tourist, watching the houses flash by as their carriage moved through narrow streets, natives ducking out of its way. The houses were two-story, a little like the houses of Mexico, he thought, although the minarets, the red and white striped towers on the skyline, were like nothing he’d ever seen before.
He turned to Osman and said, “Is it far from here, the hotel?”
“Only several minutes from the town, sir,” said the old man. “It is on the river.”
“The Nile?”
“Is there another river?” The old man looked surprised.
“Very crowded?”
“The hotel? No, sir. This is not the time of year for tourists. The other hotels are closed. Only this one stays open in summer, for people who must come up here to do the business.”
“Like me.”
An ugly smile split the brown withered face. “You are tourist, Sir Wells,” he said, and he sounded more as if he were giving an order than making a comment on Pete’s status.
“Any Americans at the hotel?”
“No Americans.”
“All Egyptians?”
“I think yes, Sir Wells, but then I am seldom in Karnak Inn,” and he inclined his head obsequiously.
Pete sat back in the carriage and observed the streets as they grew more and more rustic, houses giving way to fields of shacks and palm trees until, at the bend of a road, they were on a bluff overlooking the Nile.
“Dry up in summer,” said Osman, waving a professional hand at the river, which wound like a gray-green snake through the eroded valley. Even Pete could tell that it had shrunk, leaving sand bars and islands and rock beaches behind. “Libya,” said Osman, pointing to a line of skull-white mountains beyond the river to the west. “And the tombs.”
“Tombs?”
“Where the jackal god guards the dead kings,” said Osman, a strange expression in his filmy eyes.
Pete nodded, uneasy, his flesh prickling a little. Somehow the old man’s words had struck an unexpected chord of fear deep inside him…the tombs, the Valley of the Kings, where the mummies of the great Pharaohs lay buried with all their treasure. He began to recall legends, old newspaper stories.… But then they were at the Karnak Inn, and in the rush of paying for the carriage and registering the mysterious fear was forgotten.
The hotel was a one-story ramshackle building, like a house in New Orleans, with shuttered windows, tall ceilings, many overhead fans, flies, and tile floors. The lobby was comparatively cool and dim. Except for a pair of Negro servants leaning with eyes shut against the farthest wall, the lobby was empty.
Osman clapped his hands; it was the Egyptian way of getting service, and very royal in effect. One of the servants ambled forward and took the suitcase. The manager, a dark youth in a gray suit with chalk stripe and Windsor tie, appeared from an inner office.
“Mr. Wells? Yes? We were expecting you. You missed our car at the station? But I see you are in good hands. So hot…” Pete registered, then asked if there were any messages for him.
“No, sir, nothing. Would you like me to show you your room or would you care to have breakfast now? We have a celebrated dining room.” Pete said he would prefer to go to his room. The manager himself led the way down a long corridor in the wing that overlooked the river. Osman followed with the porter. It was quite a procession, thought Pete, trying to concentrate on what the manager was saying.
“You are our first American guest in two months…a rarity in hot weather. We have no Europeans here at all in the hotel, except, of course, myself and Miss Mueller. You perhaps know her? She is a very famous artist.” Pete said he was pleased to hear it. “She is here to examine the sights. You see, she works in Cairo during the season and this is her vacation. She is enamored of the tombs and spends a great deal of time on the other side of the river. A strange occupation for a young lady who is an internationally famous artist and the intimate of the highest,
He turned to Osman and said, “Is it far from here, the hotel?”
“Only several minutes from the town, sir,” said the old man. “It is on the river.”
“The Nile?”
“Is there another river?” The old man looked surprised.
“Very crowded?”
“The hotel? No, sir. This is not the time of year for tourists. The other hotels are closed. Only this one stays open in summer, for people who must come up here to do the business.”
“Like me.”
An ugly smile split the brown withered face. “You are tourist, Sir Wells,” he said, and he sounded more as if he were giving an order than making a comment on Pete’s status.
“Any Americans at the hotel?”
“No Americans.”
“All Egyptians?”
“I think yes, Sir Wells, but then I am seldom in Karnak Inn,” and he inclined his head obsequiously.
Pete sat back in the carriage and observed the streets as they grew more and more rustic, houses giving way to fields of shacks and palm trees until, at the bend of a road, they were on a bluff overlooking the Nile.
“Dry up in summer,” said Osman, waving a professional hand at the river, which wound like a gray-green snake through the eroded valley. Even Pete could tell that it had shrunk, leaving sand bars and islands and rock beaches behind. “Libya,” said Osman, pointing to a line of skull-white mountains beyond the river to the west. “And the tombs.”
“Tombs?”
“Where the jackal god guards the dead kings,” said Osman, a strange expression in his filmy eyes.
Pete nodded, uneasy, his flesh prickling a little. Somehow the old man’s words had struck an unexpected chord of fear deep inside him…the tombs, the Valley of the Kings, where the mummies of the great Pharaohs lay buried with all their treasure. He began to recall legends, old newspaper stories.… But then they were at the Karnak Inn, and in the rush of paying for the carriage and registering the mysterious fear was forgotten.
The hotel was a one-story ramshackle building, like a house in New Orleans, with shuttered windows, tall ceilings, many overhead fans, flies, and tile floors. The lobby was comparatively cool and dim. Except for a pair of Negro servants leaning with eyes shut against the farthest wall, the lobby was empty.
Osman clapped his hands; it was the Egyptian way of getting service, and very royal in effect. One of the servants ambled forward and took the suitcase. The manager, a dark youth in a gray suit with chalk stripe and Windsor tie, appeared from an inner office.
“Mr. Wells? Yes? We were expecting you. You missed our car at the station? But I see you are in good hands. So hot…” Pete registered, then asked if there were any messages for him.
“No, sir, nothing. Would you like me to show you your room or would you care to have breakfast now? We have a celebrated dining room.” Pete said he would prefer to go to his room. The manager himself led the way down a long corridor in the wing that overlooked the river. Osman followed with the porter. It was quite a procession, thought Pete, trying to concentrate on what the manager was saying.
“You are our first American guest in two months…a rarity in hot weather. We have no Europeans here at all in the hotel, except, of course, myself and Miss Mueller. You perhaps know her? She is a very famous artist.” Pete said he was pleased to hear it. “She is here to examine the sights. You see, she works in Cairo during the season and this is her vacation. She is enamored of the tombs and spends a great deal of time on the other side of the river. A strange occupation for a young lady who is an internationally famous artist and the intimate of the highest,
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