Imhotep (3 page)

H
e’d never felt this gritty.

Sand
was all over the outside of his clothes, all over the inside of his
clothes.  He felt as if he’d bathed in it and gargled with it.

In
life before Egypt, Tim washed his hands whenever he passed a spigot. 
Eating hot wings required rolls of wet paper towels. Ice cream never dripped
from a cone in his hands.  His shirts were unwrinkled and always tucked in
his pants.

Now he
felt as if he’d slept in a cat litter box.  And he had no idea how, in the
middle of the desert, he was going to get rid of that feeling.

Dawn
had arrived at Saqqara; the tourists had not.  Tim had staggered out of
the tunnel and tried to find a secluded spot to shake the sand from his
clothes.  He’d stripped down to his boxer briefs and shook each article of
clothing before putting it back on.

It
hadn’t helped.

Now he
sat on the wall surrounding the parking lot and waited for the first tourist to
arrive in a cab.  He’d either pay the driver to run him back to Cairo
while the fare toured the site or he’d wait until the tourist was ready to
return and try to talk him into letting him ride along.

I
t was late-morning when he got back to his
room at the New Palace Hotel, a small hotel near the Egyptian Museum.  His
room didn’t have a bathroom, but the community shower down the hall was not in
use.

Two
hours later he was showered, shaved and almost sand free.

Before
washing he had emptied his backpack and wiped everything clean of sand. 
He’d taken the backpack outside, turned it inside out and beaten it with a
broom. 

Now he
sat on his bed, journal on his lap, and sketched from memory the shadowy
sarcophagus in Kanakht's tomb.  In the background he drew the hole in the
broken wall that he hadn’t explored because his flashlight had broken.

He
looked at the drawing and wondered about the American couple.

He
should have gone into that hidden hallway.  Now he wasn’t sure if it ended
after a few feet or if it continued into another chamber.  He really
wasn’t positive that the Americans hadn’t been down there.

Falling
in the sarcophagus had scared him and he’d panicked.  When he’d emerged
from the tomb, he’d still had three unused matches.  He should have used
them to go into that dark hallway and make sure that it was empty, that two bodies
weren't lying there.

The
guard at Kanakht’s tomb had seemed sure the couple had left the tomb and Tim
knew that he hadn’t seen them leave.  But the guard had been around the
back of the building and Tim had been looking at his map.  Still, he
thought he would have sensed movement if they had come out of the tomb, and the
guard should have heard them.

Hamzah,
the guide, had seemed sure they weren’t in the tomb.  Tim wondered now if
the concern on Hamzah’s face had been over losing the income or if it had been
fear that something bad had happened to them.

Something
in the tomb?  Like what - a mummy come to life?  A secret
passage?  Another vertical shaft that they could have fallen down?

Hamzah
had mentioned the Mena House.

E
ven though they were off in the distance,
the three great pyramids at Giza towered over the Mena House Oberoi.  Tim
stood in the hotel’s circular driveway looking at the monuments, hazy in the
distance, partially hidden by date palm trees planted around the sprawling
resort on the western edge of Cairo.

There
wasn’t much traffic moving in the early afternoon.  He looked for Hamzah
and his taxi, but didn’t really expect to see him.  The taxi-driver guides
would have found their customers early in the day and would be busy until dusk.

A
short, broad staircase flanked by twin archways reaching three stories high led
to the lobby.  A couple stood by one of the stone arches, watching Tim as
he approached.

The
man wore a red plaid, flannel jacket, a bulky camera bag slung over his
shoulder.  She had bushy black hair and was wearing a knitted wool
sweater.  Tim thought someone should tell them they were in the middle of
a desert.

They
looked anxious, as if they were waiting for someone who was running late.

“Hi,”
Tim said.

They
turned in unison.  She smiled automatically, he looked puzzled.

“You
folks staying here?” Tim asked.

She
looked at her companion and he nodded.

“I
don’t want to hold you up, but I was wondering if you could help me.”

The
man in the flannel jacket looked out over the driveway that circled through the
courtyard, then turned back to Tim.  “If we can,” he said.  “We just
got here a few days ago and everything we’d planned has gone wrong.  We’re
supposed to be getting a ride to the airport, but our ride isn’t here. 
The guy at the desk doesn’t seem too worried about the ride being late.” He
nodded toward the lobby doors.

Tim
shrugged.  “Egyptian time.  Everything moves slower and happens
whenever it happens.  Did you try slipping him some money?  I’ve been
told that can speed things up.”

They
looked at each other.  Then he said, “We had a bad experience with that on
the train from Alexandria.”

“Sorry. 
It’s really hard to get used to the way they work over here.  It’s like
they just let things happen instead of trying to make them happen on
time.  But things somehow seem to work out.”

She
nodded and looked hopeful. 

“Yeah,”
he said, “You’re probably right.  We’ve been a little tense.  I’m
Jerry,” he said, offering his hand.

“Deb,”
she said, offering hers.

“Tim.”
He took their hands in turn.  “Look, I ran into an American couple
yesterday and took some pictures for them down at the Step Pyramid, but I lost
the note with their names and room number on it.  He was tall, had a
Boston baseball cap.  She was thin, red hair?”

They
both nodded.

“We
saw them yesterday morning,” Jerry said.  “He looks a lot like a friend of
ours, an overenthusiastic practical joker.  That’s why I remembered
them.  Didn’t talk to them, though.  Sorry.”

“But
they are staying here, I didn’t get that part messed up, did I?”

“They
were eating breakfast here when we saw them,” he said.

Deb
nodded.  “I saw them by the pool the day before.  I remember worrying
about her getting too much of this sun.  She was really pale, not bad or
unhealthy or anything, just, you know she’s a redhead.  I think they were
staying in the same guesthouse we’re in,” she said more to Jerry than to Tim.

“Guesthouse?”

“Yeah,”
Jerry said.  “There are two guesthouses, well, three if you count the
rooms by the pool.  There’s the Palace Wing and the Garden Wing. 
That’s where people stay, not here in the main building.  We just came
over here to call the taxi company.  Again.  Each guesthouse has its
own desk and mail.  We’re in that one, the Garden Wing,” he said, pointing
to a three-story building across the landscaped courtyard.

“The
Garden Wing.  Well, thanks, you two,” Tim said.  “Hope everything
works out for you.”

“Thanks,”
Jerry said, but he didn’t sound optimistic.

“Diane,”
Deb said suddenly.  “I think I heard him call her Diane.”

“Diane,”
Tim repeated.

“Yes,”
Deb said.  “Or maybe Diana.”

Tim
waited expectantly to see if she would remember more.  She looked up at
him and shrugged.  “I didn’t hear her say much.  She seemed shy.”

Jerry
looked amazed. “I didn’t even see them,” he said.

“No,
you were reading and then you fell asleep.”

“I
didn’t fall asleep, I was just resting my eyes.”

“We
fly twelve hours so he can take a nap,” she told Tim, her voice light and
teasing.

Jerry
adjusted the strap of the camera bag.  “Well,” he started, and then smiled
at her.  “Well, it was really a good nap.  Worth the flight.”

A
gleaming white taxicab pulled into the driveway.

“That
your ride?” Tim asked.

“It is
now,” Jerry said, adjusting the weight of the camera bag.  “Let’s go,
Deb.  I don’t want to give the driver a chance to get out of the car.”

“Good
luck,” she said to Tim as they hurried away.

“Thanks,”
he called after them.  He started to walk to the guesthouse and then had
an idea.  He went inside to find a gift shop.  A few minutes
later he walked across the courtyard to the guesthouse where the American
couple were staying.

The
entrance led to a security desk where an extremely fat clerk stood in front of
a wall of wooden, pigeon-hole mail boxes, each identified with a number
engraved on a brass tag.  The clerk held a yellowed handkerchief in his
right hand, which he used to mop sweat from his face.  He looked tired and
hot and bored.

“Hi,”
Tim said.

“Hello,
sir,” the clerk’s voice was low and gravelly.  “Room number?” he asked,
turning to get a key.

“I’m
not a guest,” Tim said.

The
clerk frowned and said, “You’ll need to go to the main building, sir. 
Only guests are permitted entrance.”

“OK, I
just want to leave a message for some friends,” Tim said.

“Their
names?”

“Hers
is Diane or Diana.”

“Last
name?”

Tim
shook his head.  The clerk seemed to shudder.  Then he asked, “Room
number?”

Tim
shook his head again.

The
clerk nodded to himself and pursed his lips.  He placed his hands on the
counter and leaned forward slightly.  He talked to Tim slowly. “You don’t
know your friends’ names or their room number?  You can see, sir, how that
might present a difficulty in leaving a message for them.” He mopped his face
and looked at Tim expectantly.

“He’s
a very tall American and she has red hair.  When I saw them yesterday she
was wearing a straw hat and he was wearing a baseball cap.  Boston Red
Sox.” Tim patted his head for emphasis.

The
clerk nodded, processing the information. “I am a graduate of the American
University here in Cairo.  I have many, many American friends.  I
understand the concept of a baseball cap.  I even know about the Boston
Red Sox and their accursed sale of the Baby Ruth.  More to the point, I
know which couple you mean.  But, sir, the question remains, what are
their names?”

Tim
pulled a folded twenty-dollar bill from his pocket.  He reached across the
counter and gave it to the clerk.

“I was
hoping you could help me with their names,” he said.

The
clerk eyed the money but didn’t reach for it.

“I’m
not a camel driver,” he said and mopped his forehead.

Tim
wasn’t sure if the amount of money he had offered was too small, if his
technique was wrong or if the clerk was bartering for a larger bribe.  He
leaned closer to read the clerk’s nametag.

“Hasa?”

“Yes,
my name is Hasa.”

“Hasa,
I’m sorry if I offended you.  See, I met this couple at the Step Pyramid
yesterday.  They asked me to take some pictures of them.  We were
supposed to meet for breakfast this morning, but I missed them.  But I met
this other couple, out by the courtyard, and they said they had seen my friends
and thought they were staying in this guesthouse.”

The
clerk studied Tim.  “So you are a photographer.  You take photographs
of tourists for money?”

“No,
no.  I’m not a photographer.”

“You
took their photographs?”

“Yes. 
Look, they’re Americans.  I’m an American.  They said they’d
forgotten their camera yesterday.  It was a favor.” Tim surprised himself
with the ease of the lies.

“Perhaps
if you showed me the pictures I could be sure that I’m thinking of the right
guests,” Hasa said, holding out his hand.

“I
don’t have the photos.”

Hasa
looked suspicious.  “Yet you were going to give them the pictures this
morning, yes?” 

“No,
see, the pictures are on my laptop. I don't carry that with me. We were
supposed to meet this morning and take some more shots over by the Giza
pyramids.  They said they’d be here for a couple more days.”

Hasa
shook his head.  The movement freed a rivulet of sweat, which rolled down
his cheek.  He corralled it with his handkerchief.

“Look,”
Tim said.  “How about if I leave a note and you can give it to them. 
OK?  That way you haven’t disrupted their privacy and they can decide if
they want the pictures they asked me to take. 

“You
know, Hasa, I wish I did have my laptop with me to show you the pictures because
they were really good.  In one picture they were standing at the base of
the Step Pyramid, her arm around his waist, his over her shoulders.  The
sun was low enough that their faces weren’t shaded by their hats and they had
the sweetest smiles.” As he talked, he took from his backpack a pencil and an
oversized postcard he had bought a few minutes ago in the gift shop and started
to write a note.