but then we must allow for human nature, Mr. Wells,” said the manager, ushering him into his bedroom. It was a large comfortable room with a huge bed canopied by mosquito netting. Below the window was a strip of garden, the road, and, beyond that, the river. Downriver, north of the hotel, behind a wall of green foliage, Pete could make out the dusty bulk of a temple.
After assuring the manager that all was well and that he would eat presently, Pete was left alone with Osman in the bedroom. They looked at one another thoughtfully. Pete spoke first: “Where is Said?”
“The gentleman will come to us in good time.”
“Soon?”
“I have no idea, Sir Wells. Until then you will see the ruins.”
“Are you telling me or asking me?”
The old man gave his mirthless leer. “You are tourist, Sir Wells.”
“You may have a point there. No ruins today, though. I’m going to get my bearings first. Understand?”
Osman bowed. “I am at your service.”
“Where can I find you if I want you?”
“The manager will see that I attend you, sir. Ask him. But I shall be nearby all the time.”
“That’s good news,” said Pete, and he gestured curtly to the door. Osman bowed himself out, almost bumping into a tall figure who hurried by so fast that Pete caught only a quick glimpse of the man who had sat opposite him on the train.
* * *
The celebrated dining room of the Karnak Inn was not quite so bad as Pete had suspected; he did not mind cockroaches as long as they were not on the menu. Paper gummed with glue hung from the center of each slowly revolving fan, attracting those few flies that were not already busy with Pete’s breakfast. He brushed them away and ate hungrily. Through French windows opposite him he could see a rank green garden, bright with flowers. As he was drinking coffee, a woman entered. He knew immediately who she was.
Anna Mueller was far more attractive than he had imagined. For some reason her name had made him think of a fat, red-faced German blonde with her hair tied in braids about her head; the reality was very different.
She was not tall. Her body was perfectly proportioned, from the smooth straight neck to the small waist and slender legs; but it was her face that most attracted him. Her hair was a natural red-gold, more dark than light, like dull copper. Her skin was naturally pale and her eyes, beneath straight dark brows, were a deep vivid blue. Her expression was sad.
She hesitated when she saw him; then she moved toward the French windows. “Would you like some coffee?” His own voice sounded suddenly harsh in his ears.
She turned, surprised, one hand on the door leading into the garden. “No, thank you,” she said. Her voice was deep, the German accent faint. And then she was gone.
Pete cursed himself for a fool. The first impression was always important, and he had sounded like a high-school boy cruising a Main Street girl. And it mattered, he realized suddenly; it mattered very much the impression he made upon her. Bewildered by his own discovery, he finished breakfast. Then, after lighting a cigarette and counting to twenty to quiet the familiar buzzing in his ears, he got up and walked out into the garden.
He was not sure whether or not she was surprised to see him. Her face was serene. She was seated on a bench beneath an arbor of what looked to Pete like camellias.
“May I sit down?”
“If you like.” Her tone was neutral. She moved over to make room for him.
“My name is Wells, Peter Wells.”
“You are American?” She turned half around and looked at him frankly.
“That’s right. You?”
“I have no country,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, completely without the usual dramatics he had grown accustomed to in Egypt whenever nationality was discussed.
“You are German?”
She nodded. “Düsseldorf, once,” she said. “How did you know? My accent?”
“The manager told me the internationally famous artist Anna Mueller was staying in the
After assuring the manager that all was well and that he would eat presently, Pete was left alone with Osman in the bedroom. They looked at one another thoughtfully. Pete spoke first: “Where is Said?”
“The gentleman will come to us in good time.”
“Soon?”
“I have no idea, Sir Wells. Until then you will see the ruins.”
“Are you telling me or asking me?”
The old man gave his mirthless leer. “You are tourist, Sir Wells.”
“You may have a point there. No ruins today, though. I’m going to get my bearings first. Understand?”
Osman bowed. “I am at your service.”
“Where can I find you if I want you?”
“The manager will see that I attend you, sir. Ask him. But I shall be nearby all the time.”
“That’s good news,” said Pete, and he gestured curtly to the door. Osman bowed himself out, almost bumping into a tall figure who hurried by so fast that Pete caught only a quick glimpse of the man who had sat opposite him on the train.
* * *
The celebrated dining room of the Karnak Inn was not quite so bad as Pete had suspected; he did not mind cockroaches as long as they were not on the menu. Paper gummed with glue hung from the center of each slowly revolving fan, attracting those few flies that were not already busy with Pete’s breakfast. He brushed them away and ate hungrily. Through French windows opposite him he could see a rank green garden, bright with flowers. As he was drinking coffee, a woman entered. He knew immediately who she was.
Anna Mueller was far more attractive than he had imagined. For some reason her name had made him think of a fat, red-faced German blonde with her hair tied in braids about her head; the reality was very different.
She was not tall. Her body was perfectly proportioned, from the smooth straight neck to the small waist and slender legs; but it was her face that most attracted him. Her hair was a natural red-gold, more dark than light, like dull copper. Her skin was naturally pale and her eyes, beneath straight dark brows, were a deep vivid blue. Her expression was sad.
She hesitated when she saw him; then she moved toward the French windows. “Would you like some coffee?” His own voice sounded suddenly harsh in his ears.
She turned, surprised, one hand on the door leading into the garden. “No, thank you,” she said. Her voice was deep, the German accent faint. And then she was gone.
Pete cursed himself for a fool. The first impression was always important, and he had sounded like a high-school boy cruising a Main Street girl. And it mattered, he realized suddenly; it mattered very much the impression he made upon her. Bewildered by his own discovery, he finished breakfast. Then, after lighting a cigarette and counting to twenty to quiet the familiar buzzing in his ears, he got up and walked out into the garden.
He was not sure whether or not she was surprised to see him. Her face was serene. She was seated on a bench beneath an arbor of what looked to Pete like camellias.
“May I sit down?”
“If you like.” Her tone was neutral. She moved over to make room for him.
“My name is Wells, Peter Wells.”
“You are American?” She turned half around and looked at him frankly.
“That’s right. You?”
“I have no country,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, completely without the usual dramatics he had grown accustomed to in Egypt whenever nationality was discussed.
“You are German?”
She nodded. “Düsseldorf, once,” she said. “How did you know? My accent?”
“The manager told me the internationally famous artist Anna Mueller was staying in the
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