"Which brings us just where?” Gil asked suspiciously. He had to wait for his answer because of the waiter showing up to pour their tea.
"Peter told you about the conversation he and I had in my tent last night,” Abdul said, sipping from his cup. It was a statement of assumed fact. “You do see, however, how I couldn't possibly have refrained from making the offer to give you up, don't you?"
"I can't say as I do,” Gil said, wondering how Abdul could have offered to give up something (someone) that, whether he knew it or not, he'd never had in the first place.
"He saved my life,” Abdul said as if, surely, Gil could see the point he was trying to make. “If it was in my power to repay him, it was my duty to do so. He didn't want a monetary reward, so I felt obliged to offer him something he did want."
"It's my understanding that Peter wanted it so much that he refused your gracious offer point-blank,” Gil reminded.
"Of course, he refused,” Abdul surprisingly said. “I always suspected he would. In fact, I would have misjudged him, as a man and as an opponent, if he'd accepted. No real man likes to be handed something on a silver platter,” Abdul continued after another swallow of tea. “If something is worthwhile, its value is only enhanced by the intensity of the struggle to get it."
Gil put down his cup and folded his arms, eyeing Abdul over the small table that separated them. “Why is it that so many of our conversations make me feel as if you see me merely as some prize, or, worse, some kind of spoil of war to be won?"
"Life is a game,” Abdul said without hesitation. “Life is a war. It's man's nature to compete. It doesn't deplete your worth that you should suddenly find yourself the object of such competition. Actually, you should see it as the highest form of flattery."
"What I see,” Gil said, “is that I would prefer being less flattered and out of the competition completely. That is, of course, if there actually is one."
"I'm afraid you getting out is quite impossible, Gil. I really wish you could. So, I imagine, does Peter. It is, after all, not all that pleasant for a man to realize that something inside him—his attraction for another man, for instance—makes him less the master of himself than he would wish to be. You stating over and over until doomsday that you don't—or won't—succumb to seduction by either of us isn't going to change the way we feel. How much easier it would be for all of us if it could."
"There's no possibility of Peter's joining in any such competition!” Gil said; his voice was lowered so there was no chance of it being overheard by anyone but Abdul.
"Gil, Gil,” Abdul said, his voice chiding, his head shaking in disbelief. “It is your determination not to face all of the facts to the contrary that has me wondering if I haven't lost the battle for you already. It would not be a fair fight if Peter's intentions were not as clear as my own."
"There are no facts to the contrary, and Peter has no intentions regarding me!” Gil insisted, wondering if he were going to have to draw Abdul a picture to get the point across.
"There's no need whatsoever for you to run from any of this,” Abdul assured with a maddeningly consoling smile.
"I'm not running from anything,” Gil insisted, giving a short laugh that he hoped further emphasized just how ridiculous he thought that notion was.
"'Then fly betimes, for only they conquer love that run away.’ Thomas Carew, wasn't it?"
"I really do think that's my cue for an exit,” Gil said, placing his cup carefully back on its saucer.
"And aren't you the same handsome man who just told me you weren't running from anything?” Abdul asked with a knowing smile. Determined to prove what he'd previously said was valid, Gil picked up his cup and took another swallow of tea. “When I say, as I say now, that Peter is halfway in love with you, I'm not just saying that out of personal insight born of having had enough experience in love to recognize the symptoms in another man,” Abdul said, “although I certainly have had much experience with love.” He saw the faint smile playing on Gil's lips and recognized it for what it was. “I never once claimed to be a virgin, did I?” he said, matching Gil's smile with one of his own. “I wouldn't have insulted your intelligence by even attempting to deliver up that absurdity. It has, in fact, been my rather extensive experience with men and women from both our cultures that has allowed me to sort the quality from the quantity, recognizing excellence when I do come across it, no matter its gender.” Gil was in no way immune to the pointed flattery of this attractive man, and he nodded his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “I, too, was able to recognize a certain something between you and Peter from the beginning,” Abdul added.
"That's absurd!” Gil said. His cup was empty, but he didn't know whether or not he wanted to prolong the moment by pouring a refill. Abdul, with a sixth sense, reached for the pot and did the honors for him.
"I mentioned the possibility of your mutual attraction to Peter when he came over at the Hilton to talk about Hatshepsût,” Abdul said. He took a sip of tea, and there was a lengthy pause. “What he did,” Abdul continued, “was surprise me by laughing and telling me the two of you had just met in the museum. He then asked me if I was silly enough to believe him capable of love a first sight. I see immediately that you don't get the point,” Abdul said, as if he couldn't believe Gil was so shortsighted.
"Unfortunately, I do get the point,” Gil said, deciding that no revelations were forthcoming that were going to verify Peter's interest, as much as Gil might very much have liked to hear them. “If he were as interested in me as you profess, I doubt there would be a need for you to make explanations for him. If you were as interested as you profess, you'd forget about Peter Donas and get on with your own plan of seduction."
"Games, especially those of love, can often be hopelessly confusing, even when those involved know the guidelines,” Abdul said.
"We're not playing damned games!” Gil insisted. That Gil had spoken loudly enough to cause several people to look in their direction didn't much concern him at the moment. “So, if you'll excuse me...” he said, getting up.
"Let's get this all said now, shall we?” Abdul suggested, his velvety eyes sincerely pleading with Gil to be reasonable. “Despite what you think, it really should be discussed and put out in the open."
"I've got to unpack,” Gil said, remembering to thank the sheikh for the flowers before he headed back to his cabin.
Once seated on his bed, gazing at several bouquets of white gladioli left in the room, Gil was momentarily struck with a sudden fear that the steward had taken the lone orange rosebud out with the other flowers. He breathed an audile sigh of relief when he spotted it on the shelf below the porthole. He moved the flower to a more prominent place, wondering how he would have reacted if Peter had undeniably confessed undying love there in the Hilton lobby, instead of just making some mocking comment to Abdul about the rarity of love at first sight. If there was no point in dwelling on something that had never happened, it still left Gil curious as to why Abdul continued to be so insistent about Peter's emotional involvement. It made Gil wonder whether the sheikh was fantasizing the whole thing as way to booster his own ego. Maybe Abdul actually needed the sense of triumphing over another man before he could really find himself capable of getting caught up in one of his little games of seduction. If that was the case, Gil would be better off simply to tell the sheikh to look elsewhere. Gil did not think that he would ever, not now, not ever, look upon love as a game. Love was something much, much more than just that.
He sat until the ship began to sail, feeling a definite sense of being locked in a prison with a man he would just as soon have left in Cairo. It was only with the realization that he couldn't spend the whole time in his small cabin without going stir crazy that had him slip on his swimming trunks and robe, pick up the copy of the Archaeological American, which he still hadn't finished reading, and proceed to the sundeck. He should have known better than to think he was going to hide successfully in plain sight.
"May I
join you?” Abdul asked, having been to his cabin to change into bathing suit and robe. The bandage on his head was now no more than a simple flesh-colored Band-Aid. He actually waited for Gil's consent before pulling up the nearest deck chair. Gil mumbled something about it being a free world and went back to reading his magazine. Actually, he wasn't reading it, merely going over the same paragraph about six more times before he looked up, knowing as he did so that Abdul would be staring at him. Abdul smiled. Gil grunted, closed his magazine, laid back and shut his eyes.
"You're quite determined to say whatever you have to say, aren't you?” Gil remarked.
"It's only that I think there are matters that still need to be said,” Abdul affirmed.
"And you will persist if I tell you yet again that I don't want to hear them?” Abdul didn't answer, making Gil open his eyes and face him. “Well?” Gil challenged.
"It need only be said this once,” Abdul assured, the avuncular expression on his face making him appear as if he was merely out to give a rebellious nephew a dose of foul-tasting medicine that was for Gil's own good.
"I don't intend to spend the next few days running around looking for little nooks and crannies in which to hide,” Gil said, shutting his eyes again. “But don't expect me to thank you after you're through talking."
"Don't you think it would be easy enough for Peter to give a straight denial?” Abdul asked, jumping right in. Gil gave a low moan that actually sounded quite sexual. “Instead, he prefers making comments about how he just met you, or answering with another question, such as whether I really believe he could love at first sight. The real question is whether he believes it's possible. Do you know what he said when I told him I would give up my pursuit of you if that's what he wanted?” Gil refused to give Abdul the satisfaction of hearing that Gil was actually dying to know. This didn't keep the sheikh from answering his own question in the end. “He told me he could take care of his own love life without my assistance."
"I know someone else who has tried telling you that very same thing,” Gil said, turning his face away. “You do a lot better if you learned to take simple hints, instead of waiting to be bonked over the head with a sledgehammer."
"Peter gave me a bunch of diversionary claptrap about how you preferred me to him,” Abdul continued, “and how that said it all. I told him it didn't say anything, but he still wouldn't be pinned down."
"Which all proves nothing,” Gil said, lifting himself to face Abdul once again. “Maybe Peter rightfully figured it was none of your damned business and decided to play games of his own in order to pay you back for butting in where you shouldn't have had your nose in the first place.” Gil was anxious to hear what retort Abdul had to that.
"Would you say he was very pleased to see me when I showed up at the pyramids to invite you both to lunch?” was Abdul's counter thrust.
"The minute you mentioned your falcon, his eyes just lit up like a Christmas tree,” Gil reminded.
"I mean, before I mentioned the falcon,” Abdul said. “How about when he came over to find the two of us talking? Would you say he was overjoyed to see me?” He didn't wait for a reply. “I'd say that he was anything but pleased. He churlishly insinuated I must have gone to a good deal of bother to find you.” He smiled. “Which, by the way, I had."
"He changed his tune fast enough when you mentioned Hatshepsût would be out there in the desert waiting for him!” Gil reminded.
"As I remember it, he did no such thing,” Abdul contradicted. “You changed your mind. He was saying something about how you probably shouldn't overdo things, and you popped up with how seldom it was a man got asked for a ride and a lunch by an attractive desert sheikh."
"Are you telling me, he wasn't extremely eager to see your falcon being flown?” Gil challenged. He waited for Abdul to try and feed that lie.
"I'm merely noting that, when put to the test of making the actual decision, Peter chose you and not the bird,” Abdul recalled for the both of them. “You reversed his decision, after which, assuming as he and I both did, that you were pleased by the idea of sharing my company, he proceeded to sulk most of the afternoon, growing really despondent when he found us kissing in the Serapeum. Hardly the response of someone completely pleased with having suddenly found himself in the company of me and the falcon, wouldn't you agree?"
"That doesn't mean anything,” Gil replied, egotistically wanting to believe each and every word. “It's nothing but pure conjecture."
"And finding him here with his rose could certainly give rise to even more interesting conjecture,” Abdul went on. “Don't even begin trying to tell me he was pleased at my intrusion this time around, let alone overjoyed that I would soon be on a cruise with you.” Gil laughed nervously. He knew he was hearing what he probably wanted to hear, and he was scared that if he took all of this too seriously, he would be giving himself an excuse for eventually doing something horribly foolish.
"Look, Gil,” Abdul said, “I don't mind competition—in lust, in love, or in any other venue. In fact, I'm admittedly better in the face of it.” Once again Gil wondered whether Abdul might be trying to make Peter seem a more formidable rival than he really was. “What I don't want is a victory wherein Gil Goldsands someday looks back and questions how it might have been if ... if he had responded a little differently to Peter, if he'd been a little more astute in reading the signs Peter was sending, if he'd just given himself and Peter a little more of a chance to make a go of it. I'm confident I can beat Peter, here and now, but I don't want to have to do battle with his memory at some later date; memories come armed with an arsenal that doesn't give a flesh-and-blood man much of a chance. I can tell you that from very bitter experience.” The statement piqued Gil's curiosity, but Abdul didn't elaborate. “Do you hear what I'm trying to say?” the sheikh asked. “If I lose, I lose. It won't be the first time, even if it probably will be one of my most painful defeats. If I win, I want it to be because I was the man you really wanted. However, I could never be truly convinced of that as long as you were determined to keep your head buried in the sand concerning Peter's feelings for you and yours for him."
"I think you're mistaken about Peter and about me,” Gil said, trying to convince himself that that was what he really did think, “but I promise I'll give the matter serious thought. Satisfied?"
"That's all I ask,” Abdul said with a wide smile. He slipped his robe off his broad shoulders and dropped it in the chair on the other side of the one he was using. His body was tightly muscled and was displayed to excellent advantage in a skimpy European bathing suit that would have been more at home on the Riviera. The suit was a bright orange that contrasted attractively with the natural darkness of his skin. Gil immediately observed that the sheikh's pectoral muscles were exceptionally well-developed; Peter's were less so. His navel was deeply indented; Peter's was but a slight depression. There was a swath of hair across the top of his chest that funneled downward over his stomach to disappear beneath his swimsuit; Peter's torso was hairless by comparison. Abdul's skin was marred in several places by scars; Peter's skin had seemed flawless when he'd stripped off his bloodied shirt in that desert tent.
"Ah, I've miscalculated, haven't I?” the sheikh said, startling Gil into thinking Abdul was about to reverse what he had just said concerning the possibility of a relationship between Peter and Gil. That wasn't, though, Abdul's intention. “I've just revealed my aces in the hole,” he said, shaking his head at what he could pretend was a major faux pas. “Something I usually do only after first enticing a handsome young man up to my room."
"Your battle scars, you mean?” Gil asked in a moment of amused lucidity, at the same time realizing he wasn't in the least repulsed by them. Actually, they seemed an intricate part of the Arab's strong and handsome body.
"Bullet wound,” Abdul said, lifting his left leg so Gil could see the small circle made on the inside of the thigh and the puckered asterisk where the bullet had exploded out the tissue on the other side. “Knife
wound,” he said, his fingers tracking the fine line that ran from his right side to a position on his stomach.
"Another knife?” Gil asked, indicating the scar that stood out like a small check mark on the sheikh's left hip. Gil had touched his finger to his own hip instead of to Abdul's in order to pinpoint the location off the scar to which he was referring.
"A skiing accident in Saint-Moritz,” Abdul confessed. His fingers ran downward to a spot almost invisible in the hair at the top of his waistband. “A car accident at LeMans."
"Why do I get the impression you're accident-prone?” Gil asked, flashing a wide smile after Abdul had pointed out several other past wounds, these so healed as to be almost unnoticeable. “Could it be because of all the evidence?"
"Actually, I merely push everything I do to the limit,” Abdul said. “There's an exhilaration I experience whenever I push myself as far as I can possibly go, or push an automobile or an animal I'm riding to its fullest potential. Unfortunately, I've been know to misjudge on occasion.” His smile was attractive, his teeth exceptionally white in the sunlight, startling against the blackness of his mustache and neatly trimmed beard. Gil noticed another scar, crescent-shaped, on the sheikh's lower neck. He was going to ask about it when a slight torque of Abdul's muscled body drew Gil's attention elsewhere. “I picked this up in Maracaibo,” Abdul said, his fingers gently outlining a burn scar across the top of his left shoulder. Gil hadn't spotted the mark until the sheikh had turned it toward him. “We were fighting an oil-well fire—three of them, as a matter of fact, all set off by one freak arc of lightning."
"You were fighting well fires in Maracaibo?” Gil asked, wondering if he had really heard correctly. “Venezuela?"
"None other,” Abdul verified. “I spent some time with Darrel Crane, best hell-fighter in the business."
"Hell-fighter?” Gil echoed, although the word in context really made no further explanation necessary.
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