The Germans passed; Gil and Peter entered the hotel. Immediately, Gil was possessed by that same feeling he experienced every time he entered a Hilton—the feeling that undoubtedly had something to do with his father once having said, "Blindfold me, sit me down in any Hilton Hotel in the world, take off my blindfold, and I'll give you odds I can't tell you what country I'm in, let alone what city." Gil's dad might have found the locale easier to identify in this Hilton, however, since there was a definite aura of the Middle East about the men standing around in their long galabias, headdresses, and sandals.
Peter led the way to a small area just off the lobby where they'd have a good view of the foot traffic. He sat down on one part of a circular couch parenthesizing a small table, and Gil joined him. The table was brass and typical of Egypt's internationally renowned brass work. Peter motioned to a waiter in an off-gold jacket and ordered tea. “Now it might be easier to carry on a conversation if I did know your name,” he said, turning his attention fully to Gil. He sat back in his chair, crossing his legs so that his left ankle angled across his right knee. He was wearing black riding boots, black slacks, and a short-sleeved shirt. He had black hair on his forearms and on the backs of his large hands, but Gil couldn't see evidence of any on the V of tanned chest visible at his open collar. Gil found himself speculating on whether Peter had much hair on his chest or whether there was only a smooth expanse of bare skin stretched tightly over his well-defined muscles all of the way to the man's bulged crotch. No doubt about there being muscles. Gil could see evidence of them despite Peter's concealing shirt ... something about the way the material lovingly hugged the body-beautiful. “Or shall I call you Mr. X?” Peter said.
Gil couldn't help wondering if it mattered only to him that Geraldine Fowler had been a married woman with two children when she'd jettisoned all of that in hopes of finding more happiness with Peter's grandfather who betrayed her by running off to marry a woman with more money. Was Gil delusional to think Peter, or anyone else, should care or would care, this long after the fact? Why in the hell did Gil even care? While it was okay to be a hopeless romantic as a lonely child.... “My name is Gil, by the way,” he belatedly introduced
"Very well, then,” Peter said, and Gil could tell by the way he said it that the name Gil still wasn't ringing any bells, either. “What brings Gil to Egypt? Holiday?” Peter asked.
Gil was Gil Goldsands, come to assist Peter Donas, and others, in the excavation of the archaeological dig at Hierakonpolis. Gil was the grandson of the Geraldine Fowler who had been jilted by the Frederic Donas. Surely, Peter had heard the story. More and more, though, Gil was feeling a little ridiculous for, perhaps, having been unduly influenced by the romanticism of unrequited love and pathos of a woman who, after having successfully begged her husband into taking her back for the sake of their children, had simply laid down one morning at Thebes and died of a broken heart. Anyway, the doctor present hadn't been able to offer a more suitable alternative diagnosis.
Possibly, Gil would have become obsessed with other things (sports?) if he hadn't been an only child, if he hadn't been a lonely only child, if his parents hadn't divorced when he was so young, if his father hadn't spent so much bloody time on archaeological digs instead of with his son. As it was, Gil's mother's fascination with the long-ago tale of frustrated love had just somehow become Gil's as if by osmosis.
The tea arrived and Peter poured, asking if Gil wanted “white,” adding milk when Gil nodded. Gil noticed that Peter took “black.” Also, he noticed that Peter managed the handling of the delicate tea service without appearing awkward, despite the largeness of his hands. There was, in fact, a certain magnificent grace in the way Peter lifted his cup to his mouth, sipped, made an expression of genuine satisfaction, and eyed Gil over the rim of the cup. In any case, Gil thought Peter was eyeing him over the rim of his cup. This was why he was so disconcerted when Peter whispered. “Bloody, bloody handsome!"
"What?” Gil asked. It seemed a rather inadequate response, but it was all he could come up with at the moment.
It was when Gil's eyes finally did focus directly on Peter's eyes that he realized Peter's compliment hadn't been directed at him (silly Gil to have even thought so for a brief moment!) but at something or someone directly to Gil's rear. “Will you please excuse me just a brief moment,” Peter said, getting to his feet.
Gil turned his gaze to follow Peter's retreating figure, and immediately spotted what had caught his colleague's eye. Off to one side of the lobby, the object of inquisitive glances, even from the members of the local population, was an Arab wearing a heavy leather glove that covered his left hand and much of his forearm. A falcon was perched firmly on the man's clenched fist. There were strips of leather attached to the bird's legs, restraining it on the glove. The falcon was hooded with a colorful leather cap that hid its entire head except for its sharp beak. The hood was bright orange, with a plume of cock's hackle feathers garnished with colored wool and bound tightly together with fine brass wire affixed to the crown. Gil watched Peter approach the man. Gil was more than a little piqued that he'd been deserted for some hunting bird. Also, he was, in retrospect, a little embarrassed as to how he had actually thought Peter's "Bloody, bloody handsome!" had referred to Gil. How asinine for Gil to mistake that! He should have known better, because he certainly wasn't handsome, let alone bloody, bloody handsome. Oh, he had all of the right ingredients, but somehow they just didn't come together, even now that he was thinner than usual, in a way he, personally, considered handsome. Okay attractive, yes, especially now that he was considerably thinner. But, once again, not handsome. Certainly, once again, not bloody, bloody handsome. He was beset by conflicting emotions: jealousy that the bird had elicited a compliment he couldn't; gratitude that Peter's comment hadn't been directed at him so that Gil was saved the embarrassment of telling Peter that flattery would get him nowhere.
He sipped his tea, more and more perturbed at being deserted. He found it probably typical of a Donas man (something in the genes?) to be caught up in the fascination of a sport as cruel as falconry. Oh, Peter could no doubt provide all sorts of rationalizations for his interest and for the existence of such a barbaric pastime. People were always very good at justifying something they enjoyed. Gil, who had done a good deal of field excavation in Middle Eastern countries and, therefore, knew of the continued popularity of the blood sport among the aristocracy, had heard all of the excuses. None of them held water as far as he was concerned! It simply wasn't right to take a bird as free as the wind and train it to kill for man's pleasure, to tie up its legs, stick a hood over its head and carry it around on a fist in a hotel situated in downtown Cairo. The bird belonged in the freedom of the sky, where God had intended it should be, and that was exactly what Gil told Peter when the latter finally got around to returning to a cup of tea gone ice-cold in his absence.
Peter made Gil furious by simply ignoring the comment, brushing it aside with a slight wave of his hand, as if it had obviously come from someone who couldn't possibly know anything about the mater. “Spectacular bird!” was what he did say, adding hot tea to the cold liquid in his cup. “A female peregrine that, I venture to say, cost her owner an arm and a leg. Belongs to one of the southern sheikhs. A Sheikh Abdul Jerada."
Gil could have cared less, except that someone ought to have stuck Sheikh Jerada's head in a hood, bound his feet and carried him around the Nile Hilton to see how he liked it. Someone should have done the very same thing to the man sitting across from Gil. “It's barbaric!” Gil said firmly, pouring himself more tea. “It's something straight out of the Middle Ages."
"It's a very ancient sport,” Peter reminded, as if to insinuate that old, purely by definition, was good.
"So was burning witches,” Gil informed. “You don't find that practice flourishing much anymore, do you?"
"No, well...” Peter muttered, leaving it at that, as if he and Gil both knew one didn't really equate with the other. There was a moment
of pregnant silence.
"Do you do much hawking in England, Mr. Donas?” Gil asked, unable to leave the subject alone. It gave him satisfaction to know that, just as he had always suspected, Peter Donas did have a slightly perverted and sadistic streak, much like the one Frederic Donas must have had.
"No,” Peter said, obviously disappointed. “I've always wanted to, but it takes such a good deal of time, you know, and I never seem to be in England long enough to select a bird and put it through the proper paces."
"But you would if you had the time?” Gil inquired, pressing on. He could see Peter now, delighting in snatching helpless baby birds from their nests, just as Peter's grandfather had snatched a mother from hers.
"I doubt if I'd ever have the time for a peregrine like that one,” Peter replied, nodding in the direction of the man who still stood in wait (for Sheikh Jerada?). Gil had watched Peter all through their renewed conversation; Peter had been shifting his gaze back and forth between Gil and that damned bird. Why hadn't Peter taken Miss Peregrine to tea? He was obviously more interested in the bird, at the moment, than he was, and probably ever would be, in Gil. To think Gil had missed out on the museum for this! “Few people I know can do justice to a superb bird like that one,” Peter went on, as if Gil were interested. “It's a matter of finding suitable quarry, for one thing. Peregrines are flown at small game like partridge and grouse.” Yes, Gil knew. “Besides,” Peter continued, “and this is the really difficult part, in this day and age of cramped living space, access to anywhere from one thousand to three thousand acres of open land is hard to come by."
Gil thought he'd had quite enough even before Peter added something about a dog—a pointer or a setter—being a necessity for hawk-hunting grouse. “I really must be going, Mr. Donas,” Gil said, setting down his teacup very gently and flashing a smile that, he hoped, had little more warmth than an iceberg. “It has been charming talking birds with you, but I really do have other things to do, since I'm leaving the day after tomorrow on the Osiris for a trip up the Nile.” He could have been more specific and said to Idfu and then to Hierakonpolis, but he didn't, wondering why. It would have been the perfect time to end this ongoing charade.
"You're planning to squeeze a few meals in there somewhere, aren't you?” Peter asked. Gil couldn't see what that had to do with anything. “So, why don't you let me take you to supper this evening?” Peter suggested. Gil thought him pretty damned bold—and way too sure of himself. There seemed no apparent rhyme or reason for the invitation, unless Peter was out to pick up someone for sex. If so, Peter should have been able to see as clearly as Gil did that the two of them were as different as night from day. Not only that, but since Peter had asked Gil to tea and had spent the whole time ogling the spotted breast feathers of a female bird, Gil could just imagine what it would be like trying to hold Peter's attention for the duration of an entire meal. “I know a spot in town that serves simply excellent hamama,” Peter said. Hamama was pigeon. Their conversation had moved from phoenix to hawk to pigeon. At least Peter was consistent. “Do you know what hamama is, Gil?” Peter asked. Yes, Gil knew what hamama was. Yes, Gil knew what gambari—shrimp—and firakh—chicken—and gamoosa—water-buffalo meat—were, too. “It's pigeon,” Peter said, obviously having been unable to read Gil's mental affirmation. “Very popular in Egypt. Raised all up and down the Nile Valley. Watch when you pass the houses on your trip up the Nile, and you'll invariably see large domed pottery structures attached to them. They're put there expressly for raising pigeons later usually grilled over a low fire."
"That does sound delicious,” Gil said. Actually, he had tasted hamama, and he had liked it. “However, I'm afraid..."
"You don't know what you'll be missing,” Peter interrupted. Gil got the distinct impression that, as if Peter thought himself God's gift to any potential trick, Peter's insinuation of Gil missing something had more to do with Peter's company than with Egyptian cuisine. Really, the man was, as Gil had always suspected he would be, insufferable—with or without the Frederic Donas / Geraldine Fowler scandal by way of backdrop!
"Let me guess,” Gil said, “you simply can't bear to see someone who isn't a convert to falconry, and you've planned a whole evening around proselytizing over hamama and moz bi-laban.” He hoped Peter noticed that Gil could throw around an Arab word or two of his own. Mozbi-laban was a local fruit drink made by blending bananas with milk and sugar. In fact, it often became a meal in itself.
"I won't utter a word about falconry,” Peter promised.
"All right,” Gil replied, thinking how amusing it was going to be for Peter Donas to arrive at Hierakonpolis, in a few days, and discover that a supposedly simply tourist, wined and dined for possible sex in Cairo, was none other than the grandson of Geraldine Fowler and Peter's associate on the Hierakonpolis dig.
"Great!” Peter said. “About eight o'clock?"
"I'll meet you, here, in the lobby,” Gil told him. “Until then...."
Peter came to his feet when Gil did, stooping slightly to put his teacup back on its saucer. “I shall be looking forward to it,” he said.
With a nod in parting, Gil left him and headed across the lobby for the elevator. He couldn't wait until they met in Hierakonpolis and.... Gil was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost collided with a tall dark-complexioned Arab in a flowing white galabia. “I am sorry,” the Arab apologized in pleasantly modulated English. The fact that Gil was an American must have stood out like a sore thumb. The Arab was obviously being polite to a foreigner, since it was apparent to everyone, Gil included, that their near collision had been entirely Gil's fault.
"I'm the one who should apologize,” Gil said. “I should have been paying more attention to where I was going."
The Arab had dark velvety eyes, a mustache and a nearly trimmed beard. He was probably in his early thirties and as tall as Gil—actually, a bit taller. Gil should have been off having supper with someone just this exotically handsome! Gil was, after all, in Egypt—land of desert sheikhs and Bedouin tents with floors covered by Tunisian carpets; Egypt wasn't known for its own rugs—and walls hung with tapestries. No, Gil had to find himself scheduled for an evening with an Englishman who....
Suddenly, he realized that he was still standing in the middle of the hotel lobby, face to face with the attractive Arab. He couldn't imagine what was getting into him. He certainly couldn't help wondering what the Arab was thinking, even if the slight upturn at the corners of the handsome man's full mouth did indicate amusement. Gil hoped his reverie had taken mere seconds instead of the minutes it now seemed. “I really am sorry,” Gil said, sincerely. The Arab bowed slightly as Gil finally managed enough locomotion to get headed, once again, for the elevators. Naturally, the elevators were busy stopping at every floor but at the one where Gil waited, seemingly determined to leave Gil standing there forever. His back to the lobby, he imagined that the Arab was probably still musing on why foreign tourists didn't at least keep their eyes open. Gil speculated as to whether Peter had seen the near collision. If so, egotistical Peter probably thought it was caused by Gil's excitement over having been asked to dinner. The elevator door—finally—slid open on an empty compartment. Gil stepped inside, turned and pushed the button for the tenth floor. Just before the door closed in front of him, he chanced a hurried glance out into the lobby. He was definitely disappointed that neither the Arab nor Peter seemed at all interested in Gil-in-the-elevator. They were together in front of the man with the peregrine falcon. It was quite obvious from rapturous expressions, all around, that they were not discussing Gil but a rather disgusting blood sport.
CHAPTER TWO
IN ALL OF GIL'S EXPERIENCES on archaeological digs, beginning with childhood visits to those sites being worked by his father, he had never found the conveniences he—or probably anyone—would have liked. Having worked in Egypt previously at Avaris, he was hardly expecting the dig at Hierakonpolis to be any exception to the general rule regarding the poor quality of
accommodations. Therefore, before the fact, he indulged himself by checking into one of the more expensive rooms at the Nile Hilton. He thought he deserved some comfort before setting off into the wilderness. The room was large and airy, done mostly in sandy colors, with prints on the walls depicting, for the most part, the temples at Karnak. One picture, however, the one hung over the small desk in the corner of the bedroom, was of the Step Pyramid at Saqqâra. The two-hundred foot tall pyramid was composed of five major steps to its summit. It was of special importance to archaeologists. Having been started as a flat mastaba tomb, then passing through a series of constructional stages to its final elaborate form, the Step Pyramid was considered a key example of the transition to the more classical pyramidal form recognizable at Giza. Mastaba-type tombs had been characteristic of the Old Kingdom and had been rectangular flat-topped masses of masonry with steeply sloping sides. They had evolved from the crude heaps of sand or mud piled over the first prehistoric graves in Egypt.
Gil's room had a balcony facing Korneish al Nil, the street that ran parallel to the famous artery of Egypt—past and present—the Nile River. The river was a wide flat expanse of gray water lined by green plants and palm trees; the vegetation seemed even more vibrantly verdant in the brightness of the Egyptian sun. There was one large island visible from the balcony: Zamalik. Roda Island was off farther to the left. In fact, it had been the presence of the islands in the river at this point, making bridging of the Nile feasible, which had caused Cairo to rise on this spot. The Nile Hilton was flanked by two of those resulting bridges: Kû al-Tahrir on the south and Kû 6-Octobre farther north.
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