Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3)

by Brian David Bruns

  Bianca smiled and replied, “I pay you with kiss.”

  She blew him a kiss which he pretended to dodge, and his friends nearly fell over themselves with laughter. When we departed holding hands, they howled anew. We finally swung through our resort and, before returning to the room, strolled past the restaurant. A large tray of ice displayed five huge fish, mercifully rinsed and highly presentable. There were three big, round pink ones and two long yellow fish, all with eyes glassy and crisp to reveal they were caught that morning. We selected two and watched the maitre d’ take them away to prepare for our dinner that night.

  Not surprisingly, getting dressed and ready for dinner was faster for me than for Bianca. While she did her secret woman things in the bathroom, I glanced at our newly purchased slippers. They were an amalgamation of leathers tanned in different shades of reds and blues, sewn together to neatly conform to the foot. When I pulled them free from each other I barked a laugh. Though the hawker had not switched different colors or sizes, he had given us all left-footed slippers!

  I turned on the TV, wondering what kind of shows they aired in Egypt. To be honest, I didn’t even know what they aired in the States anymore because I was too busy to watch television. I secretly hoped that through some miracle they would be showing an old episode of The X-Files. Did Egypt have soap operas, or some sort of Arabic Cosby Show?

  Surprisingly, the very first channel blasted English at me. One’s native language jumps out when immersed in a foreign culture. A news station was replaying an American speech and, despite Arabic voices talking above and Arabic text scrolling below, I clearly recognized President George W. Bush. His message was also clear: This is a War on Terror. America is right, everyone else in the world is wrong. Oh, and all Muslims are terrorists.

  I sat bolt upright and clicked through the stations as my stomach began to knot. It was on every channel. I presumed this was because all the television stations were controlled by Mubarak’s regime, but that was far from reassuring. I struggled to find evidence the speech had been tampered with or something, anything, to deny the overtly antagonistic rhetoric I was hearing. Was this why everyone had stared at me so openly today? Suddenly I wished we had stayed somewhere safe, like in Romania. Never thought I’d ever say that!

  I swallowed my predicament uncomfortably, then nearly choked when my eyes fell on the table. Spread out and ready for later was the six foot beach towel Bianca had packed for me: a giant American flag.

  4

  Bianca finally exited the bathroom, made up and dressed for dinner. Without a word she took my hand, rather hard, and tugged me out the door. The walk to the restaurant was beautiful, with palm trees again thrashing and the bougainvillea fluttering. It was a warm night, bordering on hot, and the air again smelled salty. Hand in hand we walked in silence. I was so disturbed by W’s self-indulgent speech that I didn’t notice that Bianca, too, was silent. We passed through the hotel lobby and a voice called out in crisp British English.

  “Excuse me, sir? Sir, the tall gentleman with the lovely lady?”

  Perhaps half a dozen Arabic businessmen were in the lobby: thickset, graying men wearing silvery suits topped with a fez. All looked distinguished, and all looked at me. I met some gazes and nodded politely, wishing I had actually researched before spontaneously coming here. Was looking a stranger in the eye provocative in this culture, as it was in some others? Now, more than ever, I felt like the ignorant, arrogant American.

  But it was not a businessman who called me. The front desk manager, in a suit of dark brown, was waving me over. I reassured myself that he had nothing to say about the inflammatory speech against his religion: surely this was just a routine matter over a credit card or something similar. Yet as I approached, he appeared even more anxious than I.

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” he said politely. “Come here, please? Thank you.”

  Well, I thought, here goes.

  The manager was a slender, middle-aged man, fairly handsome with chocolate brown skin and a snow white mustache. His teeth were neatly aligned, though stained yellow. When I approached, he lowered his voice very low.

  “You, sir, are the American whose passport I locked up last night?”

  I hesitated a moment, but saw no reason to make an obvious lie. “Yes.”

  “Sir, I wonder, have you perhaps… ah… perhaps viewed the news today?”

  “If you are referring to the idiotic speech by President Bush, then yes, I have.”

  His eyes widened, and he was momentarily at a loss for words. I sensed he was surprised to hear someone publicly disagreeing with his own government. In America, that had always been a favorite pastime.

  “Yes, sir, well… is this your first visit to Egypt? Yes? Well, sir, I don’t wish to alarm you, but I would like to personally offer a word of friendly advice. While it is my role to ensure your stay in Hurghada is as enjoyable as possible, I offer this not as a representative of the hotel, but as a man. Perhaps this week you would care to be, ah…”

  He trailed off, unsure and obviously trying very hard to be as inoffensive as possible. His body language spoke volumes. “Perhaps this week you would care to be c-c…”

  “Canadian?” I offered.

  He deflated in relief, but tried to hide it. “I was to say ‘careful’, but I think, sir, that we understand each other. Please understand, sir, that I mean no disrespect in any way! Your safety and enjoyment is my business, but a little extra care may be prudent. If asked, which is unlikely, you may find many more amenable to your being Canadian.”

  “I quite agree. Thank you for your kind thought. But tell me, why is it that everyone likes Canadians so much?”

  He grinned and his mustache quivered. “Why, because they aren’t Americans!”

  Before dinner, Bianca and I had a drink. Though Egypt was a Muslim nation that frowned upon alcohol, it was also a tourism-dependent nation. Thus drinks were available at hotels and resorts for foreigners. More surprising was that they produced their own wine. A bottle of Egyptian Pinot Grigio chilled on a stand beside our table.

  We sat on a third-story balcony overlooking the long path to the beach. The wings of the hotel framed the pleasantly palmed and flowered walkway, which extended so far and so straight into the distance that I was reminded of a railroad track disappearing to the horizon. Our table was comfortable: under the stars, lit by the moon, and high enough for the sea breezes to gently cast off the heat of the night. The conversation was not so comfortable, however. In fact, there was no conversation at all. Only the ice in the bucket spoke with a crackle.

  I stared at Bianca, who stared at the wine. Not surprisingly, the Pinot Grigio was awful, but I doubted such a trifle would have her so morose. I resisted the urge to dump a Coke in it. Dwelling on my own awkward position after the Bush speech, I was slow to notice that Bianca had actually stopped talking earlier. What had I done to make her angry? After my fairly recent divorce, it was a wonder that I got into trouble so fast!

  For the third time I prodded, “Bianca, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m grumpy and crunchy, that’s what’s wrong.”

  “Grumpy and cranky.”

  “Whatever.”

  She let it drop at that, and only after I tired of staring neutrally at the moon for several minutes did I try again. “Talk to me, woman. This is, like, a vacation and stuff. Should be fun.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That much is obvious.”

  “You wouldn’t understand, anyway.”

  “Shall I get Bela to translate?”

  The merest quirk of her lips indicated a possible breakthrough.

  “My period just started,” she finally said.

  “I see,” I answered carefully, hiding my disappointment. I sure as hell didn’t show that I was secretly pleased that missing sex with me was so catastrophic. Sadly, Bianca was probably the first to feel that way.

  “No, you wouldn’t understand,” she continued. “This is my sec
ond period this month. That happens sometimes when you sign off ships.”

  Delicately I offered, “No doubt because your internal clock gets in tune with all the women you are living with on ships. You all get into a similar rhythm. But now you are readjusting your cycle to home.”

  She blinked in surprise. “How you know that?”

  “I was married,” I explained simply.

  “So? In Romania the men know nothing of it and ask nothing of it. They no want to know.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they know when their woman is suffering from PMS.”

  “America really is different than Europe,” Bianca marveled. “But it doesn’t change anything. Why this week? We only came here for... well, Jesus Gras!”

  “So, I guess the moonlight swim after dinner is out of the question?”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “And if you make any comment about it already being the Red Sea, I’m sending you back to the room alone right now!”

  Chapter 7. Arabian Nights

  1

  The next morning was a long, tired blur of sand and sun. We were actually getting tired of being excited, if that were possible, but that day we were to see a whole host of new wonders.

  The Valley of Kings! The Valley of Queens! The Temple of Karnak at Luxor! The Nile River!

  The list alone was exhausting, but the drive was worse. Bela bussed us 200 kilometers southwest from Hurghada, intent on a spot 500 kilometers due south from Cairo. The heat outside, in the most lifeless desert on earth, was a brutal 115 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Eventually the dunes dropped away to reveal a vast valley. Below us stretched a patchy series of green and not-so-green cropland speckled by rows of dense palms. Down the center of the valley and barring our path was the magnificent Nile River, with life-giving waters blue and oddly placid. Though the Amazon was bigger and longer, the Nile was perhaps the more impressive for flowing thousands of miles through the most arid lands on earth without a single tributary or drop of rain to help it along.

  Beyond the mighty Nile’s width, beyond its fertile banks and gently rising valley, rose a horrendously ugly jumble of impenetrable mountains. I had thought the dunes of the Sahara were barren, but these mountains were maddeningly monotonous. The same shade of sandstone tan ran from top to bottom, left to right, for untold hundreds of miles. The perfection of color was unspoiled by even a single sliver of darker brown or smudge of darker tan. This was the western side of the Nile: this was reserved for the dead.

  The bus chugged slowly across the river and finally rolled onto a dirty road that snaked up into the sun-bleached foothills of the mountains. By the roadside two towering figures observed our progress; the ancient stone broken, marred, yet magnificent. The sentinels sat upon lumpy thrones of stone with arms stiffly resting upon their knees. Both men were faceless but wore the distinctive headdress of Egyptian royalty.

  I gasped in recognition and nearly slammed my head into the window for a better look. “Those are the Colossi of Memnon!”

  “The what of who?” Bianca asked tiredly, rubbing her purple-shrouded eyes and blinking against the vibrant sunshine.

  I hastily explained how in college I had learned all about these two enormous statues of Amenhotep III. Both were sixty feet high, somehow erected 3,400 years ago. The majesty of something so big, yet constructed at the very dawn of human society, was humbling. They exuded sheer power.

  “You know, there is an odd story about these that illustrate just how old they are. An earthquake sometime in early BC broke one of them in half. Afterwards the ruined base was said to ‘sing’ at sunrise. No one could figure out where the sound came from, and all the leading Greek wise men came to investigate, including Strabo himself. The singing was supposed to bring good luck, so emperors came to hear it. When the Romans finally fixed the statue in like 200 A.D., it never sang again.”

  Bianca just stared at me, waiting patiently for me to finish.

  “I never thought I would ever see them in person,” I explained lamely. “It’s one thing to go see the Pyramids, which are so commonplace an image that they actually lose their magic. But this is the real deal, not some postcard on a refrigerator. This is a remnant from another era, another age, like a secret for the learned, you know? I spent years poring over books with their descriptions and pictures, but never thought they would be so powerful!”

  Bianca graciously tried to appear interested at my enthusiasm, but could really have cared less. That is, until Bela rose and repeated everything I had just said. Suddenly it was all new and fascinating when he said it. Bianca excitedly repeated his words back to me, and I just stared at her. Finally I complained, “Jeez, what am I, chopped liver?”

  “Yes, dear, you really are very smart,” she said with a patronizing pat on my arm. Stifling a yawn she added, “Bela, however, is an authority and you are… you.”

  I had been upstaged by a man in a bowl cut. Not my finest hour.

  The next stop was far, far more impressive. The bus drove right up to an enormous cliff of sun-blasted sandstone that towered vertically for almost a thousand feet. Nuzzling the base of the cliff was a dazzlingly intact temple composed of three tiers of columns collectively soaring about ten stories high. It was huge in scope, in preservation, and history, for this was the Mortuary Temple of Queen Hatshepsut.

  When the bus finally came to a stop in a parking lot large enough to make the Superdome jealous, Bela rose and addressed everyone in Magyar, then repeated it all in Romanian. Though the bus’s engine had ceased its rumble, the heavy droning of the overworked air conditioner carried on. I could barely hear Bela, nor understand him if I could, so instead watched his skinny arms gesticulate grandly. Those knobby elbows were oddly fascinating. His arms were so thin that I could see no meat at all, nor even thin cords of muscle: just bones beneath a pale drapery of skin. This man was in desperate need of a donut.

  After his long, flourishing oratory, Bianca whispered a translation to me in English. “This is the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut. It is considered one of the incomparable monuments of Egyptian history.”

  “I knew that,” I snapped rather petulantly. I was still a bit sulky after she squashed my Colossi of Memnon joy.

  “Then I don’t need to bother translating anything for you, bamboclat!”

  True to her word, as we trudged the scalding hot walk up the entrance ramp, Bela’s long descriptions were not translated for me. This was a boon, actually, because it provided me with a less distracted appreciation of the architecture. The first level was a wide colonnade of clean, smart lines. This was the first architectural example of perfect symmetry, predating the Parthenon in Athens by a thousand years. The two imposing entrance ramps totaling 450 feet split the vast colonnade in the center, and eventually brought us up on top of it. Before us towered another, even more impressive double row of columns garnished with ten-foot statues of pharaohs and deities with heads of eagles, rams, and lions.

  We had half an hour to wander the complex before meeting back up at the ramp. People split off to explore on their own, though a large chunk continued to follow Bela as he narrated the history and import of Hatshepsut’s reign and her amazing temple. Bianca was so enraptured by his bowl cut that she nearly forgot to tell me the return time. I let her go and indulged in my own explorations.

  In the temple’s vast sun court, I mused over broken pillars and shattered colossi. The heat was brutal, but I refused to give up the piles of labeled bricks and stone fragments. I had never seen in-progress archeology before. Alas, after twenty minutes I retreated to the shaded colonnades as well, then moved to the very back of the temple. Here the sanctuary walls rose up some thirty feet, covered entirely by hieroglyphs of birds, eyes, fish, and wavy lines. I got as close as I could without touching them, marveling at the delicate carvings and delightfully noting hints of pigment from millennia ago.

  I thought I was completely alone, but soon noticed a nearby niche in the wall was not occupied by a statue, but a man. He was presumably
a guard set to prevent anyone from messing with the priceless heritage of his country. His heavy uniform must have been stiflingly hot, but he did not appear to notice the heat at all. How these guys functioned in the summer was beyond me, for it routinely topped 125 degrees. He stared at me long and hard, affectionately rubbing his military assault rifle. I nodded and tried to pass, but he suddenly held out his rifle to block my path. He didn’t point it at me, exactly, but the intent was obvious.

  “American,” he said with a gleam in his eye. His posture was tense, ready.

  I pretended not to hear him, but could not take my eyes off his well-oiled and lovingly maintained assault rifle. I had never before been so close to a weapon of that magnitude, and he handled it with the same ease as a teenager did her cell phone.

  He repeated the word more strongly and with a peculiar emphasis that I did not understand, but definitely did not like.

  “American.”

  Actually, I was a little surprised he didn’t think I was European. I was not dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, nor did I wear tennis shoes. I was wearing Italian clothing that was a gift from Bianca, and I had said nothing in English. Still, I could not deny that I was significantly larger than everyone else in the entire temple complex. Usually I was mistaken for a German, except that I smiled a lot.

  “Canadian,” I answered with a forced grin. I wanted it to appear natural, so quickly added with faux pride, “Vancouver Island!”

  Instantly the man’s posture eased. He gave me a quick nod and then ignored me in favor of scrutinizing the sun court. I strode away, taking pains to make it look casual. No doubt he enjoyed the idea of taunting an American, for his demeanor had been unmistakably hostile. I knew in my gut that it hadn’t been my over-active imagination. More disturbed than I cared to admit, I was only too happy to meet up with Bianca and the others. That is, until she told me what Bela had just said.

  Pulling me close, Bianca whispered fiercely, “Did you know that just five years ago Islamic terrorists killed sixty tourists right here? They were mostly Swiss, but they also killed a five-year-old British kid and four Japanese couples on their honeymoons. I guess they wanted to destabilize the government by taking away tourism, their biggest source of income.”