The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) (28 page)

Caesarion’s… every feature resembled that of his father, the great Caesar

-Cleopatra

Georg Ebers (1837–1898)

Chapter Nineteen

A niqab has three layers, affording the woman wearing it three options for revealing—or concealing—her face. When all three layers are flipped backward over her skull, the woman’s face is completely exposed. The first layer, when pulled down, covers her face but not her eyes. Each subsequent layer affords an additional screen. If all three layers are down, the woman’s eyes are shielded completely, but she can still see out. In theory.

I quickly found that, in practice, trying to see through all three layers was like looking through a porthole smeared with black mud. A small porthole. But it was my only choice.

I learned how to wear the niqab the day before yesterday.

I awoke in a seedy downtown hotel room with something tickling my arm. Lazily, I opened my eyes and struggled to adjust them to the light filtering in through a dingy window. Finally, my vision came into focus just inches from an enormous cockroach. I shrieked and quickly sat up, simultaneously flinging my arm. The roach flew across the room and hit a wall before falling to the floor and scampering out beneath the hotel room door. I shuddered.

I shook the last remnants of sleep from my mind and climbed out of the lumpy bed. I flipped a light switch. The light flickered and then came on with a loud hum. Several other roaches scurried out of the room or into darker corners.
I’ve got to get out of this shithole
, I thought.

I stared down at the two large, wheeled suitcases I had not bothered opening after returning from the Internet café the previous evening. Navigating Cairo with both of them would be impossible, so I consolidated the two bags into one and left a mountain of expensive clothing for the hotel maids. Fifteen minutes later, wheeling one bag behind me, I stepped out of the room and onto the streets of Cairo.

I didn’t know any better.

Nearly every passing man who was without an accompanying woman either whistled or shouted something at me on the street. They turned a full one hundred eighty degrees to follow my movement as I passed by in my jeans and T-shirt, my long auburn hair flowing freely behind me. They leaned out of car windows. They honked at me, even more than they honked at each other.

The most common question was “Where you from?” Or simply “American? Australian? English?”

One man, from the driver’s seat of a passing taxi, wondered, “Are you Egyptian?” And then declared, “I hope you are Egyptian!”

I imagined some form of international law enforcement posing questions to random passersby on the street. Everyone, but everyone, would have noticed the woman they would be describing.

I stopped walking and looked around. Every person on the street was Egyptian. There were men in khaki slacks and long-sleeved, button-down shirts. The women wore anything from niqab to jeans. Some covered their faces. Others only wrapped their hair in brightly colored scarves. Still others walked with thick dark hair flowing freely. I did not see a single light-haired person. And there were no short sleeves.

I reached up and ran a hand through my long red hair before tying it into a knot behind my head.

I’m probably the only Western woman in all of Cairo walking around by myself right now. And these people, casually going about their business, will form a human trail that leads straight to me.

I need to be invisible.

So at the first opportunity, I purchased the niqab—veil—the accompanying Arab robe called a galabia, a hijab—headscarf—and a pair of gloves. The entire ensemble was pure black.

I was grateful that the woman who sold it to me spoke no English. I had no idea how I would explain such a purchase if asked. She simply wrote a price on a piece of paper, using the numerals I know as arabic. I handed her the money and walked out, my purchase still in the bag.

Now what?

I hailed a taxi.

The only thing I knew logistically about Cleopatra’s life was that her ancestors founded the city of Alexandria. Alexandria had been her home. It was the best lead I had.

I could don my new outfit in the Cairo train station restroom—the Ramses station, according to the information desk at the airport—and thus leave town anonymously.

“Where you go?” The cab driver looked at me expectantly.

“I need to go to Ramses Station.”

“Oh, Ramses!” the cab driver said enthusiastically.

I climbed into the taxi.

A nauseating twenty minutes later, the taxi pulled into a large square. Traffic converged in three dimensions, with cars coming down from overpasses and up from tunnels to intersect with multiple traffic lanes, but I did not see anything that resembled a train station, or train tracks for that matter.

“No,” I said. “Ramses!”

“
Na-am!
” he insisted, nodding. “Ramses!” He pointed to a large hotel. The Ramses Hilton.

I paid the cab driver and pulled my suitcase from his trunk. Then I stepped inside the hotel and asked how to get to the trains. The Ramses Hilton concierge looked somewhat bewildered and amused as he explained that I was nowhere near the Ramses train station. He offered to hail another taxi for me.

“No!” I said immediately and asked where I could find a Metro.

The concierge pointed across an intersection of ten streets that included an overpass. Still nauseous from the cab ride, I looked wearily across the stormy ocean of cars toward the Metro sign. I looked down at my suitcase and the shopping bag in my hand and sighed.

Feeling shackled to my baggage, I stepped toward the streets. My eyes were drawn to a woman in niqab. With one black-gloved hand, she held a large basket steady on top of her head. Her other arm was looped first through a medium-sized handbag and then through the arm of a small child. Her galabia dragged the ground, and I wondered how well she could actually see through the veil. I would soon find out for myself: not very well.

The woman stepped out into an intersection that was an undulating sea of cars. Yet, the woman and her child appeared protected by some kind of supernatural force field as they walked slowly and nonchalantly between the cars and somehow miraculously reached the other side of the intersection unscathed.

I stepped out into the traffic with my eyes closed.

Somehow, I made it across.

I approached the Metro station the Hilton concierge had indicated. But then I stopped short, fervently scanning my surroundings. I realized that the area I stood in was familiar.

In early 2011, the period that would later be termed the “Arab Spring,” this very spot had been the focus of every international headline. I was in
Midan Tahrir
—Cairo’s “Freedom Square”—the gathering place for the thousands upon thousands of Egyptian protestors who would set the stage for the revolutions throughout the Middle East.

At one end of the square was a large red building. I knew from the events of the Arab Spring that within it was the information I needed.

I smiled and stepped confidently toward the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities.

I checked my clunky suitcase at the ticketing building outside of the museum but kept my purse and the shopping bag containing my new clothing. Just inside the museum’s entrance was a small gift shop. I purchased a guidebook for the museum and two travel guides for Egypt. I dropped the travel guides into the shopping bag and began flipping through the museum guide as I approached the security line.

The museum was not air-conditioned, and it was packed. It was sweltering inside. Sweaty tourists in shorts and tank tops fanned themselves with brochures while Arabs in long robes flowed like black water around them, apparently unaffected by the heat, many casting disapproving glances at the skimpy Western clothing.

I approached the metal detector. Observing the people passing through it before me, I noticed that they almost invariably set off its alarm. Yet, the security officers waived them through anyway.

When I stepped through the detector, it remained silent. I was unsurprised, with nothing on my person except clothing, books, and my wedding rings. The guard waved me through, and I walked into the museum, searching my guidebook for directions to the Greco-Roman exhibits.

As I turned a corner, something made me glance back at the security guard. He was speaking to another guard. He pointed in my direction. Suddenly cautious, I increased my pace slightly, hoping the change in demeanor would go unnoticed. In my peripheral vision, I could see the guard. He was approaching me. I closed the guidebook and dropped it into my shopping bag.

My eyes began darting around me. There was very little signage either on the exhibits or indicating directions for the museum. The guard was proceeding more quickly in my direction. I thought I saw another behind him, following in his footsteps.

I turned another corner and almost smashed into a large group. Behind me, men were yelling in Arabic. A sea of shiny, straight black hair spread out before me, and I could hear a museum guide chattering in Japanese. Panic began to consume me as I realized just how easily I would be spotted in this crowd.

Desperately, I scanned the room, looking over the heads of the Japanese tour group. I breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted a sign reading “W.C.”

I rudely shoved past a few of the Japanese tourists and dashed into the restroom. There were only three stalls and two sinks, but at least twenty women were stuffed into the tiny space. The musk of far too many bodies was heavy, and the restroom itself was filthy. Two women who appeared to be custodial staff sat, immobile, on chairs next to a basket for tips.

Standing nervously in line for a stall, I kept my eyes trained on the entrance to the crowded restroom. The guards did not come bursting in after me. I turned to watch as a young woman adjusted her hijab in front of the mirror. My eyes took in the details of how it was pinned, neatly and decoratively around her skull. I had never before noticed the intricate layering of such a garment. It appeared to be somewhat of an art form.

Shit
, I thought. I had not even known to purchase pins for my own hijab. And I had no clue how to affix it.