“Pretty lady! I have many things for a very pretty lady. Come with me!”
“Cheap souvenirs. The best prices! The best quality! Look! Look!”
By this time, we were almost immune to the colorful compliments and exuberant greetings, but I noticed that walking beside Alan provided a better buffer than when I was alone or with Kyla. The salesmen did not approach so closely or yell so loudly, and their comments were mostly directed at him. My chin just topped his shoulder, and I could glance across him into the stalls without worrying about making eye contact. I liked it.
Although haggling on my own seemed all but impossible in the face of the shouting, I was still determined to try it at least once. The little gold pyramid that Alan had given me was nestled safely in the bottom of my purse. Foolish to carry it around, but I liked having it with me and it weighed hardly anything. Oh well, maybe I would be able to find some little gifts in the alabaster and perfume shops that we were scheduled to visit later in the tour. Fortunately or unfortunately, there was no time to stop at a shop now, even if I could get up the nerve to try.
On the other end of the spectrum, DJ hurried forward to haggle at the nearest booth, but Anni grabbed his arm and propelled him onward.
“We will have time to shop after we go through the temples,” she told him. Glancing back, she noticed Flora and Fiona had been cornered by three salesmen, and she hurried to rescue them.
We went through a modern building where Anni bought tickets for us. We had to open our purses for inspection and go though a metal detector before being allowed through to the other side. How sad that the world had come to this—a world where ordinary people thought nothing at all of the requirement for metal detectors and armed guards at a historical monument. The terrorists had a lot to answer for, I thought as I opened my purse for the guard’s examination. I was glad I’d hidden Millie’s bag at the bottom of my suitcase back at the hotel. I was still trying to figure out how to return the stolen items, although at this point it was going to be all but impossible.
Once out of the building, we could see nothing but a gravel path and a large domed mound. The white sun beat down on our heads and on the rock with a promise of coming heat, but right now the morning air was still cool and pleasant. After a few paces, our shoes were covered with white dust. I saw Kathy Morrison give a cry of annoyance as she wobbled down the path in her high-heeled sandals. Her red toenails were already obscured by grime. Even Kyla had worn more sensible shoes than those.
“You look pleased with yourself,” said Alan under his breath, looking from Kathy to me, as though reading my thoughts.
“Because I’m a terrible person. You should take warning.”
“I think I’ll risk it.”
Kathy fell behind as the rest of us followed Anni along the path. Three minutes later, we rounded a mound of rocks and stopped dead.
The great temple of Abu Simbel waited in the brilliant Egyptian sunlight. It had been old before the forces of Alexander the Great swept across Greece, before the Romans crossed the English Channel, before Christ walked the earth. Even knowing what to expect, I was unprepared for its sheer size and beauty. Three seated figures loomed sixty feet into the air, surrounded by scores of carvings and smaller statues, all guarding a dark and mysterious entrance. A fourth statue lay broken in half on the ground, recreated exactly as it had been found when the temple was rediscovered in 1813. All four statues had the same forbidding face, the face of the pharaoh. The dark doorway in the center looked small and mysterious, but it must have been twenty-five feet tall. Tourists walking through looked like colorful miniatures.
Every camera was out and clicking.
“Look at that,” said Ben, and he gave a low whistle.
“Do you see the faces?” asked Lydia.
We might have been at a fireworks display. Everyone was pointing and asking each other if they could see the carving or the size or the broken figure. As though we could see anything else.
Behind us, Lake Nasser stretched to reach the horizon, a vast blue sea in the desert. Farther on, another temple waited, dwarfed by its neighbor. I scarcely took note of them. My whole attention was on the fabulous temple of Ramses II. How had people with little more than stone tools carved such enormous, breathtaking statues right into the side of a cliff? And how had they been moved, piece by piece, two millennium later? And more important, what kind of man thought it was a good idea to create four colossi in his own image? The sheer hubris of it was astounding to the western mind.
As we drew nearer to the monument, a photographer carrying a camera with a lens the size of a salami approached and spoke to Anni. She greeted him by name and told us that WorldPal had arranged for a group photo here.
“It’s the only place on the tour that we do this. You of course do not have to purchase a picture, but they will be available before we are ready to leave.”
No one protested, not even Jerry. Everyone was in a splendid mood and just being here seemed such an adventure. We lined up in three rows on the steps. Alan stood beside me and Kyla stood beside him, so it looked as though the three of us were together and happy. Fiona and Flora stood in the front row beside Kathy and Jerry, who kept trying to edge away from them. Kathy’s nose wrinkled as though she smelled something bad, but she looked that way so frequently it might not have meant anything. The photographer snapped twice, and we were done.
On the outside, the temple walls and even the surrounding rocks of the cliff had been sliced away from the original cliff wall and then put back together with astonishing precision. The effect was perfect from a distance, but from a little bit closer, it had the feel of a mosaic.
Anni spoke as she guided us to the feet of the colossal statues. “This complex was built in the thirteenth century BC, not only to honor the gods, but to remind Nubia of the might and power of Egypt. However, by the nineteenth century AD, the temples were forgotten and completely covered by sand. Legend has it that a young boy playing with a ball kicked it too high and it flew up the rock face and became stuck. When he climbed up the sand dune to retrieve it, he saw that it was lodged behind a giant carved head. He later showed his discovery to the Swiss explorer J. L. Burckhardt. The boy’s name was Abu Simbel, and the Europeans who followed to dig out the temples named the complex after him.”
We looked up and tried to imagine the sand so deep that only the top of the pharoahs’ heads protruded. Anni went on. “Ramses designed his temple so that twice a year, the sun would penetrate all the way to the back and illuminate the statues of Amun-Ra, Ra-Horakhty, and Ramses himself. The head of the god Ptah, ruler of the underworld, always remained in darkness, as is only right. Scientists believe that the day of the illumination is now one day later than it was originally, because the temple is now much higher on the cliff face.”
I looked up into the haughty, sightless eyes of Ramses and wondered what he would have thought of the change. He had created his temple high on a cliff surrounded by desert and sun, the Nile nothing but a ribbon of blue and a distant voice swirling over cataracts far below. Now, with the vast blue expanse of Lake Nasser twinkling in the sun, only slightly less featureless than the pale sky above, I decided that maybe even Ramses would have valued water above his own glory. Then again, maybe not.
Walking closer, we could see the finer details, carvings of baboons and small people, captives and crocodiles. And even though the site had been moved, it still retained the otherworldly atmosphere of an ancient kingdom despite the multitude of camera-wielding tourists. Anni negotiated with the guards at the doors of the temple and after a short wait we followed Hello Kitty under the archway. Once inside the dimly lit interior, the wind ceased, which was a relief. Our eyes adjusted to the light and we were able to follow Anni as she quickly pointed out a few unique carvings. Technically, guides weren’t supposed to go inside because it caused traffic jams in the confined space, but the real crowds had not arrived yet, and she was able to show us the highlights. The enormous supporting co
lumns were thicker than tree trunks, carved and bearing the remnants of paint. The room must have been brilliant and amazing when new.
We left together and followed Anni toward the smaller temple, dedicated to the cow goddess Hathor and to the beloved wife of Ramses, Queen Nefertari. Two thirty-foot-tall statues of the queen were carved into the rock on either side of the doorway of the temple. Of course, for each statue of his wife, Ramses built two statues of himself, one on either side of hers, but at least her statues stood as tall as his.
As we walked over the flat between the two temples, the group fanned out a little. DJ and Keith swung wide to take a look at the lake. I overheard Keith saying something about fishing. Mohammad followed a few paces behind Flora and Fiona. It made an amusing picture. He was so large and they were so oblivious, zigzagging across the ground, bumping against each other, then self-correcting and steering away again. Mohammad looked like a sheepdog trying to herd two uncooperative ducks. He was sweating in the heat, and I could see the shine on his forehead and the wet patches under his arms. He was not enjoying himself. I wondered again why he had come.
Kathy Morrison was just pointing at the temple and turning to say something, probably completely fatuous, to her father, when she stumbled and fell. I’m sure her platform sandals had nothing to do with it, and I was able to suppress my concern and alarm remarkably well. In fact, I would have continued on to the temple without so much as breaking stride, but everyone else hurried to her side and clustered around. Alan gave me a look that almost made me laugh out loud, but he took my hand and we joined them. I didn’t mind at all.
Kathy’s face was already streaked with tears, and she was holding her ankle, lip quivering. Her father was trying to pull her up by her elbow, but she jerked away from him and waved him off. Dawn Kim knelt by her and firmly pulled her hands away, revealing an ankle that was already swelling. She clicked her tongue and lifted Kathy’s leg, moving the foot back and forth, asking questions.
“A sprain,” she announced. “You really should get some ice on it.”
Anni looked around, her eyes pausing briefly on Alan before settling on her colleague. “Mohammad, you can take her to the first aid station?”
He looked over his shoulder as though she were addressing some other Mohammad. “Perhaps you should go. After all, a woman … going with another woman…” His voice trailed off.
Anni laughed. “But I cannot carry her. You and Jerry can take her, while I finish the tour.”
For a moment, I thought he was going to refuse. His black eyes glittered with suppressed frustration, but then he seemed to realize we were all staring at him and gave an ungracious shrug. He and Jerry each took an arm and hoisted her up between them. Fortunately for them, she didn’t weigh any more than a wet cat, but I could hear her whiny voice complaining nonstop until they were out of earshot.
“Now what was that about?” Alan asked. He was also looking after the departing figures.
“Maybe he really wanted to see inside the temple,” I answered.
But I didn’t think so. Not wanting to be around someone like Kathy Morrison was easy to understand, but, after all, taking care of us was his job.
The second temple was much smaller, and after only a few minutes, Anni made a quick circuit, then left us with orders to meet in the marketplace restaurant in thirty minutes. Kyla slipped out a few seconds after Anni, and the others began trickling away. I was just starting to point out a brightly colored painting to Alan, when he gave my hand a squeeze and then dropped it.
“I’m heading out. I’ll catch up with you back at the market.”
He vanished into the bright light of the doorway without giving me a chance to reply. Suddenly, all the pleasure was sucked out of the day. Without Alan or Kyla to share the experience, it all seemed fairly flat. Worse, I could not help but suspect Alan had left to follow Kyla. Maybe that was just a coincidence. After all, he hadn’t left with her. But I was pretty sure he had his eye on her. I just wasn’t sure what that meant.
I waited in the cool dim interior of the temple, no longer really taking in the wonders around me. Realizing I was alone, I walked back into the bright sunlight, trying to decide what to do. I could go back to the first temple, but everything was becoming very crowded, and I’d really seen it all. Without meaning to, I caught up with the Carpenters on their way back to the little market. Jane was silent and strained, but Ben and Lydia seemed happily content, and we all agreed that Abu Simbel was competely worth the journey and expense.
“It’s hard to believe this was all built by hand. Stones carried hundreds of miles. Paints and workers dragged here from God knows where. I wonder why they did it,” mused Lydia.
“Obsession with death, I expect. And self-obsession. They wanted to be sure they left their mark,” said Ben.
“Not the pharaohs,” she said. “The workers.”
“Well, it was a job, wasn’t it? They were probably glad of the work. This would be a hard country to scratch a living in. A cushy stone-hauling job, now that was probably a plum.”
We laughed, trying to envision those times when stone-hauling might actually have been a great career.
Most of the group was already in the market when we arrived. Kyla lingered by a rack of postcards just a moment too long and was beseiged by two salesmen in white tunics. Farther down, I saw Flora and Fiona leaving another shop, clutching a small plastic bag. Just outside the open-air restaurant, DJ, Nimmi, and Anni were discussing the merits of our group photos with our photographer. Not that I was really looking, but Alan was nowhere to be seen.
“I see ice cream!” said Lydia, spotting a child with a cone. We snapped to attention like beagles spotting a hamster.
The restaurant was open on three sides, wooden columns supporting a flimsy roof designed to provide shade rather than protection from the elements. A counter ran along one side in front of refrigerated displays containing a variety of sodas, snacks, and ice creams. A couple of ceiling fans spun lazily from beams.
“Wonder if they have beer?” asked Ben. “Come on, Jane, Jocelyn. Let’s get something cold to drink.”
Jane, Lydia, and I went directly to a pretty corner of the room where chairs with brightly colored cushions clustered around a low table. We sank down gratefully, while Ben went to find drinks. Fascinating as monuments are, standing and walking unnaturally slowly are hard on the feet and back. Jane removed her sunglasses and settled back in her seat with a sigh. Although still wan, she seemed less nervous somehow, almost relaxed. Her aunt noticed too and patted her arm.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” she said. Jane answered with a gentle smile.
“You know,” I said as casually as possible, “I was at the airport when you were. I saw a girl standing by you who looked so much like one of my students. At the time I thought she was your daughter, but she must have been just someone you met on the plane?”
Lydia stiffened visibly. “I expect so. Are you sure it wasn’t Jane?”
“No, I’m sure,” I said. “Although she did resemble Jane quite a bit. She even had a sweater exactly like the one you are wearing now.” I didn’t know why I couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t as though I really thought that Ben and Lydia were doing anything illegal, and it certainly wasn’t any of my business. It was just a puzzle, and I wanted to figure it out.
Jane threw an anxious glance at Lydia.
Ben returned with four Cokes, starting to complain about the lack of alcoholic beverages, when he noticed the look on his wife’s face. With a swift glance at me, he set the drinks down with a little bang and turned on me, a cold anger in his eyes. Startled, I rose to my feet.
He had just opened his mouth to say something, when a scream rang out across the marketplace. It started low and then rose to a volume and pitch that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Ben waved at his wife, who put her arms around Jane’s shoulders, and then he rushed outside.
I ran after him a second later, although if I’d followe
d my instincts I’d have curled in a fetal position behind a sofa and stayed there until someone blew the all clear.
The little market was total chaos. Tourists and vendors alike milled about trying to figure out what was happening. A second scream came from a little shop halfway down the row and we ran, arriving just behind Alan, who pushed past the circle of onlookers as if he owned the place. Where was Kyla? I looked around frantically for her, a panicked feeling in my stomach, but she appeared a few seconds later, running up from farther down the line of stalls. She had a packet of postcards in her hand. I heaved a sigh a relief, then turned to find out what was going on.
Alan returned from the interior of the shop, wading through the gathering crowd, his arm protectively around the shoulders of a woman who was sobbing hysterically. He said something to her, and she responded in rapid French. Seeing the blank, helpless look in his eye, I stepped forward.
“She says, ‘He is dead, dead and covered in blood,’” I translated rapidly.
“You understand her? Here, take her to the restaurant and stay with her. I’ll be right back.” He pushed her at me and vanished again.
“Where are you going?” I called after him in outrage. The nerve of the man, giving me orders. I looked helplessly at the sobbing woman.
Kyla joined me. “Here, I’ll take her. You follow Alan.” She led the woman away without a word.
I wriggled my way through the crowd, no longer worried about being rude or accosted by vendors. I ducked under an elbow and then peered over the shoulders of two men. Sometimes being tall had its advantages.
In this case, advantage might not have been the right word. An Egyptian man lay on his face between two racks of souvenirs. A small trickle of blood marred the back of his neck and stained the collar of his galabia, although there was not enough to drip onto the ground. Had he been shot? No weapon was visible. It didn’t seem possible that he could have died from such a small wound. Alan knelt on the dusty floor beside the body, looking grim. He checked for a pulse in the neck, then gently lifted the man’s hands, examining the palms and fingertips. He said something in Arabic to one of the bystanders who knelt beside him. Arabic. Alan spoke Arabic? How did a guy from Dallas, a widower taking a trip he and his dead wife had planned, his first trip to Egypt, come to speak Arabic? He looked up and saw me and for a moment our eyes locked. For a split second, I saw my own doubt and suspicion mirrored back at me, but then he quickly rose to his feet. Looking around at the pathetic scene one last time, he then reached for my hand.
Death on Tour Page 11