“Whatever you say,” said Khalifa. “This job is getting interesting.”
Day 4
“Balianeh in one hour,” said the porter through the curtain of her berth.
“Thank you,” said Erica, sitting up and pulling back the drape covering a small window. Outside, it was very early daybreak. The sky was a light purple and she could see low desert mountains in the distance. The train was moving rapidly, with slight to-and-fro movements. The tracks ran right along the edge of the Libyan desert.
Erica washed at her small sink and put on a bit of makeup. The night before, she’d tried to read one of the books on Tutankhamen that she’d purchased at the station, but the train’s movements had cradled her instantly asleep. It was some time in the middle of the night that she had awakened long enough to turn off the reading light.
They served an English breakfast in the dining car as the first tentative rays of sunlight cleared the eastern horizon. As she watched, the sky changed from purple to a clear light blue. It was incredibly beautiful.
Sipping her coffee, Erica felt as if a burden had lifted from her shoulders; in its place was a euphoric sense of freedom. She felt as if the train were hurtling her back in time, back to ancient Egypt and the land of the pharaohs.
It was a little after six when she detrained at Balianeh. Very few passengers got off, and the train departed as soon as the last foot touched the platform. With some difficulty Erica checked her suitcase at a baggage window, then walked out of the station into the bright bustle of the small rural town. There was a gaiety in the air. The people seemed much happier than the oppressive crowds of Cairo. But it was hotter. Even this early in the morning Erica could feel the difference.
There were a number of old taxis waiting in the shade of the station. Most of the drivers were asleep, their mouths gaping. But when one spotted Erica, they all got up and began chattering. Finally a slender fellow was pushed forward. He had a large untrimmed mustache and a ragged beard, but he seemed pleased with his luck and made a bow in front of Erica before opening the door to his 1940-ish taxi.
He knew a few words of English, including “cigarette.” Erica gave him a few and he immediately agreed to serve as her driver, promising to return her to the station to catch the five-P.M. connection to Luxor. The cost was five Egyptian pounds.
They headed north out of the town, then turned away from the Nile to the west. With his portable radio lashed to the dash so that its aerial could stick out of the missing window on the right, the driver smiled his contentment. On either side of the road stretched a sea of sugarcane, broken by an occasional oasis of palm trees.
They crossed a foul-smelling irrigation ditch and passed through the village of El Araba el Mudfuna. It was a sorry collection of mud-brick huts built just beyond the reach of the cultivated fields. There were few people in evidence except for a group of women dressed in black carrying large water jars on their heads. Erica looked at them again. They were wearing veils.
A few hundred yards beyond the village the driver halted and pointed ahead. “Seti,” he said without taking the cigarette from his mouth.
Erica climbed out of the car. So here it was. Abydos. The place Seti I chose to build his magnificent temple. Just as Erica started to get out her guidebook, she was set upon by a group of youths selling scarabs. She was the first tourist of the day, and only by paying her fifty-piaster entrance fee and advancing into the temple proper could she free herself from their insistent chatter.
With the Baedeker in hand she sat on a limestone block and read the section on Abydos. She was familiar with the site but wanted to be certain which sections had been decorated with hieroglyphics during the reign of Seti I. The temple had been finished by Seti’s son and successor, Ramses II.
Unaware of Erica’s plans to visit Abydos, Khalifa stood on the platform at Luxor waiting for the passengers to disembark. The train had pulled in on time and was greeted by a huge throng who eagerly pressed in on the train. There was a lot of commotion and shouting, particularly by the hawkers selling fruit and cold drinks through the windowless openings of the third-class coaches to the passengers continuing on to Aswan. Those people detraining and those boarding jostled each other in a mounting frenzy because whistles began to blow. Egyptian trains ran on time.
Khalifa lit one cigarette, and then another, allowing the smoke to snake up past his hooked nose. He was standing apart from the chaos at a place where he could view the entire platform as well as the main exit. A few late passengers scurried to catch the train as it began to pull out of the station. There was no sign of Erica. When he finished his cigarette, Khalifa left the building by the main entrance. He headed for the central post office to make a call to Cairo. Something was wrong.
Erica walked from one incredible room to the next as she explored the temple of Seti I. At last she could experience all the electrifying mystery of Egypt. The relief work was magnificent. She planned to return to Abydos in several days to do some serious translation work on the wealth of hieroglyphic inscription that covered the walls of the temple complex. For the moment she just scanned the texts to see if the name Tutankhamen ever appeared among Seti’s inscriptions. It didn’t, except in the room called the Gallery of Kings, where almost all the ancient Egyptian pharaohs were listed in chronological order.
As she walked through the inner chambers, where the roofing slabs were still in place, she used her flashlight to view the hieroglyphics.
Silently Erica repeated an abbreviated translation of the phrase on the Seti I statue: “Eternal rest granted to Seti I, who rules after Tutankhamen.” She admitted the phrase did not make any more sense to her standing in Seti I’s temple than it did on the balcony of the room in the Hilton. Rummaging in her bag, Erica pulled out the photo of the hieroglyphic inscription on the statue. She looked about the temple for any similar combination of signs. It was a slow process and ultimately unrewarding. At first she couldn’t even find Seti’s name written in the same way as it was on the statue, linked to the god Osiris. In the temple it usually identified him with the god Horus.
Morning melted happily into afternoon, leaving Erica oblivious of the heat and of her appetite. It was after three when she passed through the chapel of Osiris into the god’s inner sanctuary. It had once been a splendid hall whose roof had been supported by ten columns. Now sun drenched the room with light, illuminating the magnificent reliefs associated with the cult of Osiris, the god of the dead.
There were no other tourists in the ruined hall, and Erica moved slowly, undisturbed in her appreciation of the craftsmanship of the sculptured murals. At the far end of the empty hall she came to a low doorway. Inside it was dark. Consulting her Baedeker, she found the room beyond was described simply as a chamber with four columns.
Scoffing at her own misgivings, Erica took out her flashlight and ducked under the low door. Slowly she let the beam of light play upon the walls, columns, and ceiling of the deathly silent room. With great care she picked her way over the irregular floor and moved around the heavy columns. Against the far wall were the openings to the three chapels of Isis, Seti I, and Horus. Eagerly Erica entered the chapel of Seti I; its location within the sanctuary of Osiris was encouraging.
No daylight penetrated the small chapel. Erica’s flashlight illuminated only a small area. The rest of the room was lost in darkness. She started to run the light around the room, but almost immediately glimpsed amid the hieroglyphics a cartouche of Seti I exactly as it had been written on the statue. It was Seti identified with Osiris.