If Tears Were Wishes And Other Short Stories (4 page)

****

For a ridiculously small fee, Ahmed arranged for Haley to join the Nile cruise to Aswan. He was proud of his contacts, proud of the people who owed him favors, proud of the deal he could offer her, and the ship had not been full. So here she was, leaning on the railing, wondering a bit about whether Ahmed was ripping her off or being nice, but enjoying herself too much to really care.

They drifted past palm trees dusted with orange in the setting sun, past ruins of small temples not worth a stop and villages huddled close to the water on the thin strip of fertile land to either side of the Nile. Just past the vibrant green rose hills of desert, a clear demarcation between the areas where people could and could not survive. And she had it all to herself — Ahmed was leading an evening event on Egyptian culture in the bar, in German, of course, and she had the deck and the sunset and the Nile.

When they reached Aswan the next morning, they took a smaller boat to the Island of Philae. Which it wasn't really, because the original island had been sunk by the great dam; the huge temple complex had been moved to the island of Agilkia. On the boat over, Ahmed sat with her, telling her about the program in Egyptology at the University of Tübingen in Germany, where he had studied for a year with an exchange program. She found her focus narrowing down to the conversation, to his faintly accented voice, filled with passion for what meant most to her, the long history of this great land he called home. She was so engrossed, she missed the approach to the island temple, watching instead the light in his dark eyes when he spoke of Hatshepsut and Ramses, when he looked at her.

As they were docking, Haley noticed how the tourists in his group watched them surreptitiously, slight smiles on their faces.

On the island, Ahmed left her regretfully, leading his flock to the pavilion of Trajan, while Haley wandered next to the colonnade leading to the first pylon at the entrance of the temple. The scratches on the figures carved into the stone were clearly visible, scratches made to "deface" the pagan idols, by Coptic Christians or the Muslims who followed, no one knew for sure. Isis had been worshiped here until the sixth century, when Justinian ordered the temple and its priests converted to Christianity.

After taking a number of pictures, she went through the door in the first pylon and made her way to the temple of Isis proper.

Where the dizziness hit her again.

The soldiers in their sandals and capes, armed with long spears and oval shields, herded the robed priests and priestesses into a circle next to the Mammisi, jabbing at their legs and feet for fun. An old priest ineffectually tried to bar the wide entrance to the Temple of Isis, but a laughing soldier slit his throat, and the blood ran down the stairs of the temple to pool at the feet of a priestess. Her short, sharp screams rent the peace of the early morning in the middle of the blue of the Nile and the green of the palms and the sandy beige of the stones.

Haley dropped to her knees in the courtyard between the first pylon and the Temple of Isis. She felt sick, the metallic smell of blood drowning out the fresh smell of morning. What was the matter with her?

A security guard in a blue uniform leaned down and took her elbow, and then suddenly Ahmed was also by her side, murmuring soothingly, telling her of the bed waiting for her on the ship, pressing a bottle of water to her lips, scolding gently, suggesting she should see a doctor.

She had to agree.

****

My son tells me she studies the old way of writing, the hieroglyphs, that she can read the lives of those who are long dead in this valley. His voice is full of life when he says this, his eyes glow and his hands move more quickly. He thinks that means she understands us, understands him, can share more with him than a woman who wears the veil.

He does not see that the symbols and their language are there to hide behind, not to reveal.

But he is closer. He will understand someday.

****

The sandy dog had adopted her. Haley found it comforting, although she knew she might just be mixing the beasts up — there were so many skinny, middle-sized, sandy strays on the streets of Luxor.

But
her
little short-hair had dark paws and floppy ears, and she was almost sure she would recognize him wherever he showed up. Today he was following her through the Temple of Luxor, while she tracked down the less-than-knee-sized statues of Nefertari next to her husband Ramses II. Perhaps the sandy stray was her guardian angel — she'd had no more hallucinations since returning from the Nile cruise.

Or maybe it was the hat the doctor had told her to wear.

"What should I name you, beastie?" Haley asked, scratching behind the floppy ears. "Anubis? But he's black and has pointy ears and is a god of death. You're not black, and I've had enough reminders of death recently." She caught sight of the hieroglyph for "dog" on a nearby wall. "That's it, you will be 'Uher.' Can you deal with that, dog?"

The newly christened Uher wagged his tail.

Haley rose, pushed a damp strand of hair behind her ear and looked around for Ahmed's tour group. He had a new one this week, British this time, and he'd said he'd be here today. She looked forward to seeing his dark eyes and ready smile, found herself slightly nervous at the thought. She couldn't get over what a complete gentleman he was, how much he seemed to respect her, and that charmed her more than nearly anything else.

As she wandered through the courtyard of Ramses, the stray trailing faithfully behind her, Haley caught sight of Ahmed and smiled. He was giving a lecture on hieroglyphs — probably in front of a cartouche of Ramses, the clue which had led Champollion to crack the code.

Sure enough, Ahmed was just wrapping up Young's initial attempts to apply the Rosetta Stone to the Egyptian language as she came within hearing distance. He was so caught up in his tale that he didn't see her.

"When he was only ten, Champollion was told no one could interpret the cryptic writing which covered the Egyptian antiquities. The boy decided then that he would one day solve the mystery."

Although it was the end of February and not yet 10:00 a.m., hot dust rose around them. Haley slipped unobtrusively into the back of Ahmed's tour group.

"Champollion used Young's technique to decipher several cartouches, but names like Alexander and Cleopatra were also foreign, like Ptolemy from the Rosetta stone. So was the theory true that hieroglyphs were only used for sounds when the names were not Egyptian? Then in 1822, Champollion came across older cartouches," and here Ahmed gestured at the wall behind him, pointing at the cartouche of Ramses.

"One cartouche had only four hieroglyphs. The meaning of first two symbols was unknown, but the repeated pair at the end were 's's. Luckily, Champollion was familiar with the Coptic language, descended from ancient Egyptian, which helped him solve the puzzle. The first symbol in the cartouche was a round disk with a dot in the middle." Ahmed indicted the symbol he meant.

"Champollion wondered if it might represent the sun, which in Coptic was 'ra'. This meant that the symbols together were 'ra-?-s-s.' Only one pharaonic name fit — Ramses."

It was a story Haley knew well, but unfortunately it wasn't completely true, and she had to chuckle. Ahmed came out of his historical trance, a look of irritation on his face. "It is nothing to laugh about."

"I wasn't laughing at Champollion," Haley said, truthfully enough.

Finally, Ahmed noticed that it was her, but the bright smile he normally greeted her with was absent. "Ah, there is an expert in hieroglyphics in our midst," he said instead. "Perhaps you would like to tell us more?"

Haley shook her head, embarrassed. His voice was still on edge. But he must know that the tale he had told was a romanticized simplification — didn't he?

She bent down to pet Uher to draw attention away from herself, but it had the opposite effect.

Ahmed walked over to her, ostensibly leading his tour group toward the colonnade. "It is not a good idea to pet the strays. The dogs here are dirty scum, full of fleas and disease, no better than rats."

Haley stared at him rebelliously, and then turned and walked in the other direction, Uher following faithfully at her heels.

****

She thinks the signs and words reveal things, but I know they hide them, as it should be. When I peel this onion to the core, all that is left are tears; when I remove my veil, it is less than the secret the veil promises.

****

Haley tried to return to the temple of Hatshepsut, but even without hallucinations she kept seeing the blood everywhere, blood and bodies. The metallic scent filled her nostrils, and she could feel the terror, the pain, as if she were the one running from chance execution by religious fanatics. She was wearing a floppy straw hat as the doctor ordered, but it didn't help against memory.

So instead, she cut off her visit to the Valley of Queens and sought out the temple complex of Karnak.

The ride in the "taxi" — a van which served as a kind of unofficial bus — was an adventure. Haley had not yet dared to try one out, and she wasn't sure if she would do it again, despite the unbeatable price of two Egyptian pounds, well under a dollar. The driver passed every vehicle in his path, then honked his horn and put on his brakes every time he saw another tourist he thought he could add to his cargo. Haley clenched her hat in her hands and tried not to look as scared as she felt.

When they arrived in the parking lot of Karnak, she heaved a huge sigh of relief and pulled the Egyptian pound notes she needed from her wallet. As she was stepping out of the sliding door of the van, the driver appeared in front of her and took her by the waist, lifting her and setting her on the concrete. He probably wanted more
bakshish
for the special favor. But instead of demanding money, he murmured something low that she couldn't understand and ran his hand slowly down her hair. For a moment, Haley froze, not knowing what was going on.

"
Shukran
," she said and put the hat she held fisted in her hand back on her head. What had she done wrong this time? She was wearing long pants and a light, long-sleeved blouse, just like the guidebooks told her to.

And she was wearing her hair loose, not twisted in a bun at the back of her head as she usually did when it was hot.

She wasn't blond, but her hair was long, and it wasn't covered by a veil. So she was supposed to wear a veil now too?

Repressing a feeling of annoyance bordering on anger, Haley headed between the avenue of the sphinxes to the first pylon of the temple of Karnak. Past the court of Amenophis III, there was an obelisk of Hatshepsut still standing which she wanted to study in detail. Most of the obelisks which had once stood here now graced the squares of Rome and other conquering powers, stolen to prove sovereignty; only two were still in Karnak.

She went through the fourth pylon to the vestibule of the temple. The top third of Hatshepsut's obelisk was much lighter than the bottom; her successor Tuthmosis III had the obelisk walled up when he came into power, but for some reason only part way. Now it was the tallest standing obelisk left in Egypt. Haley couldn't help enjoying the historical irony of that.

She also enjoyed the gender mix-up of the female pharaoh's great seal, the two cartouches that made up her throne name and her birth name: "The King of Upper and Lower Egypt, the son of Re, Joined with Amun, Hatshepsut." Her name itself, in ideograms rather than phonograms, meant "Foremost of the noble ladies." The transition from male to female was fluid, at least according to the symbols.

As she stared up at the pinkish-beige monument against the intense blue of the Egyptian sky, she felt a damp nose against her hand and looked down to discover Uher at her side. "Found me again, little friend?"

Uher padding along beside her, she made her way to the sacred lake, a rectangular pool for use of the temple priests. There, next to Hatshepsut's broken obelisk, once the twin to the one still standing, stood Ahmed with his British tour group. This time when he noticed her, the mischievous smile she was used to lit up his face again, and he gestured for her to join them.

Her stomach tightened with an emotion somewhere between fear and anticipation as she moved slowly towards his group. Ahmed was pointing to the cartouche on the pyramidion, the tip at eye level. "This symbol which looks like a feather, and is actually a flowering reed, stands here for a sound, meaning it is a phonogram rather than a pictogram. But it can also be part of a pictogram representing marshland. This was only one of the problems Egyptologists of the nineteenth century had to decipher the hieroglyphs: how could they know when a symbol stood for a concept and not for a sound and so on?"