The Twelve Rooms of the Nile Part 24

In a delicious irony, Alfred had suggested that he might find a lover at Pradier's studio. And he had duly met and fallen in love with Louise. Another disaster in the inventory of his broken heart. But how he had loved burying his face between her perfumed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the eminently graspable indentation of her waist, the silky rise of her hips. Her taste for foul language matched his own scatological genius. But for all her looseness, Louise turned out to be deeply conventional, hoping to trap him in a settled, long-term affair different in t.i.tle only from a marriage. Why had he been so blind to her- Max kicked sand onto his leg, standing above him. "I am exhausted, mon ami. What do you say we picnic on the beach?"

Gustave brushed off the sand. "I am ready when you are."

They gathered up their things and headed east, about a kilometer across rocky terrain to the sh.o.r.e. It, too, was deserted.

The clouds had dissipated, the water and sky both bright blue, one glittering, the other still as paint. The three men dismounted. Gustave walked closer to the sea, eyeing the water like a duck as he spread his blanket on the packed sand. He flopped onto it and removed his boots, then pulled off his trousers and s.h.i.+rt.

"You yourself reported that the water was cold only yesterday," Max said, watching him disrobe.

"It's fine." Gustave stuck a foot in the surf. "I'm going in!" With that, he flung his underwear to the sand and charged into the water, diving and surfacing like a porpoise. He floated on his back, bobbing on the gentle waves. When he glanced sh.o.r.eward, Max was still observing him. "Take the plunge!" he shouted, using his hands as a megaphone. "It will do you good!"

"All right." Max slowly undressed, folding his clothes into a neat pile. He waded in up to his knees, plas.h.i.+ng water on his chest and s.h.i.+vering. "I was right. It's frigid."

"It's warmer over here," Gustave lied. "There's a current. Swim out." He lay back and felt the waves lift and pulse through him. He heard Max approach, the sound dulled by water in his ears.

"I'm freezing. Where is this current?"

"The Red Sea," Gustave opined, spewing a little fountain from the side of his mouth, "feels like floating on a thousand liquid b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

"Ice water, not b.r.e.a.s.t.s." Max splashed him violently.

Gustave retaliated, das.h.i.+ng water into his face with an elbow. "You are just jealous, mon ami." He stopped splas.h.i.+ng. "Of my new lover"-he caught Max's eye where, to his horror, he saw the truth register for an instant-"my new lover, the Red Sea."

"She is not yours, Short Pants. Or anyone's, despite your pretty description." Max turned to swim to sh.o.r.e. "She is too cold," he called back over his shoulder, already winded.

After lunch, they returned to Old Koseir. On his blanket, Gustave could smell the suns.h.i.+ne drying his hair, warming him through his clothing. As he lay unthinking, a woman's face appeared on the orange screen of his eyelids, like one of Max's photographs developing on the paper negative. It was Harriet Collier! Had she always intended to seduce him? How close he had come, again without warning or insight. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly until he drifted off.

Sometime later, he woke to Max's excited shouts. "A treasure! I have found a genuine treasure!"

"Bring it here, won't you?" Gustave called drowsily from his makes.h.i.+ft bed.

Max nipped over and knelt down. He was beside himself with exuberance. "Look at that!" He pa.s.sed the object to Gustave. "Gold! I can hardly believe it."

Gustave sat up and held the coin with two fingers. Recto, verso, it seemed to be authentically Roman, with an imperial head in the center and an illegible Latin motto encircling it. It was heavy, still gleaming after centuries underground, probably pure gold. "It's beautiful," he said. "Where was it?"

"Over there." Max pointed to a hole close by. "It wasn't even very deep. All of a sudden it was simply . . . there. I heard the shovel strike it."

Max's enthusiasm was contagious. "Allahu akbar!" Gustave cried. "Perhaps there are more."

"There must be." Max hadn't looked this happy since the day he photographed the Sphinx. "I shall keep digging. There might be a whole trove!" Max clapped his shoulder and stood up. "I was worried we'd have to go farther north. Joseph told me there is another ancient port in better shape thirty kilometers away. But now we can camp here and dig again tomorrow."

"We're not going back for the night?" Gustave looked at the sky. It was already getting late to start back. To stay away for an evening would not be rude, but the next day, too? What would Miss Nightingale do with herself? The idea discomfited him. Such a long absence would be an affront to her. He felt a pang of guilt. Why hadn't he considered this before he left Koseir?

"I don't want to lose a minute," Max replied. "And if I explain what we're doing, we'll have a Bedouin gold rush on our hands." He s.h.i.+ned the coin on the cloth of his robe. "No, we can camp here and dig all day tomorrow, possibly the next."

Max was right: it would be a waste of time to go back and forth. But it was simply bad manners, Gustave convinced him, to abandon their companions for more than one night, and so Max agreed to return to Koseir on the morrow, even if it meant traveling in the dark.

"I am swearing Joseph to secrecy with baksheesh. At least for now. If he talks after we leave, so be it." Max turned to go. "You, too," he told Gustave, putting his fingers to his lips.

The rest of that day and the next, Max and Joseph dug, riddling the sand with postholes and trenches, but they found only pottery shards, half an amphora, and another timber.

Gustave pa.s.sed his time at the beach, more resigned to the delay after he discovered a shallow reef not far from sh.o.r.e. He spent hours among its colorful inhabitants-pink and white madrepores, giant red sea urchins, fles.h.i.+ly flowered anemones, and schools of fish like yellow b.u.t.terflies. When he was not swimming, he lazed on the sand and recorded the exotic new creatures in his journal. Like the strains of a catchy melody, other thoughts drifted into and out of his ken. Thoughts about women. And love. Men and women. Friends.h.i.+p. Men and men. Women and women. The whole bewildering array of potential configurations and motivations occupied him. And what of Louise, whose beauty, even in recollection, still made him weak in the knees? Had she changed? Or had she hidden her true nature for as long as she could, then begrudgingly revealed it to him? And Miss Nightingale: did she want only friends.h.i.+p from him? And what did he want from her?

The sun beat fiercely down. Only a man truly ignorant of women would be so continually baffled and surprised by them. Until now, he had never regarded them as anything but sparring partners in the game of s.e.x, never thought of them the way he thought of men-as people. It seemed only natural that men ran the world and women gleaned their living along the edges. But Miss Nightingale did not fit any familiar category of woman. It was exciting to be with her, but the moment they parted, he felt confused.

At the end of two days among the jewel-toned anemones, brilliantly striped and dotted fish, and waving corals, he felt reinvigorated. In the water, at least, he had seen every beautiful object clearly.

22.

ABSENCES.

The Frenchmen didn't return that night. The next morning, Flo shopped with Trout and Hakim, who knew enough French to help with the prices. It was market day, the dusty street transformed into a bazaar with shaded stalls and booths offering food, spices, clothing, crafts, and livestock. Flo bought two silver bracelets from Darfur. Trout inspected cheeses, sniffing until she found a lump of salty sheep feta for two paras. At Pere Elias's instruction, Hakim bought olives and a lamb to be butchered and delivered later.

That afternoon they used the bathtub again, each spending a good hour in the warm, salty brew, comfortable in the silence.

Soaking in the tub gave Flo time to think, which, she knew, was not always a good thing for her. Thinking led to feeling, and feeling, sometimes, to panic or gloom. But no, the water was therapeutic. She was determined not to read too much into Gustave's continued absence, nor worry much either. Though the consul was not in the least concerned for the men's safety, she was a bit alarmed. Anything could befall three Europeans traveling incognito. They were farther from civilization than anywhere else on their trip, and the road might not be safe.

She dipped a cloth into the tepid water and lay it upon her brow. No. She was not worried so much as disappointed. Why had he left her alone in Koseir? He had been so busy on the caravan, with barely time to chat, avoiding her, it seemed clear now, one way or another. Had her behavior on the beach-her ignorance of s.e.x-annoyed or discouraged him? She had the distinct feeling he was punis.h.i.+ng her.

Toward evening, Flo pulled the plug and watched the water coil down the drain and seep through the sh.e.l.ls on its return to the sea. A ring remained that Trout tried to scrub using the bar of soap, but without rinse water, couldn't remove.

"Leave it for Hakim," Flo said.

"The consul will think we're dirty."

"No. He'll think we were dirty. And now we're clean."

A messenger bearing a bottle of rak for Pere Elias arrived before supper. He reported the Frenchmen would return by midnight and had arranged with the camel drivers to depart for Kenneh the following dawn. The women should pack tonight.

At the dinner table, Flo was obliged to be social, but she could not force her attention to it. Had it been a shuttlec.o.c.k that must be gently batted back and forth, the conversation would have languished on the floor. Trout, lacking French, had no obligation-as usual-to keep it aloft. Her lack of charm sawed at Flo's patience.

Pere Elias looked puzzled and sad, as if worried he were guilty of some faux pas. She wasn't in the mood to rea.s.sure him. Her distress must have been apparent, for halfway through dinner, Trout asked in a whisper if she was quite sure she was feeling all right. She was. She offered the excuse of being tired, but she was a poor liar, and the blameless consul and maid both seemed miffed that she was not more forthcoming.

She ate little (the lamb still gamboling in her mind), asked Trout to pack up her belongings for her, and went outside alone on the terrace.

Perhaps he'd never return. The rak might have been a parting gift for Pere Elias. Maybe his itinerary had changed. How would she get back to Kenneh? Surely he hadn't abandoned them. No, he wouldn't stoop so low. It wasn't that. She had merely misjudged him. He didn't exist as she imagined him-as her spiritual twin-but neither did that make him a villain. It was rea.s.suring to think so clearly, to remain calm.

Perhaps f.a.n.n.y was right that she placed too much significance on small things and took the world too literally. The event on the beach (t.i.tled like a song in her mind) might be a triviality to him. She'd never followed up with the hand mirror, coward that she was. She needed to know he was in the next room to go through with it.

The more she thought, the darker her mood, everything conjoining at last into the familiar doom and hopelessness. As when Kaiserswerth was canceled. As when the deaf school refused her. As when she fell to pieces walking with Efreet-Youssef on the beach. As when, as when, as . . . usual.

If he did not reappear soon, she wouldn't be able to face him at all. Her enthusiasm would burn through every pore until she shone like a lighthouse warning him off. She might swoon, or worse, fall upon him like a stray dog upon a sc.r.a.p of food. Upon his arms, whose curves and angles she knew by heart, almost by touch. No, he had never existed except as an ordinary man, a person of no particular consequence she'd briefly encountered. Nothing like herself. A person who couldn't possibly understand her.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a commotion erupted downstairs. She heard his voice, angrier-or merely drunker?-than usual. Fouler, too. Something about constipation and Max's s.h.i.+tty camera and t.u.r.ds. Then an answer in kind using words overheard only in the roughest quarters. You are an a.s.shole. No, you are. Then you are a bigger a.s.shole. A pause. Mon ami, you make my argument for me. I am a bigger a.s.shole. My a.s.shole is so big I can eat and s.h.i.+t you out. Therefore, you are the t.u.r.d. Then furniture sc.r.a.ping the floor and m.u.f.fled thuds followed by a spell of hilarity. She fell back to sleep, content, at least, in their laughter.

At dawn they loaded their luggage and said their good-byes. Pere Elias's eyes filled with tears as he kissed her on both cheeks. Gustave, too, teared up as he kissed the consul and gave Hakim a rugged embrace. She liked to see such generosity of sentiment in him. WEN never cried, nor did the Poetic Parcel.

Gustave and Max looked awful. She could almost see their heads thrumming with a hangover. They barely spoke and took only two thimbles of coffee for breakfast.

After their intimate talk on the beach, she had hoped that Gustave would make more time for her. But when he left her in Koseir, that prospect seemed to vanish. Besides, even if he didn't notice them, how would she get over her hurt feelings? If they did spend time together, it would be to chat in the evenings, with Max present. Or perhaps Gustave had formulated one of his plans. For privacy, they could meander around the camp, though it would be dark. Lions and jackals, venomous reptiles. Still, it might be possible.

Minutes from Koseir, the weather turned turbulent, dark skies with ominous winds. Max sighted a khamsin in the shape of a funnel sucking up sand behind them. They hurried on, not stopping to inspect the ancient glyphs on the domed formations of pink rock. In late afternoon, the camel carrying the goatskins stepped into sand riddled with rat tunnels and fell on its side, spilling all the water. Three hours later, they reached the first well, Beer El Ingleez, only to find it had been covered by a rockslide in the few days since they were there.

Sweat dried on her skin in salty patches that pasted over with sand. She was filthy and itched like a flea-bitten dog.

That evening jackals stole the dinner from the fire pit when the cook left to retrieve spices from his saddlebag. They made do with a meal of half-cooked beans and watermelons for moisture, and went to bed hungry. In empathy with the Ababdeh children, Flo used the occasion to imagine what it would be like to go to sleep hungry night after night. This experiment, however, was a failure. She ended up hungrier than before, thought of nothing but food, and felt more selfish than ever. Tomorrow. Tomorrow Gustave and Max would go shooting and they'd be freshly supplied with fowl. They'd find a village and buy goats' milk or water. Even their personal water and wineskins were depleted.

She fell asleep without undressing and dreamed all night of water. Of rock cliffs softening into great gushes, of licking dew cups from leaves. Nightmare thunderstorms woke her twice. She peeked out of her tent to see if it was light. How terrible it must be to die of thirst! Her lips were so firmly stuck together she felt a gluey membrane-or was it skin?-pop apart as she opened her mouth to lick them before dozing off again.

She awoke before dawn, roused by the camel drivers making their rounds with oil lamps. A camel snorted and groaned as it turned in the sand.

Her dress was too stiff to wear another day. She'd ask Trout to help her change into clean brown Hollands. She lit a candle and stepped outside to cold, refres.h.i.+ng air. The stars were out high in the sky. In the near distance, Gustave sat with his back to her on a box, pulling on his boots. Max was pus.h.i.+ng his camera cases from the tent, where he insisted on storing them every night lest they be stolen. Lamp in hand, she stepped behind a rock and urinated, carefully lifting her grimy frock. She'd have to throw it away. It would rot before it could be washed.

Skirting the banked embers marked off by rocks, she advanced toward the outline of Trout's tent. Faintly etched against the gray sky, it resembled a small black pyramid. "Trout!" she called. "Are you awake, Trout?" She was feeling cheerful. It was a new day. They'd secure water or milk in the next village. Joseph was a clever haggler.

There was no reply. She opened the flap and peeked into the blackness. "Trout, come out, come out wherever you are!"

Which was, no doubt, behind a boulder doing her business. Flo decided to walk around the camp. She trod stiffly, her legs cramped and aching from the night's restless sleep.

"Rossignol," Gustave called out. "Bonjour. Where are you marching to?

"Bonjour, Gustave. I'm waiting for Trout. Just stretching my legs." Her throat tightened on a strand of unacknowledged worry. Trout had never wandered away. And never would.

"I'll come with you." They linked arms and continued around the campsite, making discreet forays behind boulders. "Halloo!" Flo called each time to give ample warning. "We are looking for you, Trout." At one tall outcropping, a serpent skittered across their path. Mohammed had severed a snake outside her tent the first night of the journey. What if Trout had been bitten, or was ill? Perhaps she had digestive trouble and was vomiting in the desert at a respectful distance.

By the time they'd completed their circuit, the restraint that had kept her walking and talking normally escaped with a sigh. "Oh, Gustave, I think she is missing." She gripped his arm. He placed his hand on top of hers.

"Surely she is just asleep in her tent, n'est-ce pas?"

"I don't think so." Trout always woke before Flo. If she had gone to relieve herself, she would have had ample time to return. If she were sick, they'd have to go looking for her.

The thinnest rim of molten gold trembled at the horizon. The colors of the surroundings began to change from grayish black to muted browns and pinks. She felt a powerful urge to pray and closed her eyes for a moment; then she stepped forward and lifted the flap of Trout's tent.

It was dark inside. Dark, and empty.

"We might muck it up anyway," Max said, yielding to Flo as she plunged back into Trout's tent moments later, this time to investigate thoroughly. Everyone had gathered around.

The men naturally hung back, for it would have been indelicate for them to barge in and invade Trout's meager privacy. Besides, Flo was more likely to recognize something amiss among the alien feminine trappings.

The air inside the tent was close as a summer afternoon before a rainstorm. It smelled of camel. She peered about.

Trout's absence was more palpable amid her possessions, as if the expectation of her return added to the oppressive stillness. Her belongings were undisturbed, her clothes folded and stacked inside her portmanteau, her boots lined up alongside the bedding. The dress she'd worn the day before was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, like Flo, she'd never disrobed.

She picked up Trout's journal, which was lying open, the pages crammed with sloping lines of minute cursive. On the last page, a nib had leaked, leaving a black smear. Nearby, the inkwell had tipped over and soaked the sand. It took a moment to find the pen, which had rolled or fallen far from the book. A chill ran through her. Trout had not wandered off. She'd been interrupted while writing. Tears sprang to her eyes. Kidnapped!

Still clutching the journal, she bent low and exited to the fresher air, folding the tent flap closed behind her. Everyone was congregated, waiting. "She is missing, with signs of surprise." It would be too awful to say "struggle."

They searched the environs, peering behind every rock and dune and into every gully. One of the crew found camel hoofprints-two sets-that seemed fresher than their own from the evening before.

After a brief discussion among the Europeans, Max took charge. He signaled Mohammed, standing apart with his crew, to approach. Through Joseph, he questioned him. "Have you heard anything from your men about this woman's whereabouts?"

"Find out if all the crew are still with us," Gustave urged.

Joseph duly translated both questions.

Stroking his beard as calmly as if it were a cat, Mohammed answered with what Flo adjudged respect tinged with fearful caution. He gestured with dark, slender hands, his voice solicitous and steady as an undertaker's. But the length of his reply filled her with dread.

Joseph waited for Mohammed to finish, then chose his words judiciously. Mohammed and his men knew nothing of Trout's disappearance, he reported. The crew was all accounted for.

Max fixed Joseph with a stare. "I know he said more than that."

"Oui, monsieur, c'est vrai. But he want me to say con forza his men all counted."

Flo could not for the life of her remember at that instant if there were five or six camel drivers, nor could she easily distinguish among them.

"All counted," Max repeated, leveling his gaze at Mohammed. "Charabia evasif!" He raised his voice. Evasive double-talk. An unfortunate expression, she thought. In it, "Arabia" signified nonsense. She hoped Max had read about how easily the hot-blooded Bedouin with their strict codes of honor were offended.

Gustave added, "Ask if they are all here at this moment."

"Good man," said Max.

A collision of languages ensued as Joseph translated into Arabic for Mohammed and back into French for her, Max, and Gustave, and each one commented in turn. Tower of Babel, she thought. Ripe for misconstruction.

Through her own silence and inaction she felt Trout's absence as sharply as a physical complaint. For the first time since they left Kenneh, she wasn't translating for her. Poor woman! Missing in a vast and hostile wasteland. Flo felt suddenly alone and useless, her chest hollow with foreboding. Around her, the words seemed to boil over, subside, and boil over again as they argued back and forth.

Gustave said, "Allons! du calme, mes enfants, je vous en prie!"