Reflections in the Nile (3 page)

He was frozen in time, looking over his shoulder as if sharing a joke with the artist His face was lean, with high cheekbones that accentuated his long-lashed eyes and thick brows extended by Egyptian makeup. His profile was clean, the straight blade of his nose leading to full lips and a squared jawline. Black hair touched his neck and ear, framing a gorgeous jeweled earring.

I was awed. It was a masterpiece.
He was so real
. Tiny marks embossed my fingertips as I clenched my necklace. Stubble darkened his chin and cheek, and there were lines around his mouth and eyes. He looked as though at any moment he would share the punch line.

“I can almost hear his laughter,” I whispered.

Camille agreed. “The strangest thing is that although this appears to be a depiction of some Egyptian city, and they are headed to the border of Egypt, symbolized by the gate with the cobra and vulture, not many of the people appear to be ancient Egyptians.”

Cammy laid the others on top of it.

“Is this all you have?”

“Yes,” Cammy said. “There are many other scrolls, but they have not been unrolled yet. It's very painstaking and time-consuming work.” I watched her hide all traces of our unauthorized visit.

“What do you think is the explanation?” I asked when we were back on the street.

“I don't know what to think. There are no records of a mass exodus during the time of Thut the Third—that was in Rameses the Great's time—if it happened. We know that Thut the Third was a conqueror, spending a lot of time outside Egypt, subjugating other peoples. Even if we're wrong on the approximate dates, there are no records from his predecessor Hatshepsut's rule and just basic information from his progeny's rule.”

We turned onto the main thoroughfare. Sounds from the cruise ships along the dock wafted up to us: male and female laughter, piano music, and the ever-present Arabic radio. We walked in companionable silence as I mulled over what I had seen. “Could you be wrong about the dynasty? Could they be from another pharaoh?”

“The papyri date to Thut's reign. There is just no explanation for the work and the way it's done. Is there an aspect of Egypt we are unaware of? Even the most naturalistic art is still two-dimensional.” She sighed, then chuckled. “It makes the science of Egyptology seem like nothing more than educated guesses when we find something like this.”

I spoke without thinking. “That's all it is anyway.”

Cammy sighed in the darkness. “That's your opinion. Our guesses are becoming
more
educated. We're able to state things with more certainty. There are facts.”

“Like…?” I prompted, intrigued despite myself.

“Like Senmut. He was a grand vizier in Hatshepsut's court. Five years before the end of her reign, there are no more records of him. His picture is both inscribed in and removed from her temple at Deir El-Bahri. His body has never been found. In those last five years there is some hint that Egypt went through internal turmoil, but we don't know what or why. We also know that Hatshepsut died, but we don't know how. She was succeeded by Thut the Third in 1458
B.C.E
. Those are facts.”

I looked at my sister, the light from the river reflected in our similar features. “What happens if you discover that Senmut changed his name and continued to live for years? Or that Hatshepsut was banished and became the wife of some foreign king? What you are calling facts just seem like unsubstantiated theory to me. They can't be proved or disproved. My idea of a fact is …” I searched for an example from my world. “Red and blue make purple. No matter how many times, under how many circumstances or ways, if you mix red and blue, you will come up with some shade of purple. Every time.”

Cammy turned to me, exasperated. “Look, Chloe, no one is ever going to know for absolute certain about anything. We can't prove a god exists. We can't prove he or she doesn't. No one will ever come from ancient Egypt and tell us we are right or wrong about the timeline of the pharaohs. Every little bit we learn, whether or not it is
your
definition of a fact, make us, in our knowledge, more human.”

Impulsively I hugged her. “I miss you, Cammy.”

“I miss you, too.”

We continued walking, arms linked, staring at the stars stretched out across the Nile and the treasure-laden desert beyond. Cammy spoke, her voice dreamy. “One of the reasons I got into Egyptology was because of the feeling of connectedness it gives me. I get chills when I think that four thousand years ago, two sisters very likely walked along this same path, feeling the same love for each other.”

My throat tightened and I squeezed Cammy's arm as we walked along, our images reflected in the dark Nile waters.

That's how the days passed. We talked a little about Mimi, though with her death only six months before, it was painful, especially for Cammy. She had been in the middle of her dissertation and unable to get away. We viewed the sights and relaxed, enjoying the days together. It had been too many years since we had just hung out. Then Cammy had to go, boarding the hot, dusty train for the eastern desert the day before my birthday. We hugged briefly on the platform, and she shoved a small package into my hands. “Happy twenty-fourth, Chloe,” she said, and I waved until she was out of sight.

I immediately checked into the Winter Palace Hotel. It was straight out of
Death on the Nile
, complete with potted palms, layered silk rugs, and brass samovars. A page out of time.

At dinner I was joined by a guy who was good-looking in a rugged, studious way. He had a lean build, dark tan, and intelligent gray eyes. He was older, maybe late thirties, to judge by the streaks of gray in his longish brown hair.

He was so charming, though. He kissed my hand when we were introduced and proceeded to tell me that he visited Egypt at least once a year—it was in his blood. So I told him about my sister and how Egypt was in her blood, too. Dr. Anton Zeeman was his name; I guessed from his accent that he was Dutch. We chatted through dinner, laughing at the tourist couple at the next table who unwittingly ordered sheep's stomach (the chef was Greek) and insisted it was what they wanted when the server tried to explain. We watched the belly dancer, and I felt Anton's stare, questioning, on me more than once. Over coffee he offered me a cigarette. I usually smoke only when under extreme stress, but when in Rome … I staggered up to my room about two
A.M
., hoping all my fun would send me straight to sleepy-bye land with no dreams.

It did.

I was haunting the
souq
the next day after lunch—since it was the only thing still open—enjoying the mixture of cumin, saffron, turmeric, and cinnamon that scented the air. I managed to purchase a sackful of saffron for ten dollars and two ballpoint pens. I would auction it off to my friends when I got home.

Tambourine and drums blasted me from every radio station as I stepped into a shop. Racks of postcards filled the front, and I began looking through them. I collect postcards, use them for all personal correspondence, so I try to keep a lot of interesting ones on hand. These were of an Egypt many years ago, swamped by sand and virtually deserted. The representations were intriguing, the detail work impressive. They were a snapshot in time.

Feeling someone behind me, I turned just as a faintly accented voice spoke. “They are David Roberts's works,” Anton said.

“I recognize his style. I've seen his work,” I replied “I don't know anything about him, though.” I scrutinized the meticulous artistry. “Who was he?”

“One of the many who came to Egypt in the early to mid-1800s,” Anton said. “It became quite a popular destination following the war. France began the trend in 1798 when Napoleon sent a huge cortege over to catalog Egypt's monuments. Tradition claims they are the ones who shot the nose off the Sphinx.” He grinned at me as he stepped back. “Not that you can see it now.”

I gathered up all of David Roberts's postcards. “Really? Where can I learn more? I didn't know Napoleon took artists with him.”

“At the Luxor Museum bookstore,” he said. “It was quite a famous expedition. It awakened interest in Egypt. In the next years those who would create the field of Egyptology visited here.” He ticked off a list that would have been familiar to Cammy but left me clueless. Vivant Denon? August Mariette? Gaston Maspero? Richard Lepsius? Jean-François Champollion? Giovanni Belzoni? Ippolito Rosselini?

The rediscovery of ancient Egypt had all begun with Napoleon's expedition, he said. Interest was heightened by the paintings of David Roberts and others. Anton turned toward a low display of alabaster statuettes, changing the subject. “Have you been to an alabaster factory yet? These are quite good reproductions.”

I looked at the shelf, covered with white, rose, blue, and gray figurines, and reached for one of a seated woman with the head of a cow, a disk between her horns.

“I see you pick the goddess HatHor.”

“What was she the goddess of?” I asked. “Dairy foods?”

Anton grinned. “Well, most writings will say she was like Aphrodite. The goddess of love, childbirth, dance, et cetera. No one knows for sure. Very little is absolutely certain in Egyptology.”

“Yep. My sister says almost everything is subject to debate, though there are a few facts.”

Anton nodded. “That being the case, HatHor could be goddess of anything.”

As I gripped the statue, a cold foreboding rushed through me. For a few seconds I heard a high-pitched keening and the jangling of cymbals. I glanced around in confusion: the dimly lit room seemed to be full of spinning bodies, with long black hair and white robes whipping around them as they twirled like tops. Then, in an instant, the impression was gone.

With suddenly shaky hands I put the statue back among the others: human bodies with the heads of animals. Anton watched me. “Are you unwell?” he asked.

“No, no, I'm fine. It was just a surrealistic mind flash,” I said with a wavering smile. Another weird experience, I thought. Still mystified and wobbly, I crossed the shop to admire the vibrant textiles that decorated the back wall. Nervously I fingered my ankh.

“You want to buy, lady?”

I turned and saw a young boy with a silver tray bearing small Arabic tea glasses. I paid him for the postcards and hurried into the sunlit street.

Anton followed me. “Are you okay?” he asked, concern apparent on his sharp features.

My fingers trembled as I unzipped my daypack and slipped in the postcards. Anton offered me a cigarette, which he lit with a courtly gesture and a gold lighter. No ordinary backpacker, this, I thought momentarily. Then I remembered. The images had been so intense, so real. I had felt a … a displacement of some sort … through to my bones. I was slightly nauseated. I inhaled deeply and enjoyed the sting of the aromatic tobacco as it singed my lungs and probably took another year off my life.

“Yep, I'm okay. It just felt as if time froze for a moment, and I could feel past and present—a window open to another world….” I trailed off, my memory of the twisting and swirling bodies fading rapidly in the bright Egyptian afternoon, filled with the squawk of radios and the honks of car horns. I stubbed out my cigarette, feeling stupid for rambling. “I'm sorry. I sound crazy.” I turned away from Anton.

“Come, I will buy you a coffee and pastry,” he offered.

“Thanks,” I said, and set off with him, trying to shake off the otherworldly feelings.

After spending the afternoon in the Luxor Museum, I bought the
Rediscovery of Ancient Egypt
, slathered myself with SPF 50, and slipped a CD into my Discman. I sat out by the beautifully sculpted pool to read about Egypt during the French empire, pages about people whose names I'd heard from Cammy most of my life. Old portraits and detailed reproduction artwork filled the chapters. However, I was restless and began playing around with a logo on my sketch pad. It mixed the hieroglyphs for cat into a strangely attractive design. Not quite right, but I was getting there. Kitten, Cammy's nickname for me as a kid, was one of those things you learn to hate. However, the glyphs for it were interesting, so I ignored their meaning. I couldn't spell in ancient Egyptian anyway, but the shapes were great.

The setting sun brought me back to reality.

This close to the equator, the brilliant sunset illuminated the sky for only a few minutes, but the colors were vibrant—pinks, violets, and golds merging for a brief but exquisite moment. Then it was dark, a soft blue-blackness that felt like an engulfing blanket, gleaming with the silver of the first stars. I reluctantly went inside to the artificially cold interior of the hotel. Sleep would be a welcome refuge tonight.

December 23, my birthday. By the time the sun rose I had been up for an hour. I'd breakfasted on the hotel's terrace and made quick sketches of the graceful feluccas racing from shore to shore, their triangular white sails achingly bright in the sunshine.

Anton did not make an appearance at breakfast, not that I was surprised after our coffee the day before. I hadn't said two words—which was strange in itself—and after several attempts at conversation, he had given up. He'd finally excused himself to go visit a mosque, and I had turned down the invitation to join him.

Yesterday had been disturbing.

After my third cup of Turkish coffee, however, I felt ready to face anything, even another day of playing tourist I donned my espadrilles.

The temple at Karnak was amazing. When I'd gone through it with Camille, she had wandered off in the middle of her explanation to stand in awe of the largest temple in the world. I had wanted to return alone. So far I had dodged all the “helpful” tour guides by bribing some kids with my trusty ballpoint pens to protect my privacy. Before being besieged by a group of Italian tourists, I had captured some great sketches of various walls. Snaking my way through the columns and up to the inner sanctum, I found three rooms.

Feeling like Goldilocks avoiding furry carnivores, I poked into them all. Cammy had said they were for the resident gods, the holy family of Luxor: Amun-Ra, the sun god; Mut, his consort; and Khonsu, their child. I tuned out after that, the intricacies of Egyptian religion confusing and alien to me. When we were kids Cammy tried to explain how the different gods and myths all fit together, even as they directly contradicted each other. She would explain at length how people became priests and priestesses because of family connection, not because of any personal devotion to the gold-covered gods. I hadn't cared.