by Amanda Vink
Egypt
Chapter Nine
Her driver, a middle-aged man named Muhammad, had a weather-beaten face. When he smiled, which happened often, it was easy to see that he had a tooth or two missing. He spoke in broken English; however, Marjorie knew a small bit of Arabic, and together they were able to communicate well enough.
By car, it was a bumpy road. But Captain Church had said there was no faster way to get to Cairo from Alexandria.
They drove with the windows open, and a rush of warm wind flew in around them. Had Marjorie been just another tourist on a pleasure trip, she would’ve forgotten all her cares and enjoyed the ride. As it was, though, her mind was muddled with her father’s murder. When they crossed the Nile, a stretch of green bank and shallow water, she pictured her father’s body—stiff, bloated, and as white as an apparition—being pulled from it. She shuddered.
“Cold, miss?” asked Muhammad, yelling to be heard above the wind.
Marjorie shook her head, no.
Muhammad’s question was enough to pull her out of her head, and she sighed, knowing she’d spent far too much time with her thoughts as of late. For now, her mind turned to the weather, desperate for something else to focus on.
In June, temperatures started to rise. She guessed it was somewhere around 90 degrees Fahrenheit. These temperatures would crescendo in July and August, but for Marjorie, it was already warm enough. She took a sip of lukewarm water, which she carried with her in a metal canister.
“Very good land,” Muhammad commented. He pointed to the green-blue waters, his finger hovering in front of Marjorie’s nose. “This delta feed people for thousand years. Very, very good soil.”
Indeed, the Nile River ran downriver to the north, emptying through the delta into the Mediterranean Sea. The area was densely populated, with houses and farmland competing for space. Marjorie found it surprisingly urban.
She remembered Egypt from when she was thirteen, but her memories were distorted with age and experience. Last time she had visited the country, it had been with her father. Her memories were full of dig sites and dusty scholars. She remembered riding a train to Cairo, her nose buried in a book. She remembered falling asleep and waking up to the sound of a loud horn.
At first, it was the very sliver of something sighted from a distance. Easily it could be mistaken for a slip of the eye, a Fata Morgana. But as they got closer, Marjorie knew her eyes weren’t deceiving her: Cairo, the city of the dead, stood before her.
“There she is,” Muhammad said, gazing affectionately at the cityscape.
Just like that, Marjorie was thirteen years old again. She could feel her father’s hand patting her knee, see him smiling at her. She could hear him say, his baritone voice full of excitement, “Marjorie, we’re here.”
Marjorie blinked back tears. She longed for him so!
I can’t do this right now, she thought, pushing the past away. Instead, she did the one thing that always came automatically. She extracted her camera from her bag.
As they came upon the city, the urban scene became denser. Marjorie worked quickly, snapping pictures of everything that caught her eye—a man pulling a cart laden with vegetables and fruits, his clothing hanging loose and bright, his robes reaching down to his ankles; a woman tugging at what Marjorie could only assume were her children, a large gang flocking all around her; a camel laden with goods and complaining loudly. Marjorie had brought more than enough rolls of footage, so she enjoyed a more liberal approach in her photographing today. This is a perfect way to experience a new place.
As the car raced closer to the heart of the city, the scenery changed from traditional to modern. Downtown Cairo was cosmopolitan. In fact, if Marjorie examined pictures of it next to pictures of London or Paris, she would have difficulty guessing which city was which. Large public green spaces, littered with sprawling palms trees and iron street lamps, welcomed visitors from around the globe.
Outside these areas, more visitors crowded the streets alongside the locals. Marjorie spotted men and women in European dress ambling down the broad avenue near the ornate building that housed the National Bank of Cairo. It made her feel strangely at home.
“You go to the Shepheard, Miss?” Muhammad asked.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
When the car pulled up in front of the hotel, Marjorie paid Muhammad handsomely. He got out of the car to take out her bags and see her off.
“You’ll meet me here tomorrow morning?” Marjorie asked.
Muhammad offered her a toothless smile and said yes in Arabic. “I come early?”
“The earlier the better,” said Marjorie. “I need to get to the monastery at Saint Catherine’s.”
“A few hour ride,” said Muhammad.
“Ma’a s-salāma,” said Marjorie. He wished her good night as well, then climbed back into the vehicle.
Marjorie turned her attention from Muhammad’s retreating car to the building before her. It was located on a street just off the river, and certainly not to be missed. A huge building, the Shepheard had rows and rows of windows facing the street. A raised portion of the façade extended outward to shade the famed terrace, which, Marjorie remembered from her previous trip to Cairo, teemed with wicker chairs and tables. Guests could sit there all day and watch the comings and goings of Ibrhim Pasha, the street below.
The Englishman Samuel Shepheard founded it nearly a century ago. The hotel was built in 1841 on land once occupied by Napoleon Bonaparte during the French invasion of Egypt. The hotel was known for its famous visitors, among them T.E. Lawrence, Theodore Roosevelt, and the explorer Henry Morton Stanley.
Marjorie made her way inside, eager to greet its interior. Ornate columns framed arched doorways, and sandstone tiled flooring sprawled before her feet. The stone, Marjorie noticed, looked smooth and glossy, no doubt worn by the amount of travelers who regularly walked here. A few colorful rugs lay in strategic spots around the hotel’s main lobby, and on top of each sat chairs for guests to either sit on or use to rest. A few people hung about now, sitting under fans that moved the warm air about. Marjorie admired the fine clothing of these guests—mostly Europeans, by the looks of them. Then her eyes drifted to the check-in area, where hung a lit chandelier. She headed that way.
“Good afternoon, madam,” the clerk said. He was perhaps twenty years old and skinny as a twig. When he spoke, it was with an accent that sounded almost British.
“Hello,” Marjorie replied. “I’d like to check in, please. It’s Marjorie Hart.”
“Oh, M-Miss Hart,” the clerk stammered. He looked around as though expecting someone to come over. No one did. “Welcome.” Marjorie thought she detected a slight tremor to his voice. What is wrong with this man?
She raised her eyebrow. “Thank you.”
“I’ll arrange to have your bags taken up to your suite,” he said.
“My suite?” asked Marjorie. Last she checked, she booked one of their simpler rooms.
“Yes. Please let me know immediately if there’s anything you need.”
The whole conversation put Marjorie on edge. From the way he sounded, it was as if he knew who she was. But she was not some famous traveler. Maybe her father had made more of a name for himself in Egypt than she thought.
She considered this as she waited. His work made him many connections with the government, even with people surrounding the royal family. Maybe it wasn’t so strange that the Hart name was well known.
She turned to the clerk again. “Can you make an appointment for me?” She took out a card that had the name of the private investigator on it and slid it across the table.
“Certainly,” he said, taking it.
“Thank you.”
Shortly after, she followed another hotel clerk up the stairs. Her suite sat on the third story, and the size of it took her breath away. She tipped the man before heading inside to get better acquainted. The room was shaded and cooler than downstairs. The head of a small electric fan made lazy ro
unds back and forth, pushing air this way and that. The suite contained a bedroom, a sitting room, and a sizeable bathroom. The windows opened out to the street below. A black iron railing surrounded a very small balcony. Marjorie stood there for a moment, looking onto the street. A man leaned a bicycle up against an iron lamppost. Another man in dark clothes climbed into a carriage attached to a duo of horses. The driver flicked his wrist, and the ponies kicked up their feet.
To one side, a lush tree offered some shade. It was planted right in front of the hotel on Ibrhim Pasha, and if Marjorie’s arms were just a little longer she might reach out and touch it. She remembered this tree. She closed her eyes, and vivid images flooded her brain.
“Ancient Egyptians cultivated the ficus sycomorus,” her father’s voice said. “The pharaohs called them Nehet. They were also known as trees of love.”
Julian Hart stood at the bottom of the tree. He was a younger man then, in his early forties. His eyes twinkled over his glasses as his hand rested on the rough bark.
Marjorie looked up from her book. Back then, if she wasn’t taking pictures, she read everywhere she went. She even read while she crossed the street, something her father scolded her for constantly. But she always loved identifying flora and fauna. Knowing this, her father frequently used information as a tactic to get her attention.
He continued, “The ancient Egyptians used this tree for everything. They ate the fruit, they used the bark in medicine, and they made carvings of the wood itself. Can you believe a wasp is responsible for carrying pollen from tree to tree? Without that wasp, this tree would have a hard time trying to exist.”
Marjorie reached out and touched the soft bark. It was warm. “Where did you learn that, Father?”
He winked. “I’ll not reveal my secrets.”
Marjorie frowned, slightly annoyed but not seriously.
Father chuckled. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He grabbed her hand, and together they walked a few blocks north. Suddenly the red exterior of the Egyptian Museum came into view.
Delighted, Marjorie pulled on her father’s hand. It was too much. She let go and started to run. Her father didn’t yell after her or scold her. He knew she wanted to see the museum. It was one of the highlights of the trip for her. Inside housed world-renowned treasures of antiquity that Marjorie had read about. Just being within the same building as these artifacts thrilled her. She was inside before her father, the darkness a sudden shock to her eyes. Every second she had to wait was a lifetime.
The museum had a steady stream of visitors. It was large and spacious, which made the amount of people seem less. Directly inside greeted a large space filled with arches and windows. Sculptures sat in front of each supporting column.
Father finally entered. He had a destination in mind, and he went directly there. Marjorie followed him, her curiosity outweighing her excitement over looking at everything.
When they emerged from the stairwell, she saw it: the golden funerary mask of a young pharaoh. Arranged upright, the mask stared out at them as though it wanted to say something. Marjorie got as close as she was allowed. “It’s so beautiful,” she said.
“Julian,” a voice said.
They both turned and saw a man roughly Marjorie’s father’s age. He wore a decent suit, but it was cut wrong for him. It was much too big, which made him look like a child playing dress up. In addition, he had a nervous energy. He walked quickly, and he looked over his shoulder again and again.
“Professor,” Father said. They shook hands once. Father’s movements were firm and calculated, which seemed to calm the man a bit. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You couldn’t get here fast enough,” the professor said. “I have so much to share with you.”
“Wonderful,” Father said. “Have you eaten? Lunch, my treat. This is my daughter, Marjorie. Marjorie, this is Professor Gamal Hafez. He is a curator here at the museum.”
Marjorie, whose attention had been wandering back to the funeral mask, perked up. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance,” she said, making sure to use her most grown-up manners.
Professor Hafez smiled in her direction, but his eyes never left Father. “I can’t wait that long to tell you,” he said. He smiled brightly. “Come to my office so we can discuss it.”
“Marjorie, you may look around the museum,” Father said. “We’ll be back directly.”
As the two men walked off, Marjorie strained to hear the last snippets of their conversation.
Professor Hafez was saying, “You were right about the key. I found a manuscript from the Assyrians … it referenced the Lost Tribes of Israel, so that’s how I knew we were on the right track …”
Then they walked out of earshot, and Marjorie could hear no more. She turned back to the collection in front of her. There was so much to take in: reliefs, sarcophagi, art. She found a large granite sculpture and began whirling around it. Lost in her thoughts and glee, she almost ran into someone. A man. He backed away from her quickly, his dark coat swirling around him.
“Excuse me,” Marjorie said.
The man looked like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. He reminded Marjorie of the deer that had found its way onto the road near her house on Lincoln Parkway.
Then, he turned back. “Your father’s with the professor?”
Marjorie stammered, “Y-you know my father?”
As if summoned, Father’s figure appeared at the other side of the room. He was looking around, looking for her.
Marjorie turned back, ready to tell the man that he could see Father right that moment, but in front of her was empty space.
The whirling fan came back into view. Again Marjorie found herself in her suite, standing at her window overlooking the large sycamore. She had forgotten. The memory only jogged loose because of the tree before her. What else was in her head that might hold answers? I’ll have to see if Professor Hafez is still alive, she thought. And if he is—what he knows about this business.
From her luggage, she pulled a knife and the gun Uncle Charlie gave to her. She tucked the knife into her boot and placed the gun in her rucksack. Just in case.
***
After Marjorie finished putting her things away, which took the better part of the afternoon, she didn’t want to stay there. The city called to her, and in reply, she grabbed her camera and left the hotel.
She caught dinner at a French café in the neighborhood of Zamalek, located on Gezira Island. It was also known as Jardin des Plantes, so dubbed under the nineteenth-century ruler Khedive Ismail when exotic plants were shipped in from all around the world. Here, expensive clothes and jewelry shops, art galleries, and fine restaurants littered the streets. Villas built in the last century also populated the area, many shaded by large, leafy trees.
Marjorie imagined herself slipping into this life easily.
She enjoyed thick black coffee, pliable bread, and tart cheese while listening to the dialects from around the world. In particular, she enjoyed the Egyptian Arabic, which flipped off the tongue like music. Under her breath, Marjorie attempted to repeat colloquial phrases, with varying degrees of success. She watched sailboats drift by, their canvas sails large puffy clouds that appeared at once above and below the water. There were larger ships too, as well as more commercial vessels. In a modern city such as this, trade boomed. Marjorie smiled, watching the ships go by. It felt good to be on solid ground after so many days of ocean travel.
Sometime later, she walked back over the Khedive Ismail Bridge, a simple iron structure that connected the island to the mainland. It fed directly into Mīdān al-Ismā’īliyyah, unofficially known as Tahrir Square after the revolution in 1919. This was not that far away from the Shepheard. By the time Marjorie reached the other side of the bridge, the sun was beginning to set. Golden light painted the land, and the warmth of the day began to subside. Marjorie took advantage of the light to capture some photographs.
As darkness took over, young p
eople began to emerge. Ezbekiyya, the geographical center of nightlife in Cairo, flourished. Marjorie could see theaters, cabaret halls, and cinemas. Men and women both dressed to the nines—in tails with walking sticks and in long, glittering dresses—and exited hired cabs. These vehicles took off quickly in clouds of exhaust to find new passengers. This was on repeat, again and again, for the whole of the evening. In many places, venues were stacked on venues. Visitors could see a comedy act and then walk downstairs to have a drink and listen to musicians play.
It wasn’t long before Marjorie found herself in front of a nightclub on Alfi Bey Street. Not large, the building was tucked between other buildings. It boasted an open-air balcony on the second level, complete with iron railings. A few individuals lounged outside there, taking in the night air. One lady lit a cigarette in a long holder, and the embers burned low. The entire scene reminded Marjorie of New Orleans.
As further emphasis, sultry jazz drifted out from the building’s entrance, swirling through and clouding the air and beckoning Marjorie forward. She decided to obey. Inside, it was as smoky as it was dark.
One act, a band of dancers, finished up. These women surrounded themselves with feathers and jewelry that jangled as they exited the small stage that barely contained their numbers. The crowd clapped enthusiastically, and Marjorie heard the popping of a champagne bottle being uncorked.
Marjorie sat down at the bar, and the bartender asked her in English what she wanted. She ordered a champagne cocktail, which came out quickly. She took a sip, and the fizz lit up the roof of her mouth.
A young woman, perhaps eighteen, came out from a billowy curtain. Small and unassuming, she wore satin fabric that almost obscured her from view. A small hand reached out from under the folds and adjusted a microphone placed for her at center stage. Her short curly hair was held at bay by a bedazzled headband, and it all but swallowed her round, delicate features.