hotel. You fit the description.”
She laughed, suddenly, her face becoming, magically, like a little girl’s. “International, yes,” she said finally. “Artist, no. Famous, no. Anna Mueller, yes, I am she.”
“You sing in a night club?”
“How did you know?”
“I heard about you in Cairo.”
She frowned and looked away. “I am so notorious?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you mean, isn’t it?” There was a sharp edge to her voice that startled him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only been in this country a week or so.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Forgive me.” She was genuinely sorry, he could see, and he forgave her. He talked to her a little about himself, telling her the story of wanting to see the ruins, not mentioning his actual business or his Cairo connections. When he asked her why she was in Luxor, she said, “To think.”
“In this heat?”
She smiled. “It doesn’t stop the thinking, does it?”
“A little, maybe. Why didn’t you go somewhere cool?”
“There is no such place in this country.”
“And you have to stay here?”
“I have to stay here.” She plucked a flower absently and twirled it between her fingers.
“Have you been a singer long?”
She shook her head. “I am not even a singer now. But they pay me money for some reason. They seem to think the noise I make is worth money, and I take it, of course, I am very poor.”
“No family?”
“There is never any family,” she said dryly.
“Meaning?”
“That I am displaced. I am the child of Nazis, both dead. No brothers living, no sisters ever born. That is my family history.” All this without bitterness.
“You’re very young,” said Pete.
“I am twenty-one, but I feel as if I have lived through the end of the world, through Armageddon, as we say.”
“How did you come here, to Egypt?”
“I went where I could. This was fairly easy. Once I got here, I found work in a night club, and now…”
“You are rich and famous.”
“And now I have enough to keep me…independent.” Pete understood only too well what she meant by this; he didn’t like to think of all the things this girl must have been forced to do to live. It was a cruel business.
“Do you intend to live here all your life? In this country?”
She shrugged. “I have no plans. I have no idea. At the moment I am too pleased to be living at all, and on vacation.”
“In the heat.”
“I like it.” And sitting there beneath the thick greenery, the light filtered green-yellow by leaves, he found that the heat was not unbearable. But then, at that moment, Pete would have found the equator wonderful.
“Will you show me the country around here?”
“If you like.” Her voice was impersonal; there was no suggestion of coquetry in her manner. She was direct and uncomplicated, or so she seemed.
“You’re here alone?”
“I like being alone.” Then, politely: “But I don’t mind your company.”
“I don’t mind yours, either.” They smiled at one another. Then Pete asked her if she would like to take a walk now and she said that she would, that she’d show him the temple close to the river, the one he had seen from the window of his bedroom.
As they walked along, chatting to one another, Pete wondered whether or not it was merely his own loneliness that made her seem somehow wonderful, different from any other woman he had known, more exciting in her youthful way than the older, more glittering Hélène. Then, too, he felt protective about this slim blonde girl, and hopeful, very hopeful. He watched her out of the corners of his eyes as they strolled along the palm-shaded road in front of the hotel, the Nile to their right, at the foot of a rocky bluff. She lacked self-consciousness, seemed never to be aware of herself, only of him, of what she was saying to him.
“You should see the tombs tomorrow,” she said. “Or soon, anyway, because each day the
She laughed, suddenly, her face becoming, magically, like a little girl’s. “International, yes,” she said finally. “Artist, no. Famous, no. Anna Mueller, yes, I am she.”
“You sing in a night club?”
“How did you know?”
“I heard about you in Cairo.”
She frowned and looked away. “I am so notorious?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you mean, isn’t it?” There was a sharp edge to her voice that startled him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only been in this country a week or so.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. Forgive me.” She was genuinely sorry, he could see, and he forgave her. He talked to her a little about himself, telling her the story of wanting to see the ruins, not mentioning his actual business or his Cairo connections. When he asked her why she was in Luxor, she said, “To think.”
“In this heat?”
She smiled. “It doesn’t stop the thinking, does it?”
“A little, maybe. Why didn’t you go somewhere cool?”
“There is no such place in this country.”
“And you have to stay here?”
“I have to stay here.” She plucked a flower absently and twirled it between her fingers.
“Have you been a singer long?”
She shook her head. “I am not even a singer now. But they pay me money for some reason. They seem to think the noise I make is worth money, and I take it, of course, I am very poor.”
“No family?”
“There is never any family,” she said dryly.
“Meaning?”
“That I am displaced. I am the child of Nazis, both dead. No brothers living, no sisters ever born. That is my family history.” All this without bitterness.
“You’re very young,” said Pete.
“I am twenty-one, but I feel as if I have lived through the end of the world, through Armageddon, as we say.”
“How did you come here, to Egypt?”
“I went where I could. This was fairly easy. Once I got here, I found work in a night club, and now…”
“You are rich and famous.”
“And now I have enough to keep me…independent.” Pete understood only too well what she meant by this; he didn’t like to think of all the things this girl must have been forced to do to live. It was a cruel business.
“Do you intend to live here all your life? In this country?”
She shrugged. “I have no plans. I have no idea. At the moment I am too pleased to be living at all, and on vacation.”
“In the heat.”
“I like it.” And sitting there beneath the thick greenery, the light filtered green-yellow by leaves, he found that the heat was not unbearable. But then, at that moment, Pete would have found the equator wonderful.
“Will you show me the country around here?”
“If you like.” Her voice was impersonal; there was no suggestion of coquetry in her manner. She was direct and uncomplicated, or so she seemed.
“You’re here alone?”
“I like being alone.” Then, politely: “But I don’t mind your company.”
“I don’t mind yours, either.” They smiled at one another. Then Pete asked her if she would like to take a walk now and she said that she would, that she’d show him the temple close to the river, the one he had seen from the window of his bedroom.
As they walked along, chatting to one another, Pete wondered whether or not it was merely his own loneliness that made her seem somehow wonderful, different from any other woman he had known, more exciting in her youthful way than the older, more glittering Hélène. Then, too, he felt protective about this slim blonde girl, and hopeful, very hopeful. He watched her out of the corners of his eyes as they strolled along the palm-shaded road in front of the hotel, the Nile to their right, at the foot of a rocky bluff. She lacked self-consciousness, seemed never to be aware of herself, only of him, of what she was saying to him.
“You should see the tombs tomorrow,” she said. “Or soon, anyway, because each day the
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