“Terrible, terrible!” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I knew her only slightly, hadn’t seen her in months. We moved in different circles.” It was as if he was distancing himself from the crime, or perhaps from her life.
“She told me to contact you about Rynox,” Rand persisted.
A shrug. “I know him by reputation only. A camel trader with a mean streak.”
“I think something more.”
The bartender ordered breakfast from a hovering waiter, then said, as he had about Emira, “We move in different circles.”
Rand finished his eggs and remained sipping his coffee while Max Zeitner ate breakfast, but the conversation shifted to the unusually warm April weather and the influx of tourists. “The bombings haven’t had too much effect,” Rand observed, trying to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted.
“Not yet,” Zeitner agreed. “But if the attacks are stepped up, the result could be disastrous for tourism.”
“Some say Rynox is selling explosives to the terrorists.”
The German’s eyes shot up. “Who says?”
“That’s the word I hear. The astrologer, Ibn Shubra, says he cannot work Monday if he is a true believer because of the Egyptian Days. If a deal is in the works, it must be completed before then.”
“Never believe everything astrologers tell you.”
“I was sent to him by you,” Rand reminded the man.
They paid their checks and walked out to the lobby together. Max Zeitner had the day off from his job but he was working a wedding reception in the upstairs ballroom at one o’clock. They stood looking at the cantilevered staircase that rose dramatically from the foyer to the upstairs ballrooms.
“That staircase is the reason this hotel is so popular for weddings,” Zeitner explained. “Everyone can see the arrivals making their grand entrance. We often have two or three wedding receptions or engagement parties on the same day — more than four hundred a year.”
“That’s a great deal of extra work for a bartender.”
“It is indeed! Some don’t drink, of course, because they’re strict Muslims, but others want it at their weddings. Come by here about one o’clock and you’ll see a real sight. The bride and groom will be escorted in by bagpipers.”
“Really?”
“It’s something left over from British colonial days. The people really like it for special occasions. The entertainment often includes a belly dancer too. That’s how I met Emira. She sometimes earned extra money performing at weddings.”
“I’d like to see one of them.”
“Come ahead! If anyone questions you tell them you’re from the newspaper. They won’t bother you.”
Rand followed him up the impressive staircase to the ballroom floor, then into one of the large rooms where preparations for the wedding reception were already underway. A huge wedding cake, five tiers tall, was being placed carefully on a low table which raised its top at least seven feet off the floor. “How will they reach it?” Rand wondered.
The caterer who’d supplied the cake, a small Egyptian with a moustache and glasses, was busy positioning it just right on the table. “This is Sher Wahba,” the bartender said by way of introduction. “Mr. Rand here is writing about your wedding customs.”
Wahba turned his eyes toward Rand, always eager for publicity. “How will they reach it, you wonder? With a short stepladder, of course!” He bustled around to the other side of the cake, checking it out. “A large confection like this is a sign of wealth. The groom’s family pays for the wedding here and they want the guests to know nothing is too good for them. There will be two hundred here this afternoon, and I have another wedding tomorrow.”
“Two hundred!” Rand stared up at the cake. “This would feed a thousand!”
The caterer chuckled. “The center core and every other tier are artificial, made of cardboard and a bit of plaster decoration. Everyone does it with large cakes.”
Rand only shook his head. “Everything is illusion these days!”
Promptly at one o’clock the sound of bagpipes and drums was heard from the staircase. The happy couple entered the foyer and made their way up the stairs to the ballroom. Rand mingled with the invited guests as the pipers were dismissed and a twelve-piece orchestra took over on the bandstand. The room was decorated with hundreds of balloons, with the bride and groom presiding over the festivities from a ceremonial dais at one side of the dance floor.
Rand found a spangled belly dancer preparing to perform after the singer. Her name was Mustafa and she admitted to sometimes working at Sahara City. “Emira?” she repeated. “I’ve met her. I read what happened. But she never went out with the other girls.”
“Did she know an astrologer named Ibn Shubra?”
“I do not believe in astrologers. Some of the girls go to them. I do not.”
“Thank you for talking to me,” he said, though he’d learned nothing from her.
As he turned away she said, “Emira didn’t come with the other girls because she had a lover.”
“Who was he?”
“I do not know. She would go to meet him sometimes after work.”
Rand met Leila as planned, and looked over the things she’d bought. One, a replica of the painted limestone bust of Nefertiti, had become a symbol of ancient Egypt throughout the world. “I have just the place for it at home,” Leila promised. “What have you been up to today? Did you meet that woman who phoned?”
He told her about it, and about the wedding reception at the hotel. “I talk to these people and I get nowhere,” he admitted.
“I still think you should call London.”
“Who? Parkinson? I don’t owe him anything.”
There was a show at a Parisian nightclub that Leila wished to see, and they went there in the evening. He spent the time trying not to think of Emira and the man known as Rynox, but by the end of the evening he had decided to pay a return visit to the astrologer on Sunday morning. Leila wished to attend mass at one of the Coptic Christian churches in Cairo, and he planned to go then.
Sunday was another day of mid-eighties temperatures and sunny skies, more suited to summer than the last week in April. Some shops were closed, others open, and as he made his way through the twisting alleys of the Old City he wondered why anyone would choose to live there when so many more colorful areas of Cairo were available. The inhabitants, like many of the houses, had seen better days.
At the house where Ibn Shubra resided, Rand could see on his approach that the latticework screens on the upper windows were open, indicating the astrologer was probably at home. A beggar in rags sat across from the entrance to the house, perhaps the same one who’d been sleeping there on Rand’s first visit.
The tall astrologer, dressed in black as he had been earlier, answered his knock and stepped aside to let him enter. “I had been expecting your return, Mr. Rand. Our first conversation was not completely satisfactory.”
Rand took the same seat he’d occupied on his earlier visit, and once again accepted a cup of tea. “Tomorrow is one of the Egyptian Days,” he said. “I thought I should visit you before then. I am seeking a man named Rynox who may be closing an important business deal before tomorrow.”
“Rynox— An odd name.”
“A dealer in contraband.”
“How did you learn of him?”
“From a dancer at Sahara City. She was killed Friday night. You may have seen it in the papers.”
Ibn Shubra looked away. “A woman named Emira.”
“That’s right.”
“What is your connection with her? You were sent to me by Max Zeitner.”