Shadows on the Nile (38 page)

Malak had been waiting outside their hotel, crouched in a sandy patch of shade with a patience that struck Jessie as far beyond the grasp of English children.

‘Good morning, Malak.’ She had brought him flatbread
rolled around goat’s cheese from the breakfast table.

‘
Ahlan
, lovely lady, hello.’ He accepted his breakfast with grace, not with greed, and eyed Monty with respect. ‘Good sir,’ he salaamed politely, ‘I have boat for you, best felucca on Nile, yes sir yes.’ He waved his bread in the direction of the river. ‘My cousin, he sail, cousin Akil, very good sail yes.’

Monty flipped a coin at him. ‘Good lad. We intend to visit the tombs on the West Bank, so …’

‘Akil, he sail you to cross river.’

Monty gave a wry smile and flipped a second coin, that Malak snatched out of the air. ‘My uncle rich rich man. He own boat and many many horse. Camel? You want camel?’

‘No, thank you,’ Jessie said. ‘Horses will do.’

She saw Monty’s eyes brighten at the prospect of a ride and, surprisingly, Malak arranged it all beautifully. The felucca spread its giant triangular sail like a great white swan and Akil steered them across to the opposite bank of the Nile, the wide river brown and turbulent beneath them at this time of year. It was not long since the inundation when the Nile floods and spreads its rich black silt over the land. Waiting for them on the West Bank were two bay mares with black manes and tails, in slightly better condition than many of the gaunt hollow-ribbed creatures that ambled listlessly through the streets, pulling carts and carriages.

Monty fondled their ears and scratched their dusty necks, and from his pockets produced an apple for each of them that he had snaffled from the breakfast table. The animals munched contentedly but Malak pulled a face at the indulgence of wasting a good apple on a horse. They swung into the rough saddles and rode up from the river through green strips of fertile fields of sugarcane and cabbages, then up a dusty track past mud-brick houses into the bleak desert hills. The relentlessly harsh landscape was carved up by dry valleys that cut through the Theban Hills, and it was into the east valley that they turned, the Valley of the Kings –
Wadi Biban el-Muluk
– where the pharaohs’ tombs lay hidden.

Jessie was overwhelmed by the place. It seemed to throb
with heat and silence. Above it all loomed a great limestone escarpment whose cliffs were painted rose-pink in the morning light.

‘Look,’ Jessie pointed out, but in the kind of hushed voice she used in church. ‘There’s the Qurn.’

It was a pyramid, but a naturally formed one on the peak of the escarpment, and dedicated to the goddess Hathor.

‘It gives me the creeps,’ she muttered. ‘Faintly sinister.’

‘Don’t get carried away,’ Monty chided.

But when two kites effortlessly dipped their wings and circled the peak, she noticed that Monty turned his back on their eerie piercing cries. A number of other tourists were already tramping the valley, all pestered for business by dragomen from the local villages, but Monty brushed the guides aside and headed straight for King Tutankhamen’s tomb. The tombs of many great pharaohs had been excavated in the valley, their entrances marked by clearly outlined square doorways cut into the face of the limestone cliffs; some open to the public but some with metal gates barring access.

As they approached the small opening of King Tutankhamen’s tomb Jessie was disconcerted by a sudden racing of her pulse. She was nervous. But there was no reason to be. It was just a hole in the ground, for heaven’s sake, decorated with paintings. It was absurd to be nervous. But there was something about the place, something unreal and something unnervingly powerful.

‘Ready?’ Monty asked.

‘Of course.’ She faked a smile.

As she stared into the darkness, she was blinded after the scorching brilliance outside. The entrance was low and immediately descended a flight of steep steps cut into the rock. The tunnel down to the Tomb itself was dimly lit and so close and narrow that Jessie experienced a rush of claustrophobia. It was as though the walls were coming at her, preparing to crush the air out of her lungs under tons of rock, but she fixed her eyes on the figure of Monty in front of her, bent over to avoid the low roof, and kept going. She placed each foot where he had placed his on the sandy
path and eventually found herself entering the sunken burial chamber.

She gasped. Every fear and uncertainty that had plagued her since she’d entered this valley of death fell from her like dead leaves. Her heart was pounding. Her mouth was dry. But this time it was with excitement. The interior of the chamber was the most achingly beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Vivid colours and images of life-size figures decorated each wall from floor to ceiling, all painted on a background of vibrant gold. Even in the dim light of the tomb it was breathtaking.

Oddly, the tomb was unexpectedly hot, not like the cool caves of Britain. It felt like the breath of the dead, making the air thick and heavy, but the silence within the tomb was so deep it did strange things to her mind. It penetrated her brain. She realised she was holding her breath, unwilling to ripple the smooth surface of the silence by moving the air. Time seemed to stop in the tomb. It became irrelevant, unwanted and unheeded. The watch on her wrist became an obscenity.

She stood transfixed in front of the western wall where paintings of baboons, twelve of them, were crouched ready to leap out on her. Vaguely she was aware behind her of a guide entering the chamber with a group of chattering tourists whom he started to regale with the story of the baboon wall. Together they represented the twelve hours of the night through which Tutankhamen must pass before reaching the afterlife. But the boy king had fortunately been presented with a boat in the top right hand corner to assist him on his journey.

She thought for a moment about that boat. In it stood a scarab beetle, its big horny body supported on spindly legs, and it occurred to her how much a small boat can carry, even a small boat like a felucca on the Nile. How easy it would be for someone to travel through the baboons at night.

‘Excuse me, madam?’

Jessie became aware of a slightly built man standing at her elbow in the dimly lit corner of the tomb, a grey
galabaya
swamping his figure and a white turban wound around his head.
The scent of cinnamon hung around him. His dark eyes were serious, his manner deferential. He did not seem like one of the persistent beggars, yet he stood too close the way they did and she had the feeling he wanted something from her.

‘Yes?’

‘You are interested in tomb?’

‘Of course.’

‘My brother is a learned man. He knows much about tombs. He would be willing to give you a tour of …’

She stepped back from him. ‘No, thank you.’ She turned to walk away but he held onto the strap of her handbag that hung over her shoulder, preventing her from leaving.

‘I am Ahmed,’ he said softly. ‘I can help you.’

She glanced over at Monty who was listening to a guide pointing out the depiction of Tutankhamen in the form of Osiris with his vizier, Ay, dressed as a priest. The guide was describing in detail the performing of the opening of the mouth ceremony to bring the dead king to life.

‘I do not want your help,’ she said in a curt tone and removed her bag’s strap from his grip.

He said something soft in Arabic. She paused, expecting him to translate, but when he didn’t, she moved away to study another section of the tomb wall. As she stood facing the eastern wall, a painted image of the mummified body of the king beneath a canopy floated unseen in front of her eyes. All she could focus on was the man Ahmed’s serious eyes and his serious words,
I can help you
.

Could he help her? Could he mean something other than as a tour guide?

On impulse she turned quickly. She would speak to him again. But her eyes sought in vain for the white turban among the shadows of the tomb. He had gone. She hadn’t seen or heard him move, yet he was no longer there. Despite the heat of the place, her skin grew cold.

She let her hand find the
warmth of Monty’s broad back and he turned instantly.

‘Are you all right?’

She nodded. ‘Fresh air, I think.’

His eyes narrowed, then he scanned the people in the tomb. After a moment’s consideration, he said, ‘Let’s go.’ He steered her towards the exit.

But it was already too late. She sensed that something had changed in some subtle way that she didn’t quite understand. She could feel the air heavy in her lungs, smell the cloying scent of the cinnamon that had marked out Ahmed, and she experienced an odd reluctance to touch her bag because he had touched it.

As she climbed the steep steps hewn into the rock, ducking her head to avoid the sloping roof-line of the tunnel, she knew something had happened inside the golden tomb, but she didn’t know what.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing.’ Jessie sipped her glass of lime juice.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

She didn’t look at Monty. She didn’t know how to explain what had happened in the tomb this morning. It would be like trying to explain the wisps of a dream, too insubstantial to put into words.

They were seated at a bamboo table in the tiny perfumed garden at the back of their hotel in Luxor, where palm trees offered cooling shade and a profusion of oleanders and zinnias tumbled from pots and well-watered beds, providing a riot of pinks and reds in this muted world. It satisfied Jessie’s innate desire as an artist for colour and she was delighted when Monty plucked a scarlet blossom and tucked it behind her ear. Malak, after returning the sweating horses to his uncle, was squatting under one of the tables, tucking into falafel and pita bread, licking the grease from his fingers with relish.

Monty drew out two cigarettes, lit them both and handed one to Jessie. He kept his gaze on the boy as he said
casually, ‘But something upset you in there. You say you found nothing in the tomb that could give you a clue about Tim, no trace of him, and I understand that must have been distressing for you.’ He exhaled a string of smoke at a passing butterfly. ‘But there was something else.’ He glanced across at her. ‘Wasn’t there?’

A small silence drifted onto their table. For a few seconds they let it lie there, but when the gut-wrenching groan of a camel somewhere nearby disrupted the moment, Jessie took a mouthful of lime juice and nodded.

‘Yes, there
was
something else, you’re right. But it was too insignificant to mean anything, and I was stupid to get upset over it.’

‘Tell me.’

So she told him. About Ahmed. About his hand on her bag and his murmured
I can help you
. What she didn’t mention was the intangible sense of something having happened.

‘Did you see him outside the tomb?’ Monty asked. ‘Touting for business with other tourists, perhaps?’

‘No.’

Monty looked from Jessie’s face to her handbag that hung on the back of her chair.

‘May I?’ he asked, indicating the bag.

Without a word Jessie unhooked it from the chair and handed it over to Monty as cautiously as if it contained a hand-grenade. The bag was a good-sized tan leather one in which she carried her sketchpad and pencils, a set of chalks, a pen and a purse, plus the usual female detritus of powder compact, lipstick, handkerchief and hair comb. In addition there was a small penknife and a chiffon scarf to cover her hair if needed. Monty inspected the fastening. The bag had a flap that folded over the top and was secured by a press-stud fixing. He popped it open. He glanced over at Jessie and raised one thick eyebrow in a question.

‘Feel free,’ she told him.

He upended the bag and, with a shake, deposited the contents onto the table in a rush. The clatter
made the boy look up. Alert for treasure, he stuffed the last of the pita in his mouth and sidled over. Monty inspected the heap of goods and looked at Jessie.

She was staring, jaw rigid, at the jumble of items.

‘What is it?’ he asked instantly. ‘What do you see?’

‘The watch,’ she breathed and jabbed a finger at the timepiece visible under the chiffon scarf. ‘That’s Tim’s watch.’

Jessie didn’t touch the watch. She didn’t need to. She heard its message loud and clear. Time
was running out. Time was slipping like sand through their fingers and if she didn’t do something quickly, it would be too late.

Too late for what? She didn’t dare think.

Monty lifted the watch from under the scarf and examined it, a furrow of concentration between his eyebrows. The watch was beautiful. It was a Dunhill with an elegant rectangular white face and large gold numerals. He fingered its brown leather strap speculatively and asked, ‘How can you be sure it’s Tim’s?’

‘Turn it over.’

He did so. She knew what he would see engraved on the back.
1928 Now you are a man, my son
.
Pa
. Typical Pa. A Rudyard Kipling quotation, packed with Victorian melodrama.

‘It was a gift,’ she told Monty. ‘For Tim’s twenty-first birthday. He would never be parted from it willingly.’

His face remained carefully neutral. ‘It could be a message from Tim to you. The watch could be the one thing he was certain you would recognise, but if he was using it as a sign to tell you to trust that man, why didn’t Ahmed show it to you and deliver the message?’

Jessie didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. The answer to Monty’s question was too unthinkable to give words to. Above them the sky was
clear as glass, and the noises of the street – the rumble of carts and the shouts of deep-voiced men – were winding up for another bustling day. Malak still hovered beside their table.

‘Very much nice watch yes,’ he murmured.

Monty replaced it next to the pile of her belongings. Jessie’s hands wanted to snatch it up, to hold it, to press it to her ear, to run a finger along the inside of the strap and over the inscription where it had touched his flesh. They wanted to find traces of Tim on the watch, of his skin and of his sweat, but she refused to let them. If she picked up the watch, it would be acknowledging that it was hers now, not his.