by Amanda Vink
She held it out to Brother Alban, who looked at it with a detached interest.
Marjorie asked, “Do you want to know about it?”
Brother Alban smiled. Then he said, his words clipped and a little sad, “Probably best if you don’t tell me.”
Marjorie sighed. She didn’t understand this at all, even though she was feeling gratitude toward him. If he didn’t know her father, if he didn’t want to know anything about this, then what was his part in all this? “Why are you helping me?” she demanded.
“You don’t always need a reason to know what is right,” he replied, throwing the finished cigarette on the road and grinding it into the sand.
“What will you do now?” Marjorie asked.
“First, we’ll return you to Cairo,” he said, smiling. “Then I will return to Saint Catherine’s and continue my work.”
“Are you afraid?” asked Marjorie.
“No,” he said. “God is looking out for me.”
***
Late the next morning, Marjorie breakfasted on the terrace at the Shepheard. She felt drained and more than a little grumpy. She stirred her tea absently while thoughts of her father’s drawing of the ox floated through her mind. She dared not take it out in the open—that was okay, since she had studied it so much the night before that she could probably draw it herself if need be.
Down below, a car honked. Marjorie closed her eyes, leaning her cheek into her hand. Was it ever quiet here? She sighed. Probably not.
She opened her eyes and saw the clerk—the same one who had checked her in the day before—making his way toward her. When he reached her, she noticed he had the familiar card of the private investigator in his hand. Of course! She’d almost forgotten she’d given it to him.
“Madame?” he said.
“Yes, what have you learned?” she said, sitting up straighter.
“I’m sorry to say, but not much. It seems that Mister—” he checked the card— “Horus J. Wallace is no longer at this address. There was no forwarding address.”
“Oh.” Marjorie took the card in her hand, disappointment clouding her features. While the man clearly had not done his job thoroughly, she had hoped that in person he might’ve been able to shed some light on the whole situation. “Thank you for trying anyway.”
The young man bowed. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” she said.
He walked away, and Marjorie picked up her teaspoon and started swirling the liquid again. It was too early yet to head to the university to see if she could find the whereabouts of Dr. Hafez. She hoped he might be able to tell her something more of her father’s research—and of the ox.
Her mind turned to Brother Alban and the archbishop, as well as the other monks at Saint Catherine’s, and she hoped they were safe. She would’ve been dead if not for Brother Alban’s fast thinking and courage. She allowed herself to imagine for a moment what it would’ve been like waking up at Saint Catherine’s, watching the mists clear from Mount Sinai. Maybe then she would’ve felt some divine purpose—at least a sign that she was on the right path.
Just then, Marjorie caught a familiar visage sitting at one of the wicker chairs, surrounded by a small group. She gasped, knocking over her teacup. The ceramic tumbled to the floor and shattered, little shards spewing about and the tepid liquid pooling in a small lake near her toes. A server rushed to clean it up, but Marjorie was already standing and walking away from it.
She headed directly to the man, too angry to do anything except confront him.
He stood up, his chair moving a few inches back. He took a step toward her, away from the small crowd gathered around him at the breakfast table.
“Miss Hart,” he said with that characteristic bow. “So nice to see you again.”
“Dr. Baxter, what are you doing here?” Marjorie demanded. She ignored the feeling of eyes staring at her from Baxter’s table.
“Enjoying the fine hospitality of the Near East, just like yourself,” he said, a small, insincere smile gracing his lips.
Her voice rose. “Tell the truth.”
At the sound of raised voices, everyone within earshot seemed to look over now, waiting for the scene that was undoubtedly brewing.
“My dear Miss Hart,” Dr. Baxter said quietly. His eyes slid to his companions then back to her. “Please stop making a scene.”
“You—” she started.
“I am here quite legitimately, I assure you.”
He paused, leaning back to the table and picking up an English-Egyptian paper. It was folded to a page that had a small headline that read Persian Treasure Discovered in Egypt. Along with the headline was a picture.
Marjorie snatched the newspaper from him and peered at the image. Damn.
The artifact was so familiar, she could’ve cried. It was the perfect match to the drawing she had in her rucksack.
“My employer wished for me to come immediately,” Dr. Baxter said. “There’s a lot of work to be done, as you can imagine. We leave for Persia in two days’ time. But before that, I insisted upon an event to celebrate a find as momentous as this.”
Marjorie scanned the rest of the article. There was to be a celebration the next evening at one of the mansions in Garden City, the home of some rich benefactor. She glared at Baxter. What are you really doing here?
But he didn’t acknowledge the disdain in her gaze. Instead, he gave her one of his cards, after writing an address on the back of it. He looked at her then. “Miss Hart, I know you don’t believe me, but really it’s better for both of us if we put this silly feud behind us. I’d still like you to consider working with us, rather than against us.”
She took the card reluctantly. If it wasn’t for the fact I want to know more about the ox, I would rip it up in front of you.
“Please consider joining us at the party,” Dr. Baxter said with a nod. “Good day.” He turned back to the group of admirers, who glanced at Marjorie with curiosity. Clearly, the scene they imagined was not coming, and so their interest waned.
Marjorie gripped the card in her hand and turned away. Inside, she fumed. She hated that man. But also, all of this with the ox was too coincidental. What was going on? She had to find out. She had to get answers—and quick.
She made her way out of the terrace and headed into the street. She knew just who to ask, if only she could find him.
***
The elongated building that held the university looked almost like a foreign consulate—discrete in its sandstone color scheme, an Egyptian flag flying at the center of the roofline, serious faces making their way down the halls. Because it was summer, there were fewer students than teachers—and not very many professors at that.
Those young men who were around wore suits and black ties and polished shoes. Some of them donned a tall red hat. All of them moved quickly, as if suffering from perpetual tardiness. But in their expressions, Marjorie recognized a look she was all too familiar with—one of intense concentration. Most of them, she imagined, had their thoughts far off in their research.
A secretary just inside the entrance to the building greeted her in Arabic, and Marjorie returned the greeting. She seemed a few years younger than Marjorie, and her glossy dark hair had been swept back in a modern fashion. She wore a gray linen suit, not expensive but well tailored.
Seeing that it was perfectly clear Marjorie did not speak much of the language, the woman continued in French. Her accent was thick, and Marjorie had a difficult time following her. Professor Hafez’s office was located on the second story of the building, the woman explained. Up the stairs and to the right, down at the end of the hall.
The woman blushed. “Tu es chanceux,” she said. Marjorie translated in her head: You’re lucky.
Marjorie must’ve given her a funny look, for she continued in conversational French, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Women being admitted to the university this year. It’s a dream. My father doesn’t like it, but I would
do anything to earn a degree.”
“What would you study?”
The woman leaned back, a dreamy look passing over her features. “I always thought about pursuing a field in science. Did you know that some people now believe the universe is expanding in all directions? Can you imagine?”
Marjorie missed a few of the French words, but she got the general idea.
A man dropped off a stack of papers, and Marjorie watched as the woman came back down into herself and the reality around her. Shrugging, she glanced at Marjorie and then fingered through the stack.
Marjorie felt powerless to help the woman, and her spirits dropped a bit. Still, she said, “Don’t give up.”
“Maybe I’ll discover something after I’ve finished going through these papers, no?” The woman laughed at herself, returning to the paperwork.
Marjorie made her way up the stairs, which emptied out into the middle of a long hallway. Along the length of the hall were lined glass cases full of publications that, Marjorie guessed, had come out of research done right here at the university. Many of these, she noticed, were in French, some in Turkish, and very few in English.
Professor Hafez’s office sat at one end of the hall. Stepping inside, Marjorie noticed it was a small box of a room, with one window facing the outside world. Outside, clouds covered the sun, but it still appeared much brighter than inside this room.
From the outset, the office was a stark contrast from the rest of the university’s neat, clean, and organized appearance. Rather, this room was littered with books and other materials. Books lay on the floor in piles, along with papers and other oddities. At the center of this whirlwind sat the man himself. When he saw Marjorie, he stood and greeted her. In many ways, he fit her memory. He still wore a suit that was too big for him, and he still had a reserve of excess energy. But Marjorie noted he looked much older. His hair, once dark and thick, had gone gray. His expression seemed haunted.
“What can I do for you?” he asked in French.
“Professor Hafez,” Marjorie said in halting French. “I’m sure you won’t remember me, but maybe you’ll remember my father, Julian Hart.”
He jumped at that, and moved to the door. After first peering out to make sure no one was around, he closed it and turned back to her. Marjorie saw a thin line of sweat gathering on his brow. “Forgive me,” he said, now in English. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard that name. My condolences to you, Miss Hart.”
As he crossed back to the other side of the room, he dug in his pocket and withdrew a red handkerchief. He wiped his forehead with trembling fingers, then stuffed it back in his pocket.
Marjorie waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Instead, he seemed to busy himself with some menial task on his desk. He looked everywhere but at her. So she asked point blank, “Do you know what happened to my father?”
He startled, backing up and knocking into a book that balanced precariously on his desk. It tumbled to the floor and landed with a loud smack, making the professor jump again. Trying to recover, he retrieved the book and ran his fingers over the spine, and then he rubbed them together. Marjorie noticed how his fingers stuck together, perhaps a result of many years’ accumulation of dust on the book he held. “Your father consulted me on the odd thing now and again. I don’t know anything else.”
Marjorie’s heart fell. Even if the professor knew something, which she was pretty sure he did based on his reaction, it was clear he wasn’t planning to tell her anything.
“Well then, can you tell me about this?” She reached into her rucksack and withdrew the drawing of the ox. She pushed it toward him, but he didn’t take it. In fact, he seemed to cower, as though it would burn him.
He spoke loudly, practically yelling at her in French. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to let anyone else into the class.”
Marjorie startled. Clearly he was putting on a show, speaking so that someone else might hear, but it was also clear that he was not a great liar. Anyone listening in would surely know that something strange was happening.
“It’s too full,” he repeated. Then he came in close, his arm wrapping around her to usher her close to the door. But then he whispered, so hushed and quickly that she struggled to understand what he said. “You must come later: eight o’clock at the Blue Pyramid Café. Don’t be late.”
***
The overall impression given by Khan el-Khalili, the bazaar founded during the first reign of Sultan Barquq in the fourteenth century, was one of colors and lights. Every inch of this marketplace was packed with items for sale. Tables were stacked with goods, all surrounded by lanterns—also for sale—that burned with the help of tiny candles. The effect transported visitors to other times, where it didn’t seem too far-fetched to find a genie trapped in a lamp.
Troughs of spices beckoned from other stalls in reds, oranges, and yellows. There were also stacks of small rocks of intense blue. Indigo? Marjorie guessed. Fresh fish and vegetables were for sale in stalls at the ends of the bazaar. Marjorie could smell fresh mint and citrus in the air. Piles of nuts tempted her taste buds too. Further on, precariously balanced plates leaned from tables set against the stone walls of houses.
The streets themselves were narrow, allowing the smells of incense and frying food to linger. Buyers and sellers haggled for the best prices, while tourists examined brass items shaped to look like ancient treasures. Another stall featured an array of musical instruments, many of which hung on the wall. All around, people brushed past one another—in many spots, there was hardly enough room to do even that. Everything seemed busy and beautiful, a dizzying introduction for Marjorie.
The Blue Pyramid Café was not far from the bazaar, and Marjorie enjoyed spending time getting lost in the market’s sights, smells, and sounds, even though in the back of her mind she knew she couldn’t let her guard down completely. Those men from the monastery could be anywhere. Still, there was no doubt that when she thought of the Near East, this was what she pictured.
She removed her camera from her bag and started snapping away. Her lens captured a vegetable cart piled high with figs, oranges, watermelons, potatoes, and tomatoes. When she looked into the heavens, she saw the swirling shapes of a nearby mosque—so different from that of the square tops of living quarters and shops. Every once in a while, the street before her was cut with arched doorways. Marjorie marveled at a prickly pear. She bought one, and the fruit seller was nice enough to warn her about the seeds that filled the inside. He was an older man, his dark face deeply lined where he smiled. She thanked him and handed him a few coins to cover the cost.
Marjorie was thoroughly enjoying herself, but it all ended when she caught the flash of a familiar countenance in the reflection of a silver platter positioned on a seller’s table. The red-haired man from the monastery! If she had not caught the right angle in the silver, she would’ve missed him completely. She felt a pinprick of annoyance. She had enough to worry about without him tailing her. She picked up a small bowl on the table and studied it with a buyer’s intensity.
Moments later, the woman who ran the shop came over. “Thirty piastre,” she said. She spoke English directly.
Am I that obvious? Marjorie placed the item back down. She thanked the woman in Arabic, but declined.
“Twenty-five,” the woman counter-offered.
Marjorie switched to English—she wasn’t sure how to say it in Arabic. “I’m really not interested. Thank you.”
Her eyes traveled back to the silver platter, hoping to get another peek at the man obviously following her. But she couldn’t see him. Alarmed, Marjorie looked around. He was gone.
Suddenly she felt a presence by her left and something sharp poke her side. She tried to turn to see more, but the pressure increased. Indeed, the person wielded a knife and was clearly skilled in doing so. Just a little bit of pressure either way was enough to make Marjorie move left or right.
The person—not the man with red hair, Marjorie realized, but the
other one with the scar on his face—placed something on the table. A coin. To buy the woman’s silence, perhaps? But one look at the woman and it was clear that if she noticed something, she wasn’t sticking her nose in it. The man continued, speaking in Arabic. He wished the woman a good day, then an arm circled around Marjorie, and she felt a solid body move against her. Her attacker guided her away from the cart and steered her toward an alley. To anyone in the street just passing by, it probably looked like they were intimate with one another.
Warning bells went off in her mind. She had to get out of there—fast.
She must’ve fought a little, for the man hushed her, like she was a horse out of control. “Easy,” he said in English. His voice was very deep and hushed. She felt the bristles of his moustache tickle at her temple.
In her heightened state, she tried to take in other details. She looked for a street name, but there wasn’t one. A long corridor stretched before them. On either side, doors led to apartments. She noticed the man wore a light-colored suit and dark brown shoes. They were polished, but scuffed.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The only response came from the knife at Marjorie’s side. It pinched her flesh, and she swallowed a cry. She didn’t know if she was bleeding or not.
They turned a corner and arrived at another street, where Marjorie noticed a few young boys kicking a ball between them. One of them—he looked about ten years old and sported a mop of curly hair—seemed to notice Marjorie too. She stared at him, hard. Would he help her? She didn’t want him to get involved, to risk getting hurt over her. The boy looked at the ground, and Marjorie couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But when he looked back up, he seemed to have made a decision.