It was printed in block letters very like Roman printing, angular and clean.
* * *
Lord Rutherford, it is now your decision. May your philosophy and your wisdom sustain you. May you choose the right path.
He couldn't absorb it. No, he simply couldn't believe it. He stared at the note for a long moment; then he looked at the flask.
* * *
She lay in half sleep on the pillow. When she opened her eyes, she realized that it was her own voice that had awakened her. She'd been calling Ramses. She rose from bed slowly and pulled on her robe. Did it matter if anyone saw her out on the deck of the ship in her robe? But it was dinner-time, wasn't it? She had to dress. Alex needed her. Oh, if only she could think straight. She went to the wardrobe and began pulling things out. Where were they? How many hours had they been at sea?
When she reached the table, he was sitting there staring forward. He did not greet her, or rise to help her with her chair. As if any of that mattered. He started talking.
"I still don't understand any of it. Truly I don't. She didn't seem mad at all, really."
This was excruciating, but she forced herself to listen.
"I mean, there was something somber and sad about her," he said. "I only know that I loved her. And that she loved me." He turned to Julie. "Do you believe what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I do," she said.
"You know, she said the strangest things. She said that she hadn't planned to love me! But it had happened, and you know, I told her I knew just what she meant. I 'd never thought I... I mean, it was altogether different. As if all your life you've thought that pink roses were red roses!"
"Yes, I know."
"And that tepid water was hot."
"Yes."
"Did you get a good look at her? Did you see how beautiful she was?"
"It's not going to help to dwell on it. You can't make her come back."
' 'I knew I would lose her. I knew from the start. I don't know why. I simply knew it. She wasn't of this world, do you understand? And yet she was the world more truly than anything I 'd ever..."
"I know."
He stared forward; he appeared to be looking at the other diners; the black-jacketed waiters moving about; maybe listening to the hushed civilized voices. Almost entirely a British ship. There seemed something utterly revolting about that.
"It's possible to forget!" she said suddenly. "It is possible, I know that it is."
"Yes, forget it," he said, and he smiled coldly, though not at her in particular. "Forget it, "he repeated. "That's what we'll do. You'll forget Ramsey, as clearly something's happened to separate you. And I'll forget her. And we will go through the motions of living as if we had never loved like that, either of us. You and Ramsey and I with her."
Julie found herself looking at him in mild shock. She narrowed her eyes.
"The motions of living!" she whispered. "What a horrible thing to say."
He hadn't even heard her. He had picked up the fork and started eating, or rather picking at the food. Going through the motions of eating it.
She sat there trembling, looking down at the plate.
* * *
It was dark outside now. A blue light shone through the slatted blinds. Walter had come again to ask him if he wanted supper. He had said no. Only to be alone.
He sat in his robe and slippers, looking at the flask on the table. It shimmered in the darkness. The note lay where he had left it, beside the flask.
Finally he got up to dress. It took him several minutes, because each part of it made some special demand on his patience, but finally it was finished. He had on his gray wool, a bit too heavy for the days here, yet perfect for the night.
And then he went to the table, leaning on his cane with his left hand, and lifted the flask with his right. He put the flask in his inside pocket, where it just barely fit, making a weight against his chest.
Then he went out. The pain in his leg grew worse after he had walked a short distance from Shepheard's. But he continued, now and then shifting the cane to the other side to see if that made it any better. He stopped when he had to; then when he'd caught his breath he moved on.
In about an hour, he'd reached old Cairo. He made his way through the alleyways, aimlessly. He did not search for Malenka's house. He merely walked. And walked. By midnight, his left foot was numb again. But it didn't matter.
Everywhere that he walked, he looked at things. He looked at walls, and doors, and people's faces; he stopped in front of cabarets and listened to the dissonant music. Now and then he glimpsed a belly dancer going through her seductive little performance. Once he paused to listen to a man playing a flute.
He didn't linger very long anywhere, except when he was very tired; then he sat, and sometimes even dozed. The night was quiet; peaceful. It seemed to harbor none of the dangers of London.
As two o'clock came he was still walking. He had covered the medieval city, and he was moving back to the newer districts again.
* * *
Julie stood at the rail, clutching the ends of her shawl. She looked down at the dark water, vaguely conscious that she was bitterly cold, that her hands were freezing. But it didn't matter. And it seemed lovely suddenly that such things weren't hurting her. That she didn't care.
She wasn't here at all. She was at home in London. She was standing in the conservatory, and it was all full of flowers. Ramses stood there, the linen wrappings covering him; he raised his hand as she watched and tore them loose from his face. The blue eyes looked directly at her, at once full of love.
"No, it's wrong," she whispered. But to whom was she speaking? There was no one here to hear what she said. All the ship slept, all the civilized British travelers going home after their little sojourn in Egypt, so happy to have seen the pyramids, the temples. Destroy the elixir. Every drop of it.
She stared down into the turbulent sea. The wind suddenly ripped at her hair, at the edges of the shawl. She gripped the railing, and the shawl was lifted off her shoulders and blown away, rolling into a ball as it was carried up and out into the dark.
The mist swallowed it. She never saw it hit the water. And the sound of the wind and the sound of the engines merged suddenly, and seemed to be of the same fabric as the mist.
Her world, gone. Her world of faded colors and dim noises, gone. She heard his voice speaking to her, "I love you, Julie Stratford." She heard herself say, "I wish I'd never laid eyes on you. That you had let Henry do his work."
She smiled suddenly. Had she ever been this cold in her life? She looked down. She was wearing only a thin nightgown. No wonder. And the truth was, she ought to be dead now. Dead like her father. Henry had put the poison in her cup. She closed her eyes, turning her face this way and that in the wash of the wind.
"I love you, Julie Stratford," his voice came again in memory, and this time she heard herself answer with the old cliché", so beautiful. "I shall love you till my dying day."
It was no use going home. It was no use, any of it. The motions of living. The adventure had ended. The nightmare had ended. And now the normal world would be the nightmare, unless she was with her father, or alone sealed off from all reality, her last thoughts only of all the glorious moments that had been.
In the tent with him, making love to him, his at last. In the temple under the stars.
She would tell no children in old age why she had never married. She would tell no young man the story of the voyage to Cairo. She would not be that woman, harboring all her life a terrible knowledge, a terrible regret.
But this was too harsh, all of this. No need for such literal thoughts. The dark waters waited. She'd be carried far, faraway from the ship within moments;- there would be no chance of salvation. And that seemed to her to be inexpressibly beautiful suddenly. She had only to climb up, which she did now, and let herself go into the cold wind.