chairs sat the hotel’s well-dressed guests. There were only eighty-three rooms in the hotel, and all their occupants had at least one thing in common: the pleasure in gossip and staring, Alexandrian pastimes.
This lobby had known throughout its history many famous poets, writers, statesmen, sheikhs and kings, presidents and prime ministers. It was the second home to the English when they were in Alexandria, as well as the French,Italians, Americans, Saudi Arabians, Lebanese, Greeks — the list went on and on.
In the center of the main stairwell were a pair of tiny elevators, beautiful little black wrought-iron cages that ran up and down constantly, silently, as if running on greased poles. The white marble stairs, covered with ruby-red Turkish carpet on each tread, snaked around the elevators with a matching balustrade of wrought iron and a polished mahogany handrail.
The waiters, porters, and baggage boys were dressed in small white turbans and beige galabeahs intricately embroidered in chocolate brown. They were the best
sufragies
— servants — to be found in Alexandria.
It was there, in the famous old Cecil bar that had sustained poets and writers, statesmen and lovers, that Arabella saw him again. The tall, handsome, middle-aged Englishman who appeared so proper, so staid, so conventional, so very conservative.
It was quiet in the bar — such a contrast to the symphony of horns, bells, and people, the exotic sound of Arabic music blaring from the shops, the exquisite sound of the call to prayer echoing from the slim, needlelike minarets over the rooftops of Alexandria. There, in the quiet of the bar, the exquisite elegance and aristocratic bearing of the man caught her eye.
A
sufragi
showed Arabella to a table and took her order for a long, cool drink — a Pimms — that was served to her in a silver tankard. After a few sips Arabella looked around the room. She took it all in, the long elegant bar of dark polished wood, a table with several well-dressed Arab businessmen, another with two elderly women, faded European beauties. At another table sat a handsome French homosexual with a much more beautiful young Arab boy.
Arabella’s eyes met the Englishman’s. His face was passive but his eyes were not. She could not help but think that under that calm, cool facade was a very sexy man. She was disappointed when he looked away, paid his bill at the bar, and left.
Twenty minutes later she picked up her key at the desk and left an order for another Pimms to be sent up to her room. She had decided to drink it there, looking out over the city, then change and go down to dinner.
The elevator cage door opened, the operator stepped out, then a couple who walked toward the dining room. Arabella stepped in. When she turned around to face the front, the handsome Englishman had stepped in behind her. Although taken aback, now it was her turn to look passive. He smiled, turned around, and faced the front, with his broad back to her.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. The galabeahclad operator opened the little door and stepped out, followed by the Englishman and then Arabella.
Arabella heard the elevator door close as she walked toward her room; then she realized she was being followed by the Englishman.
She stopped suddenly, turned around, and said, “Are you following me, sir?”
“Why, yes, I am,” he answered pleasantly.
“You would not like me to call the
sufragi
over there, would you?” she said, pointing to one of the floor servants. “What do you want?”
“I want to go to my room,” he said, holding up a key with a worn wooden tag on which was written the number 406.
Arabella flushed and said, “Uh oh, I think I’ve made a fool of myself. How embarrassing!” She held up her key, “I am four oh five.” They walked to their rooms. Arabella gratefully closed the door behind her.
Her room had the look of faded elegance with its English flowered cretonne bed cover and curtains; the great
This lobby had known throughout its history many famous poets, writers, statesmen, sheikhs and kings, presidents and prime ministers. It was the second home to the English when they were in Alexandria, as well as the French,Italians, Americans, Saudi Arabians, Lebanese, Greeks — the list went on and on.
In the center of the main stairwell were a pair of tiny elevators, beautiful little black wrought-iron cages that ran up and down constantly, silently, as if running on greased poles. The white marble stairs, covered with ruby-red Turkish carpet on each tread, snaked around the elevators with a matching balustrade of wrought iron and a polished mahogany handrail.
The waiters, porters, and baggage boys were dressed in small white turbans and beige galabeahs intricately embroidered in chocolate brown. They were the best
sufragies
— servants — to be found in Alexandria.
It was there, in the famous old Cecil bar that had sustained poets and writers, statesmen and lovers, that Arabella saw him again. The tall, handsome, middle-aged Englishman who appeared so proper, so staid, so conventional, so very conservative.
It was quiet in the bar — such a contrast to the symphony of horns, bells, and people, the exotic sound of Arabic music blaring from the shops, the exquisite sound of the call to prayer echoing from the slim, needlelike minarets over the rooftops of Alexandria. There, in the quiet of the bar, the exquisite elegance and aristocratic bearing of the man caught her eye.
A
sufragi
showed Arabella to a table and took her order for a long, cool drink — a Pimms — that was served to her in a silver tankard. After a few sips Arabella looked around the room. She took it all in, the long elegant bar of dark polished wood, a table with several well-dressed Arab businessmen, another with two elderly women, faded European beauties. At another table sat a handsome French homosexual with a much more beautiful young Arab boy.
Arabella’s eyes met the Englishman’s. His face was passive but his eyes were not. She could not help but think that under that calm, cool facade was a very sexy man. She was disappointed when he looked away, paid his bill at the bar, and left.
Twenty minutes later she picked up her key at the desk and left an order for another Pimms to be sent up to her room. She had decided to drink it there, looking out over the city, then change and go down to dinner.
The elevator cage door opened, the operator stepped out, then a couple who walked toward the dining room. Arabella stepped in. When she turned around to face the front, the handsome Englishman had stepped in behind her. Although taken aback, now it was her turn to look passive. He smiled, turned around, and faced the front, with his broad back to her.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor. The galabeahclad operator opened the little door and stepped out, followed by the Englishman and then Arabella.
Arabella heard the elevator door close as she walked toward her room; then she realized she was being followed by the Englishman.
She stopped suddenly, turned around, and said, “Are you following me, sir?”
“Why, yes, I am,” he answered pleasantly.
“You would not like me to call the
sufragi
over there, would you?” she said, pointing to one of the floor servants. “What do you want?”
“I want to go to my room,” he said, holding up a key with a worn wooden tag on which was written the number 406.
Arabella flushed and said, “Uh oh, I think I’ve made a fool of myself. How embarrassing!” She held up her key, “I am four oh five.” They walked to their rooms. Arabella gratefully closed the door behind her.
Her room had the look of faded elegance with its English flowered cretonne bed cover and curtains; the great
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