Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [144]
I turned myself into a black huddle, trying to look seven inches shorter. In my extremity the only prayer I could remember was ‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’ which was, I devoutly hoped, inappropriate. I bowed my head and concentrated on breathing.
It took over twenty minutes to get through that half mile. I knew better than to look up, even when the car stopped and I felt rather than saw a man right next to me. After a moment, during which I didn’t breathe at all, and a brief exchange in Arabic, the Land Rover began to move.
Feisal went on for another ten or fifteen miles and then pulled off the road. Turning, his arm over the back of the seat, he gave me a strained smile and said hoarsely, ‘How about something to drink?’
I fumbled in the basket at my feet and got out a bottle of soda.
‘If we have to do that again I am going to die,’ I informed him.
Feisal drained the bottle and tossed it out. ‘They’re still looking for the jeep, I think. They didn’t even ask for my papers. If they don’t find out we’ve changed vehicles we should be all right. Relax and enjoy the scenery.’
‘Ha,’ I said.
One of these years I hope to travel that road again when I’m in a proper state of mind to appreciate the view. That day I wouldn’t have noticed the Great Pyramid of Giza unless it had been in the middle of the road. Feisal drove like a man fleeing justice, but then so did everybody else. I had to hold my voluminous garments with both hands to keep them from flapping in the breeze from the open windows. He was in front, I was in back; there was no possibility of conversation, so I clung to my veils and closed my eyes. Twice we were slowed to a crawl by construction, three times by accidents. All three appeared to be minor; what blocked the road were the crowds of gesticulating debaters discussing the incident.
I hadn’t slept much the previous night. When I awoke after a nap I hadn’t meant to take we were on a wide street lined with shops and teeming with traffic. Straight ahead two slender, delicately carved towers rose into the sky.
I leaned forward and poked Feisal. ‘Where are we? Is that a mosque up ahead?’
‘No. It’s one of the city gates. Dates from the eleventh century. I took a roundabout route.’ His voice cracked. ‘We made it. Praise be to God, we made it!’
‘Praise be to God,’ I agreed heartily. ‘What time is it?’
‘Half past twelve. Do you want something to eat?’
‘I want to get out of this tent,’ I grumbled. ‘I want a shower and a drink with ice in it and a change of clothes. But I’ll settle for being here in one piece.’
‘You may as well divest yourself of that ensemble if you can do it gracefully and inconspicuously,’ Feisal said. ‘You’ll be no more noticeable in Western clothes now. I’ll find a café and we’ll have a bite while we discuss our next move.’
I was too stupefied by heat, drowsiness, and disbelief to argue, but by the time he stopped and I had – inconspicuously, I hoped – removed my tent and veil, I had had second thoughts. We were in the heart of the city by then and there were a number of young people around, including some foreigners. I cleverly deduced that Feisal had picked a spot in the university area.
‘We shouldn’t take time for this,’ I objected, as he helped me out. ‘I need to make that call to Karl Feder.’
‘Munich is in an earlier time zone, isn’t it? He’s probably out to lunch.’ Feisal led me through a doorway curtained with strings of beads and found a table. The place was hot and dark and noisy and full of flies; people were talking in a mixture of languages, and a radio was blaring Egyptian pop music in the background. ‘What do you want to eat?’
‘I don’t care. Anything. Something with ice in it.’
‘No ice, not here. It’s made of the local water.’
He ordered in Arabic. Then he said, ‘I’m going to telephone my father.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘My mother will be out of her mind,’ Feisal said simply. ‘I have to let her know that I’m safe and innocent of the charges.’
If he had presented any other argument I might have disagreed,