The Pharaoh Key

11

EIGHTEEN HOURS LATER the Egyptian Epiphany II emerged from the Gulf of Suez into the Red Sea, and within a few hours more it had slid into a ferry berth in Safaga. This was a huge south-central Egyptian port packed with great ore ships being loaded with potash. Since the cruise ship was heading across the Red Sea to the Saudi city of Duba, while Gideon and Garza were headed southward, they had to disembark and find transportation on a coastal ferry—the only method of travel.

They strolled along the waterfront with their cheap duffel bags slung over their shoulders, still dressed as Americans but having changed into what Gideon hoped would look more like adventure-tourist garb. They located the ferry ticket office, a wooden shack standing in the middle of a great asphalted pier shimmering in the heat. The Red Sea lay beyond, a sheet of restless dark water ending in a burning horizon. Inside the shack sat a ticket seller wearing a galabeya, sipping tea.

“Let me handle this.” Gideon did not think Garza’s perpetual scowl would go over well. He approached the man and gave him a big, friendly, dopey American grin.

“Hello, my friend,” he said. “Do you speak English?”

The man put down his glass of tea and shook his head, his twin-forked beard shaking.

Gideon glanced around and spied a little boy in dirty shorts and a torn T-shirt, hanging back and watching from a distance with intent bright eyes. “Hey, young fellow!”

The boy came scampering over.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gideon pulled a couple of Egyptian pounds from his wallet. “Would you tell the gentleman here we’d like to buy two one-way tickets to Shalateen?”

The boy stared at him. “You want go there?”

“Yes.”

The boy shrugged and spoke in Arabic to the ticket seller. The man stared at the two of them with open astonishment and then spoke a torrent of Arabic to the boy.

“He say ferry no good for American. Only for fellahin. He ask why you go.”

“We’re scuba divers.” He gave the duffel at his feet a light kick. “Great diving off Shalateen. Tell him we’re used to traveling rough.”

The boy eyed him, then held out his hand. “Two pound?”

Gideon fished in his waist pouch and brought out a five-pound note. “Will that take care of the rest of the conversation?”

“Yes, sir!” The boy snatched the note with a dazzling grin. Soon the transaction was completed, eased along with a few pounds of baksheesh to the ticket seller. The ferry, they learned, would not be departing until the following morning.

Gideon turned to the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Asim,” the boy said with a toothy grin.

“I am Gideon. This is Manuel.”

“Hello, sirs! You need guide?”

“As a matter of fact, we do.”

The boy slapped his skinny chest. “I guide!”

“Perfect. We need a place to stay. Something cheap and close by. Got to have air-conditioning, though.”

“Follow me!” The boy marched off at a rapid pace, and Gideon and Garza heaved up their duffels and followed. Through the dusty streets they meandered, turning one way and then another, passing goats and a camel and a pair of water buffalo yoked together, being driven along by a five-year-old boy with a long switch. They finally came to a modest hotel, actually more of a guesthouse, made of poured concrete.

“Here is good hotel,” Asim said.

They went inside and once again the boy translated. The price was fifty pounds a night—four dollars. Before paying, they inspected the rooms, which were surprisingly clean and fresh. While the A/C unit in the window thumped and shuddered, it did a decent job of cooling the rooms. They dropped off their duffels and met again outside, where Asim was waiting.

“Okay, where now?” the youth asked. “Beach?”

“No, we want to go to the bazaar.”

Asim set off, matchstick arms churning, and they followed him through more winding streets, among concrete housing blocks that quite suddenly opened into a wide market, with brightly colored tents and stalls in crowded profusion, surrounded by alleyways going every which way. A heady smell of spices drifted on the desert air, and big sacks and baskets of spice, both ground and whole, were laid out in droves.

“We want to buy some Egyptian clothes,” said Gideon.

“Follow me!”

They wound among the stalls until they came to the clothing area. One row of stalls featured Western garb, but most sold traditional clothing. Gideon sorted through the galabeyas—the long, loose shirts favored by Egyptian men—picked one out, and held it up to himself. It was made of gray cotton with blue pinstriping, long enough to be a dress. He pulled it over his head.

“You like it?” he asked the boy.

“Yes, sir!” cried Asim.

“Now for the thing you wear on your head.” He gestured. “What’s that turban or headcloth called?”

“Imma.”

“Right. Imma. Where are they?”

“There.” Asim indicated racks with long looped lengths of fabric.

“You mean we have to wind them up ourselves?”

“Yes.”

“Can you show us how?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll take two.” He turned to Garza, who had been standing back silently during this exchange. “Come try on a galabeya.”

“We’re not really going to try to pass ourselves off as Egyptians?”

“We already had this conversation. I’m in charge of our cover. Get over here.”

Garza came over reluctantly. Gideon sized him up, pulled a galabeya off the rack. “Try it on.”

His scowl deepening, the engineer pulled it over his head and let it fall. “Fits.” He pulled it off with alacrity.

“How much?” Gideon asked Asim.

The boy engaged with the vendor, a young man with a big black beard, and a terrific argument ensued, with the boy shouting and gesturing, waving his arms, making a chopping motion with his hands and shaking his head. Finally he turned to them. “He try to overcharge. I get better price. Two hundred five pounds.”

Gideon did a quick calculation: eleven dollars. “Good work, Asim.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Gideon paid the scowling vendor.

“Now for some dinner.”

“You like kebab?”

“Oh yeah.”

Another journey through oppressively hot streets among adobe walls led them to a kebab shop with a couple of tables outside, in the shade. The boy sat down with them, and they ordered kebabs and Fanta. Garza tried to order a beer.

“No beer. It is haram. Orange Fanta only.”

“That’s it? No Coke? Pepsi?”

“Fanta the best!”

“I guess we’re in for a dry trip,” said Garza, grumpily.

The kebabs came and Gideon found his to be delicious. Asim ate like a dervish and ordered again for himself long before they had finished.

“You’ve got quite an appetite,” said Garza.

“Kebab good!” the boy said, his mouth full. He waved over the waiter for a third order and another Fanta.

“Watch out you don’t explode,” said Garza. Indeed, Asim’s skinny belly already looked distended.

“Never.”

After dinner Asim led them back to the hotel. At the door he showed them how to wrap the imma. Gideon fished a five-hundred-pound note out of his wallet and gave it to him.

“Thank you, sirs!” He tucked the note in his pocket went running off with a huge grin.

“You overpaid him by about five times,” said Garza. He had mostly kept quiet throughout their mini adventure.

“Twenty-eight bucks?” said Gideon. “We can afford it. He was a nice kid.”

“Check to see if you still have your wallet.”

Despite himself, Gideon felt his back pocket and found it was still there. “You’re such a cynic.”

“Maybe. But still, you checked!”