Pierce looked out and saw a boy turn his back to the road and urinate against a building; another man walked by with a crate of birds balanced on his head—doves, or perhaps chickens.
“Animals are sold live here,” Lisa said, thinking aloud.
“No refrigeration,” Conway said. “If it’s dead, it spoils.”
Lord Grover sighed.
They passed down the single main street of the town, past the dilapidated railroad station toward the Nile. Here, along the river, was a large temple—the temple of Luxor—and the three hotels that Barnaby mentioned earlier. One was new and modern, with air-conditioning units protruding from every window. It looked inviting.
“Winter Palace?” the driver asked. He had assessed his passengers and had concluded they would be booked in the best hotel.
“No,” said Pierce. “We are crossing the river.”
“But first to the hotel?”
“No, to the river.”
“Now?”
“We’re archaeologists,” Conway explained.
The cab driver’s mouth dropped open, and he seemed about to laugh. Then he shut his mouth and nodded. He turned and drove down the river, away from the hotels.
As they followed the Nile, the cab passed flaking signs announcing the Ramses Casino, or the Luxor Casino. Pierce guessed that it meant cafe-nightclub and not a gambling establishment. Grover looked and groaned.
They reached the ferry; the driver carried their bags down and put them onto the boat. The other passengers, all tourists, watched with curiosity—they knew the only hotels were on this side of the river. Grover paid the driver and they all boarded the boat, which puttered slowly across the Nile.
The trip took longer than Pierce expected. The water was smooth, like a lake; the bow ripped cleanly forward. There were a number of native feluccas drifting by, under sails that had been patched, repatched, and patched again.
“How wide is the river at this point?” Grover asked Pierce.
“I don’t know. Five or six hundred yards, maybe.”
“Four hundred fifty,” Lisa said.
“You’ve been doing homework,” Pierce said.
Approaching the far shore, they saw women in black who had come to the river to draw water. They carried earthen jugs on their heads, balanced beautifully. Pierce took a picture. Some of the women saw him and shouted angrily, drawing their veils high across their faces.
“They don’t like having their pictures taken,” Barnaby said. “Like many superstitious people, they feel that something may be robbed from them by a man who captures their image. That’s the way they look at it—capturing something which is theirs.”
They disembarked on the west bank and loaded their bags into another cab. This one was really old, the kind of car Pierce associated with gangster movies. It had been painted several times over and was now a fetching mauve. The inside was reupholstered in a green synthetic material. It smelled musty.
“Where do we go now?” Grover said, wrinkling his nose.
“Valley of Kings?” the driver asked. “Valley of Queens? Tombs of Nobles? Temple of—”
“Temple of Hatshepsut,” Pierce said.
“Ah, Temple of Hatshepsut,” the driver repeated. He spent several minutes cursing his car, stamping on the ignition button, until it eventually rumbled to life, shaking like a man awaking in the cold.
They started off.
The road passed through green fields of sugarcane. Camels ambled awkwardly along, loaded down with cane. Small boys drove them, waving long sticks. The car swirled up dust. Pierce watched the camels with interest—he had never really seen one except in a zoo. Here, they were everywhere and accepted by the people as a natural means of transportation.
“Aren’t they funny?” Lisa said. “So stupid-looking, but dignified. It’s because they look down their noses at you.”
They crossed an irrigation canal, the canal El Fadleyah according to the driver, and took a new road which paralleled another, smaller canal. In the green fields were water-wheels driven by patient, lumbering water buffalo. Other wells were operated by hand.
Soon, they left the fertile area along the Nile banks and came out into the desert. There were a few scattered herds of sheep and goats, but that was all.
“What kind of car is this?” Pierce asked. He had to repeat the question several times before the driver understood.
“Nineteen thirty-two Chevrolet,” he said, pronouncing it “Chevro-let.” He beamed proudly. “My car. I own.”
He tooted his horn happily, although there was nobody within miles. The horn button had long since failed, and he worked it by touching a wire to the metal dashboard. He was adept at this and could flick his finger rapidly, producing a kind of machine gun effect which he obviously enjoyed.
To stop the noise, Pierce offered him a cigarette.
As they came farther into the desert, approaching the mountains, the land became hilly. The driver would go to the top of a rise, cut his engine, and coast down. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing—how far he could coast and when he had to start up the engine again. Gas is expensive, Pierce thought.
“One of these times the damned thing won’t start up,” Grover said, “And we’ll be stuck out—my God, what’s that?”
Up ahead, alongside the road, were two seated figures in stone, gigantic things, badly ruined. The faces had been shattered, the hands and legs broken away, leaving only the outlines of the body. Somehow, it was majestic and sad.
“The Colossi of Memnon,” Conway said.
“But they’re just out here, in the middle of nowhere,” Grover said.
“That’s where they were found. They used to stand at the entrance to a temple, but it’s gone now.”
The earth had turned gray, dry and cracking. They passed several ruined temples. The driver ticked them off: “Temple of Merneptah…Thutmose IV…Ramses II…Amenhotep II…Thutmose III…”
“Where’s the damned place we’re going?” Grover said. “I need a drink.” The girls on either side of him said nothing, but their eyes were wide, staring out at the countryside. Pierce smiled: it wasn’t exactly Capri.
They passed several small villages of crude mud huts, built under the cliffs. And then, quite abruptly, they saw the Temple of Hatshepsut. It had a Grecian look: a long colonnade, three tiers rising upward, set near the base of the mountains that shot up behind. A long ramp ran upwards to each tier. A straight road, perhaps half a mile long, led to the ramp and the temple.
Alongside the road, a Land Rover was parked. They saw it some distance away, and Pierce tapped the driver. “Stop by that car.”
“You want rest house? Not there. Rest house—”
“No, just stop by the car.”
They stopped.
Nikos was in the driver’s seat, a cowboy hat pulled down over his face, his feet sticking out the window. They walked over to him. He was asleep.
The driver helped load the bags into the back of the Land Rover, and they got in. Pierce woke Nikos, who grinned and laughed broadly.
“Welcome to paradise,” he said.
“Very funny,” Lord Grover said. “How hot is it here?”
Nikos reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a small thermometer. “I bought this,” he said, “for laughs.” He turned to Grover. “In the shade, 105 degrees.”
Grover stared disconsolately out of the window. “God.”
They started the Land Rover.
“Take us to the drive-in,” Conway said. “I want a hamburger and an order of fries and a strawberry frappe.”
“What’s he talking about?” Grover said to Pierce.
Pierce smiled and looked around the car. They made an odd crew; nobody except Nikos seemed to fit the boxy utilitarianism of the Rover. Lord Grover wore a light blue sport coat and a Navy ascot, now limp with perspiration; the girls wore sandals and scoop-neck sundresses of cotton in pastel shades. Conway, a flamboyant dresser, had on a pink striped shirt, dark pant
s, and, incongruously, a straw boating hat.
In contrast, Nikos wore olive fatigue clothes, the pants tucked into heavy boots, the shirt unbuttoned halfway down, exposing a dirty undershirt. Only his hat, a broad Stetson, was clean.
They left the road and set off across the desert. The car ground forward, bouncing and tight-sprung, but did not falter for a moment. They passed another small adobe village and came into a stretch of fairly level ground near the cliffs. Up ahead, Pierce saw a cluster of white tents.
“You’ve been working, I see.”
Nikos spat out the window. “Nothing else to do.”
Conway’s eyebrows went up. “No good movies?” He turned to Grover’s Malaysian girl and said, “That was a joke.”
The girl looked at him, not understanding.
“She speaks very little English,” Grover said. “Only the essentials.”
“Isn’t that nice,” Conway said. “If you pat her back, does she say da-da?”
The girl sat there silently, her face beautiful, composed, blank.
“Not exactly.”
“Oh. She says something else, huh?”
Pierce said to Nikos, “When did you arrive?”
“Early this morning.”
“Good drive?”
“Miserable. There are checkpoints every eleven miles. At each checkpoint, documents must be examined—all documents, very slowly. Sometimes, they want to look at our supplies; they think we have guns—it shows on their faces. If I did not speak Arabic, we would still be eleven miles from Cairo.”
As they came closer, Pierce saw that the camp had been pitched at the base of the cliffs, in a little U-shaped depression. Up against the rock was a sort of awning; next to it was a large tent, which he guessed held supplies. The awning would be for the Land Rover—you couldn’t leave it in the direct sunlight; the tires would crack, and the paint would peel. Arranged at the open end of the U was a line of five tents; they would sleep there.
Nikos parked beneath the awning. Everyone got out.
“We have put the car and the food near the cliffs so nothing will be stolen,” Nikos said. “Would you like a guided tour?”
“Fine,” Pierce said.
They stepped out from beneath the awning.
The heat struck them, and Pierce gasped. He felt as if he were suffocating; he sucked hot air into his lungs and coughed, his mouth dry and stiff. They had been moving all day, he realized, and only now were they standing still, at noon, when the sun was reaching its fierce zenith.
It was blindingly bright. For a moment, he thought he had taken off his sunglasses, but no, they were still in place—just not doing much. A hat might help.
The girls rubbed their bare shoulders and glanced up at the sun.
“This way,” Nikos said. He led them to the first tent. “The white fabric helps. It is twenty degrees cooler inside. This first tent is for myself and you, Robert. Inside, they are all the same.” He opened the gauze flap to expose two cots, sleeping bags, and a Coleman lantern. “The next tent, for Barnaby and Alan.”
“Where’s Barnaby now?”
“In Luxor, arranging with the hotels to provide supplies. We cannot store more than two weeks’ food here.”
They walked to the third tent. “For Lord Grover.” Grover bent to look inside, sniffed, and straightened.
“The next tent, for his two charming companions—” he smiled at the girls “—and the final tent for Miss Barrett.”
“Why isn’t she sleeping with the girls?” Pierce said.
“My orders,” Grover replied.
Pierce was about to object, but caught himself. It was Grover’s money; he could do what he wanted with it.
“We cook in the Land Rover,” Nikos said. “A portable kitchen can be installed easily.”
“Who’s cooking?” Pierce asked.
“I am,” Lisa said.
“Photographic equipment is kept in the supply tent. Pictures can be developed at night. The darkroom is complete.” Pierce nodded. “Now we’d all better change clothes.”
Later, wearing khaki trousers, boots, and a short-sleeve khaki shirt, he went to inspect the supplies. They were neatly stacked on slatted boards and ranged from Campbell’s tomato soup to a case of gin and two cases of Scotch. A gasoline-powered generator provided enough electricity to maintain a small freezer for meats and ice.
The photographic equipment was set out on a portable table. Three developing trays, a tank, and rows of bottles—fine-grain, high-speed chemicals, well chosen. The film was stored in the freezer, in moisture-free packages. They would do their own black-and-white work, including some enlarging; the color plates would be shipped back to Cairo.
He turned to the excavating equipment. There were small boxes containing camel’s hair brushes, dental picks, and tiny trowels; there were also shovels, flashlights, ropes, and a case of extra batteries for the flashlights.
“How does it look?”
Lisa came into the tent. She was dressed in the same clothes, all khaki, but her boots were soft suede, and she had a bright red kerchief at her neck.
“It looks very attractive,” he said.
“I mean the supplies. Do you know you’re sometimes very corny?”
“I’m bad with compliments,” he said.
A car pulled up outside. She looked and said, “Visitors.”
They went out to see a Land Rover with Arabic writing on it. Beneath was stencilled “Antiquities Service, U.A.R.” Barnaby climbed down; there was another man with him.
Barnaby smiled bleakly. “I’d like you to meet Hamid Iskander,” he said, nodding toward the second man, a darkly tanned Arab in a galaba. “He’s with the Antiquities people and was kind enough to bring me back.”
Lisa looked at Pierce questioningly.
“Mr. Iskander has brought his own tent,” Barnaby continued. “He’ll be with us awhile.”
A fly buzzed around Pierce’s ear. He swatted it away and tried to smile.
4. Iskander
“I AM PLEASURE TO be here,” Iskander said, pumping Pierce’s hand. “I wish you always.”
“Thank you,” Pierce said, trying to withdraw his fingers.
“Whatever you will wish, you will ask.”
“Thank you.”
“I can do whatever.”
With that, he dropped Pierce’s hand and stepped back. “Cigarette?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Iskander shook a pack from his robes and gave one to Pierce, who lit it and inhaled while the Egyptian watched carefully. It tasted strong and sour. “Good.”
“Yes. Good. Egyptian.” He held up the pack so Pierce could see. Then he frowned: “Are you Holland?”
It was a moment before Pierce understood. “No, American.”
“American. My congratulations. I hope you will be very happy.” Abruptly, he grabbed Pierce’s hand and began shaking it again. He was a nervous, fluttery little man, constantly in motion. Even when standing still, he shifted from one leg to the other, swaying slightly.
“Thank you.”
The handshake seemed to go on forever.
Barnaby watched it all with a sad expression on his face. Poor bastard, thought Pierce, he’s had to put up with this all the way from Luxor.
“This women,” Iskander said, turning to Lisa. “We will not introduce you.”
Silence.
Barnaby nudged Pierce.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Mr. Iskander, Miss Barrett. Miss Barrett is Lord Grover’s secretary.”
With a bow, the Arab grabbed her hand and delivered a long, fervent kiss. “I am charming.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Lisa said.
Iskander straightened, stepped back, and looked at her critically. “Very beautiful,” he said, and made a loud clucking noise. “She is…” he broke off and pointed toward Pierce, then back to Lisa.
Lisa reddened.
“No, no. She is Lord Grover’s secretary.”
“Yes? I know.” He smiled, sh
owing several brilliantly gold teeth. “Very.”
“I hope,” said Barnaby, clearing his throat, “that you will enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Iskander. Would you like to see the rest of the camp?”
“I have with me my tent.”
“Yes, but I thought perhaps you would like to see our arrangements.”
“Yes?” He seemed very surprised.
“Yes, I think so.”
“I think so,” he repeated doubtfully.
“Well then. If you will follow me—”
Abruptly, the Arab whirled and faced Lisa. “Are you Holland?”
“No.”
“Oh. Yes I see.”
And with that, he followed Barnaby through the camp.
They stood in the supply tent, leaning on crates, talking. Everyone was tired; the barrage of new impressions, the heat, and the attempt to adjust had exhausted them. Grover’s two girls were asleep in their tent. Iskander had pitched his own tent a respectful distance from the camp and had retired early.
Outside, it was dark—dark as only a desert can be, the sky clear and starry, untinted by the lights of the city. It was also cold. The temperature dropped sixty degrees when the sun went down, and everyone wore sweaters.
Barnaby was talking.
“We begin tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll start with the Tombs of the Nobles in the hills all around us. You may have noticed them—they’re just little holes in the rock, high up.”
A few of them nodded. Barnaby went on, “The Tombs of the Nobles aren’t really tombs. They’re memorial chapels built in honor of various court officials—the vizier, the royal gardener, the vintner, the gamekeeper. Nobody was actually buried in them, and they’re small places, usually just a single room. We’ll photograph the paintings and mind our own business. Mr. Mander is a pleasant fellow, but he has a young lady in Luxor to whom he is very much attached. I don’t think he’ll stay with us long.”
He took out a map of Luxor, printed on fine cloth, very detailed. On it he had drawn several fine lines.