by Gore Vidal
“Too long?”
Said nodded gravely. “There is a curse on it, you see. The man who stole it from the tomb died horribly, burned alive in his bed. The next owner sold it to me after his wife and two children were killed in an automobile accident. He sold it to me for almost nothing, less than the value of the ruby, just to be rid of it. Poor fellow, he killed himself a month later.” They were now walking down a long avenue lined with carved effigies of kings and gods. The sun was like a weight on Pete’s head.
“But nothing’s happened to you, has it?”
Said shook his head. “No, not yet. But I am superstitious, I fear, like all the rest. From the time we are children they tell us about the curse on the tombs. All of us who live here grow up knowing that evil befalls those who antagonize the old gods. It is in our bones. Lately I have been involved in some delicate affairs. I need luck. So it seemed as good a time as any to sell the necklace. I contacted Hastings and Hélène, who handle the Cairo end of our affairs, and told them to make arrangements to get the thing out of Egypt and into the hands of our American customer. You are the result.”
“Is that O.K. by you?”
Said paused in the shadow of a statue of a fat, half-naked king. “Yes, I think it’s O.K. by me,” he said slowly. “I believe we can trust you, not because you are honest—there is never any way of telling, no matter what people claim—but because you’re intelligent, and want to live.”
“You make it sound real nice,” said Pete, grinning.
“We’ll get along,” said Said. “But here’s my car. Perhaps you’d like to honor my house with a visit?”
Pete said that he would. They got into the prewar Rolls Royce parked at the end of the avenue of statuary. The native chauffeur started the car and drove west.
Said’s house was a long, white, rather unattractive building in the best Hollywood-Spanish style. It was set back in the desert, among date palms and tropical trees and flowers.
“I have an oasis to myself,” said the Egyptian as they got out of the car and went into the house. The interior was more unusual. It was crammed full with expensive antique furniture, English and French, as well as many Egyptian pieces.
Said ushered him into a cool dim room that opened onto a terrace beyond, where, surrounded by palms, a fountain flowed into a large pond, the center of the oasis.
Pete sat down in a big chair overlooking the gardens. “Man, I’m glad to be out of that sun.”
“Gin and tonic?” Pete said that that would suit him fine and Said clapped his hands. A houseboy appeared instantly and took the order. Said sat down opposite Pete. “It is peaceful here,” he said pleasantly. “A little too peaceful for most people’s taste, but I like it. And now that we have such good air service, it is possible to be in Rome or Paris in a few hours, which makes it less like being buried alive.” While he talked, Pete looked about the room. He was particularly interested in the silver-framed photographs decorating many of the tables. There was one of the King and several of women in evening clothes, very elegant-looking, but the photograph that interested him most was the one nearest his chair: a tall man wearing a uniform with a girl on his arm. From where Pete sat their faces were indistinct; but the swastika on the man’s coat sleeve was unmistakable.
Said, seeing he had noticed the picture, said, a little too quickly, “Tactless, I suppose, but then the Nazis were all over Egypt a few years ago and many of us did do business with them. After all, to an Egyptian there is little difference between an English and a German soldier. Both are foreign. One conquered us and the other tried to. But it’s certainly unfashionable now to say such things.”
“Who are they?”
“The man was called Erich Raedermann. He was the chief Nazi in Cairo during the war. The girl is Hélène.”
Pete looked at the photograph closely, curious to see what Hélène’s dead lover was like. He seemed quite handsome, and she looked radiant and young. “He was shot, wasn’t he?”
“In her arms. But you know the story.”
“Yes, I’ve heard it.” Their drinks were brought them.
Said apologized for drinking. “The Prophet will forgive me, I’m sure,” he said, flashing the gold tooth. “My work is a great strain.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Pete, wondering what his work really was. He had a good idea, but it was only a guess; it was also none of his business. He asked how far it was to Aswân, and when Said wanted to know why he was interested in that dreary place, Pete told him a little about Anna.
Said was interested. “You know this girl?” he asked.
“I met her yesterday.”
“She seems to have made a great impression on you.”
“She is a remarkable girl.”
“Quite pretty, too.” Said smiled tolerantly. Then, for the first time, he removed his dark glasses, and Pete saw why he had worn them. One eye was a brilliant blue, startling for one so dark; the other eye was white, filmed with cataracts, and blind. Said rubbed his eyelids thoughtfully. He was completely unselfconscious. “I was under the impression that you were interested in Hélène.”
“I suppose that’s what she would say.” Pete was a little irritated that she had discussed him, even with Said. It was, after all, a private matter, or should have been. But then Pete remembered that he had mentioned to him that the reason he wanted to get back to Cairo soon was to see her. “She’s a little too high-powered for me.”
“High-powered—what a good phrase! I see what you mean, but she is attractive, extremely so.”
“So I thought,” said Pete, taking a long swallow of the gin and tonic. “But I couldn’t make much time with her.”
“She’s a difficult woman to know,” said his host. “You will find that out for yourself, I suspect. But tell me about the German girl.”
“I don’t think there’s much to tell. At least, I don’t know much about her. She’s a pretty exciting number, I’ll say that.” Purposely, advised by instinct, Pete sounded casual, spoke of her as just an ordinary good-looking girl who had come his way.
“I suspect you of being a Don Juan,” said Said pleasantly.
“I take what I can get,” said Pete, almost truthfully.
“It may be that I can keep you amused in Luxor, while the German girl is upriver. I have a fairly large selection of girls in Luxor. We are more simple about these things in Egypt than the Europeans and Americans are. Of course, the women who belong to families are taboo, but there are many others who are on their own and anxious to please. If you like, we might have a little party tomorrow evening.”
Pete ducked that one vaguely. Ordinarily he would have jumped at the opportunity, but knowing Anna had somehow altered, for the time being at least, his usual desires. He wanted only her.
“Should you change your mind—” But he was not allowed to finish. A houseboy entered and whispered something in Said’s ear. The Egyptian nodded curtly; the boy disappeared. “We have a visitor,” he said. “Your friend Mohammed Ali.”
Pete was startled. “What do you think he wants?”
“I should say, in general, he wants money. What he wants in particular this time, I don’t know.”
They both rose as the Inspector entered. Said, beaming warmly, greeted the policeman, “What a happy surprise this is! We see too little of you here at the oasis.”
“Government duties, Said Pasha,” said the Inspector, glancing at Pete without any sign of recognition.
“I believe you know Mr. Wells, Inspector.” Pete shook hands; then all three sat down, the Inspector between Said and Pete.
Mohammed Ali accepted tea. After wiping his face with a large red handkerchief, he said, “I had forgotten, Pasha, how cool your house is.”
“Through no fault of mine, Inspector,” said their host silkily. “You are always an honored guest here.”
“Kind, too kind,” murmured the policeman, looking at Pete. “Tell me, Mr. Wells, did you finally locate Fräulein Mueller?”
; “Locate her?” Pete stared at him innocently.
“Yes, I believe the manager told you she had gone to Aswân. He seemed to think you were planning to follow her.”
“The manager jumps to conclusions,” said Pete shortly.
“You would have enjoyed Aswân, Mr. Wells. Hot, of course, hotter than Luxor even, but an interesting place. It’s the old Egypt.”
“I’m seeing enough sights right now,” said Pete.
“But not sights that include Fräulein Mueller.”
Before Pete could answer, Said interrupted: “What is the political news, Inspector? I haven’t been to Cairo in some weeks and the news travels slowly.”
“Everything is quiet,” said the Inspector, shifting his gaze from Peter to his host. “The usual talk of rebellions, nothing more.”
“The King?”
“Enjoys good health.”
“I am happy to hear that, very happy,” said Said, bowing his head reverently.
“We protect his safety with our lives,” said Mohammed Ali, glancing at Pete, who did not get the significance of this remark, if any was intended.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Inspector?” asked Said. “Your word is my command.”
“Nothing, Pasha,” said the policeman with a smile. “I was driving this way and I thought it would be good to see my old friend. I had no idea I should see the young American, too. A double pleasure.”
Pete unconsciously doubled his fists in his lap. He disliked this man; they were enemies, though precisely why he could not tell. It was enough that the policeman had tried to come between him and Anna. He wondered how much the Inspector knew about last night, about where Anna had gone that morning. He made up his mind to find out as soon as possible.
They talked for a few minutes about the state of affairs in Egypt. Then Mohammed Ali rose and offered to take Pete back to Luxor. “It is nearly time for lunch at the hotel.”
Pete glanced quickly at Said, who nodded imperceptibly. “Sure, thanks for the ride.”
Said escorted them to the door. “A great honor, Inspector,” he said, bowing. “I am happy to have met you, too, Mr. Wells. I hope we’ll meet again.”
The ride back to town was not cheerful. Mohammed Ali drove and Pete sat beside him. It was not until they were almost at the hotel that he asked, “Where is she?”
“Do you mean Fräulein Mueller?”
“That’s exactly who I mean. Why’d she go to Aswân?”
“I should’ve thought she’d’ve told you, Mr. Wells—last night.”
“What do you mean?”
Mohammed Ali smiled maliciously. “Haven’t you noticed that all the rooms of our hotel have balconies? That it’s possible to go from balcony to balcony by simply stepping from one to the next? They are less than a meter apart.”
Pete flushed. “You were on her balcony?”
“For a little while. My room is nearby.”
“And you watched us?”
“Heard is the better word, since the room was dark.”
“You know what I’d like to do to you?”
“Something rash, I fear,” said the policeman. “In this country, though, I, the police, do the doing—if that is good English.”
“Maybe you have a surprise coming,” said Pete, controlling his anger carefully. He would have plenty of time later on to take care of him. Meanwhile he must find Anna.
“I hope there will be many happy surprises,” said the policeman, and he put his hand gently on Pete’s knee.
“You’re so right,” said Pete, lifting the hand off his leg. For a single moment there was a trial of strength. Both men strained mightily. Pete won and the hand was removed.
Mohammed Ali was quite pale and sweat beaded his forehead. “You are strong,” he said. “I like that.”
“Where is she?”
“How should I know? I presume she is in Aswân.”
“Why are you interested in her?”
“For reasons that don’t concern you, Mr. Wells. If they did…well, I hope they will not. But here’s the hotel.” He parked the car in the driveway and together they went into the lobby.
Osman was waiting for Pete beside the desk. He flashed his usual canine grin and said, “Here is the package, Sir Wells,” and he handed Pete a small but heavy cardboard box. “We go to see sights maybe tomorrow,” and in a rustle of robes he was gone. Peter pocketed the box quickly, aware of Mohammed Ali’s interested gaze. He asked the manager if there had been any word from Anna.
“No, sir, nothing. I am sure she’ll be back soon, though. She took only a small handbag with her; her clothes are still in her room.” He chattered on but Pete turned away, suddenly worried, afraid.
Mohammed Ali walked with him to the dining room. “I must leave you here,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps we can have dinner together tonight. Unless, of course, you decide to go to Aswân.”
But Pete had no intention of going there. He spent the afternoon telephoning the hotels of Aswân, with no success. No one named Anna Mueller was registered at any of them. There was a chance she had gone to stay with friends, if she had gone at all. The fact that the Inspector had seemed anxious for him to leave Luxor made him suspect she was somewhere else…perhaps in the hands of the police.
The box Osman had given him contained a small German revolver and several ammunition clips. Just owning this compact weapon made him more cheerful. He decided that if he had not heard from Anna in twenty-four hours he would begin his own investigation, and Mohammed Ali would find it thorough, he thought, his lips setting in a hard line.
He had dinner that night alone. The policeman was nowhere in sight.
Dinner over, Pete lit a cigarette and strolled out of the hotel. The night was magnificent. The sky was black as ink and the stars were bright and clear. An enormous moon shone, white and full. A warm breeze stirred the palm trees. Pete wanted Anna then, more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
Lonely, worried, he crossed the street and stood looking down at the Nile, which shone dull silver in the moonlight. From far away he could hear laughter in the town, the noise of traffic in the narrow streets.
“The good night, Sir Wells,” said a voice behind him.
He turned quickly and saw Osman standing behind him. He resembled a jackal, thought Pete suddenly, not liking the way the other’s eyes shone in the moonlight. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I am come to talk with Sir Wells.”
“About what?”
“The pale lady he likes,” said Osman, smiling.
“You mean Anna Mueller.”
“Her name, yes.”
“What about her?”
“I know where to find her if Sir Wells looks for her.”
“Where the hell is she, then?”
“In the tombs,” said Osman.
Pete grew cold. “She’s dead?”
“No, not dead. Across the river, there.” And he waved a long hand toward the low white hills webbed with shadow.
“How do you know she’s there?”
“Because I heard her tell manager of hotel she goes across the river for a few days, to the Libyan Inn. Small place up near the tombs.”
Pete grabbed the old man suddenly by the gown and drew him close to him, so close he could smell Osman’s acrid odor. “You lying to me?” he said, his voice low but harsh.
“No, Sir Wells,” said the old man. “She goes there.” He looked into Pete’s eyes fearlessly.
Pete let him go, a little ashamed of himself. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“Because you first must see Said Pasha. Tonight I speak not, because Mohammed Ali is with you. When I hear manager say the pale lady goes to Aswân, I know they tell lies.”
“Is there a telephone over there?”
“No, Sir Wells. It is small place. Few of the Europeans go there.”
“How do we get across the river?”
“Now? So late in the night?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, now. Right now.” The moon might not be wasted yet.
Osman shrugged. “It is possible we can rent small boat to take us across, Sir Wells. But it is late.”
“Come on.”
Reluctantly Osman led him down the cliff to the water’s edge. It was a difficult scramble because there were no steps at this point, only a stony slope covered with sun-withered brush. At the bottom of the cliff they stood among the jagged rocks that edged the shrunken river.
Osman looked about him carefully, like an animal trying to catch a scent. In the silence, Pete was aware of life all about them.
A few yards away a group of naked men bathed in the river, silently, hardly rippling the water, the moon glinting on their dark bodies like light on metal. Here and there along the riverbank small yellow fires gleamed, and about them figures sat, eating and murmuring together in the breathy Arab dialect.
“We must find honest one,” said Osman finally, moving southward, threading his way between the rocks, Pete close behind.
“Honest what?”
“Boatman. Many are thieves, and at night is danger.” As they walked Pete saw many small boats moored to the rocks.
The first boatman Osman found proved unsatisfactory: a powerful, bearded man who sat alone by a tiny fire, his boat close by. After sharp words, they moved on. The second boatman, a young boy, proved more satisfactory and he was hired for the equivalent of two dollars.
The boat was an old dinghy, its bottom much tarred. Even so, a few minutes after they pushed off water began to seep in through cracks at their feet. The boy paid no attention. He rowed intensely, quietly, the only sound that of his breathing.
“Not much of a boat,” said Pete in a low voice.
“It will get us there,” said Osman, sitting back in the stern.