A passion for birding would account for his presence on board. However, it did occur to me that it’s easier to bone up on Egyptian ornithology than Egyptology or – as I knew to my sorrow – Islamic art. A clever man could learn enough about it in a few weeks to convince nonexperts that he was one.
When questions were invited, I asked a lot. They were all stupid questions, the only kind I was capable of asking about that subject. He answered glibly and with assurance – if that proved anything. Unfortunately he decided my interest was so intense and my ignorance so abysmal that I deserved special coaching, and I didn’t manage to shake him off until after lunch, by which time I knew more about the nesting habits of wigeons than I wanted to know – and I still wasn’t sure whether he was on the level or not.
The sound of music struck my ears when I got off the elevator. Someone was playing the piano, and playing quite well. It was a stormy, violent piece of music – Chopin’s ‘Revolutionary Etude.’
He had his back to me and the music covered the sound of my footsteps. I couldn’t resist. I moved close and spoke.
‘How nice. You’re playing our song.’
His hands came down on the keyboard with a crash and he bent his head. I couldn’t see his face, but his ear was bright crimson. After a moment he said under his breath, ‘Don’t do that!’
‘Where’s your dear little wife?’ I inquired.
He looked directly at me. His face was still flushed and his expression was so savage I stepped back. ‘Drop it, Vicky. Leave me alone.’
There were a number of other people in the saloon, including an elderly German couple from Hamburg, Suzi Umphenour, and Sweet and Bright, their heads bent over a chessboard.
Recovering, I said softly, ‘You don’t have to be so rude. Or do you?’
Several heads turned in our direction. John’s hands went back to the keyboard, covering his next words with a series of emphatic but rather ragged arpeggios. ‘Apparently I must. Subtle hints are wasted on you. Excuse me.’
He stopped playing and rose. I took the hint. As I walked away I heard a spatter of applause and the Frau from Hamburg called out in English, ‘Beautiful! Will you be performing for us at the cabaret?’
John answered in German. ‘Valen Dank, gnädige Frau, aber nein.’ In the same language, pitched so I could hear, he added, ‘I try never to perform in public’
The phone woke me at the unholy hour of 6 a.m. next morning. It was my wake-up call. I grunted an acknowledgment into the phone and reached out a languid hand for the button that would summon my room steward. I was going to miss this kind of service when I got home and was wakened at about the same hour by Clara sitting on my face and Caesar licking any part of me he could reach. Neither of them would bring me coffee.
The response was slower than usual, and when I answered the tactful tap at the door it wasn’t Ali. This man was darker-skinned and older and not so pretty.
‘Madame wishes breakfast?’ he inquired.
‘Where’s Ali?’
The fellow’s eyes shifted. ‘I am here instead, madame. Mahmud is my name. What is it the lady wishes?’
I didn’t pursue the matter. Maybe it was Ali’s day off. I had just finished showering when Mahmud came back; slinging on my robe, I told him to take the tray onto the balcony.
The boat rocked gently at its moorings. We had reached El Till, as promised, and at seven-fifteen would disembark to visit the site of Amarna. My room faced west, so all I could see was the river and the opposite bank. It was a beautiful morning, as usual. I wouldn’t need a jacket today. Already the breeze felt warm.
When we assembled in the lobby, Feisal began shouting directions. He seemed a little on edge that morning and reminded us twice, rather sharply, that we were to stay with the group and not wander off alone.
‘That doesn’t apply to me, of course,’ said Perry, edging up to me. ‘If there’s anything particular you want to see – ’
‘It sounds to me as if the regular tour covers as much as I want to see.’
And that was the truth. It was going to be a long, hot, tiring day. We were to spend the morning visiting part of the ruins of the city and a few of the nobles’ tombs. We would then return to the boat for an early lunch, and the weaker vessels would stay on board while the enthusiasts returned for a visit to the royal tomb in its remote wadi and, if time permitted, a few more nobles’ tombs.
I had a feeling that by lunchtime I would be tempted to join the weaker vessels. I had read about Amarna, and Perry’s lecture the previous evening had brought my memories into sharper focus.
The site is a great empty plain shaped like a half-moon, with the river forming the straight side and the cliffs of the high desert forming the curve. Amarna had been the capital city of the heretic king Akhenaton. He was one of the most interesting and enigmatic of ancient rulers; I had seen dignified scholars turn purple in the face and threaten to punch one another out when they got to arguing about whether Akhenaton was a monotheist or a pacifist or an idealist or a crazy religious fanatic or a disgusting ‘pre-vert.’ The artistic conventions of the period intrigued me, but the best examples of the painting and sculpture were elsewhere – in museums and private collections – since the site had been thoroughly vandalized in ancient and modern times.
I was not looking forward to enjoying Perry’s company all day, especially when we visited the city ruins. I knew what it would be like, since I’ve seen a number of archaeological sites: boring mud-brick walls, some as low as foundations, some as high as my head, in a confusing maze. The guide would say things like, ‘And this was the great reception hall,’ and we’d all gape at a square of dirt bounded by more of the bare brick walls and then he’d go on for hours pointing out things that had once been there but weren’t there now.
Feisal interrupted my thoughts with a sharp, ‘Vicky, please don’t dawdle,’ and I trotted obediently after him. Perry trotted after me.
‘Has he got a hangover or what?’ I whispered.
‘He doesn’t drink,’ Perry said. ‘Muslims don’t – ’
‘I was joking. What is bugging him?’
‘We’re in Middle Egypt now,’ Perry said soberly. ‘This is the area where terrorist attacks have been most frequent. But every precaution has been taken.’
They sure had. The first thing I saw when I stepped out onto the gangplank was a truck full of soldiers. ‘An armed escort?’ I exclaimed.
‘If anything happened to a member of this group, there’d be hell to pay,’ Perry said. ‘Ignore them and be thankful they’re here.’
I tried to follow his advice. The view was rather wonderful, unless you were of the school that insists on things like trees and flowers and grass and babbling brooks. It was a beauty of line and subtle shadings of colour, shadows that deepened from violet to blue-black, rugged rock walls turning from golden pink to paler silver as the sunlight strengthened. I wasn’t awfully taken by our means of transport – a tractor pulling an open metal trailer with rows of benches – but I didn’t suggest walking. Not with those grim-faced guys in uniform watching me.
The trailer proved to be just as uncomfortable as I had expected. I held on to the edge of the bench as we bumped along over a track that was barely distinguishable from the surrounding desert. I had managed to escape Perry, but when Sweet offered me a seat next to him (and, I hardly need say, Bright), there was no way I could refuse without rudeness. John obligingly shifted over to give me plenty of room. He also gave me a smile that indicated he was well aware I would have preferred another place.