The Illusion of Murder (11 page)

He swept his hand at the great stone edifices around us. “Left alone, these ancient monuments of a lustrous age would have defied even the scorching desert winds that can flay the flesh off a camel, but the hands of Man are too ruthlessly covetous to leave the treasures untouched.”

“That’s unfortunate, yet from what I’ve seen, Egypt is a beautiful land with a proud history, but too poor to protect the remnants of its splendid past. What would have happened if foreigners hadn’t taken the treasures to museums?”

“They would be home,” he says.

I change the subject to something not politically explosive. “There’s a fable about the sphinx that appears in schoolbooks back home. We call it the Riddle of the Sphinx because a female sphinx stopped passersby and asked them this question: ‘Which creature goes on four legs in the morning, on two during the day, and in the evening upon three?’ She strangled anyone who failed to answer the question correctly.”

The caretaker smiles and nods. “I know the puzzle from Flinders Petrie. People crawl on all four as babies, later they walk on two legs, and finally in old age they need a cane and that gives them a third leg.” He gives me a narrow look. “But you must not think that the power of the sphinx is a tale for children. To us who know her well, the Great Sphinx at Giza is the Father of Terror.”

“Yes, I heard that shouted in Port Said. People believe that the sphinx will drive foreigners from Egypt.”

“It is said that the Nile will turn red from blood again, as it once did when Allah punished the pharaoh. Only this time it will be the blood of foreigners that colors the river.”

I turn away from the chilling prophecy as I hear my name shouted. My companions are coming up the hill and I wave at them.

“Over here,” I yell, when I realize the statues and stone wall are blocking their view of us.

As they reach me I say, “This gentleman—”

He’s gone. I hurry around the sphinx and the pharaoh.

“What in heavens name are you doing?” Lord Warton demands.

“He was here a moment ago.”

“Who was here?” Von Reich asks.

I throw up my hands in frustration. “We were talking about the Great Sphinx killing foreigners—”

“The sphinx was talking to you?” Lady Warton asks.

“No, of course not. I was talking to a man about it. He’s disappeared.”

Lady Warton offers me her umbrella. “You better keep your head shaded, dear. The heat is making you delirious.”

12

I’ve been in circus tents smaller than the sheikh’s pavilion.

The sprawling tent is held up by a forest of poles, with the sides rolled up to let air circulate. Off to the right of the colossal pavilion is an oasis with trees and date palms surrounding a pond.

A sea of sand and then in the middle of nowhere a small lake surrounded by grass and trees … one of God’s miracles, my mother would say.

“Is the sheikh the head of a Bedouin tribe?” I ask.

That gets a chuckle from Von Reich and a snort from Lord Warton.

“He’s actually a prince and a pasha,” Von Reich says, “because he’s the brother of Tewfik Pasha, the Egyptian king they call a khedive. He has palaces in Cairo and Alexandria but he puts up a tent in the desert once a year to impress people with his Bedouin roots.”

“There is no Bedouin blood in the line,” Lord Warton says with contempt. “The ruling family dates back to a Turkish officer of Albanian descent who won a bloody power struggle after Napoléon’s army left. They have as much Bedouin ancestry as my bird dog.”

Drinking at the oasis are Arabian stallions, horses of the desert noted for their intelligence, speed, and grace, and the wonderfully awkward and charmingly ugly camels. The horses and camels appear to be the animal world’s version of beauty and the beast.

“Arabian horses and camels are considered among the finest gifts of Allah,” Von Reich tells us, “the horse for its beauty and the camel for its strong back.”

Over our heads as we enter the pavilion are hanging baskets of flowering plants, hundreds of them, adding a sweet scent along with moisture that is a relief from the parched desert air. The entire interior is carpeted with thick Persian and Turkish rugs. Golden candelabras as tall as a person are everywhere.

“What in God’s name is this?” Lady Warton asks, staring at knee-high tables scattered throughout the tent. The short, round tables are surrounded by saddles and cushions.

“When a Bedouin comes to dinner, he sits on a rug and brings in his camel’s saddle to rest against,” Lord Warton says. “We used them in Morocco, too, though not the dinners you attended.”

“We’re expected to sit on the floor and eat? How uncivilized,” she grumbles.

I stare around, fascinated by the sheer opulence of it all. I can’t even imagine what this “Bedouin” tent must have cost. Or how many of the peasants they call fellahs have broken their backs in the cotton fields that produce the country’s cash crop to provide it.

Von Reich seems to read my mind. “Eastern potentates are probably no richer than European royalty; they merely display their treasures more spectacularly. But it’s what people demand, isn’t it? We want to see our royals wearing something more valuable than paper crowns because it’s a sign of posterity for the whole nation.”

The porcelain plates lining the tables are exquisite. In the center of each marble white plate is a dark blue image of a warrior pharaoh in a golden chariot drawn by one horse. His arm is raised high, ready to hurtle a spear at a charging tiger.

“Bone china,” Lady Warton says. “It’s made with ash from calcified ox bone. That’s what gives it that brilliant, but brittle look.”

“Where are the utensils?” I ask.

“You eat with your fingers and
only with your right hand
,” Von Reich says. “The left is for
personal
use and considered unclean.”

“Obviously, they don’t have enough civilized facilities for relieving one’s self,” Lady Warton sniffs.

“Dinner is served with gold and silver utensils in his palace, but using one’s fingers is for his desert-warrior image.” Von Reich leans closer and says in a low voice, “When you sit, don’t have your feet pointing directly toward someone else. The Egyptians consider it bad luck.”

“Thank you. Anything else I should know?”

“Let the men do the talking.” He grins and gives me a wink. “Women are considered decoration.”

With that said, the two “gentlemen” leave us to mingle, abandoning me to her ladyship who scowls around with the sourpuss expression that appears painted permanently on her face.

“I need to quench my thirst,” Lady Warton says as she heads for a bare-chested man dressed only in big bellowing, yellow pantaloons, and a red turban. He’s holding a large silver platter filled with glasses of pomegranate juice.

Von Reich told us earlier that the foreign men attending the banquet will be mostly European businessmen and some military officers. I see a few other European women present, no doubt the wives of the men attending since a single woman would not have been invited, nor would any Islamic women.

The women remind me of those at the high-society tea parties I used to cover for the
Pittsburgh Gazette
—overdressed and overpowered. Like Lady Warton, they wear flowery silk or lace dresses that are fastened in the back with tiny buttons smaller than the tip of my pinkie, which require assistance from maids.

Making no claims to being a great beauty, I dress for comfort, preferring clothing that is simple, with little lace, frills, or those prickly petticoats intended to make dresses full, or as one dressmaker told me, “ladylike.”

Von Reich and Lord Warton had changed from their traveling clothes.

A few of the European men are in black or dark gray morning dress, the daytime version of white tie with its cutaway coats, striped pants, and silk top hats, but most wear the same type of white linen suits that Von Reich and the peer wear.

Military officers are all dressed pretty much the same, from pith helmets to boots with highly starched uniforms in between.

While a few Egyptians and Turks present wear Western suits and fez hats, the only men who seem to appear comfortable in the warmth of the afternoon are the ones in traditional Arab desert clothing that permits air to circulate—flowing white tunics with sleeveless cloaks made of cotton, linen, or silk, all of light colors, blue, green, yellow, that extend just below their shins, while loose tasseled belts of braided gold silk adorn their waist. Even their rope sandals look cooler than most footwear.

A weapon is one accessory all the males agree upon—the British with their Webley revolvers, the French with their officer’s version of the Chamelot-Delvigne. The Arabs have hanging from their belts scimitars or daggers decorated with pearls, diamonds, all sorts of precious gems, weapons that lack the range of a pistol, but no doubt as effective if one has been raised cutting his teeth on such blades.

I would not have been surprised to find women carrying derringers in their satchels, especially French women who tend to be worldlier than most other women because their country is at the crossroads of everything international.

It’s rather amusing to watch the British and French men sipping the rich, Turkish coffee out of those dainty little demitasse cups … the Westerners look so out of place, their pinkies sticking straight up in the air. I’m sure they’d rather be drinking a brandy but the Egyptians are teetotalers—at least in public.

A low rumble erupts that slowly vibrates into a loud, deep boom as a large gong is struck and bronze trumpets blare as a group of men arrives on camels.

It’s obvious that the man in front is our host—he’s riding the only pure white camel. His Bedouin robes are silk, not cotton or wool, and are trimmed with precious stones—glittering rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. But the real clincher is that a servant goes down on all fours beside the sheikh’s kneeling camel so the sheikh can step on him as he gets off the animal. I wince as he steps onto this human footstool … the sheikh is not a small man; he must be close to two hundred pounds.

He walks on a red carpet that has been rolled out from a table heavily guarded by Saracens with long swords—and pistols tucked in their waistbands.

“I’m afraid you ladies must fend for yourselves for a while,” Von Reich says. “His lordship and I have been invited to join the sheikh at his table.” There’s a little pride and male superiority in his tone.

As they head for his table I do a double take at someone who takes a seat next to the sheikh—Frederick Selous, the Dark Continent explorer who claims to have talked to a dead man on the beach.

Before I get over that surprise, another man emerges from a dark area behind the sheikh and joins them at the table—the marketplace magician, the one Von Reich called a
Psylli.

I start to tell Lady Warton that I shall run screaming from the tent if John Cleveland materializes, but she has slipped away to get another drink. When she returns, I ask if Von Reich and her husband are friends of the sheikh.

“Von Reich met him in Cairo. My husband has never met the man, but they have a common interest—horse racing. My husband breeds racehorses, and the sheikh requested he join him to discuss their animals.”

“I love horses. I had one of my own. I’ve been in quite a few shows and won ribbons at county fairs in the States.”

“How nice.” She makes it sound as if I have won a consolation prize at a penny arcade.

Keeping a polite smile plastered on my face, I groan inwardly, telling myself that I have to stop trying to hold a civil conversation with this disdainful woman and simply make listening responses to whatever she says.

The sheikh sits down at his table and claps his hands. We are now allowed to sit.

The soulful wailing of a woodwind instrument fills the tent as bare-footed, veiled women enter. They’re dressed in lush purple silk garbs that cling to their bodies, emphasizing their graceful contour. Yellow scarfs, fringed with coins, are tied around their hips.

Every feature of these women is exquisite—long, silky black hair, golden skin, ample breasts, and well-endowed hips—and all are perfectly proportioned. Swaying to the hypnotic music, they extend their arms outward, beckoning us to join them. The top part of their garb slips ever so slightly off their shoulders as their hips sway in a circular, hypnotic motion to the rhythm of the music.

Tiny cymbals held between their fingers make quick snapping clangs, as incredible feats of flexibility are performed with their belly muscles. Gradually they bend backward until their tresses sweep the carpet. Shouts from the men grow deafening as they perform this inverted feature. Like the men, I find myself captivated with the women’s hips as they sway with such sexual precision, back and forth, till they are still. Then the yelling stops and I start breathing again.

What a gravity-defying, erotic movement to watch.

“Raqs Sharqi,” Lady Warton whispers, “the dance of the Orient, claims to be the oldest dance in the world.”

“Amazing,” is all I can say.

The gong shatters the silence and brings us out of our trances as the women leave as exotically as they came.