by Gore Vidal
He nodded to the desk clerk, a stubby Britisher with a cockney accent who had told him about Le Couteau Rouge the night before, contributing to his downfall. Then he went into the dining room, where, fortunately, lunch was being served.
Tall Negroes from the Sudan, wearing fezzes, striped robes, and bloomer-like trousers, served him and the dozen other guests, all English, who sat about at the small tables, listlessly eating, their white linen suits crumpled in the heat.
Pete ate hungrily, despite the oddness of most of the dishes and the army of flies that shared them with him. By the time the bitter chicory-tasting coffee was served, he felt more like himself again, as though he could handle anything. The only problem remaining was what to handle. With no money and no prospect of anything from the Consulate, the possibilities for action were limited. He couldn’t buy cigarettes or a drink; he couldn’t even get into the Cairo Museum, which required a ticket.
His mind full of schemes, he went upstairs to his room. It was on the first floor, facing a cement court where several seedy palms were growing. He shaved. He took a bath in an ancient tub hidden in a dark closet down the hall. Then he put on his only suit, a clean gabardine, old but in good condition, with all essential buttons still attached.
As he combed his hair in the dusty glass of the bureau, he was fairly pleased with his appearance. He looked solvent. No one, he decided, would have suspected he didn’t have a cent in the world. His face was eager, healthy, typically American, with dark blue eyes, a small nose a trifle off center, a good jaw, and sandy hair with a cowlick in front that hung over his forehead, like a thatched roof on an Irish hut. He was almost tall, with lean hips and a deep chest acquired during his days in high school and in the Army, where he had been divisional middleweight boxing champion. An honest, open face, he thought to himself with a grin, concealing a larcenous soul. He was prepared to do almost anything to make a dollar, and in his life he’d done a lot of unusual things to survive.
At the moment, the only answer to his immediate problem seemed to be Shepheard’s Hotel, where he’d been told almost anything might happen to somebody with an eye on the main chance. That was the hotel where the biggest operators lived.
It was a long walk to Shepheard’s and he took it easy, keeping as much as possible to shadowy arcades, trying not to work up a sweat that would wrinkle his last clean white shirt.
Every step he took was an effort because of the beggars, thieves, and guides who clutched at him, shouting, whining, begging, some in English, some in a crazy mixture of French and Arab and English. He brushed them aside, swore at them, but they would not leave him alone, and finally he was forced to accept them as an unpleasant but inevitable part of the scenery.
Shepheard’s was a long building, several stories high, with big shuttered windows and a porch on the street side, where, at numerous tables, foreigners and rich Egyptians sat at the end of the day, watching the street and drinking apéritifs; but at this time of day the porch was deserted.
With a show of confidence, he walked up the steps to the main door, glad to be rid at last of the beggars, who now fell into position against the terrace wall, waiting for American and European victims.
The lobby of the hotel was blissfully cool after the heat outside. Negro servants in hotel livery moved silently about the great room, carrying bags, doing errands for the guests. Though it was out of season, there were still quite a few guests here, he saw to his relief. Help would come from them, though he was not sure how.
He sauntered from the main lobby into a vast room with a high domed ceiling, like the interior of a mosque, much decorated, ornate, Turkish in style. It was cool and mysterious with dark alcoves in which people sat doing business: fat stolid Egyptians and lean, red-faced British, exchanging papers, peering at small type, murmuring their deals in low voices.
At the end of the room, to the left, was the famous bar, a wood-paneled room with an oval-shaped bar at which stood a dozen men in white suits, drinking, their feet resting on the shining brass rail.
Pete entered the room. He walked its length uncertainly, as though searching for someone. Then, with a puzzled look, glancing at his wrist as though at a watch (his own had been pawned months ago), he approached the one man who was standing alone and said, “You don’t happen to know George Whittaker, do you? He’s from the Embassy and I…” He allowed his voice to trail off into a shy mumble.
“Whittaker? No, afraid I don’t. Supposed to meet him here?”
Pete nodded. “Of course, I made the date kind of vague. You see, I only got here yesterday from the States and I’ve had so damned many things to do that…” He said whatever came into his head, covertly watching the other: a large-boned middle-aged Englishman with a lined face, dark from the sun, and a bald shining pink skull. He was dressed expensively in a light tropical suit. Pete had already caught the flash of a heavy gold and sapphire ring.
A second before his story gave out, the anticipated invitation came. “Have a drink, sir. Name’s Hastings. What’s yours?”
“Oh, well, thanks a lot. I will. Peter Wells. A gin and tonic, please.”
“American?”
“That’s right. Came to Alexandria on a freighter from New York.”
“Long trip. Have any plans?”
Pete shook his head slowly. “No,” he said uncertainly, as though there were too many possibilities before him. “Thought I’d look around for a bit.”
“Sight-seeing?”
“Sure. Pretty hot, though, for that.”
“Hot as blazes. Got the country to yourself this time of year. Just you and the Gyps, as we used to call them in the war. Crew of pirates, but not half bad when you get to know them. I’ve been around here twenty years, off and on. Middle East man, I suppose. Gets under your skin. Like that Lawrence chap who used to love playing Arab, dressing up, got so he hated going back to England. I’m the same.”
Pete listened attentively, enjoying the gin and tonic; then he fumbled through pockets with a stage frown. “Want a fag?” asked Hastings, producing a gold cigarette case, intricately monogrammed.
“Oh, thanks a lot. Must’ve left mine at the hotel.”
“Where you stopping?”
Pete inhaled deeply, happily. “The Stanley. Not a bad place, not expensive.”
“What line you in?”
“Oil mostly, before the war. I made a bit of money in the oilfields, in southwest Texas, but then I was drafted, and by the time I got out my partners didn’t have much use for me. So I lit out for these parts.” Since he was now telling the truth for the first time, he found it easier to look the other straight in the face, and their eyes met. Hastings lowered his first.
“Why Egypt?”
“Rumors about oil in the desert. Thought there might be something here for me.”
“Money all over the place, all over,” said Hastings absently, watching a group of American businessmen with loud ties move in a boisterous group from lobby to bar. They all ordered Scotch. Hastings shuddered. “Too heavy for days like this. Stick to gin and live longer—kills all bacteria; doesn’t injure liver. Think you might like to make a few fast quid in Egypt?” All this came out at once; it took Pete a moment to separate the bacteria from the quid, from the sudden mention of money.
“Why, sure, now you brought it up, I wouldn’t mind at all,” said Pete, looking carefully at his glass.
“Lot of money floating about. Some it sticks to a man, if he’s got the stuff.” Abruptly, Hastings’ hand closed on Pete’s bicep. His fingers were surprisingly strong. Only by flexing his muscles could Pete avoid a bruise. “Bit of all right,” said Hastings admiringly, letting his hand drop casually. To anyone watching he seemed to be telling a funny story that he had punctuated by squeezing the American’s arm. He smiled tightly, revealing nicotine-yellow teeth.
“I used to box,” said Pete. “In the Army.”
“Branch?”
“Infantry. Third Army.”
“Rugged boy,�
� said Hastings, ordering another round. Pete wondered what he had in mind. They drank the next round in silence. Finally Hastings spoke: “Let me see your passport, if I may. Just put it on the bar in front of me, discreetly.”
Mystified, Pete did as he was told. Hastings flicked the booklet open with one finger, glanced at the photo, picked at it with his nail, felt the texture of the paper, and then, all in a half minute, let the passport close. “Thanks very much,” he said.
Pete put the document back in his pocket.
“Like you to meet a friend of mine,” said Hastings. “Lady who lives here in the hotel. Might have a chat with her. Get to know her. Then later on we’ll have a talk, you and I. How does that sound, eh?”
Just weird, said Pete to himself. “Mighty interesting.” he said aloud.
“Good chap,” said Hastings. “Fact you haven’t a bean won’t bother her at all,” he added, to Pete’s surprise.
* * *
“There you are, my dear,” said Hastings, and he and Pete rose as a slender, dark-haired woman walked toward them from the main lobby. She was dressed in white, very simply, with a tight-fitting blouse that revealed the sculptural line of her figure. She wore no jewels and her hair was drawn softly back from her face, revealing an oval face with black eyes and scarlet lips. Pete guessed her age at thirty.
She gave her hand briefly to each of them. Her smile was brilliant. “Come, let’s sit over here, in the shadows.” She spoke with an agreeable French accent; her voice was low and musical, “I always feel like a spy when I sit in this room,” she said, as they sat around a circular table in an alcove hidden from the lobby by potted plants.
“American…Peter Wells. This is the Comtesse de Rastignac,” mumbled Hastings.
“Mr. Wells is very brave to come here in July,” said the Countess.
“Came here to look for oil, too, on his own hook. Much braver.”
Pete grinned at the Frenchwoman. “Bravery or ignorance,” he said. “I just thought I’d come out and try my luck. It’s usually pretty fair.”
“I can see.” She clapped her hands loudly and a servant came and took their order: tea. Pete preferred a drink, but he was growing hungry again and the idea of tea wasn’t disagreeable.
“Oh…bit of business. Excuse it, Wells. Did the consignment get routed properly?” Hastings’ voice became suddenly low.
She nodded serenely. “Everything has been taken care of.” She turned to Pete. “How long have you been here?”
He told her; then Hastings interrupted. “Boxer, too.”
The Countess looked startled. “What?”‘
“Boxer. You know…chap fights with boxing gloves, fighter, pugilist. In the Army.”
“Ah, how interesting!” She smiled mockingly. “You must give us a demonstration,” she said.
“I didn’t bring any gloves,” said Pete a little sharply, wondering why Hastings had this obsession about his boxing days.
“We don’t use them in Egypt, anyway,” said the Countess cryptically.
“Must be off.” Hastings stood up abruptly. “Can’t wait for tea, my dear. I’ll call you in the morning. Meantime, keep in touch, Wells. I’m at the Semiramis Hotel. Call me around noon tomorrow. Might have a drink, have a talk.”
“I’d like that, sir,” said Pete, standing up. They shook hands; then the Englishman was gone.
“I am fond of Hastings,” said the Countess as they watched the erect military figure move off down the mosquelike room to the main lobby. “He is so British that I sometimes suspect he must be an impostor.”
“He’s very typical, I guess.”
“Very. But then, I have that Cairo habit of thinking if anything seems to be one thing it must be another.”
“And what do I seem to be?” He was surprised at his own boldness.
“You? A tourist.”
“Nothing more sinister?”
She smiled. “No, I don’t think so.” They drank hot tea and Pete ate a small soggy sandwich. “How do I seem to you?” she asked playfully, her dark eyes shining.
“Like a spy,” he said, grinning, remembering her remark when they first met.
She laughed, not at all taken aback. “Well, I will confess that you’re not too far wrong. I was a spy, for the Free French during the war. But I’m afraid I did nothing colorful. I was here in Cairo almost all the time, spying on the German spies. You have no idea what a silly time it was. At one moment there were eighty-two known spies registered here at Shepheard’s, from every country in the world.”
“Why so many?”
“Rommel. He was almost in Egypt. No one could stop him. If Rommel had conquered Egypt, then the war would have been over. Whoever controls Suez wins. Until he was stopped, hundreds, perhaps thousands of agents were at work here, undermining the country, watching each other.”
“It must’ve been dangerous work.”
She chuckled. “It was absurd, really. I was not very efficient, but I did go to many wonderful parties. It was an exciting time.”
“You’re French?”
She nodded. “From Paris. My parents came to Alexandria when I was a child. Egypt used to be French—before my time, of course. I was brought up in Alexandria.”
“Your family?”
“All dead.” Then, guessing at his next question, she said, “My husband is dead, too, in the war. Killed in the maquis.”
They were both silent. Pete wondered what to say next. He still had no idea what was expected of him, if anything.
“Why don’t you take me to dinner?” This was sudden. “We could talk and you could see the night life of the city. It is very gay.”
“I’d like nothing better,” he said slowly, “but you see…”
“Good. Meet me here at eight.” She rose. Then she added, “You can come the way you are. We’re not formal these days.” Before he could say anything about his finances she was gone, her perfume subtle and unique upon the air, like jasmine.
* * *
He walked about the streets until eight o’clock, staring at the crowds. He was propositioned a hundred times. Boys tried to sell him their sisters, their aunts, themselves; men offered to arrange erotic exhibitions for him, to sell him dope, stolen jewels, Persian rugs. He got very tired of them, but they were a part of this strange world and he was determined to make the best of it.
At eight, exactly, the Countess appeared in the lobby, wearing an evening gown of black lace with a short full skirt in the latest Paris fashion. At her throat diamonds flamed and around her head she wore a filmy veil of black, glittering with jet. Men turned to look at her admiringly as she crossed the lobby. The British ladies in their shapeless evening gowns glared and turned their backs, the highest tribute.
“I’m not late?” She took his arm automatically, as though they were old friends, or lovers.
“On the dot,” he said, awed by her beauty. They went down the steps of the hotel. The porter in livery bowed and opened the door to a black sedan. They got in.
“Is this a cab?”
“No. It’s a car I sometimes use.” She unrolled the window that separated them from the driver, a dark little man in uniform. She said something to him in Arabic and he nodded. She rolled the window back up again.
“You know,” he said, “I haven’t got any money.”
She laughed with mock surprise. “And I thought you had at least one oil well! What a disappointment!”
“You see…”
“Of course you have no money. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
He nodded. She was not always easy to follow. She seemed continually to be suggesting more than she ever said.
“Besides, we won’t have to pay tonight. I will sign, like a businessman.”
“But I hate—”
“Come, Peter, don’t be one of those…how do you say—moral? One of those moral American men.”
“I’ll try not to be,” he said, smiling, aware that their thighs were touching, that his arm was pu
shed tight against hers, that neither had moved apart although the car seat was wide. “What’s your name?” he asked, trying vainly to think only of business. “Your first name.”
“Hélène,” she said. “But I have never launched a thousand ships.”
“You could, I think,” said Pete, feeling the slow tickle of desire. But despite the closeness of their bodies she gave him no lead, and so, talking of everyday, they arrived at Mena House, a hotel on the edge of Cairo, across the Nile from the main city and close to the desert, to the pyramids and the Sphinx. From the rose garden where they dined by candlelight they could see the solemn bulk of the Great Pyramid, silver by moonlight. They were the only guests on the rose terrace.
“This is the most romantic place in the world, this garden,” she said.
Pete nodded, too contented to speak.
They talked quietly during dinner. It was the best food Pete had had in some months. They drank champagne. They talked of themselves. No mention was made of Hastings, of money, of the present…except for the moonlight. Finally, when they had finished coffee and she had signed the check, she said, “Now that you have seen the beautiful Cairo, I’ll show you the more exciting one.”
The exciting Cairo turned out to be a nearby night club called L’Auberge des Pyramides, an exotic, modern place, like a New York night club with an imported dance band. Well-dressed men and women sat at the bar or danced on the small dance floor, which was as small and inconvenient as any in Manhattan. They were led immediately to a ringside table by the maître d’hôtel, who knew Hélène and seemed pleased to welcome her.
She ordered champagne again. The orchestra played Cole Porter. A beautiful silver blonde danced by with a short fat man wearing dark glasses. Pete found it hard to remember where he was, that a few miles away the pyramids stood at the edge of an ancient desert.
Hélène reminded him, though, that this was still Cairo. “You see that man?” she said, pointing to the one with the blonde. “That’s Farouk.”