Goldsands

by William Maltese

  "That would be nice, wouldn't it?” Gil had to agree, wondering what the chances were of it ever happening if Peter went back to England for Uncle George's dying.

  The low hills to their left blocked most of the early-morning light, keeping the road and car in chilly shadow. They passed several fires, bundles of humanity gathered around them, on the roadside; there was an early bus due, and those waiting had sought protection from a cold morning as best they could.

  About forty-five minutes later, they slowed for the first of the roadblocks between Idu and Aswân. Oil barrels had been set up to funnel all traffic into one lane, and soldiers inspected license plates and occupants as the cars drove by. There was seldom a request for anyone to come to a complete stop. A wave onward was what Gil and Peter received from a military man who looked a little weary after his night watch. His fellow soldiers, all with automatic weapons, looked no less tired than he did.

  The sun, finally out from hiding, was a large orange disk seen through a dense haze of brown dust and sand that masked its full burning potential. Stars could still be seen at the far western curve of the sky, resting there amid the last blackness to dissolve.

  "Shall we come right out and ask Abdul if he's had anything to do with the missing mace-head fragment?” Gil asked. He spotted several hawks circling in the distance and wondered if one was Phoenix.

  "Well, I myself don't see that he'll ever fess up to any responsibility, even if he's confronted head-on,” Peter commented. “Why should he? There's nothing but conjecture linking him to the theft. He's not going to be too anxious to put himself in the role of villain in front of the man he loves."

  If Abdul had nothing to do with the missing fragment, Gil hated any endangerment of their friendship that might result from insinuating he had. Abdul was a good friend and had been one from the beginning. Even his giving the falcon to Peter had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Gil should likely be on his way to thank him, not to accuse him of having something to do with the theft of an artifact the sheikh had never seemed to find all that impressive.

  "We don't have to say anything about the missing fragment if you don't want to,” Peter proposed, obviously attuned to Gil's thoughts. “We can say we stopped by to see him for the day and leave it at that. Maybe the piece will show up somewhere around the house.” Both of them doubted that, since the whole group had been over the residence with a fine-toothed comb.

  "Let's play it by ear,” Gil suggested. He wished the fragment had turned up, somehow having been innocently misplaced. It might never lead to headlines, but it was worth a paragraph or two in some archaeological journal. While Gil had plenty of witnesses to swear that the piece wasn't a mere figment of his imagination, there was no proof like having the thing in hand. All the sworn testimony in the world, all the verifying sketches, didn't alter the fact that it was gone.

  They stopped at Kom Ombo with its impressive temple on an acropolis-like jutting of rocky cliff overlooking the right bank of the Nile. The temple was unique in that it had been dedicated not to one god but two: Sebek, the crocodile god, and Horus, the hawk-headed master of the sun. A colonnaded court, hypostyle hall, and antechamber led to two doors, beyond which were two precincts and two naos, or inner sanctums. One of the outer buildings housed a pile of mummified crocodiles stacked like cordwood. The relative newness of the buildings, dating only from Ptolemaic and Roman times, made them less interesting to Gil and Peter than ruins of some earlier date. However, the stop allowed a stretch of legs, a few stolen kisses, and a you-stroke-my-dick-and-I'll-stroke-yours mutual masturbation session behind a convenient pillar.

  Half an hour and two roadblocks later, they were in Aswân, the river on their right, the town climbing up the pink hills on their left. They drove the korneish to the Cataract Hotel, which, for half a century, had been a favorite spa of wintering European nobility. It sat on a hill that gave a fantastic view of the Nile, its porch open to the breeze and offering an Old World elegance that sharply contrasted with the modern high-rise New Cataract Hotel that adjoined it.

  Feluccas, shallow-bottomed boats little changed since the time of Christ, with large triangular sails unfurled, skimmed the water just offshore. Downstream, the launch from the Oberoi Hotel was making its journey from Elephantine Island to the mainland; the motorized craft, for the island's hotel patrons, was designed to resemble one of Cleopatra's famous Nile barges. Peter bargained with several felucca owners, feeling lucky that he spoke Arabic and had a rough idea of what reasonable rental rates should be. Even with spending three times what would have been necessary just two years earlier for a similar boat trip, he was still getting off easy; unwary tourists could pay more for the use of these simple conveyances than they'd pay to ride Venice gondolas. “I told him to sail around the islands before docking,” Peter said, motioning for Gil to climb aboard. Within seconds, they were off, sliding across water that always flowed north into a wind that always blew south. If Gil couldn't help thinking about the telephone call that might occur at any moment, he still enjoyed these extra minutes with Peter. It was pleasant on the water, and he was lost in that special serenity of being under sail. It was enjoyable turning to the wind and having his hair ruffled while Peter snuggled close to fight off the chill. Their course paralleled Elephantine, the biggest of the islands, taking them by the Isle of Amûn, with its strands of sturdy date palms, and then passed Kitchener Island, named after the British lord who had achieved his glory farther south at Khartoum. Kitchener Island was now a botanical garden where agronomists tested plants for possible extensive cultivation on the banks of Lake Nasser. On it, visible from the boat but so far fruitless for want of a substantial rainfall, were some of the few coconut palms to be seen in all of Egypt.

  Neither the massive 3600-meter High Dam, nor the smaller old dam, could be seen as the felucca made its final glide toward the sheikh's villa. The boat tipped precariously in a move designed to bring it more smoothly to the waiting dock. Water splashed over the side, and Peter laughed at Gil's frantic and unsuccessful automatic response to escape getting wet. Peter had a wondrous laugh and looked so exceptionally handsome that Gil found physically painful even the though of living a life without him.

  The welcoming committee on the private dock was even more extensively armed than Gil remembered. Abdul, who'd been watching their approach with high-powered binoculars from the veranda, since obviously having been informed that a felucca was maneuvering for docking, was quick to join them. “What a pleasant surprise!” he insisted, reaching for Gil's hand and helping him disembark. “I was just thinking about the two of you this morning.” He shook Peter's hand and immediately directed them up the stairs that led to the villa above.

  "We decided to take the day off and stop by on the off-chance you'd be home,” Gil said, wondering if he wouldn't have preferred Abdul not being there. There were plenty of hotel rooms in Aswân, surely one of which might have been available for.... He consciously thrust such thoughts aside. Going to bed with Peter one more time wasn't going to solve anything, wasn't going to hold them together any longer; it would probably have only made things worse by driving home how empty Gil's life was going to be without him.

  "I'm so pleased you came,” Abdul said as they topped the stairs. He waved them toward chairs in sunshine not as uncomfortable as it later would be. “I've wanted to get back to see you, but things have become more hectic than usual around here as of late."

  "We see your helicopter fly over Hierakonpolis ever so often, and we wave,” Peter said, actually sounding as grateful as he actually was for Abdul not dropping from the sky more regularly. While the sheikh always seemed to keep Gil's best interests at heart, certainly never having been anything but fair in his dealings with Peter, there was no denying the Arab obviously still cared more for Gil than any mere friend would.

  "I've ordered hot carcadet,” Abdul said. “There's always tea or coffee, if you prefer. Even fruit juice, for that matter.” They told him carcadaet was fi
ne, and he asked them if they had come across any more monumental finds like the last one. He voiced his question with such seeming innocence that Gil didn't take the perfect opportunity to mention that the monumental find in question was presently missing. Peter followed Gil's lead and let the subject pass, both aided and abetted by the sudden arrival of the warm red drink that resembled grenadine but had a flavor all its own. The servant poured.

  I suppose you've heard I freed the falcon,” Peter said, deciding it was best to get that out of the way. Abdul, of course, would have already heard; the appalled trainer would have told him. “I hope you don't find that terribly ungrateful,” Peter added.

  "Of course not,” Abdul replied, his smile full of understanding. “I knew you would free it all along. It was Gil who insisted upon playing Doubting Thomas.” His smile widened, as much as telling Gil that Abdul certainly understood what might have led to any misconception to the contrary, the sheikh at the same time insinuating that he was genuinely pleased Gil could now see how Abdul had been right from the beginning. “Actually, the bird seemed ill-disposed to captivity. That is always a problem with a haggard, isn't it? All of which reminds me,” he said, putting his cup and saucer on the glass-topped table between them, “that I have something to give you before I forget."

  "Please tell me you've not hidden that gold-vertebrae neck piece in the carcadet!” Gil said with a roll of his eyes that sent everyone into laughter.

  "You'll have to wait until they read my will to get the neck piece, now, my handsome young man,” Abdul answered, his dark eyes made more velvety by the increasing morning sunlight; Peter's eyes were made more golden. “This is something I won't have to convince you to take, believe me.” He left them, Gil looking curiously at Peter, who delivered a let's-wait-and-see shrug. Abdul returned shortly and handed Gil the suddenly materialized fragment of Scorpion mace head. “I'm afraid my borrowing this did absolutely no good for you whatsoever with my contacts in Cairo,” Abdul said. If he was aware of their surprise, he pretended not to be. “Those bureaucrats seem to think there's little value to be had in anything that doesn't sparkle like gold and dent like gold when you bite it. That doesn't mean you still might not rustle up some support for your project. As a matter of act, I rather think you'd be more apt to have people listen to you than they listened to me, since you're the professionals. I merely stumbled around when asked questions such as ‘Sheikh Jerada, does this fragment's Middle Eastern stylistic motifs offer further proof regarding predynastic invasions of the Nile Valley?’ Do either of you have the foggiest notion what that means?"

  "A question possibly more relevant to the Narmer palette than to the Scorpion mace head,” Gil replied, hoping to get his thoughts in order while reciting facts and figures that came automatically. Having Abdul so nonchalantly produce the fragment was the last thing Gil had expected. “The Narmer palette was found by the same expedition that located the Scorpion mace head that's now at Oxford,” he went on. “The mace head and palette, found at basically the same time and in the same vicinity, were possibly part of the same cache. The preponderance of fantasy animals of the type used in the art styles of Sumeria and Elam, and carved upon the palette and on several items turned up there, has some authorities theorizing that Egypt's early spurt of development may have been spurred by invaders from the more urbane societies of the Iranian plateau and Mesopotamia."

  "Well, you see there!” Abdul replied, as if Gil had somehow solved the riddle of the Sphinx. “I hadn't a cue. Therefore, I suggest you run this fragment up to the National Archaeological Treasure Bureau in Cairo, first chance you get, and ask for Dr. Ramin Abuseer. If you can convince him of the artifact's genuine importance, he'll put all the necessary paperwork and machinery into motion in order for you to have the site isolated for further possibly just-as-important extractions."

  "Actually, we're rather pleased to see that bit of stone,” Peter said. If he'd been going to hold off, he apparently saw little point in doing so now, since Abdul had brought up the subject. “We, believe it or not, thought it had been stolen."

  "Stolen?” Abdul responded on cue, engaging in a bit of how-surprising ham acting. “How did you come to think it had been stolen? Didn't my man Karoon explain?"

  "None of us saw your man Karoon,” Peter said.

  "Surely, he didn't just walk on it and take it without your permission?” Abdul looked duly shocked.

  "Apparently he did,” Gil admitted. He still wasn't sure what he should think about all this.

  "Well, that's unacceptable!” Abdul said. “I had assumed ... well, it's obvious what I assumed, isn't it? I'd call him in right now to explain if I hadn't sent him to Cairo on business. You may rest assured, though, that I'll take him to task for whatever the obvious breakdown in communication."

  "Undoubtedly just a breakdown in communication,” Peter echoed and didn't bother voicing the other obvious explanation.

  "But the important thing is that you have your fragment back, safe and sound, isn't it?” Abdul said, preparing to pour them each more carcadet.

  "What I really think the sheikh is trying to tell us, Gil,” Peter intuitively began, likely figuring nothing ventured, nothing gained, “is that his drilling operation at Hierakonpolis has struck oil, and we could take the fragment to any authority, offer conclusive arguments for the importance of it and similar fragments, and still not get access to the area."

  Abdul handled himself like a pro, not faltering as he filled each cup. At the conclusion, he picked up his newly filled cup and its saucer and balanced both on his knee. He took a swallow of the liquid, looked at each of his guests in turn and smiled. “Security prevents my confirming or denying any recent drilling successes or failures,” he said. He appeared on the verge of saying more—Peter probably had more to say, too; Gil certainly did—but they were interrupted. Immediately, Gil recognized the newcomer's hate-filled stare. “Ah, but it does seems as if this is a morning for unexpected visitors!” Abdul proclaimed, Gil's shift of attention having drawn Peter's gaze to Rashid al-Hidda. Rashid was still the same malevolent gnome Gil remembered from their run-in in the villa at three o'clock that one morning. “If you'll excuse me for a few moments,” Abdul said apologetically, coming to his feet, “My astrologer calls with undoubtedly more bad news of catastrophes I can expect on my immediate horizon.” He shrugged as if his momentary departure was designed merely to humor the withered old man. He disappeared into the villa, Rashid al-Hidda drawn in his wake.

  "If looks could kill!” Peter said; it had been obvious that Rashid hadn't been too fond of the scenario he'd encountered on the veranda.

  "Isn't that the truth!” Gil admitted, feeling another chill reminiscent of those experienced upon first meeting the old fart. “He can't stand Westerners.” He tried a sunny smile on for size and found it didn't quite fit. “He sees us in general—Abdul's lovers and potential lovers in particular—as bad influences on Arab men in general—on Abdul in particular."

  Gil took another swallow of his carcadet, deciding he'd had enough of Rashid al-Hidda to last a life time. Actually, he'd had more than enough of him the first time it had been Gil's misfortune to confront him. “Do you really think they've struck oil at Hierakonpolis?” he asked, directing the conversation back to a subject he found of far more interest.

  "Of course they have,” Peter answered, sounding more convinced than before. “If we ever had a chance of getting excavation rights to the area immediately around that well, we certainly don't have the chance of a snowball in hell of getting it now. Even if we had a piece of discovered-there solid gold to wave around by way of enticement, it's highly unlikely anyone would want us prowling around a producing oil well. Abdul acted in a logical—but very opportunistic—manner by staying away from us at Hierakonpolis for so bloody long, in seeming respect for our privacy. Obviously, good manners weren't his only motivation for not dropping in on us from the sky more often. Hell, if his man had actually walked in, unannounced, and taken that fragmen
t from us without a by-your-leave, Abdul would be coming down on top of him like a falcon swooping for prey. It wouldn't make a feather's difference if the man was in Cairo at the moment or not."

  Gil sat back, balancing his cup and saucer. “You know, it's funny, but none of this really comes out making me like him any less,” he said. “Like, as a friend,” he clarified further, certainly not wanting to be misunderstood on that point at this point. “Even though, it probably should.” He was remembering how desperately Abdul wanted Egypt to step out of the past and join the sheikh in the twenty-first century.

  "My problem is that it doesn't make me like him any less, either,” Peter confessed. “I would really enjoy being able to muster a bit more dislike for the handsome bastard."

  Gil laughed. He couldn't help it. “Those were almost his exact words about you,” he said. It was a very good indication of Gil's radical shift in priorities that he could now put his friendship for Abdul over his disappointment in being deprived of any scientific excavation around the oil site. It was true that Gil would have reached a high point in his career if it could have turned out that the evidence he personally found had proved conclusively that the Scorpion King had been in the area. As it was, his career was suddenly running third, behind his friendship for one man and his love for another. He was not the same Gil Goldsands who had turned to find the handsome Peter Donas standing next to him in that dimly lit alcove of the Egyptian Museum.

  Abdul wasn't gone long; when he returned, he looked strained, even though he tried to cover it with a smile. “Now, where were we?” he asked, pouring himself fresh carcadet from a new pot the servant had brought in his absence. There was a deliberate preciseness to his movements that told of effort being made to portray more calmness than he really felt.

  "What is it: Rashidi al-Hidda warning of fire again?” Gil asked, glad the astrologer had not returned.