Imhotep

by Jerry Dubs

  It was empty.

  He stood and started to walk around the sarcophagus toward the other doorway. His face became entangled in a spider’s web and as he brought his hands up to wipe away the threads, he stepped backward. Instead of solid floor, his foot found emptiness where the sarcophagus lid had been swung aside. Falling backward into the void, his foot dropped to the bottom of the lower stone coffin, throwing him off balance. He lurched forward in panic, and his kneecap hit the edge of the stone opening.

  He yelped and spread his hands to catch his fall. The flashlight clattered across the tomb floor. Misjudging the angle of the sarcophagus lid, he hit his shoulder against the stone. He twisted away from the pain and found himself falling.

  When he stopped moving, he slowly flexed his left arm and reached across his body to rub his right shoulder and arm. Nothing seemed broken. He sat up in the darkness and hit his head hard against the sarcophagus lid.

  “Jesus Christ,” he swore as he realized that he was now lying in the mummy-shaped opening where Kanakht’s body had once lain. Above him the massive stone lid was supported only by two, uneven corner props. He waited silently, listening for a grinding sound that would precede the falling of the lid, sealing him in the granite coffin.

  He heard his heart beat, he heard air pass in and out of his lungs, but there was no sound from the stones.

  A dim glow from the edge of the opening told him that his flashlight was still working. Gingerly he reached up and touched the stone lid. His other arm found the edge of the opening and he rolled gently toward it. He pulled himself through it and stood up.

  The low light from the flashlight cast an ominous shadow from the sarcophagus lid against the wall. Tim pictured its crushing weight falling back into place trapping him beneath it. His legs suddenly felt rubbery and he sat on the tomb floor, his back against the wall, his eyes on the lid and the narrow opening through which he had fallen.

  The flashlight lay just beyond his reach, its yellow light aimed at the stone crypt. He rolled on his side and reached out for it. When he picked it up the beam went off. He shook it. The light came back on and then flickered away leaving him sitting in complete darkness.

  Forcing himself to stay calm, Tim unscrewed the flashlight lens and checked the bulb. It seemed to be seated firmly in the socket. He pushed the power button forward. Nothing happened. Shifting to his left, he reached into his pocket and removed the fresh batteries. He unscrewed the bottom of the flashlight and carefully slid the batteries out onto his lap. Then he put the fresh ones in, tightened the bottom and tried the light.

  Nothing.

  He decided that a contact inside the flashlight body must have snapped during the fall. It was damage he couldn’t repair.

  He put the flashlight and the old batteries in his backpack. In the front pocket of the pack he had stored a handful of wooden matches. He pulled them out now, put them in his pants pocket, saving one, which he ignited.

  Getting to his feet he walked to the doorway. Before he passed through it, he glanced across the room at the hole he had seen earlier.

  “Anybody over there?” he shouted.

  The match burned close to his fingers. He shook it and dropped it. He pulled out another match. There were five remaining. He lit the match and walked quickly toward the damaged door, his free hand shielding the small flame from the air created by his movements. He swept the opening at the doorway with his hand to clear away cobwebs, but the area was clear.

  He pushed the match through the doorway and leaned in behind it.

  “Hello?”

  There was no answer. He saw an empty hallway that ran as far as the light from his match reached. The match burned low and he dropped it. The falling, failing flame briefly illuminated footprints in the sand beyond the opening.

  The Americans could have hidden behind this wall, he thought, and waited until the guide had left. They could have emerged while he was on the other side of the pyramid complex. Or maybe they had left while he was looking at the map. Either way, they weren’t here now.

  He lit another match and then followed it back around the sarcophagus and through the doorway. It took one more match to reach the winding stairs. He climbed in darkness, both hands on the center post, his feet feeling their way up the steps.

  Outside the tomb, he turned and pushed shut the gate.

  The site was still deserted; the moon still lay just above the horizon.

  Back at the tunnel by the Step Pyramid, Tim used another match to find a smooth resting spot, and then he laid his head on his backpack and tried to sleep.

  He thought of the granite lid that could have fallen back in place and sealed him in the tomb. He doubted if his screams would have been heard by anyone unless they were in that room.

  He had never felt so scared or so alive.

  Empty Room at the Mena House

  He’d never felt this gritty.

  Sand was all over the outside of his clothes, all over the inside of his clothes. He felt as if he’d bathed in it and gargled with it.

  In life before Egypt, Tim washed his hands whenever he passed a spigot. Eating hot wings required rolls of wet paper towels. Ice cream never dripped from a cone in his hands. His shirts were unwrinkled and always tucked in his pants.

  Now he felt as if he’d slept in a cat litter box. And he had no idea how, in the middle of the desert, he was going to get rid of that feeling.

  Dawn had arrived at Saqqara; the tourists had not. Tim had staggered out of the tunnel and tried to find a secluded spot to shake the sand from his clothes. He’d stripped down to his boxer briefs and shook each article of clothing before putting it back on.

  It hadn’t helped.

  Now he sat on the wall surrounding the parking lot and waited for the first tourist to arrive in a cab. He’d either pay the driver to run him back to Cairo while the fare toured the site or he’d wait until the tourist was ready to return and try to talk him into letting him ride along.

  It was late-morning when he got back to his room at the New Palace Hotel, a small hotel near the Egyptian Museum. His room didn’t have a bathroom, but the community shower down the hall was not in use.

  Two hours later he was showered, shaved and almost sand free.

  Before washing he had emptied his backpack and wiped everything clean of sand. He’d taken the backpack outside, turned it inside out and beaten it with a broom.

  Now he sat on his bed, journal on his lap, and sketched from memory the shadowy sarcophagus in Kanakht's tomb. In the background he drew the hole in the broken wall that he hadn’t explored because his flashlight had broken.

  He looked at the drawing and wondered about the American couple.

  He should have gone into that hidden hallway. Now he wasn’t sure if it ended after a few feet or if it continued into another chamber. He really wasn’t positive that the Americans hadn’t been down there.

  Falling in the sarcophagus had scared him and he’d panicked. When he’d emerged from the tomb, he’d still had three unused matches. He should have used them to go into that dark hallway and make sure that it was empty, that two bodies weren't lying there.

  The guard at Kanakht’s tomb had seemed sure the couple hadn’t left the tomb and Tim knew that he hadn’t seen them leave. But the guard had been around the back of the building and Tim had been looking at his map. Still he thought he would have sensed movement if they had come out of the tomb, and the guard should have heard them.

  Hamzah, the guide, had seemed sure they weren’t in the tomb. Tim wondered now if the concern on Hamzah’s face had been over losing the income or if it had been fear that something bad had happened to them.

  Something in the tomb? Like what - a mummy come to life? A secret passage? Another vertical shaft that they could have fallen down?

  Hamzah had mentioned the Mena House.

  Even though they were off in the distance, the three great pyramids at Giza towered over the Mena House Oberoi. Tim stood in hotel’s ci
rcular driveway looking at the monuments, hazy in the distance, partially hidden by date palm trees planted around the sprawling resort on the western edge of Cairo.

  There wasn’t much traffic moving in the early afternoon. He looked for Hamzah and his taxi, but didn’t really expect to see him. The taxi-driver guides would have found their customers early in the day and would be busy until dusk.

  A short, broad staircase flanked by twin archways reaching three stories high led to the lobby. A couple stood by one of the stone arches, watching Tim as he approached.

  The man wore a red plaid, flannel jacket, a bulky camera bag slung over his shoulder. She had bushy black hair and was wearing a knitted wool sweater. Tim thought someone should tell them they were in the middle of a desert.

  They looked anxious, as if they were waiting for someone who was running late.

  “Hi,” Tim said.

  They turned in unison. She smiled automatically, he looked puzzled.

  “You folks staying here?” Tim asked.

  She looked at her companion and he nodded.

  “I don’t want to hold you up, but I was wondering if you could help me.”

  The man in the flannel jacket looked out over the driveway that circled through the courtyard, then turned back to Tim. “If we can,” he said. “We just got here a few days ago and everything we’d planned has gone wrong. We’re supposed to be getting a ride to the airport, but our ride isn’t here. The guy at the desk doesn’t seem too worried about the ride being late.” he nodded toward the lobby doors.

  Tim shrugged. “Egyptian time. Everything moves slower and happens whenever it happens. Did you try slipping him some money? I’ve been told that can speed things up.”

  They looked at each other. Then he said, “We had a bad experience with that on the train from Alexandria.”

  “Sorry. It’s really hard to get used to the way they work over here. It’s like they just let things happen instead of trying to make them happen on time. But things somehow seem to work out.”

  She nodded and looked hopeful.

  “Yeah,” he said, “You’re probably right. We’ve been a little tense. I’m Jerry,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Deb,” she said, offering hers.

  “Tim.” He took their hands in turn. “Look, I ran into an American couple yesterday and took some pictures for them down at the Step Pyramid, but I lost the note with their names and room number on it. He was tall, had a Boston baseball cap. She was thin, red hair?”

  They both nodded.

  “We saw them yesterday morning,” Jerry said. “He looks a lot like a friend of ours, an overenthusiastic practical joker. That’s why I remembered them. Didn’t talk to them, though. Sorry.”

  “But they are staying here, I didn’t get that part messed up, did I?”

  “They were eating breakfast here when we saw them,” he said.

  Deb nodded. “I saw them by the pool the day before. I remember worrying about her getting too much of this sun. She was really pale, not bad or unhealthy or anything, just, you know she’s a redhead. I think they were staying in the same guesthouse we’re in,” she said more to Jerry than to Tim.

  “Guesthouse?”

  “Yeah,” Jerry said. “There are two guesthouses, well, three if you count the rooms by the pool. There’s the Palace Wing and the Garden Wing. That’s where people stay, not here in the main building. We just came over here to call the taxi company. Again. Each guesthouse has its own desk and mail. We’re in that one, the Garden Wing,” he said, pointing to a three-story building across the landscaped courtyard.

  “The Garden Wing. Well, thanks, you two,” Tim said. “Hope everything works out for you.”

  “Thanks,” Jerry said, but he didn’t sound optimistic.

  “Diane,” Deb said suddenly. “I think I heard him call her Diane.”

  “Diane,” Tim repeated.

  “Yes,” Deb said. “Or maybe Diana.”

  Tim waited expectantly to see if she would remember more. She looked up at him and shrugged. “I didn’t hear her say much. She seemed shy.”

  Jerry looked amazed. “I didn’t even see them,” he said.

  “No, you were reading and then you fell asleep.”

  “I didn’t fall asleep, I was just resting my eyes.”

  “We fly twelve hours so he can take a nap,” she told Tim, her voice light and teasing.

  Jerry adjusted the strap of the camera bag. “Well,” he started, and then smiled at her. “Well, it was really a good nap. Worth the flight.”

  A gleaming white taxicab pulled into the driveway.

  “That your ride?” Tim asked.

  “It is now,” Jerry said, adjusting the weight of the camera bag. “Let’s go, Deb. I don’t want to give the driver a chance to get out of the car.”

  “Good luck,” she said to Tim as they hurried away.

  “Thanks,” he called after them. He started to walk to the guesthouse and then had an idea. He went inside to find a gift shop. A few minutes later he walked across the courtyard to the guesthouse where the American couple were staying.

  The entrance led to a security desk where an extremely fat clerk stood in front of a wall of wooden, pigeon-hole mail boxes, each identified with a number engraved on a brass tag. The clerk held a yellowed handkerchief in his right hand, which he used to mop sweat from his face. He looked tired and hot and bored.

  “Hi,” Tim said.

  “Hello, sir,” the clerk’s voice was low and gravelly. “Room number?” he asked, turning to get a key.

  “I’m not a guest,” Tim said.

  The clerk frowned and said, “You’ll need to go to the main building, sir. Only guests are permitted entrance.”

  “OK, I just want to leave a message for some friends,” Tim said.

  “Their names?”

  “Hers is Diane or Diana.”

  “Last name?”

  Tim shook his head. The clerk seemed to shudder. Then he asked, “Room number?”

  Tim shook his head again.

  The clerk nodded to himself and pursed his lips. He placed his hands on the counter and leaned forward slightly. He talked to Tim slowly. “You don’t know your friends’ names or their room number? You can see, sir, how that might present a difficulty in leaving a message for them.” He mopped his face and looked at Tim expectantly.

  “He’s a very tall American and she has red hair. When I saw them yesterday she was wearing a straw hat and he was wearing a baseball cap. Boston Red Sox.” Tim patted his head for emphasis.

  The clerk nodded, processing the information. “I am a graduate of the American University here in Cairo. I have many, many American friends. I understand the concept of a baseball cap. I even know about the Boston Red Sox and their accursed sale of the Baby Ruth. More to the point, I know which couple you mean. But, sir, the question remains, what are their names?”

  Tim pulled a folded twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. He reached across the counter and gave it to the clerk.

  “I was hoping you could help me with their names,” he said.

  The clerk eyed the money but didn’t reach for it.

  “I’m not a camel driver,” he said and mopped his forehead.

  Tim wasn’t sure if the amount of money he had offered was too small, if his technique was wrong or if the clerk was bartering for a larger bribe. He leaned closer to read the clerk’s nametag.

  “Hasa?”

  “Yes, my name is Hasa.”

  “Hasa, I’m sorry if I offended you. See, I met this couple at the Step Pyramid yesterday. They asked me to take some pictures of them. We were supposed to meet for breakfast this morning, but I missed them. But I met this other couple, out by the courtyard, and they said they had seen my friends and thought they were staying in this guesthouse.”

  The clerk studied Tim. “So you are a photographer. You take photographs of tourists for money?”

  “No, no. I’m not a photographer.”

  �
��You took their photographs?”

  “Yes. Look, they’re Americans. I’m an American. They said they’d forgotten their camera yesterday. It was a favor.” Tim surprised himself with the ease of the lies.

  “Perhaps if you showed me the pictures I could be sure that I’m thinking of the right guests,” Hasa said, holding out his hand.

  “I don’t have the photos.”

  Hasa looked suspicious. “Yet you were going to give them the pictures this morning, yes?”

  “No, see, the pictures are on my laptop. I don't carry that with me. We were supposed to meet this morning and take some more shots over by the Giza pyramids. They said they’d be here for a couple more days.”

  Hasa shook his head. The movement freed a rivulet of sweat, which rolled down his cheek. He corralled it with his handkerchief.

  “Look,” Tim said. “How about if I leave a note and you can give it to them. OK? That way you haven’t disrupted their privacy and they can decide if they want the pictures they asked me to take.

  “You know, Hasa, I wish I did have my laptop with me to show you the pictures because they were really good. In one picture they were standing at the base of the Step Pyramid, her arm around his waist, his over her shoulders. The sun was low enough that their faces weren’t shaded by their hats and they had the sweetest smiles.” As he talked, he took from his backpack a pencil and an oversized postcard he had bought a few minutes ago in the gift shop and started to write a note.

  “In another picture, they are walking away from the camera, from me, up through the colonnade at the edge of the southern courtyard. Long shadows from the late afternoon sun cross the ground behind them.”

  Hasa looked at him suspiciously and Tim wondered if he had blathered too much.