He ordered food from room service, hardly touching the two veal cutlets, the green salad, or the half bottle of the local red wine. After that, he went to bed, figuring he was more than ready for a rest. He was wrong: he found himself unable to sleep, no matter how hard he tried. He blamed it on the sound of the traffic, though it was no more raucous than it had been on any other night. The real problem, of course, remained Peter Donas, whom Gil couldn't get out of his mind. Gil went over and over the happenings of the day and evening: Peter's early-morning phone call; Peter on the pyramid; Peter at sunrise, reciting love poetry; Peter kissing and wanting sex with Gil; Peter more interested in a falcon than in spending the rest of the day with Gil; Peter walking in on Gil and Abdul kissing; Gil struck dumb by the thought that Peter might end up dead. Then, Peter's utter stupidity on the ride back to the hotel....
Gil was glad he was going to have a few days on the ship to himself. He needed that time to sort out his thoughts, and sort out his confused emotions; none of which seemed prepared to come together for him, then and there. He hoped that when he disembarked at that distant spot up the Nile, he would have a better idea of how all this really affected his life, if it affected it at all. He missed those days when everything had seemed more clear-cut, when he had known exactly who he was—Gil Goldsands, chubby archaeologist with combed-back hair and eyeglasses, and had known what he wanted—a better physique, professionally styled hair, corrective eye surgery, and a long-lasting position of respect among his peers within the scientific community. He longed for a return to those good old days, simultaneously fearing that nostalgia had a definite way of erasing bad aspects and reinforcing good ones. Whether it was a lie or not that he had been completely happy in his world before hearing that Peter Donas would be at the dig at Hierakonpolis, he wasn't happy now. Lying there in bed, he remembered how Peter had looked at Hatshepsût as if the bird could do no wrong, even when the falcon had let one of the pigeons outmaneuver her. Yet, Peter had been so quick to condemn Gil for just one simple kiss from Abdul. Like the bird's error, Gil's, too, had been only a mistake in timing. Gil wasn't the least pleased that he continued to care that Peter didn't care. Peter wasn't the kind of man Gil should have allowed into his life, and Gil had been a fool for having thrown caution to the wind to play with emotional fire. Peter Donas was too tied up within Gil's possibly unnatural childhood fantasies for Gil not to get burned if not careful.
Even if Gil didn't believe in reincarnation, and he didn't think he did, there was no denying he was his mother's son; no denying his mother was the daughter of Geraldine Fowler, no denying there had been a passing on of genes from one generation to the next. If Geraldine had begun the scrapbook on Frederic Donas, it had been Gil's mother who had added other bits and pieces on the Donas clan. Gil had taken up the same duty as if it had been a religious ritual. He was now in Egypt, like a swallow that had finally returned home to Capistrano—if a couple of generations late.
"I am not Geraldine Fowler!” he said aloud, throwing back his covers and getting out of bed. He began to pack, needing something to occupy his time and mind. Unfortunately, he had long ago gotten down the knack of packing, and he was soon back to lying in bed, thinking, thinking, thinking.
Finally, feeling anything but good about it, he took a firm hold of his cock and jerked it off, feeling even worse when his accompanying fantasies, all of the way to orgasm, were of what might have happened atop that pyramid with Peter—if Gil had only had the guts to let it happen.
When he finally did sleep, he dreamed of Peter's kisses on warm desert nights, of Peter desperately wanting sex atop pyramids and everywhere and anywhere else; Gil, in the dream, having no doubt whatsoever that he wanted sex with Peter, too. When that mutually desired sex was about to happen, though, both of them naked and sporting erections that neither could believe to be so large and so hard, a hawk, very much like Hatshepsût only a thousand times bigger, swooped down to carry Peter away, leaving Gil simultaneously frustrated and relieved—frustrated that Peter had been whisked off without fucking or being fucked; relieved that Gil had been saved from the meaninglessness of making love with yet one more man who didn't love him and whom Gil didn't love in return.
CHAPTER SIX
"OH, OF COURSE ... MR. GOLDSANDS. Welcome aboard the Osiris,” the ship's official greeter greeted, having met Gil at the head of the gangway where he took Gil's ticket. He wore a standard business suit, in lieu of a uniform; Gil would soon learn that the rest of the Egyptian crew, even the captain, just wore typical galabias. “Your only bag?” the smiling Arab asked, motioning toward the suitcase in possession of the porter who had trailed Gil onboard.
"Yes,” Gil admitted, turning to take care of the porter for his services while keeping out an additional Egyptian pound for the young man called on over to escort Gil to his cabin.
"If there's anything I can do to make your trip more interesting or enjoyable, Mr. Goldsands,” the greeter said before turning Gil completely over to the steward, “please don't hesitate to let me know.” Gil found the thought nice enough but imagined the offer had been honed to its present perfection only because it had been practiced on so many tourists who had boarded this particular Hilton-hotel-owned vessel since its maiden voyage. German-built, the ship had none of the atmosphere of the old paddle steamers that once plied the river to be immortalized in the movie version of Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile, but it was far better equipped to handle the demands of twenty-first century tourists who considered roughing it as a bathroom two doors down the hall. The 270-foot ship was streamlined on the outside, in contrast to the newer but more blockish cruise ships operated by the Sheraton Hotel chain. Painted blue and white, with three decks, the Osiris had conveniences that included air-conditioning, dining room, bar, boutique, game room, sun deck, and swimming pool.
Whether Gil's cabin was comfortable was a little hard to tell at first glance. Less difficult to discern was that it was certainly too small for the profusion of flowers that overflowed it. They were everywhere—on the bed, on the floor, on the shelf that ran beneath the porthole. There was a bouquet propped in the open door of the bathroom and another on the closed toilet seat. Gladioli—all-white and more expensive than roses in Egypt. The steward looked lost as to where he was supposed to put Gil's bag in a room that was already too full. Gil moved a couple of the larger arrangements to one side, damaging more than one flower in the process, and instructed his bag be dropped into the provided space. When the door shut behind the steward, Gil felt as if he had somehow been left in a one-kind-of-flora-only jungle. He couldn't possibly leave things as crowded as they were, although he was reluctant to begin simply chucking flowers out the porthole. They were exceptionally beautiful, and they had cost someone a bundle.
He had immediately thought Peter must have realized how obnoxious he had been and had decided to make flowery amends. Although Peter had obviously gone all out, Gil wasn't sure it was enough. Some things couldn't be rectified with the mere wave of a bulging pocketbook in the face of a florist only too delighted to get the business.
I'm looking forward to our next few days together! was what was written on the all-inclusive card that Gil finally found stuck underneath the edge of one vase. So, had Peter actually decided to come along? Or, was his note in reference to “upcoming” days at Hierakonpolis? What Gil felt when confronted by the prospect of that first possibility was the very same he felt just prior to any first descent on a roller coaster; he savored the idea of what he might be about to experience while dreading it just the same. Peter seemed to delight in putting Gil off-balance, first by showing up at the Egyptian Museum, now by maybe showing up on board the Osiris. If Gil had been hard pressed to avoid Peter in a city of millions, he had very little hope for success in a world suddenly telescoped to less than two hundred passengers on a cruise ship. He was still at somewhat of a loss when he answered the knock at the door to find Peter standing there.
"Hi,” Peter said, looking decidedly sh
eepish, a little embarrassed and totally handsome. “I've brought a peace offering.” He extended the small crystal bud-vase and its one long-stemmed orange rosebud. “I was insufferably rude,” he said, “and I didn't think I should let you have the next few days to brood over how badly I acted, considering we're going to have to work together for two months. So, take pity, please, on this poor inconsiderate bastard, will you? I was merely acting like a jealous fool and had no right whatsoever to presume so much.” He shuffled his feet uneasily and smiled a smile that would have charmed the Devil. “That rosebud reminded me of the sunrise,” he said, nodding toward the flower Gil now held in his hand. “And all sunrises must remind me of you, after our greeting the morning atop the Great Pyramid.” There was no denying his personal apology carried far more impact that a whole shipload of flowers. “Well,” Peter concluded. “What do you say?"
"Why don't you give me a minute to think about it?” Gil answered and smelled the rose which had a delicate and genuinely pleasant aroma.
"Maybe I could wait out that minute in your cabin rather than out here in the hallway?” Peter suggested as two people passed behind him and pushed him to the point where only the sudden placing of his hands against the doorjamb kept him and Gil from touching. “Embarkations and disembarkations always seem to find ship's passageways exceptionally busy,” he commented; Gil laughed. “I guarantee I'll keep my hands to myself,” Peter promised.
"Oh, I trust you!” Gil replied. Peter's resulting strange smile seemed to ask Gil to please not be too trusting. Peter was, after all, still a red-blooded man, and Gil was no less sexually desirable than the last time they'd met up. “I'm afraid you've left very little room in here for me, let alone for you and me,” Gil said, stepping back and opening the door wider so Peter could get a better look at the flowers amassed inside. Gil could tell by the expression on Peter's face that it had been the wrong thing to do. Gil had inadvertently spoiled a very nice moment. “Let me guess,” Gil divined, trying for levity he didn't feel. “You're not the Santa Claus who dropped all of these down my chimney."
"I came to express apologies, not sink the Titanic with gladioli,” Peter answered, the same edge creeping into his voice that Gil had heard there the previous night. Damn, how Gil hated hearing it!
"Well, if this isn't like homecoming week!” Abdul said, sauntering down the hallway and catching sight of Peter still standing outside Gil's open doorway.
"Santa Claus arrives!” Peter said, turning to Gil after having noted Abdul on the way. The look he gave Gil accompanied the dropping of an invisible barrier between them.
"This really is quite nice,” Abdul said, joining them. His bandage, smaller than the one he'd been wearing the night before, was partially concealed beneath his cloth headdress. “Has Peter decided to join the two of us on our little cruise, then?” he asked with a wide smile, taking Peter's hand, which hadn't been offered, and shaking it.
"You're heading upstream, too, are you?” Peter asked, setting his mouth in a hard line.
"My cabin is way down the corridor,” Abdul said, in surprisingly good humor, considering someone had tried to murder him so recently. “I figured there was no sense in setting too many tongues wagging by pitching my camp right next door. I hope you were equally as discreet, Peter."
"Rather sudden, isn't it?” Peter asked, “this decision of yours to see the Nile from the deck of a cruise ship?” He turned to nail Gil with an accusatory stare. “Or is it?"
Gil understood just what Peter was insinuating, and he resented his implications. Gil hadn't known anything about this, and Peter thinking that he did was fucking petty. If Gil had been looking forward to anyone joining him for the next few days, it had been Peter. It was, however, obvious that Peter wouldn't buy that even if Gil had been trying to sell it. Gil certainly wasn't going to risk the humiliation of making any such statement only to have Peter toss it back in his face.
"I mentioned I had business in Upper Egypt, didn't I?” Abdul said. “The excellent company I knew I could find on this cruise ship made it the logical choice of transportation, yes? I mean, the three of us should get along famously."
"I know this is going to come as a big disappointment to you,” Peter answered, his words dripping sarcasm, “but I'm not a passenger."
"No?” Abdul replied, sounding as if he hadn't realized that at all. “I'm afraid I merely assumed that since we were all heading in the same direction...."
"Well, you assumed wrong!” Peter injected into the pause. “I'm staying on in Cairo for a few more days before taking the train south."
"If it's merely a case of some Hilton bureaucrat telling you there are no cabins available, I'm sure I could persuade someone to find you something,” Abdul volunteered magnanimously.
"If I wanted a cabin, I'm sure I could bribe my own way on board, thank you,” Peter said with no small degree of coldness.
"Of course,” Abdul conceded. “I only thought—"
"I know what you thought,” Peter interrupted. “And, please, quit being so anxious to give me a sporting chance at Gil when I don't want or need one. I have no intentions whatsoever of making your little love-boat ride anything more complicated that the two of you might have originally expected it to be. Bon voyage to the both of you!"
"See you in a few days, then!” Abdul called after Peter who was already down the hallway. He turned to Gil, who was feeling embarrassed, furious and—yes—disappointed, all at the same time. “I really do like him,” Abdul said, “even if I don't think he knows it. Like him, I might add, quite aside from the fact that I owe him my life."
Peter wasn't the only one who would have questioned Abdul's sincerity in the present circumstances, and Gil was prepared to let him know as much. “You didn't really think he was booked for passage, did you?” he said, although it wasn't quite a question.
"Why do you say that?” Abdul asked. If he wasn't genuinely surprised by the suggestion, he was certainly putting on a good act. “It would have been the logical thing for him to do, wouldn't it? I mean, I moved to book passage as soon as I found out you would be on board. I certainly wouldn't underestimate my rival's wherewithal in having done the same, believe me."
"I'm not a mare to be fought over by two stallions!” Gil shot back, perturbed at Peter for having once again made wrong assumptions and for storming off like a spoiled brat. And he was angry at Abdul for having shown up to turn sour something that had been more than a little pleasurable. “Furthermore, I don't know where you get off calling Peter your rival when it's obvious he doesn't have the faintest interest in me in the way you seem to think."
"Oh?” Abdul said, reaching out to run a finger down the stem of the orange rosebud still in Gil's hand. “All I heard was a very confident man saying he didn't need me to give him a sporting chance at you.” His fingers came delicately to rest atop the flower. “A rather nice touch, this one rose, wouldn't you agree? One that I rather wish I'd thought of myself, instead of going in for overkill,” he added, stretching to get a better view of the clutter of white gladioli behind Gil. “I'd forgotten just how cramped these ship cabins can be. Peter obviously didn't. You see how it wouldn't pay for me to underestimate him?” If he would have paused for just a second, Gil would have been glad to explain how the rose was intended as a peace offering to make up for Peter's nastiness the previous night, nastiness pretty much repeated but seconds before. “Besides, when I asked him, it seemed very clear he wanted to bed you,” Abdul said, “even if there does appear to be a communication problem between the two of you."
"You asked him?” Gil didn't believe that for a minute.
"You mean, you haven't?” Abdul queried. “It's always seemed to me that asking a direct question and getting a direct answer are a lot better than wasting time guessing. That guessing has obviously gotten the two of you a bit confused, hasn't it?"
A steward tried to pass Abdul in the corridor, and Abdul grabbed him by the arm and gently directed him toward Gil's cabin, simultaneo
usly pulling out a couple of crumpled Egyptian bills. “Here, young man, do us all a big favor and take enough of these flowers out of this gentleman's cabin so that he can at least find the toilet to take a piss. Meanwhile,” Abdul said, turning back to Gil, “why don't you let go of Peter's lovely rose long enough for us to have a little talk in the lounge? I really think it might be wise to clear the air between us at the beginning of the trip so we can start our next few days without any undefined feelings between us. What do you think?"
Gil did as asked, following Abdul down the corridor, up the stairs and into the lounge area. Other passengers, mostly middle-age tourists, were sitting at the windows nearest the shore. Abdul preferred the comparative privacy offered by chairs on the opposite side of the room. He motioned for Gil to sit and followed suit. Their arrival immediately brought a waiter, who asked if they wanted anything to drink. Abdul ordered tea. “I'm hoping to make my pilgrimage to Mecca one day soon,” he told Gil when Gil said he would have tea, too. “For that, I've decided to abstain from all alcoholic beverages, as prescribed by Islam. That doesn't mean that you have to do likewise."
"Tea is fine,” Gil assured, finding it too early for liquor, even though most of his fellow passengers didn't seem to think so.
"I'm actually quite fond of booze,” Abdul said, settling back in his chair, pyramiding his fingertips beneath his chin. “I have Muslim friends who are fond of it, yet they, also, want to boast of having made the pilgrimage to Mecca. They give up drinking alcohol for maybe a month or so before going, and then they start up as soon as they get back. I think the pilgrimage should mean far more than just being able to say you've been, don't you?"
"Yes,” Gil said, meaning it. He'd known a few hypocrites in his time, too.
"It's never wise to fool yourself,” Abdul said. “You do agree with that, too, don't you?"
"Of course."
"'To thine own self be true,'” Abdul said. “Very perceptive man, that Shakespeare."
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