He breathed a silent sigh of pleasurable relief when Peter had the driver drop them at the Kû 26-Julllet, which crossed the Nile several blocks north of their hotel. A stroll along the Korneish al-Nil, with the palm-lined river off to their right, made for a more fitting conclusion to their evening than walking more ordinary Cairo streets would have done.
They found a small restaurant not far from the Egyptian Museum. Although there was no mahallabiyya, Gil was content with babousa—a deliciously sticky pastry made of semolina soaked in honey and topped with hazelnuts.
Considering the lead-in, he was surprised by how he, now, hated to see the evening come to an end. Under the spell of a glorious Egyptian night, he rationalized away all of Peter's faults, except for the one that had someone so intelligent be so fascinated with falconry. Not far from where they sat, the Nile showed itself to be far more beautiful in moonlight than in sunlight; the former usually made it seem dark gray. The moon, larger and exceptionally beautiful, was pasted on a sky black with night and alive with the sparkle of a million stars. A slight breeze, almost unfelt at ground level, stirred the fronds of nearby date palms, causing them to whisper softly to the warm night air.
Gil began cutting his babousa into smaller and smaller pieces in order to extend the moment, no doubt remembering the principle of mathematics that said a thing would never completely disappear if continuously halved. However, he began to feel just a bit ridiculous when he reached the point of squashing small bits of pastry between the edge of his fork and the plate.
Peter and he must have realized simultaneously that some moments could be destroyed merely by trying in vain to extend them, because they both came to their feet in unison without any time-to-go words having been spoken between them. In their shared act of spontaneity, they were successful in preserving their shared feelings of a good time had by all.
When they reached the hotel, Gil found himself once again thinking of his grandmother, knowing very well how any woman (or man) might easily have been seduced into loving in nights filled with big yellow moons, with palm trees whispering as dark silhouettes, with feluccas sailing the dark waters of the Nile as their counterparts had done prior to the time of Christ, with exotic fragrances of lemon and orange blossoms suffusing the air. Such thoughts, however, confused him, warning that the place might turn out to be even more dangerous than the man. Together, Egypt and Peter might prove to be a combined aphrodisiac too powerful to resist, no matter how much Gil had come prepared to learn from his grandmother's mistakes.
But he was not Geraldine Fowler, he told himself again. He was a man. He was not married. He didn't have two children. As far as he knew, Peter Donas wasn't committed to another woman or man, or desirous of the contents of some man or woman's bank account. One night did not a romance make! Whatever magic had spun itself like a gossamer web around them, it would be dissolved by the morning light, and Gil would be a fool to shatter the illusion prematurely—especially since it was proving to be such a pleasant one.
At the door of his hotel room, Gil considered just briefly what it would be like to invite this attractive man beyond the door and, having him there, to watch as Peter took off his shirt to reveal a smooth and powerful expanse of muscled chest, and then stripped off ... “I do thank you for a wonderful evening,” Gil said, wondering if Peter could know what secret accompanying thoughts Gil had just harbored.
"How about tomorrow?” Peter asked, standing so close that they were almost touching, there in the hallway. “Maybe lunch?” he suggested. “Maybe we can have a look at the sights and ride camels at the pyramids?"
"How boring you would find having to squire me to places you've undoubtedly seen,” Gil said, not sure why the invitation to extend the magic made him nervous. Maybe it was because he had already assured himself that the magic between them would automatically be gone by morning. Besides, he had already visited the pyramids and had certainly ridden enough camels to last him a lifetime.
Peter stepped back to give Gil breathing room. How clever he was to do so, like an experienced falconer reading the nervousness of a newly captured bird. Maybe he saw Gil as a falcon—a bird to be won by slow and careful seduction. Falcons never surrendered their independence easily. It took a good deal of time, gentleness, and patience to tame them. In the end, the bird was no longer what God had made it, having so thoroughly forgotten its freedom that it kept returning to its master's fist, even when it had the opportunity to return to the vast sky.
"Places once seen are always seen differently and certainly more completely with another person,” Peter said. “Mutually shared things are the most memorable, don't you agree?” he continued. “You wouldn't really be so cruel as to deprive me of sharing parts of Cairo with you, would you, Gil? After all, what will it matter—one more day out of your life—when you're soon off to the upper Nile on your cruise, and I'm.... “He shrugged, as if even he didn't know where he might be next week or next month. Gil knew exactly where Peter would be. He would be at Hierakonpolis—with Gil. Now, Peter saw Gil as a man who had come into his life for one evening, maybe one more day, a stranger passing conveniently into the night, sharing things, maybe even sex, briefly in the Egyptian heat before passing on forever. It didn't seem logical that Peter would be so anxious to spend these hours with someone destined to be in his life for the next two months. Peter should have been searching out someone with whom to share memories, even sexual memories, to be savored when he was dirty, exhausted and sweaty, and there were few fuckable men within miles except for Gil.
Peter stepped forward, taking Gil in his arms, kissing the base of Gil's neck, Gil's cheeks, Gil's forehead, the tip of Gil's nose. Gil knew he ought to protest this sudden and unsolicited manhandling, but down deep he wanted Peter to do what he was doing. He felt comfortable in Peter's arms, as if Gil had been there forever, feeling the excitement of Peter's hard chest pressed tightly against Gil's chest, Peter's thighs brushing enticingly against Gil's thighs, Peter's mouth hungry on Gil's face and burning Gil with the heat of Peter's hot kisses.
Gil opened his mouth beneath the insistent pressure of Peter's lips, sensing that Peter's eagerness more than matched Gil's own. Gil ran his hands along Peter's sides, feeling muscle taut beneath the man's shirt, just as Gil had known there would be hard muscle there. He ran his fingers up Peter's back and into his hair, feeling the silky softness of tousled strands. He worked his body shamelessly closer, feeling even more of Peter pressed tightly against him while Peter's mouth again moved hungrily against Gil's eager lips.
The feel and the taste of Peter, the smell of his cologne, the sound of his voice, took Gil's breath away and left him gasping for air. His heart was beating so fast he could hear and feel its staccato rhythm hammering in his chest, in his temples, in his brain.
"On second thought!” Gil resisted weakly, finally getting his mouth free.
"Come on, no second thoughts, now,” Peter argued. “Let's end the evening by fucking both of our brains out. It's what we both want, isn't it.” It wasn't a question. His mouth resumed kissing Gil's cheeks, forehead, closed eyelids. “Surely you must feel it, too, Gil,” he said. “I felt it from the very beginning—that something between us ... that very, very special something known only to two men in heat."
Gil knew he had to find the strength to make Peter turn loose. He definitely knew all about that something to which Peter referred, and he, like Peter, had allowed that something to take advantage. The horrible thought struck him that Peter might really know who Gil was, might carefully have engineered this moment so that he could laugh about it later. "Gil's grandmother was a pushover for my granddad, just as Gil was a pushover for me!"
"I don't think so,” Gil insisted, untangling his fingers from Peter's hair and forcibly pushing Peter's handsome face away. He put his hand on Peter's chest, feeling the hard ridges of muscles, and he pushed harder. “I've had more than my share of promiscuous sex, and I've sworn it off in the hopes of finding something, somewhere, more sa
tisfying and meaningful."
Reluctantly, curiously, Peter turned loose.
Gil knew he could turn and flee into his room, finding safety by slamming its door behind him. Yet, he didn't move. Suddenly, he missed the feel of Peter, the taste of Peter, the lust aroused by Peter's vibrant body and obvious hard-on grinding sensuously against Gil's own vibrant body and straining erection.
"Sorry if I misread,” Peter apologized, his voice low and breathless. “I really don't know what got into me. Damn! I am sorry. Please, forgive.” He turned and left Gil standing there.
Gil watched him go; not calling out, because he didn't know if he really wanted to happen what would happen if Peter returned. Entering his room, he shut the door behind him, hearing the loud and final click of the lock.
He couldn't help wondering what it might have been like if they hadn't been who they were, if Gil hadn't for so long been morosely caught up in the story of Geraldine and Frederic. How easy it would have been for him to give in to temptation if he had been nothing more than simply the horny American tourist on holiday that Peter thought him to be; Peter and he only looking for a good time and a good quick no-strings-attached fuck.
Suddenly, he wished he were just that horny tourist. His cock was definitely hard, and his ass definitely itched for a plugging.
CHAPTER THREE
GIL AWOKE to a silence that had been a long time in coming. Car horns, the bane of Cairo streets, had persisted long and loud into the night, carrying clearly to the tenth floor and in through the glass doors that separated his room from the balcony outside. He settled back into his bed covers and managed to doze. Momentarily, though, a familiar sound wrenched him back into consciousness.
He had left the draperies open, anticipating his coming awake to a sun-drenched vista that included the distant pyramids at Giza. There was no seeing those pyramids—or anything else for that matter—in the present darkness. He stretched for the night-light, switching it on as the phone rang again. Glancing at the travel clock at his bedside, he noted that it was only four-thirty a.m. He lifted the phone from its cradle, wondering what catastrophe could warrant him being forced to awaken at this ungodly hour. “Yes?” he said, still in a state of half sleep in which he functioned without total awareness.
"Just checking to make sure you're up and getting ready,” the familiar voice said. Gil felt a thrill come to him through the maze of wiring, even if he couldn't fathom Peter's reason for calling. Nor was Peter quick to offer any explanations. “Everything is ready,” he said cryptically. “Will you be coming down shortly?"
Gil couldn't make heads or tails out of any of it—and not just because he was still half asleep. He had thought he'd probably heard the last of Peter until their reunion at Hierakonpolis. He'd been sorry that their previous evening, with such a wonderful beginning, had ended on such a negative note. Gil had overreacted to a simple kiss (well, actually, he had been several kisses, hadn't it?), silly in having allowed thoughts of his grandmother's misfortune to taint a moment that had been pleasurable and harmless. Men had been kissing good night for time immemorial. It didn't necessarily lead to anything else. It certainly didn't mean Peter would next successfully seduce Gil, profess love, propose marriage, and then leave Gil for the money in another man (or woman's) pockets. “Do you know what time it is?” Gil asked, glad Peter had called, no matter what the time, and anxious to keep him on the line.
"It's still more than an hour off,” Peter answered, “so we should have plenty of time to make it if you get a move on."
"Plenty of time to make what?” Gil questioned, thoroughly confused. He was at a loss to imagine what Peter could have scheduled for that early in the morning.
"Sunrise from the top of the Pyramid of Cheops,” Peter said, unable to keep a certain sense of excitement out of his voice. “I can't imagine a better way to start our day of sightseeing, can you?"
"You're mad!” Although Gil found the idea of his first-time viewing of the Egyptian sunrise from the summit of the Pyramid of Cheops as not without its charm, he suspected that it sounded far more romantic than it probably would turn out to be. The pyramid in question, after all, had 2,300,000 blocks, each block averaging three feet in height. Walking up, climbing up, was nothing like managing a simple flight of stairs. Success was apt to leave Gil too exhausted to contemplate anything but the chore of getting back down again.
"I'll expect you in fifteen minutes,” Peter said, hanging up before Gil could say there was no way on God's green earth that he was getting out of a nice warm bed to play mountain goat. Gil replaced the receiver, scooted down beneath the covers and shut his eyes, realizing he was completely awake. “I can't believe this!” he said, throwing back the blankets, knowing he was going to get up. It wasn't every morning a man was asked to sample the beginning of an Egyptian day from such an impressive vantage point. Of course, any such specific climbing was expressly prohibited by laws; signs to that affect—Unlawful to Climb Pyramid—found on virtually every pyramidal flank. The prohibition usually could be circumvented only by paying fees (AKA bribes) to guides and local tourist police. The early hour assured that few unauthorized tourists, if any, would see Peter and Gil go up and/or down and decide to follow suit without going through proper (improper) channels. It would have been impossible to assure the safety of all the climbers, who might have wished to make an attempt, without their paying for the services of someone who could show them the safest way up. Even then, some slipped past—such as the unsupervised American marine who had tumbled to his death just a few months earlier.
Peter, as handsome as ever, met Gil at the elevator in the lobby. He was not in the least surprised to see Gil had come. Whatever fluster he had exhibited upon their parting the previous night was now nowhere evident. He led the way across a completely deserted lobby to the revolving doors, beyond which an armed guard stood watch. Cairo was a city where guards, guns, and soldiers, were a common part of the everyday scenery. Even if there was peace between Egypt and Israel, between Egypt and Libya, it seemed the common consensus that there was little sense in being caught unprepared by the unexpected. Sadly enough, Gil knew even he had quickly gotten used to functioning normally in this atmosphere that resembled that found in an armed compound.
A car and driver were waiting. Peter joined Gil in the back seat, choosing to sit directly next to him rather than on the opposite side. Peter's leg rested squarely against Gil's, and the only way Gil could have broken contact was to open the door of the vehicle and step out. He might have considered that more of a viable option if he still wasn't so confused about the feelings conjured by their kiss of last night; he was curious to explore whatever the feelings he now felt from this less-intimate bit of physical contact.
The four-lane highway to the pyramids wasn't what one would have expected as a lead-in to one of the most spectacular vistas the world had to offer. In fact, it was only by scrunching down low in the seat that Gil was able to catch even a fleeting glimpse of one pyramidal apex above the apartment buildings, garish signs, and tacky night spots that an expanding Cairo had spilled to the very edge of this desert plateau.
The four lanes funneled into two at the Mena House which was the royal hunting lodge for Khedive Ismail that had been expanded into a guest house for the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, and then later converted into a hotel. Sir Winston Churchill had loved setting up his easel in the Mena House gardens under fourteenth-century musrabiya—harem windows of intricately carved woodwork. Celebrities galore had signed the hotel guest book which read like a Who's Who in the world of politics, entertainment, and royalty. British colonists once sipped tea on the hotel verandas and admired a view that even today, marred as it was by a steady daytime parade of tourists, cars and buses, remained superb. It had been from the Mena House stables that the more hearty travelers, in the days before the existing roadway, mounted camels for the ride to the pyramids. Now, however, a car could merely keep to the blacktop and deposit passengers on the very doors
teps of the Great Pyramid.
The car slowed and came to halt prior to reaching the top of the plateau. The driver left the motor running, and Gil glanced curiously at Peter for explanations. Peter only smiled as two short blasts of the horn brought an Arab from the shadows to get into the car on the passenger side. The man turned and grinned as the car started once again up the hill. “Mohammed is our guide,” Peter said, introducing Gil to the swarthy gentleman who looked old enough to have been with the Carter excavations at Thebes. His wrinkled face became even more creased as he smiled wider to reveal completely toothless gums. “Mohammed once almost broke the six-minute record for reaching the top, but he's decided to take it a bit slower for us today. I told him you were a little out of condition. However, now that he can see what excellent shape you're in, he probably thinks I'm quite crazy. Right, Mohammed?” The old man nodded in reply, although it was doubtful he really understood what Peter said.
Gil now had a better view of the pyramids—impressive silhouettes against a dark sky that was only imperceptivity paling toward morning. As always, he was a little awed to see these mighty structures that had defied almost five thousand years of wear and tear, their originating civilization in total eclipse before Rome or the city-states of Greece were even conceptions in men's minds. They were a little battered and weather-worn, their outer veneers of limestone and granite stripped away so that once smooth and highly polished surfaces no longer reflected the glory and wealth of their creators, but nevertheless, of the total seven man-made structures labeled “wonders” by the people of the ancient world, these alone survived.
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