Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3)

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Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 12

by Brian David Bruns


  I gulped, trying to swallow the news. Then I got angry.

  “What kind of an asshole would tell us that?”

  “It wasn’t Bela’s fault,” Bianca answered. “Some Hungarian hag opened her bloody trap… in Romanian, I might add… just to scare the hell out of everyone. Bela had to give the real facts before she made it bigger than September 11th.”

  “You’re serious,” I mumbled as the severity of the situation sunk in. If that could happen in the relative calm before Al Qaida attacked the U.S., what would happen now that America had invaded Afghanistan and all but declared holy war on Islam?

  “Six terrorists were disguised as security guards,” Bianca continued. “They followed the tourists in and stood in front of the entrance to stop anyone from getting out. With everyone trapped in the temple, they had mucho time. They used automatic rifles, and spent forty-five minutes systematically killing.”

  2

  It was difficult to imagine anything topping that, but our next stop had the moxie to do so: the Valley of the Kings. It was not a valley, in fact, but a narrow box canyon created by the cliffs of craggy sandstone. We worked our way deeper into it, and the towering walls were so high they seemed to curve over us, ready to fall in. A strange sensation of claustrophobia filled the hot air, despite the gargantuan proportions of stone.

  Unlike Queen Hatshepsut’s in-your-face temple, the burial chambers of the Pharaohs were intentionally hidden. Though confined to this tight canyon, it took decades of professional digging to find them all, whether modern archeologist or long-dead thief. The entrances were mundane to the eye, but the mind was dazzled by the magnitude of their contents. Even without its treasures, walking into the tomb of King Tutankhamen is awe inspiring. This was not Egyptian heritage, but human heritage.

  My enthusiasm for exploring the tombs was immediately doused by the reality of it. I entered three separate tombs, and each depressed me more than the last. What the dry desert air had perfectly preserved for three thousand years was being destroyed by man in a pitiful few decades. The nonstop flashes from cameras were noticeably dulling the delicate pigments of the paintings. Far more destructive were the bodies of the tourists themselves: their breath and body heat created a sauna inside the deep stone tombs. The walls literally dripped with moisture. Before my very eyes rivulets of water washed away precious color and eroded the fragile, millennia-old words of man. Unlike prehistoric cave paintings open to debate, these were words directly translatable. These were the articulated hopes and dreams of men that predated the Bible, soon to be lost forever.

  In the afternoon we crossed the Nile River by boat. The battered vessels were maintained as poorly as the pharaoh’s tombs: they were dusty and dented, beaten and broken, and faded by the destroying sun. The Nile was easily a mile wide at this point, with waters blue enough to entice a dip. Swimming was not a good idea, however, for pollution had rendered these waters disagreeable. While no doubt millions of Egyptians survived from the Nile’s bounty, the famous Nile crocodiles here had been unable to do so.

  Still, it was a pleasant crossing, barring the horrendous noise of the motors and the thick plumes of putrid exhaust they coughed up. For in crossing the Nile by boat the wonders of the ancient Egyptians were previewed as they were meant to be. Cleopatra herself viewed the very same thing as I: titanic columns of stone rising above the palms hugging the river’s edge. Well, sort of. The Nile had moved a bit in the last three millennia.

  So over-the-top were these monuments to an entire civilization, rising from the dirt and smog to cast awe into the minds of men: I feared it was a mirage. But oh, no. Here was Luxor and its magnificently unique Temple of Karnak. Here was arguably the largest temple complex ever built by man, utterly dwarfing the Vatican—and here was where Bianca and I were in mortal danger.

  But first: the Arab in the toilet.

  After crossing the Nile was a quick lunch, designed to be fast because time was short and the sights vast. Passing on the baloney sandwiches, Bianca and I munched on oranges and fresh dates.

  Afterwards I went to the restroom, which was more of an experience than I usually care for in a toilet. The bathroom appeared tolerably clean, but was poorly enough lit that I wasn’t sure. Inside were two decrepit porcelain sinks streaked with age and two urinals streaked with I-don’t-wanna-know. The doorless stall did not contain western-style toilets, but rather a hole in the floor. Molded into the concrete were two impressions shaped as feet. I presumed this was to assist in squatting while wearing Arab-style clothing. Though I am a man of diverse interests, the defecation habits of the world’s cultures do not rank among them.

  I was immediately greeted by a tall, skinny Arab man. His face was very lined and very dark, and his smile revealed a complete lack of teeth. He was far too enthusiastic, rushing at me while holding forth a small length of rolled toilet paper. I shook him off and headed towards the urinal. He followed one step behind, babbling in Arabic what appeared to be offers of service. I said ‘no’ firmly and prepared to do my business.

  But he wouldn’t leave me alone. He stepped right up behind me and continued to jabber. He shoved the toilet paper over my shoulder and into my face.

  “No!” I called forcefully to him, but he ignored me. “I don’t want anything. Go away!”

  He stood there, waiting for me to do my thing. I stood there, waiting to do my thing. I couldn’t. He was literally breathing down my neck, and I was too uncomfortable to urinate. His breath reeked.

  “Go away!” I demanded, but he just smiled toothlessly and nodded. Finally I awkwardly fished from my open pants a dollar bill and handed it to him. He nodded and bowed back out of sight.

  The Temple of Karnak was just a short walk up a flagstone path from the ancient quay at the Nile. But what a walk! Lining the scorched path were imposing ram-headed sphinxes, numbering over a dozen on each side. They sat regally atop pedestals two yards tall, and their lion-like bodies stretched an impressive ten feet. Between their front paws they protected yard-high statues of kings from the earliest great civilization of mankind. It was almost unnerving to walk down that avenue beneath the primordial gaze of thirty gods.

  As imposing as the Avenue of the Sphinxes was, it was nothing compared to the front wall of the temple. This was called the First Pylon, and it was a whopper. The wall was so thick as to appear squat, were it not so staggeringly tall. To the left of the entrance the ancient hand-hewn sandstone rose fifty feet high, and the other side soared to seventy. This defense dominated the view from the Nile, and stepping through its entrance into the Temple was immensely humbling.

  Once through the First Pylon, we stood in a giant courtyard lined with columns thick and powerful enough to shrug off thousands of years. Some were carved with deep, glorious hieroglyphics, the delicately cut details leaping out because the slanting sunlight left their recesses dark. Everywhere were statues of kings with arms folded, holding the crook and flail of the pharaohs. All were huge, and many towered thirty feet tall. Pointy tips of obelisks pierced the sky even higher. Everything was simply immense.

  Hundreds and hundreds of tourists from all over the planet roamed the hot courtyard. Despite this being a temple, their voices were far from subdued or even respectful. They shouted at each other and children ran through the crowds shrieking and playing.

  Bela stood out from the mess of humanity by virtue of his brilliant yellow T-shirt. The reflection from his shirt was so bright in the harsh sunlight that I couldn’t look directly at him, for want of sunglasses. Had Bela’s brown-tinted glasses not been prescription, I think I would have bullied them from him. After all, I still had to impress Bianca and prove that I was cooler than him. Bela pulled our tour group into the corner behind the unfinished side of the First Pylon. The remains of a mud-brick building ramp on the backside revealed that, in antiquity, the entire wall had been intent on reaching seventy feet.

  As Bela delivered his lengthy Magyar/Romanian instructions, I stared at yet another row of ram-he
aded sphinxes. These were parked beside each other like motorcycles outside a roadhouse in Nevada. All were six feet high and descended from fully intact features to broken faces to shattered bodies and finally to mere pedestals. Though cordoned off, a child jumped the line and sat on the back of a 3,000-year-old sphinx as if it were a 25¢ pony ride outside of K-Mart. Instantly an Arab security guard ran towards him, screaming in outrage. Suddenly terrified, the brat quickly fled. I found his parent’s absence gallingly inappropriate, but his wailing, crying flight most satisfying.

  The real joy of Karnak, however, was hidden beyond the Second Pylon, which was at the far end of the huge courtyard. This second wall rose sturdily fifty feet into the heat, but beyond it towered the world-famous Hypostyle Hall. Erected by the hand of bygone men, it symbolized the primeval papyrus swamp with a total of 134 columns. The forest of stone trunks was ramrod straight like redwoods, and nearly as thick. We wandered through the maze of dizzying columns, staring up to the lofty heights lovingly carved with hieroglyphics. In the center rose twelve even taller, central monsters rising nearly seventy feet. These dwarfed the other hundred-odd columns that were a mere five stories tall. This awe-inspiring Hall was begun by Amenhotep III, but completed by his famous builder son, Ramses II. Yes, that was the Ramses of Biblical fame.

  After we exited the Hypostyle Hall, I split off from Bianca and the main group. Again, the translations were too cumbersome, and besides, I knew exactly what I was looking at. I had studied these ruins for years. As an art historian, I had scrutinized modern photographs as well as both Napoleonic and Victorian-era etchings of them. As an archeology enthusiast I wanted to see the little things, like the piles of tagged stones that had yet to find their rightful place in the jumble of toppled temples.

  Fortunately I had a fine direction sense, because the Temple of Karnak was worked on for literally thousands of years and had two main axes at right angles to each other. I quickly left the other tourists and found myself alone with the echoes of eternity. The sun eased lower across the Nile and the shadows grew bolder, eagerly crawling over broken walls and slashing the faces of kings long dead. I wandered to the rear of the Temple and suddenly found myself staring at a wide lake. The vast Sacred Lake was man-made and entirely lined in stone, with steps cut down to its placid surface. A rare cluster of palm trees, the only green anywhere to be seen, reflected in the deadly still surface. I enjoyed solitude with the awesomeness until I could soak up no more.

  After a while I returned to the Hypostyle Hall to meet up with Bianca. The sun was now nuzzling the ugly sandstone cliffs to the west. Darkness and silence once again enveloped the great Temple of Karnak as the gawking and squawking tourists departed. In our last few minutes we wanted a picture of us together, but had difficulty finding anyone remaining to help us do so. From out of nowhere an Arab man appeared and offered in sharp, broken English to take our picture for a dollar.

  “Not here!” he chirped. “I know better place. Beautiful!”

  We followed him through a portal and into a broad courtyard filled with huge, tumbled blocks of stone. Most debris was the size of a bathtub, but many were massive, broken behemoths lying atop each other like a pile of busses. The scenery was impressive, but not at all what we were looking for.

  “No, not here,” he chirped again. His eyes twinkled with enthusiasm. “Farther. Is beautiful!”

  We looked at each other unsure, because the sounds of the tourists had entirely faded by now, and the darkness was growing. Concerned, Bianca asked me quietly, “Do you know where we are?”

  “I do. We’re not too far, it just feels like it.”

  Shrugging, we followed him through another portal and into a smaller courtyard, which was still awesome in size and style. In fact, this was one of the most impressive I had yet seen.

  The flooring flagstones were swept free from debris and even sand, and all four walls of the courtyard were lined with twenty-foot statues of kings standing before columns even taller. Each king had arms crossed over his chest and held the crook and flail, though many had headdresses, faces, and even shoulders missing. Darkness filled the three-foot gaps between the huge sentinels.

  “Wow,” I breathed, and Bianca squeezed my hand excitedly. Perhaps not excitedly, I began to realize. We were utterly alone with the stranger and it was getting dark. We could no longer hear anyone else at all, not even faintly.

  “No, not here,” pressed the Arab. He gestured towards the far end of the deep, dark courtyard to a doorway black as pitch.

  “Farther. Is beautiful! More sun there.”

  I regarded the man more closely. Like every other Egyptian I had met, he was very thin and had dark features with plenty of wrinkles and grey. But his teeth were pearly white and perfect, which somehow smacked of something wrong. Yet he did not appear armed or particularly dangerous. His gestures were overemphasized, but that was common enough when language was a barrier. Still, he seemed a bit too eager to please and was trying way too hard to get us further from the group.

  “I think this is a good place,” I said to him. Beside me Bianca nodded vigorously.

  “No, farther is beautiful,” he said, waving his arms in emphasis. “Very beautiful. Not here.”

  He smiled his predatory grin again, and the uncomfortable feeling that had been growing at his insistence blossomed. There was absolutely no question what was going on. He was leading us into an ambush.

  “Take our picture here,” I said firmly. “We’re not going any farther.”

  The man met my gaze and I watched the twinkle leave his eyes. The sense of danger flared. I was keenly aware of the countless dark places for thugs to spring from.

  “Forget it,” I said, then turned to Bianca. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes!” she answered.

  “No, no,” the Arab assured us half-heartedly. “Here is good. One dollar, I take picture here.”

  We hurriedly posed and he snapped our picture with obvious disappointment. He was so offhand with taking the photo that I was sure he only caught our feet, but we didn’t care. He all but hurled the camera back to me after I gave him his dollar. We rushed back to the main group tailing Bela, and left the Temple of Karnak to the ages and thieves.

  3

  Bianca and I took the next day off from touring and leisurely played on the beach—using towels from the hotel rather than the ones we brought, of course. The only thing better than the sun and the surf was the conversation, where I was continually astounded at Bianca’s range of knowledge. She would seamlessly transition from classical art and literature to molecular theory. After dinner we walked to an open-air amphitheater by the sea. The air was humid and hot and the moon sweat above. We came to indulge in an aspect of Middle Eastern culture commonly overlooked: the whirling Dervishes. The setting was entrancing, but the real trance was on stage.

  As the host described it, Dervishes are Sufi Muslims who use music and dance to reach a state of perfection, or kemal. They abandon their egos and personal desires by listening to music, focusing on God, and moving in a symbolic imitation of the planets orbiting the sun. As I would describe it: they spin. A lot.

  The music began, and stepping out on stage was a lone man wearing a sleeveless white frock and a felt fez. He was middle aged with a slim build and slimmer mustache. His features were set in deep concentration, in tune with the steady thumping of a kudum drum. He closed his eyes and began to spin. His feet stamped in the very same spot as he whirled again and again and again. As he spun faster and faster, the music built upon itself with traditional Turkish instruments, adding bow fiddles and long-necked lutes.

  His frock flew up like a skirt, delineating a circle of clean white in geometric perfection. The droning of the music swelled and he spun ever faster and ever longer. His stamping feet were a blur, and as the music evolved, so, too, did his dance. He waved his arms and suddenly the circle of skirt became a dazzling parabola, radiant in the moonlight. For a whopping twenty solid, mesmerizing minutes he spun ev
er faster, never once missing a step. It was the single most remarkable human performance I had ever witnessed.

  Afterwards we went for a moonlight walk, eventually stopping at a discotheque. The building resembled a small version of the Colosseum in Rome, being a two-story oval structure lined with arches. Pennants snapped above, driven by warm coastal air. Inside, what would have been a sandy stage for bloodsport was instead a dance floor. We were the only two guests in the entire club, so when we crossed the wide, empty floor I tried to spin like the Sufi. I only got about three rotations before I fell into an ignominious heap on the floor.

  “You babaloo!” Bianca laughed, tugging on my arm to pull me up.

  Above us stretched the open sky: a black tapestry of pulsing stars bisected by the splash of the Milky Way. The DJ switched the music from local tastes to an electro beat. The tempo was upbeat, yet somewhat trancelike, and we began to slow dance. We had the whole dance floor to ourselves, but were rooted right there in the middle, lit silver by moonlight.

  The song’s lyrics flowed over us, beginning with the longing, yet fortifying dreams of finding each other, then swelling with optimism when they realized that their love alone will make everything all right. With the words ‘I’ll fly with you,’ the music soared into ecstasy. It was insanely romantic, as if the disco—the whole world!—was built just for us, and us alone, open roof designed for us to fly into the night together.

  I was completely lost in Bianca, and didn’t care that the tempo was too fast for a slow dance. After a glorious eternity, the song faded into the stars. Bianca pulled back, lightly panting, and glanced around as if stalling. She placed her hands on my chest, feeling my heart hammer. Like her heightened breath, my body, too, was not reacting to the speed of our dance.

 

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