Sphinx (15 page)

 

Dinner with Yvon turned out to be a soothingly romantic interlude. Erica surprised herself with her resilience; despite the harrowing day and despite the guilty feeling she had had since her call to Richard, she was able to enjoy the evening. Yvon had picked her up at her hotel while the spot where the sun had set still glowed like a dying ember. They had driven south along the Nile out of the dusty heat of Cairo toward the town of Maadi. As the stars had emerged in the darkening sky, Erica's tension had evaporated into the cool evening air.

The restaurant was called the Sea Horse, and it was situated directly on the Nile's eastern bank. Taking advantage of the perfect Egyptian nighttime climate, the dining room was open on all four sides. Across the river and above a line of palms were the illuminated pyramids of Giza.

They dined on fresh fish and giant prawns from the Red Sea, grilled on an open fire and washed down with a chilled white wine called Gianaclis. Yvon thought it was terrible and cut it with mineral water, but Erica liked its slightly sweet, fruity taste.

She watched him drink, admiring his closely fitted dark blue silk shirt. Reminding her of her silk tops, which she prized and wore on special occasions, it should have
seemed feminine, but it didn't. In fact the silvery sheen seemed to emphasize his masculinity.

Erica herself had taken a long time to get ready, and the effort had paid off. Her freshly washed hair was loosely pulled back on the sides and held with tortoise-shell combs. She had chosen to wear a one-piece chocolate-brown jersey with a scooped neck, cap sleeves, and elastic waist. Beneath she had on hose for the first time since she had gotten off the plane. She knew that she looked as good as she could, and the whole effect pleased her as the soft Nile breeze caressed the nape of her neck.

Their conversation started lightly but soon switched to the murders. Yvon had been frustrated in his attempts to discover who had killed Abdul Hamdi. He told Erica that the only thing he'd learned was that the murderers were not from Cairo. Then Erica described her harrowing episode in the serapeum and the subsequent experience with the police.

“I wish you had allowed me to accompany you today,” said Yvon, shaking his head in wonderment when Erica had finished her story. He reached across the table and lightly pressed her hand.

“So do I,” admitted Erica, looking down at their barely touching fingers.

“I have a confession,” said Yvon softly. “When I first met you, I was only interested in the Seti statue. But now I find you irresistibly charming.” His teeth gleamed in the candlelight.

“I don't know you well enough to know when you are teasing,” said Erica, acknowledging an adolescent thrill.

“I'm not teasing, Erica. You are very different from any woman I've ever met.”

Erica looked out across the darkened Nile. Faint movement on the near bank caught her eye, and she could just make out several fishermen working on a sailboat. They were apparently naked and their skin glistened like polished onyx in the darkness. With her eyes momentarily captured by the scene, Erica thought about Yvon's comment. It sounded like such a cliché, and in that sense a little demeaning. Yet it was possible there
was some truth in it, because Yvon was different from any man she'd ever met.

“The fact that you are trained as an Egyptologist,” continued Yvon, “I find fascinating, because—and I mean this as a compliment—you have an East European sensuality that I love. Besides, I think you share some of Egypt's mysterious vibrancy.”

“I think I'm very American,” said Erica.

“Ah, but Americans have ethnic origins, and I think yours are apparent. I find it very attractive. To tell you the truth, I am tired of the cold, blond Nordic look.”

As strange as it seemed to her, Erica found herself at a loss for words. The last thing she expected or wanted was an infatuation making her emotionally vulnerable.

Yvon seemed to sense her discomfort and changed the subject while their dinner dishes were cleared. “Erica, could you possibly identify the killer in the serapeum today? Did you get to see his face?”

“No,” said Erica, “it was as if the sky had fallen in. I didn't see anyone.”

“God, what an awful experience. I can't think of anything worse. And falling on top of you! Unbelievable. But you know that assassinations of government officials are a daily occurrence in the Middle East. Well, at least you weren't hurt. I know it will be difficult but I wouldn't give it any more thought. It was just such a crazy coincidence. And coming on top of Hamdi's death makes it that much worse. Two murders in two days. I don't know if I could take it.”

“I know it was probably a coincidence,” said Erica, “but there is one thing that concerns me. The poor man who was shot didn't just work for the government; he worked for the Department of Antiquities. So both victims dealt with ancient artifacts, but from supposedly opposite sides of the issue. Still, what do I know?” Erica smiled weakly.

The waiter brought out Arabic coffee and served the dessert. Yvon had ordered a coarse semolina cake coated in sugar and sprinkled with walnuts and raisins.

“One of the amazing aspects of your adventure,” said Yvon, “was that you were not detained by the police.”

“That's not totally correct. I was detained for a number of hours, and I'm not permitted to leave the country.” Erica tasted the dessert but decided it wasn't worth the calories.

“That's nothing. You're lucky you're not in jail. I'd be willing to wager that your guide still is.”

“I think I have Ahmed Khazzan to thank for my release,” said Erica.

“You know Ahmed Khazzan?” asked Yvon. He stopped eating.

“I don't know how to categorize our relationship,” said Erica. “After you left me last night, Ahmed Khazzan was waiting for me in my room.”

“This is true?” Yvon's fork clattered as it hit the table.

“If you think you're surprised, try to imagine how I felt. I thought I was being arrested for not reporting Hamdi's murder. He took me to his office and questioned me for an hour.”

“That's incredible,” said Yvon, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Ahmed Khazzan already knew about Hamdi's murder?”

“I don't know if he did or not,” said Erica. “Initially I thought he did. Why else would he have taken me to his office? But he never said anything about it, and I was afraid to bring it up.”

“Then what did he want?”

“Mostly he wanted to know about you.”

“Me!” Yvon assumed a playfully innocent expression and poked his chest with his index finger. “Erica, you have had a most amazing two days. I've never even met Ahmed Khazzan, and I've been coming here to Egypt for a number of years. What did he ask you about me?”

“He wanted to know what you are doing in Egypt.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I didn't know.”

“You said nothing about the Seti statue?”

“No. I was afraid if I mentioned the statue, I'd be drawn into talking about Hamdi's murder.”

“Did he say anything about the Seti statue?”

“Nothing.”

“Erica, you are fantastic.” Suddenly he leaned over the table, cradled Erica's face in his hands, and kissed her on both cheeks.

The exuberance of the gesture dumbfounded her, and she felt herself blushing, something she hadn't done in years. Self-consciously she took a sip of the sweet coffee. “I don't think Ahmed Khazzan believed everything I said.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Yvon. He went back to his dessert.

“When I returned to my hotel room this afternoon, I noticed some very subtle changes in my belongings. I think my room was searched. After Ahmed Khazzan had been in there the night before, the only thing I can imagine is that the Egyptian authorities returned. My valuables weren't touched. I wasn't robbed. But I have no idea what they could have been looking for.”

Yvon chewed thoughtfully, looking directly at Erica. “Does your door have an extra night latch?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Use it,” said Yvon. He took another bite of dessert and swallowed thoughtfully before he spoke again. “Erica, when you visited with Abdul Hamdi, did he give you any letters or papers?”

“No,” said Erica. “He gave me a fake scarab, which looks real, and he did convince me to use his 1929 Baedeker instead of my own Nagel's.”

“Where are these things?” asked Yvon.

“Right here,” said Erica. She reached into her tote bag and extracted the Baedeker without the cover. It had finally detached, and Erica had left it in her room. The scarab was in her coin purse.

Yvon picked up the scarab and held it close to the candle. “Are you sure this is a fake?”

“Looks good, doesn't it?” said Erica. “I thought it was real too, but Hamdi insisted. Said his son made it.”

Yvon carefully put the scarab down and picked up the guidebook. “These Baedekers are fantastic,” he said. He
flipped through the volume carefully, viewing each page. “They are the best guides ever written for the Egyptian sites, particularly Luxor.” Yvon pushed the coverless book back toward Erica. “Do you mind if I have this authenticated?” he asked, holding the scarab between his thumb and forefinger.

“You mean carbon-dated?” asked Erica.

“Yes,” said Yvon. “This looks very good to me, and it has the cartouche of Seti I. I think it's bone.”

“You're right about the material. Hamdi said his son carved them of bone from mummies in the ancient public catacombs. So it will date properly. He also said that they make the cut surfaces look old by feeding them to turkeys.”

Yvon laughed. “The antique industry in Egypt is extremely resourceful. Just the same, I'd like to have this scarab examined.”

“It's fine with me, but I would like to have it back.” Erica took a last sip of coffee but ended up with bitter grounds in her mouth. “Yvon, why is Ahmed Khazzan so interested in your affairs?”

“I think I worry him,” said Yvon. “But why he spoke to you rather than to me, I cannot answer. He thinks of me as a dangerous collector of antiquities. He knows I've made some important acquisitions while trying to unravel the black-market routing. The fact that I am interested in doing something about the black market has no meaning. Ahmed Khazzan is part of the bureaucracy here. Rather than accept my help, they probably fear for their jobs. Besides, there is the lingering hatred of the British and the French. And I am French and a little English.”

“You are part English?” asked Erica with disbelief.

“I don't admit it often,” said Yvon with his strong French accent. “European genealogy is more complicated than most people think. My family residence is the Château Valois near Rambouillet, which is between Paris and Chartres. My father is the Marquis de Margeau, but my mother was from the English Harcourt family.”

“Sounds a long way from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica quietly.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I said, it sounds intriguing,” said Erica, smiling as he settled the bill.

Leaving the restaurant Yvon slipped his hand around Erica's waist. It felt good. The evening air had cooled considerably and the almost full moon shone between the branches of the eucalyptus trees lining the road. A chorus of insects resounded in the darkness, reminding Erica of August nights as a child in Ohio. It was a comfortable memory.

“What kind of important Egyptian antiquities have you purchased?” asked Erica as they drew near to Yvon's Fiat.

“Some wonderful pieces that I'd love to show you sometime,” said Yvon. “I'm particularly fond of several small golden statues. One of Nekhbet and another of Isis.”

“Have you purchased any Seti I pieces?” asked Erica. Yvon opened the passenger door to the car. “Possibly a necklace. Most of my pieces are from the New Kingdom, and a number could be from the time of Seti I.”

Erica entered the car and Yvon told her to use her seat belt. “I've done a little auto racing,” said Yvon, “and I always use them.”

“I could have guessed,” said Erica, remembering the ride the day before.

Yvon laughed. “Everyone says I drive a little fast. I enjoy it.” He reached for his driving gloves on the dash. “I suppose you know about as much about Seti I as I. It is curious. It is known very accurately when his fabulous rock-cut tomb was plundered in ancient times. The faithful priests in the twentieth dynasty were able to save his mummy, and they documented their efforts very well.”

“I saw the mummy of Seti I this morning,” said Erica.

“Ironic, isn't it?” asked Yvon, starting the engine. “The fragile body of Seti I comes down to us essentially intact. Seti I was one of the pharaonic mummies in that fabulous cache illicitly found by the clever Rasul family at the end of the nineteenth century.” Yvon turned and
leaned over the front seat to back up the car. “The Rasuls slowly exploited that find over a ten-year period before they were caught. An amazing story.” He pulled away from the restaurant and accelerated toward Cairo. “A few people still think there are some Seti I belongings to be discovered. When you visit his enormous tomb in Luxor, you'll see places where people have obtained permits to cut tunnels during this century, trying to find a secret room. The stimulus for this has been occasional Seti pieces surfacing on the black market. But it's not surprising to see some Seti artifacts. He probably was buried with a staggering array of possessions. And even if his tomb was stripped, they often recycled funerary objects in ancient Egypt. The stuff was probably buried and robbed over and over again down through the years. Consequently a lot of it is most likely still under ground. Very few people have any idea how many peasants currently dig for antiquities in Luxor. Every night they shift the desert sand, and occasionally they find something spectacular.”