Mummy Dearest (3 page)

“You must be staying in the Presidential Suite. I hear it’s right fancy.”

“Good day,” I said, then went into the hotel. After a brief debate, I tackled the stairwell and arrived, albeit panting, on the third floor across the hall from our suite. As I opened the door, I heard Inez’s voice from their bedroom.

“‘Her heart began to pound as she studied his cruel gray eyes and the sneer that tugged at his lips. She knew he was watching her while he twirled the jewel-encrusted dagger in his calloused hands, watching for any sign of weakness from her. What more could he want from her? He’d brutally ravished her that first horrible night. She felt heat color her face as she remembered how he’d torn off her blouse, and then seized her breasts as if he owned them. Despite her cries of protest, he’d overpowered her and forced her to surrender to his despicable desires until the sun rose over the dunes.’”

Inez turned the page of the book she held, oblivious to my intrusion. “‘She vowed, as she had done every waking moment since he’d kidnapped her at the oasis, that she
would never bend beneath his piercing stare, nor submit willingly to his brutish demands. He could have his way with her body, she thought bitterly, but she would never allow him to forget that he was a filthy native, a dark-skinned heathen worthy of nothing more than her contempt, while she was a lady of breeding. No, she would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her weep or plead for mercy.’”

“What are you reading?” I asked, appalled.

“The Savage Sheik.”

Caron, who was flopped across the bed, raised her head. “It should be called
Gone with the Sirocco.
I’m sure it must have titillated the upper-class British ladies back in the nineteen-twenties, but it’s impossibly silly these days. She practically swoons every time he exhales.”

Inez pulled off her glasses and cleaned them on her shirt. “Then I won’t bore you with it anymore.”

“Fine with me.” Caron flopped back across the bed and fluttered her hands. “Bring me my smelling salts. I am overwhelmed with repressed lust for the filthy native and his deadly dagger. Ravage me, you savage!”

“You have no concept of period literature,” Inez said huffily.

I decided both of them needed a nap before they lapsed any further into hostility. I could not suggest such a juvenile thing, so I opted for tact. “Why don’t we go out for a little while? I need to change some money, and there’s a bank right outside the hotel entrance. We can wander around and look in some of the shops, then come back here for lunch and a rest. Then, if you’d like, we can have tea on the terrace and wait for Peter.”

Caron brightened at the idea of shopping and began to rummage through her suitcase. Inez reluctantly put down her book and disappeared into the bathroom. I went to the master bedroom, noting that the bed had been made and the bathroom supplied with fresh towels, and made sure I had my passport and a few hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. Even though I’d been dazed when we arrived at the hotel, I had noticed the shops’ windows cluttered with jewelry and
designer fashions. I am not miserly by nature, but I’d struggled to earn a living from my beloved bookstore. It had seemed like a dream when I’d leased the old depot and carefully stocked it with racks and shelves of books. Within three months, reality had settled in like a bad head cold. My competition came from the chain bookstores at the mall and, more recently, from online sources. I relied on the campus community and a decreasing number of regular customers with eclectic taste or a fondness for pop fiction genres they preferred to purchase discreetly.

In this situation, which was admittedly peculiar since very few couples take teenagers with them on a honeymoon, Peter insisted on loading me up with traveler’s checks. When I protested, he countered with the price of a single airplane ticket to Luxor. There was a flaw in the logic, but I’d acquiesced with a becoming blush. Even brides slightly over forty years of age are allowed such things, as long as they don’t flutter their eyelashes and simper. Or swoon.

“Let’s use the stairs and go out through the New Winter Palace lobby,” I suggested as we went into the hall. I spotted Abdullah watching us from behind a cart laden with cleaning supplies. I gave him a small wave, then followed the girls down to the less impressive lobby. Several of the male employees (I’d yet to see a female one), all dressed in white coats and red fezzes, nodded at us as we went outside.

Within the walls of the hotel compound was a walkway lined with shops. Caron and Inez paused at a window filled with T-shirts and hats, while I went into a tiny bank branch and armed myself with a thick stack of Egyptian pound notes. I caught up with the girls at a shop selling scarves and perfume.

“This stuff is so expensive,” Caron said morosely. “Some of the T-shirts are eighty pounds. There are some cute sandals for a hundred pounds. I know Peter wants us to buy things, but this is ridiculous.”

“Divide by five for dollars,” I said. “Before you get too carried away with these shops, let’s look into some local ones. There’s a mall of sorts just past the corner.”

“A mall?” echoed Inez.

“More like an alley,” I said. “The man at the bank told me about it. This is a tourist area, so the prices will still be on the high side. We might as well have a look, though.” I did not add that we would pass by a bookstore on the way. It’s an addiction that cannot be easily explained and can rarely be overcome.

The temperature was warm but comfortable, as promised by the guidebook. We strolled along the side of the corniche, ignoring the carriage drivers and shoeshine boys clamoring for our attention. Shop owners came out and begged us to consider their offerings, which were, of course, available at the best prices in Luxor. Inside a newsstand, two boys were playing a game on a computer. An ancient man shaped like a pear sat on a folding stool, scowling at his Arabic newspaper and puffing on a water pipe. Many of the men wore long white robes and some had sweat-stained cloths tied around their heads. A gaggle of schoolgirls passed us, wearing dark scarves and long skirts but also sandals adorned with plastic flowers and glass beads.

A sandwich board announced the so-called mall. We turned into the passageway crowded with souvenir shops and racks of T-shirts. I looked around curiously as the girls cooed over plush toy camels and plastic sphinxes. I had managed to walk by the bookstore without a whimper, but I could feel its seductive allure. I decided I could interest the girls in postcards on our way back to the hotel. I drifted away from the T-shirt racks and began to look at jewelry in a window. I needed to take back a gift for Sergeant Jorgeson and his wife, who’d hosted our wedding in their garden, and one for Luanne Bradshaw, my best friend and confidante. I needed to find something that was either hysterically tacky or incredibly tasteful for her. A piece of antique jewelry might fit either category.

Caron caught my elbow and dragged me into a tiny shop overpowered with shelves of tablecloths and tea towels. “Mother,” she whispered, “I think we’re being followed.”

“I’m sure we are, dear. We’re tourists. We might as well
have bull’s-eyes pinned on our backs proclaiming us to be rich and foolish.”

“No, I saw him at the hotel, too. He was sitting near the exit, pretending to read a newspaper.”

“Maybe he
was
reading a newspaper,” I said.

“He looked right at us when we walked by him.”

I grinned. “He may be planning on making an offer for you. How many camels are you worth? A hundred? Should I hold out for more?”

Caron’s lower lip shot out. “You are So Not Funny. What if he’s trying to figure out how to kidnap us?”

Inez scuttled into the shop and began to wheeze. “He spoke to me,” she said between gasps. “I was looking at this really cute puppet when he brushed against me and said,
‘Ahlan wa-sahlan.’
I think that’s what he said, anyway. I almost screamed.”

I frowned. “Any idea what it meant?”

She gulped. “If I heard it right, it means ‘hello.’”

“And then …?” I said.

“He turned away and said something to the owner, who laughed and said something back. I know they were talking about me.”

“What are you going to do, Mother?” demanded Caron.

Gazing solemnly at them, I said, “I’m going to pop in that bookstore and see if they carry books in English. If they do, I may browse for an hour and perhaps buy some postcards. After that, I’m going to go back to the hotel and have a light lunch on the patio. Would you two care to join me?”

“What if he’s stalking us?” demanded Caron.

“That’s a strong word,” I said, shaking my head. “Is he Egyptian?”

Inez shrugged. “Arab, anyway, with a droopy mustache and a scar across his cheek. He has on sunglasses, a plaid sport jacket, and wrinkled trousers. He looks like the villain in an old movie like
Casablanca.”

I glanced out the shop window. “I don’t see anybody who looks remotely like that.” The shopkeeper was moving in on us, his eyes bright and his smile painfully broad. I nudged
the girls toward the door. “Let’s go to the bookstore. If you spot this man, you can point him out to me.”

“Then you believe us?” Caron said.

I didn’t, but I also didn’t want to linger and end up with a tablecloth and matching napkins. “I believe you captured the attention of an Arab gentleman who most likely thinks the two of you are attractive and charming, and is hoping for an opportunity to make your acquaintance.” I lowered my voice. “Then fling you across his camel and carry you to his oasis, where he will ravish you nightly and force you to wear emeralds in your navels.”

“Mother!”

I allowed them to sputter while I herded them back to the bookstore. Neither claimed to see their less-than-dashing sheik, and eventually they began to look at postcards. The bookstore was much mustier than mine, and dusty enough to elicit several explosive sneezes from me. I dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief while I examined the shelves of worn covers and titles in a bewildering array of languages. I was looking at an ornithology guide when Caron and Inez tracked me down and admitted they were tired.

The two salesclerks did not look up as we left. We turned onto the corniche and headed for the hotel. The grand staircase that led up to the lobby of the Winter Palace looked daunting, so we continued past the low wall to the entrance of the New Winter Palace.

Abruptly Caron stopped. “There he is!” she squeaked. “Going in the lobby! Do you see him, Mother? The same man!”

I paused. “I see a businessman returning to his hotel.”

“That’s the man,” Inez said, squeaking less vehemently than Caron but doing her best. “The one who has been following us.”

“Now’s your chance to reciprocate,” I said, “unless you want to stand out here and dither the rest of the day. I’m not in the mood for lunch. I’m going to buy a newspaper and go up to our suite. You can either eat lunch downstairs or come up and order room service.”

Ten minutes later I was on the balcony, reading the previous day’s newspaper and listening to snores from the bedroom on the far side of the parlor.

Thus far, my honeymoon had been less than romantic—but the moon had yet to rise above the Nile.

Caron, Inez, and I were having tea on the terrace when Peter arrived. He was accompanied by an Egyptian man in a rumpled suit, who waited at a polite distance while Peter greeted me as warmly as he dared in front of the girls. “I hope you all made it with a minimum of fuss,” he said.

“It took forever,” said Caron, not yet recovered from her nap. “Ten thousand miles, at least. Maybe more.”

Inez put down her teacup and stared solemnly at him. “It’s slightly less than seven thousand, if one travels in a straight line. Since we flew through Frankfurt, it was actually—”

“A very long way,” I said. “Would you and your friend care to join us?”

Peter, who was rather tan for someone who supposedly had been in meetings for two weeks, gestured to the man. “This is Chief Inspector Mahmoud el-Habachi, of the local tourist security office. Mahmoud, this is my wife, Claire Malloy, her daughter, Caron, and Inez Thornton, our resident scholar. Mahmoud and his wife, Aisha, have invited me for meals at their home several times. Aisha is looking forward to meeting you.”

We exchanged pleasantries as Mahmoud sat down. Although a relatively young man, Mahmoud had the same air of resignation as that of Peter’s beleaguered sergeant in the Farberville PD. Bureaucracies seem to breed gray hairs and weary smiles, as if they were standard issue along with
badges. Both Mahmoud and Peter needed to have their hair trimmed and their suits sent to a dry cleaner. A waiter in a starchy white jacket materialized at the table. Peter requested a gin and tonic, and I acknowledged that I might enjoy one as well.

Mahmoud opted for a glass of lemonade. “I am Muslim and do not drink alcoholic beverages. I do not object when others do, although it grieves me to see our younger generation sneering at the old traditions and ignoring their religious training.” He laughed ruefully. “I suppose that is precisely what my parents said about me and my friends, and their parents said about them. It is now the twenty-first century. We must all adapt, or so my children keep telling me when they’re not playing their computer games or downloading music.”

Caron and Inez rolled their eyes at each other, then realized I was looking at them and returned their attention to the platters of sandwiches and cakes.

“Peter tells me that you two were married quite recently,” Mahmoud continued. “Aisha and I have been married for nearly twelve years, but she still complains that I work too late and never have time for her and our three children. One day she will be complaining that I never have time for our grandchildren. I can see that you are not as naive as she is,
Sitt
Malloy.”

“Call me Claire, please. Peter managed to show up for the ceremony, but we haven’t had much time together since then. I hope he’ll be able to show us around. I’m particularly excited at the chance to see the Valley of the Kings.”

Mahmoud gave Peter one of those indecipherable male glances, then said, “You have at your disposal a car and driver.” He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to me. “Please call this number half an hour before you wish to depart. Bakr will be available day or evening to take you to your chosen destination and wait while you take all the time you wish to appreciate the sites. He will also run errands and make purchases for you, although it might be best to write down specifically what you want. Bakr speaks English fairly
well, but he is no better than any man when it comes to ladies’ cosmetics and toiletries. To us, shampoo is shampoo. I know my wife has exacting preferences as to brands.”