employment for the locals.’

  She looked around. ‘The locals are Bedouin - shepherds and traders.’ She asked, a trace of irony in her voice, ‘Do you think they’ll be interested in working on an oilfield?’

  Ignoring her, I hauled the rucksack from under the back seat and, with the pick and shovel under one arm, strode off towards the far end of the ridge.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t have time for ambivalence, Rachel!’

  Rachel struggled up the mound behind me, while Moustafa, politely ignoring our argument, set up the surveying equipment. His industrious figure disappeared behind me as I clambered over the crest of the ridge.

  Rachel, running, caught up with me. ‘Don’t do something rash just because you’re frightened, Oliver! Shouldn’t you find out more before trying to destroy it?’

  ‘I can’t take that gamble, Rachel - it could kill me!”

  In the distance I could see the same Bedouin shepherd I’d met before. I recognised his headscarf with its distinctive pattern. He sat watching his scraggly herd of goats picking their way around a few clumps of long grass. I waved, but this time he didn’t wave back.

  I put down the rucksack on a small flat area behind a boulder and slammed the pick into the stony ground.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Digging.’

  ‘Why?’

  I pulled the astrarium out of the rucksack.

  ‘Oliver, you can’t bury that - it’s a priceless antiquity.’

  ‘So let someone else find it in a hundred years and have it screw up their life!’

  Fuming, Rachel marched off back to the jeep. I glared down at the rocky earth, furious with her obstinacy, furious with myself, furious with the stony ground. A tiny scorpion stared back at me. Poised with its stinger erect, it was David waiting to take on Goliath. I didn’t have the heart to kill it. A second later it scuttled sideways under a rock. I drove the pick into the ground, the reverberation running up my arm.

  An hour later I packed the last of the sand back over the astrarium, now buried at least two metres below the surface. An enormous sense of relief washed over me, of freedom, self-determination. Feeling more optimistic than I had in weeks, I joined Moustafa to help him with the surveying. Rachel took photographs of the landscape. The sun - a great red orb like a huge omnipresent eye - hung on the horizon.

  ‘And?’ I ventured.

  ‘It’s timeless, isn’t it? Elemental,’ she said finally, avoiding our previous debate.

  ‘The desert isn’t timeless. The changes are more subtle but they’re there.’

  ‘But without any evidence of human activity you can almost see history reaching back. You could almost believe time wasn’t linear.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t,’ I replied, momentarily believing it.

  ‘Oliver, do you really think that by burying the astrarium you can destroy its influence?’

  ‘I have a hunch that it might have been responsible for the oilfield coming to light - the skybox that moves Earth, sea and sky. It’s a desperate long shot, but I thought that maybe here in the desert is where it actually belongs and maybe if it’s at rest its hold over me will cease. But I don’t know any more. I’ve lost my logic. Let’s hope it works, otherwise you will be writing my obituary.’

  A breeze blew across the plain, foreshadowing the night.

  ‘We should get back before it is dark!’ Moustafa yelled from beside the jeep where he’d begun repacking the equipment. Dusting the desert from my hands, I ran over to help him.

  It was
already night by the time the guards pulled open the large wire gates and we drove into the Abu Rudeis camp. Out at sea, flares from the offshore rigs formed yellow smudges shooting up from a glittering black mirror. Already I felt better, more in control on my own known terrain. I parked the jeep outside my hut and jumped down from the driver’s seat, the familiarity of the camp enveloping me. Disco music blared out from a radio in a nearby hut and the air was filled with the distinctive smell of burning fuel and the fecund odours drifting off the top of the mud-logging bins - the signature scents of the oilfield. Rachel grimaced as she breathed it all in. I laughed, watching her.

  ‘It’s rough, but you’re probably used to that. The other drawback is that you’ll be sharing a hut with me.’

  Behind us, Moustafa guffawed.

  ‘How many more days did the astrarium give you?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Two, after dawn tomorrow. But it’s over, remember? The astrarium is dead and buried.’ I smiled, but a hint of concern laced my voice.

  Rachel was lying on the bed and I was on the small couch pushed against the wall.

  ‘I once fell in love with a man who got killed by a land-mine three days later.’

  ‘Rachel, you’re not making me feel any better.’

  I opened a beer and tossed the bottle cap onto the floor, together with the bottle opener, then watched in amazement as they slid across the room and stuck firmly against the side of the chair in the corner. In the same instant the electricity went out, plunging us into darkness, and the door flew inwards, revealing the scrubland outside, beyond a horizon broken only by the flares of the offshore rigs. Rachel screamed. I jumped off the bed and ran for the doorway, thinking we might be experiencing another earthquake. Dressed in knickers and T-shirt, Rachel cowered.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Another earth tremor, I think. A shift in tectonic plates . . . Christ, I’m not sure.’

  A metal ashtray began to slide across the floor, first slowly, then accelerating as it neared the chair.