Imhotep (5 page)

He
closed his eyes and pictured Addy leaning forward to whisper to him, her mouth
opening softly, her lower lip a glistening, inviting crescent, the upper lip
slightly drawn up, the juncture of the soft red lip and her pale skin sharply,
achingly, beautifully defined.  He could feel her breath, its gentle
sweetness brushing against his cheek as she exhaled.

The
air, caressed by her mouth and tongue, became alive.  It lapped against
his ears, entered him and warmed him as sunshine warmed his skin.

“Mr.
Hope?  You still there?”

Tim
hung up the telephone.

“Addy,”
he said softly.  “I have to help them.  I can’t ignore them.  I
can’t make a phone call and pretend I’ve done everything I should.

“You
know that, Addy.  You know that.”

T
im spent the night in Brian and Diane’s
room, hoping that they would come back and prove they were not missing and
worrying that they would come back and find him trespassing in their room.

While
he waited, he read the Saqqara guidebook they had left on the table, hoping to
find information about the Tomb of Kanakht.  He imagined secret passages
and deadly open shafts.  Although the location was marked on the map with
a small black square, the book never mentioned Kanakht’s tomb.

Saqqara
had been the official cemetery for Memphis five thousand years ago.  The
necropolis lay in the desert beyond the reach of the Nile.  Memphis,
called Ineb-Hedj or “The White Wall” in ancient times, had been a fortified
city built along the river.

During
the thousands of years since they had been built, the temples had fallen and
the pyramids had been partly buried by sand; but closer to the Nile, the homes,
shops, schools and markets of the people who lived in Memphis had been
completely washed away by the relentless annual floods.  Although some of
the stone monuments at Saqqara had been quarried for later buildings, and
others had been vandalized, much of the ancient burial ground survived. 

Nothing
was left of Memphis.

The
Step Pyramid, the largest tomb at Saqqara, was closed to the public, as were
the five other large pyramids that stood outside the main complex. 
Throughout Egypt there were fewer and fewer tombs open to the public.  The
collective moisture exhaled by thousands and thousands of tourists had been
discovered to be more dangerous to wall paintings than the tomb robbers had
been five thousand years ago.

But
tourists were still allowed to wander the open courtyards; to pass by the
resurrected walls of the colonnade; to walk through the massive geometric
entrance to the pyramid courtyard; to sit in the heb sed court, where King
Djoser had been re-crowned; to gaze up at the cobra-headed frieze along the
Southern Tomb and at the papyrus-capped pillars of the Northern Court. 

The
burial complex was huge, far beyond the scale of monuments even imagined
today.  And the temples and carvings, colonnades and statues, all of that
work, that vision and beauty had been built to surround and showcase the
enormous Step Pyramid, the jewel of Djoser’s immortal resting place.  It
rose from the surrounding desert as if it had always been there and would
remain there always.  Weathered by sand and wind, crumbling from age, the
ruins were more imposing, more awe-inspiring than any pristine reconstruction
could have been. 

Tim
imagined the workers, their wives and children, the priests, the dancers and
musicians, the soldiers and members of the royal court all standing before the
completed structure and sharing a single thought: that they, the people of
Egypt, had built this.  Their imagination and vision, their strong backs
and skillful hands, their precise measurements and understanding had brought
this form into existence.

The
Step Pyramid is actually a tower built with a series of stone squares, or
mastabas, set atop each other, each one smaller.  The diminishing size of
the stacked mastabas give the pyramid its pointed shape through a series of
steps, unlike the more famous pyramids of Giza which had a smooth, slanted
alabaster encasing the stepped exterior.

The
square base of the pyramid is about two hundred feet long on each side and
twenty-six feet high.  The six steps of the pyramid raise its peak almost
two hundred feet above the desert.  The entire structure is a headstone
for the burial chambers, which are deep underground.

A main
shaft descends a hundred feet into the desert to Djoser’s burial chamber. 
From that central shaft a network of tunnels branches away, leading to rooms
where goods were stored for the king’s afterlife.  Eleven more shafts,
just east of the main tunnel, lead to additional burial chambers, possibly
intended for Djoser’s wives and daughters.

Tim
put the guidebook aside.  As the evening had worn on, he had gotten
sleepy, but, afraid of being caught sleeping like Goldilocks if Brian and Diane
had come home late, he had made coffee using the small coffee pot in the
bathroom. 

He
poured himself the last cup and sat at the room’s desk with his journal.

“Addy,”
he wrote, “I’m hiding in a room at the Mena House waiting for people I’ve never
met.  Their names are Brian and Diane and I’m afraid something happened to
them, I saw them go into the Tomb of Kanakht near the Step Pyramid. 
I didn’t see them come out - although it’s possible that they did and I
missed them - but they haven’t been seen at the hotel since then.

“If
they haven’t returned by morning, I’m going to go to Saqqara and go back inside
the tomb and search it completely.  There was a hallway that I didn’t go
in the first time I searched because my flashlight broke.  I bought some
candles so I don’t have to worry about another flashlight incident.

“I
called the embassy earlier, but they want to wait a few more days.

“I
picture Brian and Diane at the bottom of some burial shaft deep under the
desert, weak and hungry, unable to escape, calling for help, waiting for
someone to hear them.  If I don’t find them tomorrow, I’ll check the room
again and then go to the embassy in person.

“I’ll
make sure, somehow, that they’ll take over and search for them.

“At
least I’ll have done everything I can.

“I
love you.  Always.”

He
closed the journal and turned in his seat to look out the window.  The
room faced east, so he saw the glow of lights from Cairo and the occasional
bouncing lights of a car arriving at the Mena House or heading back to the
city.  A set of headlights approached from his right, growing larger,
then, as they passed they seemed to recede, not toward Cairo, but into the
past.

S
usan’s cell phone had rung at the very
minute she was parking her car at the TGIF restaurant that night six months
ago.

She
had reached for the cell phone while getting out of the car and so forgot to
pull the keys from the ignition.  As the locked door had swung shut, she
had realized what she had done and had said “Shit!” to Addy who had been on the
other end of the phone call.

“I
just locked myself out of the car.”

“Did
you ever join Triple-A?” Addy had asked; knowing the answer her best friend
would give.

“God,
you can be such an M-O-M,” Susan had said and Addy had laughed.  Tim had
heard that laugh as he sat with Addy in their apartment.

“What
happened?” he had asked.

“Susan
locked herself out of the car.  Can you believe it?  She hasn’t done
that for more than a week,” Addy had told him, careful not to cover the
mouthpiece so Susan could hear her.

“It’s
your fault,” Susan had told Addy.  “You called right when I was getting
out of the car.”

“Oh,
my,” Addy had apologized.  “Can’t have you doing two things at once. 
Thank God you weren’t chewing gum, too, there could have been injuries.”

“You
are such a … sweet friend,” Susan had said.

“Where
are you?” Addy had asked with exaggerated exasperation.

“TGIF.”

“I’ll
bring the spare keys over, but you can never call me MOM again,” Addy said,
smiling into the phone, her eyes sparkling.

“OK,”
Susan had answered.  “How about I call you a mother?”

“I’ll
take you over,” Tim had said, bending to pull on his sneakers.

“Don’t
be silly.  It’s just across the river.  I’ll be back in an hour,
longer if she buys me a drink.”

She
had leaned over and kissed him goodbye, missing slightly and kissing the corner
of his mouth.

So
casual, so careless, it had been one toss-away kiss among the thousands they
had shared.  Nothing about it said that it was the last one.

T
im fell asleep in the chair, Addy in his
dreams, Brian and Diane on his mind.

He
awoke befuddled and stiff.  The room was dark and quiet.  The digital
clock by the bed read four thirty.  He went into the bathroom and washed
his face, looking up at his sleepy and confused face in the mirror.  Was
he trying to find Brian and Diane because he’d lost Addy; was he trying to help
them because no one had helped her?

It
didn’t matter.  He would search the tomb and help them if they were there,
report them missing if they weren’t, because they weren’t coming back to the
hotel room where their tickets, luggage and passports were waiting.

The
old clerk was asleep on a chair behind the counter.  Tim slipped past him
and into the courtyard.  The warm Egyptian air was heavy with the weight
of the darkness, filled with a promise of mystery.

Off to
the west, the pyramids were hidden by the night.  Tim turned slowly. 
The trees behind him, along the edge of the Mena House courtyard, were shadows
etched against the eastern sky where night was beginning to lose its grip.

As he
looked into the fading darkness, the opening words of “The Rubaiyat” came to
him.

“Awake! 
For morning in the bowl of night

Has
flung the stone that puts the stars to flight;

And
lo!  The hunter of the East has caught

The
Sultan’s turret in a noose of light.”

Catching
the scent of jasmine as he turned back toward the main house, Tim suddenly
realized how far he had traveled from his home and his family, from his past.

He
walked quickly across the deserted courtyard.

When
he stepped through the lobby doors, he came to a halt.

A
sand-colored tile floor stretched out before him.  A red-jacketed clerk
holding a water can turned slowly away from a wildly colorful bouquet of
flowers held by a polished brass pot, which sat atop a carved wooden stand at
the center of a magnificent oriental rug.

The
boundaries of the lobby were marked by carved wooden columns fronted by small
palm trees planted in more polished brass pots.  The beige plaster ceiling
was almost hidden by angled wooden beams woven together like window tracery to
form an arabesque pattern.  In the middle of the lobby, a large Islamic
lamp hung from a coffered ceiling, four of its wooden panels inset with
octangular carvings.

It was
a scene from a dream, an oriental palace brought to life.

Last
night, nervous about breaking into Brian and Diane’s room, he had walked
through the lobby to the bar without even noticing it.  Now it looked
magical and mysterious.

Tim
saw the desk clerk watching him and realized that aside from the clerk and the
man who was watering the plants, he was the only person in the lobby.  He
walked over to the clerk and tried his Arabic, “Sabah el-kheir.”

The
clerk smiled.  “Good morning to you, sir,” he answered, recognizing Tim’s
accent and telling him that he could speak English.

“I
couldn’t sleep,” Tim said.  “I’m going to Saqqara this morning and I’m
kind of keyed up.  Is there anyplace I can get some breakfast?”

The
clerk nodded and pointed off to a red-carpeted stairway to the left of the
reception desk.  “Al Shams is always open,” he said.

“Shukran,”
Tim said.

The
clerk smiled. “You’re welcome, sir,” he answered.

Tim
looked around the deserted lobby.  “When do the taxi drivers start to
arrive?”

“Usually
after breakfast, sir, in  . . . ” he looked at a clock behind the counter,
“three hours, perhaps.”

“None earlier?”

“No,
but I know a driver I could call.  He could be here by the time you finish
your breakfast.  Would you like me to retain him for you?”

“Yes,”
Tim said.  “Please.  Thank you. Ana mamnoon.”

The
clerk nodded.  “It is nothing, sir.  Enjoy your breakfast.”

W
hen Tim returned to the lobby, the clerk
raised his hand and waved to him.

“Na’am,”
Tim said as he reached the counter.

The
clerk nodded toward the doorway where a sleepy-eyed, young Egyptian stood, his
hands stiffly at his sides.

“His
name is Musa.  He is a very good driver.  And he is my sister’s
husband’s brother. He will treat you very well.”

“Musa?”

“Yes,
Musa.” The clerk looked at Tim expectantly and Tim realized he was expecting a
tip.  He held out a five-pound note and raised his eyebrows in question.

The
clerk took the money smoothly.  “Bissalama,” he said.

Tim
shook his head.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that word.’

“It
means ‘have a safe journey.’ ”

T
he predawn light fell on an empty parking
lot.  On the twenty-minute ride, Tim had decided to take Musa with him
into the tomb; he would be another set of hands to help carry Brian and Diane
if they were down there and needed help.