by kc dyer
Considering I spent almost the entire time I was in Brindisi on the lookout for Mr. Madison without any success, this is not good news. I can’t reply to either e-mail, so I close the lid of my laptop and lean back into one of the last rays of the setting sun. The air smells fresh and slightly salty, with a fishy sort of undertone that’s not strong enough to be unpleasant. I should be basking in the moment, sitting in the sun for the first time in weeks—months, really, since we’ve had such a hard winter in New York. Instead, I have a growing suspicion that Dominic Madison has ditched me and dumped my visa into the Mediterranean.
With a sigh, I decide to go down to my cabin and collect up the cruise ship pamphlets in order to work on my next transit report. As I descend the iron steps into the bowels of the ship, the fishy odor grows stronger. Downstairs, several crew members whiz past as I approach my cabin. Joachim, racing by with a wrench in each hand, stops to tell me the freezer unit in one of the holds has failed.
“At least there’ll be no frost on your walls,” he says before dashing off.
And just like that, my shipboard priorities change. I spend the rest of the voyage in a near-fruitless effort to keep away from the smell of the hold. My room is uninhabitable, so with Joachim’s help, I lug my bedding upstairs and create a little nest in my writing spot under the eaves on one corner of the deck. It’s not ideal, but it’s out of the wind and has the freshest air to be found on this suddenly stinking ship.
The next required checkpoint is at the docks of the Suez Canal. Trying to put Dominic—and the reek of rotting fish—to the back of my mind, I fill the day writing a glowing report of the Diamond Empress as transport across the Mediterranean. That I haven’t even seen the cruise ship at a distance, let alone stepped on board, leaves me feeling no guilt. Whatever it takes to defeat Dominic is fair game.
That night, lying under a pile of blankets tucked into my wee corner of the deck, I dig my copy of Around the World in Eighty Days out of my suitcase. The cover is in remarkably good condition, all things considered. Inside, I pull out the decals I’ve been collecting from each country, and on a whim, apply them to the top of my old suitcase. When I’m finished, the orange and green on the tricolor Italian flag add a bit of variety to the red, white, and blue of the Union Jack and the French flag.
The old decal of an Alaskan license plate is on the bottom, but I’m careful not to look at it at all.
Instead, I trace the shape of the flags on the top with my fingers. Three countries down, but so many more still to come. The thought, like the sight of the old decal on the bottom of my case, makes my stomach clench. Why is it always harder to find New Romy in the dark?
In the end, to comfort myself, I sit up late as the Isa Minali glides along the coast of Turkey in the gradually warming dark. In the glow of my computer screen and the stars above, I write my uncles an e-mail, to send off when I reach Egypt.
chapter twenty-five
IMAGE: Ship’s Chimney, the Isa Minali
IG: Romy_K [Port Said, Egypt, April 1]
#ASecondSeaSailed #AnAprilFool
85
Spring is kind to the Mediterranean this year, and my odor-challenged ship makes it across the calm seas in record time. Also? As I get ready to leave, I can’t help noticing my hair looks maybe the best it ever has—soft curls where it’s usually frizzy, and even a few sun-kissed highlights. Maybe the time I spent on deck in the Mediterranean air and sunshine is paying off, after all. Still, the relief at being able to leave the stinking hold of the Isa Minali behind carries me all the way down the gangplank.
As did the fictional Fogg, I find myself in Port Said, an Egyptian city on the Mediterranean side of the Suez Canal. As I trot along the dock, I breathe in the scents of tar and gasoline, and when the breeze stirs, I have to blink a salty grittiness out of my eyes.
Egypt is the first country that expects a visa, and I have one—just not in my own name. Clinging to the knowledge that I do have my own passport, I decide the only thing to do is brazen it out. It’s not like I haven’t grown up with a great role model, after all. I mean, when Tommy gets on his high horse about some perceived slight, nothing can get in his way. His eyebrows do this imperious thing that I’ll never be able to manage, true, but I can only try. Throwing back my shoulders, and tucking my definitely cuter hair behind my ears, I aim for the customs sign.
These new, Brazen Romy thoughts push me forward for the entire ten minutes it takes to get to the front of the queue. When, at last, the customs official holds out one white-gloved hand, I give him the passport.
After riffling through the pages, he asks, “Your visa?”
In the moment before I reply, I swear his eyebrows go into full Tommy mode. It’s uncanny. And as he reads Dominic’s name on the visa out loud, Brazen Romy folds like an old paper doll.
“There’s been a little problem,” I whisper, but that gloved hand lifts again.
“These names don’t match,” he says, and points to a dingy-looking door across the room from the exit sign. “Further clarification is required.”
I glance over my shoulder, trying to judge the chances of bolting back in the direction of the ship, but before I can so much as take a single step, two guards materialize out of nowhere, and escort me through the dingy wooden door. Both are dressed in identical blue uniforms, with peaked caps pulled low, I barely see their eyes. They swiftly relieve me of all my possessions—camera, suitcase, everything.
Behind the door is a hallway, and at the end of the hallway is another door, but instead of wood, this one is made of rusty iron bars—and fear.
“Wait a minute,” I say, turning to look at the woman on my left. Her eyes don’t even stray in my direction. Instead, she takes a grip of my arm above the elbow, and pulls out an enormous, rusty key from the jingling bunch at her belt.
“Look, this is only a misunderstanding,” I babble, trying the male guard on my right. Brazen Romy is only a distant memory at this point.
His eyes don’t turn either. As the female guard unlocks the rusty iron door, he reaches with his free hand to hold it open. In unison, the two of them thrust me inside, and slam the door behind me.
Together, they turn and march back down the corridor.
I briefly think about pressing my face between the bars, but up close, they look so grimy, I reconsider.
“Wait!” I yell at the retreating backs. “Don’t I get a phone call? Is this even legal? I need to call the American . . .”
The dingy wooden door at the end of the hall slams shut behind the guards.
“. . . embassy,” I finish.
A wave of fear and discouragement washes over me that is so strong, I forget about my distaste and cling to the iron bars, trying my hardest not to cry.
A mistake, as it turns out, since the bars are sticky, as well as rusty.
It is April first, and I am in jail.
I don’t even have time to berate myself for being a literal April fool before I feel a hand on my arm.
A heavily accented voice whispers, “Pretty lady,” in my ear.
I leap almost straight sideways, and whirl, so my back is against the bars of the cell wall. The gap-toothed smile of a tiny old man in a pristine white turban shines up at me. He’s wearing sand-colored baggy pants and what looks like a soccer jersey with “FIFA” printed across the chest in blue letters.
“Pretty American lady,” the man repeats, and reaches toward me again.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, my fear tamped down for the moment by sheer annoyance. I have been pawed by pervy old guys on the subway enough times that this one holds no terrors for me. Most of them have more teeth than he does too.
Since my suitcase and all my papers have been taken away from me, I don’t have anything that I can use to defend myself, so I ball my hands into fists.
The fact I’ve never been in a fistfight in my l
ife doesn’t stop me.
In response, the old guy folds his hands together in prayer position over his heart and gives a little bow. “Pretty American?” he says, and this time it sounds more like a question. “American dollar?”
“In your dreams, bud,” I say, but as the words come out of my mouth, I realize there are at least three other people sitting against the wall behind the old man in the dim recesses of the cell. I press my back into the bars as one of them unfolds himself to loom over the old man.
“No American dollars here, sir,” Dominic Madison says, resting a hand lightly on the man’s shoulder.
At the sight of him, the most peculiar combination of relief and loathing flows through me. But before I can gather my thoughts into an actual English sentence, someone physically shoulders him aside and reaches an arm out to the old man.
“Leave the nice lady alone, Jaddi,” says a young woman. Olive-skinned, she’s wearing jeans, a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt in pink and white stripes, and a matching pink headscarf.
She turns to me, her lips curling up in apology. “He doesn’t mean any harm.”
She steers the old man away, over to a low wooden bench that is the only furnishing in the cell.
Dominic leans against the bars. “Fancy meeting you here,” he says.
I glare up at him. “It’s your fault we’re in here,” I hiss.
“Wasn’t me who mixed up the documents,” he says with a shrug. “Though I must say I’m happy you’ve made it at last.”
“At last? When did you get here?”
He glances at his wrist, and then rubs it absently. I realize they must have taken his watch.
“Not sure. Three hours ago? Maybe four? When you weren’t on the dock, I thought I’d wait outside the customs office, but the officials were not really open to it.”
“Did they take your passport?” I ask, glancing around the cell. Apart from the girl and the old man on the bench, the room is thankfully empty. It gives off a smell that is remarkably similar to some of the older subway tunnels back home. Damp, with a faint metallic undertone of urine.
“Yeah. All the paperwork, and my pack too,” he replies.
My mind races. “Okay, that has to be good. I’m sure once they match the paperwork with our correct passports, we can be on our way.”
He shrugs. “You’d think so.”
Peering through the bars, I scan the dim corridor for any sign of movement. “Hey!” I yell. “Can you let us out, please?”
There’s a tiny giggle behind me, and I turn to see the young woman has covered her mouth with one hand. “I’m sorry to laugh,” she says, looking contrite. “But it’s always funny to see how Americans think.”
Before I know whether to work myself up into taking offense over this, Dominic slips over to sit down on the bench beside the two others.
“Ramona, this is Huda and her grandfather, Tariq. They traveled aboard the same ship as I did from Cyprus.”
“Cyprus?” I hiss at him. “What were you doing in Cyprus?”
He shrugs. “Making my way here.”
The girl, Huda, nods her head at me. “Nice to meet you,” she says with a shy smile. “I live in Cyprus, but now I am take Tariq back to my mother’s home in Cairo. He is too much work.”
In spite of the bleak surroundings, I can’t help smiling back at her. “Was he visiting for long?”
“Long enough,” she says, rolling her eyes. “A week with my husband and me. I have to take extra day off work to bring him home, and my boss at the office, he is not happy. Then last night, Jaddi take all our papers and throw them over side of ship. So, who knows when I get home?”
Suddenly, my own situation doesn’t seem quite so grim.
I look at the old man in a new light. I’ve watched several of the bookshop’s oldest customers retreat into senility over the years, and it has always been so sad to see.
“Pretty hair,” Tariq says brightly to his granddaughter. “American dollar?”
Huda shakes her head at him and then turns back to me. “Sorry. He doesn’t have much English.” She squeezes her grandfather’s hand and speaks to him softly in Arabic.
The dingy door down at the end of the hall opens suddenly, and a small man appears, striding toward us.
“Huda Al-Amin?” he asks.
When she rises, he follows this with a stream of Arabic of which I cannot understand a single word.
In the time it takes Huda to help her grandfather to his feet, the man is unlocking the cell door. He ushers the two of them through the door, and then swings it closed.
“Wait a minute,” I say, reaching through the bars. “What about us?”
The small man gives me a scornful look and neatly sidesteps out of my reach.
“You wait,” he barks, and walks up the corridor.
Huda glances back at me with a sympathetic look. “My mother has come to collect us,” she says. “Peace be with you.”
“American dollar?” says Tariq hopefully, and they are gone.
As the door closes behind them, I can feel tight fingers of panic squeezing my stomach, and in the silence of the room, the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears sounds like a bass drum.
Looking over at Dominic, I see that he doesn’t appear much more confident than I feel, but he must be able to read the fear in my eyes.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m sure they’ll sort it out soon.”
“And you know this how?” I snap at him. The worry makes me sound angrier than I mean to, but I don’t owe this guy any encouragement. It’s his fault we’re here, after all.
As if he can read my thoughts, he gets to his feet. I’m nearly five foot ten, but standing beside me, Dominic is at least four inches taller than I am, maybe more. He’s wearing long cutoff jeans that look like they’ve been hastily chopped, which make his legs look even ganglier.
I take a step back, wanting to keep at least an arm’s length between us.
“Look, what happened on the train was an accident,” he begins. “Once we get out of here, we can talk things through, okay? And I’m . . .”
The door at the end of the corridor opens again, and we turn in unison to see the female guard from earlier. She’s taken her cap off, and is holding an American passport in each hand.
“Dominic Makana Madison?” she asks.
“That’s right,” he responds, sounding relieved.
“I’m Romy—uh—Ramona Keene,” I say as she walks toward us. “Is that my passport? Ramona Paige Keene?”
The woman unlocks the door and points at Dominic, who shoots me an apologetic look.
I make a dive for the opening, but she slams the iron bars closed in my face.
“I’ll do what I can for you,” he promises, and follows her down the hall. “Try not to worry.”
“Hey!” I yell at the guard’s back, as panic settles over me like a thick black cloak. “Hey—don’t leave me here! Dominic—don’t let them leave me in here!”
But before I can finish my plea, they are gone.
* * *
—
The next twenty minutes, I have to say, make me look back to the vaults below Paris with a kind of fondness. By the time the guard returns, I’ve mentally replayed every scary prison movie ever made. Even once she unlocks the door, it’s a full half hour before I stop shaking.
She hands me a tissue and seats me at a desk in another, slightly less dingy room. Behind the desk, a man in a pristine customs uniform—no cap—smiles brightly at me. He theatrically stamps my passport, and bids me good day as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
Which perhaps nothing is, for him. No explanation offered.
My relief leaves me weak in the knees, and I stumble out onto the streets of Port Said. And I can’t say it’s a surprise when there’s
no trace of Dominic Madison. Spotting a familiar green and white logo, however, I hurry away from the customs building toward the one place I know I can find comfort in this strange land—a Starbucks, near the entrance to what looks like an American-style hotel.
* * *
—
After downing a close-to-scalding cup of English breakfast tea, sweetened with three packets of sugar and heavily slaked with cream, I begin to feel a little better. On the plus side, all my possessions have been returned to me—my broken camera, my phone, and my correct paperwork from ExLibris. The visa now stamped into my passport is good for thirty days.
On the negative?
The mess at the border means I’ve missed my assigned place on a ship that left two hours ago. Way back in Brindisi, the travel agent suggested that picking up transportation out of Egypt might not be as easy as booking a train ticket in Italy. On her advice, I booked a berth on a Red Sea steamer called the Wahash Mahat. At the time, the steamer’s planned route seemed perfect. Down through the Red Sea, across the Arabian Sea, docking in Mumbai. It’s as long a voyage as the one I took across the Atlantic, and the Wahash Mahat was the only ship she could find that was still accepting passengers.
But now—that ship has sailed. Steamed. I don’t know—whatever it is that ships do.
I still feel completely furious with Dominic for being at the root of the problem. Determined to distance myself from him once and for all, I decide to spend the rest of the day looking for an overland route across the Horn of Africa.
* * *
—
Port Said is a unique place in a number of ways. It perches on the Egyptian shoreline, at the mouth of the Suez Canal, which was built by the Brits in the nineteenth century to better facilitate their exploitation of all the nations they subjugated overseas. The skyline from the water is stunning, filled with sumptuous architecture. While the palm trees look much the same as those in Brindisi, there is no question that I am now in Egypt. Across the water on the eastern bank is Port Said’s twin city, Port Fuad. This is one of the rare places in the world where two cities essentially cohabit across continents, as Said is on the African side of the canal, and Fuad is in Asia.