Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [21]
With a small shrug, I turned away. Looking down at the shriveled corpse of Thutmose III, I felt a mix of pity and revulsion. Here was certainly not the burly, menacing monster of countless mummy movies. I wondered if the pharaohs had known what their bodies would become. Perhaps so, especially since they frequently booted out their predecessors and confiscated the better monuments and burial chambers for themselves. Some of the kings made large muscular youthful statues of themselves to be used as a backup in case their mummies were destroyed or lost. The sarcophagi were covered with elaborate texts describing the steps that the dead should perform in order to successfully reinhabit the body or the statue. Sort of an early user guide. No wonder you’re still lying there like a dead cockroach, I thought at Thutmose. You wouldn’t stop to read the instructions.
* * *
Dusk was falling by the time we returned to the hotel. The Mena House stands in the metaphorical shadow of the pyramids and had since it was built in 1869. Agatha Christie had walked up the front steps into its dim interior in the days when it was cooled only by the desert wind and the shade of the palm trees that encircled it. Prince Farouk of Egypt used to stop by at all hours for sandwiches. World leaders and movie stars, the rich and the powerful, the intrepid and the timid had all come to the Mena House to stay in the one place on earth that provided the comforts of the present and a glimpse into the unfathomable past.
The original building was magnificent, designed with palatial proportions and filled with carved and embossed wood, glittering chandeliers, and gilded pillars. Set like a jewel in the Egyptian desert, the grounds were a garden paradise, complete with palm trees, winding paths, and a turquoise pool forming an oasis in the sand. To the left, the pyramids loomed over the puny buildings of modern generations, giant desert denizens guarding against the coming darkness.
Once off the bus, the group scattered with promises to meet before dinner in the upstairs lounge. Kyla and I returned to our room to shower and change. As peons on a budget tour, we were housed in the newer, modern wing across the grounds from the main building. Our room could have been part of any modern hotel in any city in the world, except that from our tiny balcony, we could see the pyramids on the western horizon. Even from this distance, they appeared immense against the deepening blue of the evening sky, and the crimson glow of the setting sun burnished their sides to a tawny copper. None of it seemed quite real.
Dinner that night was to include belly dancing and whirling dervishes, which I was looking forward to seeing. My shower and primping usually took about a quarter of the time that Kyla’s did, so I went first and then pulled on a t-shirt and threw myself on the bed to rest while she went through her elaborate routine.
As soon as the bathroom door shut and the water started, I leaped up and retrieved my backpack. I still had Millie’s pack and wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it. I should have given it to Anni before I left the bus, or even stuffed it under a seat, but at the last minute I’d decided I wanted to take one more look at the contents. For all I knew, something else of mine or Kyla’s might be hidden in the depths, but I knew that was only an excuse. I really wanted to read through the rest of that notebook. As soon as I heard the sound of Kyla drawing the shower curtain, I emptied the bag onto my bed.
The notebook, the lighter, the pen, and the purse all dropped onto the rust-colored floral bedspread, followed by a couple of small items that might have belonged