Birds of the Nile (5 page)

An edge had crept into his voice as if to betray his mounting sense of disquiet. What he dared not add to this list was that along with everything else, there were no birds to be seen and as they’d ascended the valley, he’d become progressively more and more agitated. Now, driven to the edge of despair, it had all boiled over at once. And to top it all off, here was that damned girl, come to annoy him again.

By contrast, Miss Malaysia appeared cool and calm and looked round the group, assessing what action to take. Her first move was to produce a water bottle from her small backpack and thrust it in the direction of Mrs Biltmore.

“You should drink. Here, take this.”

While the American took in fluid, she turned to address the
rest of them.

“You want to see tombs? This one’s no good – it’s closed.” She pointed at the nearby notice. “Come with me. I can show you some tombs.”

Far from pursuing Blake, it seemed she had other intentions.

Blake caught Keith’s enquiring look. Who was this girl? Blake shrugged his shoulders and smiled blithely back. Beyond the scene at the temple when she had so affected him, he had no more idea than Keith did. And yet because of what appeared to be her relentless pursuit of him, he’d become curious. Why was it that this young woman should suddenly seek to take command like this and offer to show them around? What possible motive could she have?

Well, whatever it was she was after, he decided he didn’t much care. If she knew something they didn’t, well good for her, he was happy to go along with it. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem interested in birds.

“Lead away,” he said. “I’ve no objection.”

“Fine with me,” said Keith who looked happy to relinquish his self-imposed responsibilities.

“We’ll go in here,” said Miss Malaysia, indicating an opening immediately to their right. “Ramses I. Follow me.”

They began to move off – all except Mrs Biltmore who remained rooted to the spot and declined to rise from her seat. Now that she’d made herself comfortable, the determination she’d displayed in getting as far as she had seemed to have deserted her.

“I think I’ll stay here,” she declared, mopping her brow. “That all looks a mite too difficult for a body like mine. Ira’ll tell me about it later, won’t you, Ira?”

“Yup,” said Ira. “Sure will.”

For a brief moment Miss Malaysia stared at Mrs Biltmore with the same look of contempt she had visited on Blake earlier. Then, realising that the American was a lost cause and in no way
presently susceptible to a lesson in culture, she thrust her parasol into her chubby hands.

“Take this. We’ll be ten minutes. Wait here.”

This last command seemed rather superfluous as, given her current state of exhaustion, it was not as though Mrs Biltmore was planning on going anywhere.

Blake took the opportunity to donate a bottle of water, Miss Malaysia having recovered hers.

“And this – you might need it.”

Remembering to remove his Panama, he ducked down into the tomb.

The first thing to do was get used to the light. After the blinding glare of the sun, the interior seemed dim and badly lit – but as the outline of the corridor and the walls became clear, pictures and paintings began to emerge from the gloom. Here were men and women, gods and goddesses with strange-shaped heads, chariots, horses, cattle and much to his delight, birds. He instantly recognised them – herons, egrets, geese – the same today as they had been three thousand years before. Since then man had moved on, built engines, rockets and travelled to the moon. The world had changed around them, but the birds had remained constant. And when he looked at them now, they somehow brought the past to life.

Further down in the burial chamber itself, Miss Malaysia was making a speech regarding its contents. It was noticeable that her attention to detail and manner were clearly an imitation of the young Egyptian guide. Keith listened intently to every word.

“How fascinating…”

Janet was not so engaged and looked distinctly edgy in the enclosed space while Ira scurried about, ensuring that he examined every detail for inclusion in his report.

They were underground for the full ten minutes that Miss Malaysia had promised. When they returned to the surface,
blinking in the bright light, Mrs Biltmore was exactly where they’d left her, crouched on her boulder and sheltering beneath the black parasol.

“So, what was it like?” she was keen to ask.

“Very good,” said Blake. “You really should have joined us.”

But from the distressed look on her face he knew that had never been possible.

The question then arose as to what they should do next. The obvious answer was to ask Miss Malaysia. She replied without hesitation. “We’ll go and see Ramses IX.”

Blake was still puzzled as to her motives. He wondered whether she was really trying to help or whether they were just guinea pigs on whom she’d chosen to try out some newly acquired knowledge. Whatever game she was playing, Blake was keen to find out. He had no doubt that the tomb of Ramses IX would be much the same as that of Ramses I but for him, its interest now lay in the performance of their self-appointed guide rather than any of its contents.

As Miss Malaysia turned to make her way back down the valley, it was a signal for Mrs Biltmore to haul herself up from her boulder and prepare for the return journey.

“Well, I guess we’re off again…”

She handed back the parasol by way of Ira and fell into line.

Blake took the opportunity to seek out Keith and make an apology. The visit to the tomb had served to calm him down and he’d begun to feel contrite.

“Sorry about my little outburst back there. I was a bit out of order, I’m afraid.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Keith. “To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it.”

“She’s very good, isn’t she?” said Blake, nodding in the direction of the young Asian.

“Very,” said Keith. “Any idea who she is?”

“Not a clue. Someone off the tour, I suppose.”

And for the moment, that was as far as they could get.

Somewhere toward the rear, Mrs Biltmore plodded gallantly on, gathering strength on the downhill stretch.

If anything, the tomb of Ramses IX was more impressive than that of his ancestor. The entry corridor was sloped rather than steeply stepped – and it was much more extensive, so there were far more pictures and paintings to admire.

Miss Malaysia’s performance was no less polished than before and in her desire to be thorough, she enumerated every detail. As a result, they were longer underground than they’d planned and so by the time they’d completed the slow upward climb to the surface and emerged into the daylight, squinting again, almost half an hour had elapsed.

Mrs Biltmore had once more been left to her own devices next to the entrance and was fanning herself furiously.

“Well there you are! Goodness me, I’d thought you’d gotten lost down there or somethin’. Ira, I don’t know what you’ve been letting these folks get up to, but you need to pay a bit more attention, honey. Why, I thought you were never coming back.”

Ira deemed it sensible to remain silent.

There followed another ‘what shall we do next?’ debate. By now their appetite for tombs had been sated and the general consensus was that as much as they had enjoyed their impromptu tour, they should make their way slowly back to the bus. Keith made a short speech of thanks to their temporary guide, then the group split up and began to drift slowly back down toward the entrance.

It was now mid-morning and the influx of visitors was reaching its peak. Groups of tourists, most of them Japanese, were clustering round the entrances to the tombs and the lower end of the path was thronged with people.

Miss Malaysia hurried on ahead. Blake watched as her black parasol bobbed up and down above the crowd, charting her
progress. Where on earth was she off to now? he wondered. He was convinced she’d chased him up the valley in order to teach him a lesson for his wayward behaviour at Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple. And in pursuit of her lifelong mission to constantly improve herself and those around her, she’d targeted some other group or individual in similar need of reform and was on her way to administer to their needs. God help them, he thought, they deserved his compassion.

His thoughts were confirmed when he reached the bus park to find Miss Malaysia had succeeded in buttonholing the young Egyptian tour guide. They were earnestly debating (or so Blake imagined) some of the finer points of tombs and antiquities. It was an animated discussion. At one point she began to gesticulate and furiously waved her hands. Why did she have to be so intense? he thought. And why all the rush? Did she not realise she had a whole lifetime ahead of her to pursue these passions?

Blake sighed at the thought. From the lofty standpoint of experience he was advising patience – but in reality he was envious of the young. What must it be like to be their age again, to have their passions, their desires? He’d once said the same thing about himself and birds.
Oh, there’s plenty of time. You can do that later, perhaps when you retire
. And yet here he was, gone sixty, and there was still so much to do.

The idea that he’d somehow wasted his life began to gnaw at him, and on the journey back to the ship, rather than slump down in his seat and doze off like the others, he sat staring out of the window in the hope of some form of redemption.

But there was nothing, just the dusty road, the flat arable fields next to the river and the ubiquitous presence of sparrows, swallows and Palm Doves on the overhead wires. He was hungry, he’d had nothing to eat since half past five that morning and it was only the prospect of a decent lunch that sustained him through the journey.

That afternoon Blake fetched his binoculars and his telescope from his cabin and went up onto the sun deck. His intention was to make up for the ‘lost’ time of the morning and catch up on his birding. The visit to the Valley of the Kings had been important but there had been little to see in the way of birds. True, Spur-winged Plover and the lark (of whatever type – he never did discover) were not to be sniffed at but he’d had to cut short his appreciation of it for fear of provoking Miss Malaysia. Her presence had constrained him and it annoyed him to think he’d allowed her to influence him so. She’d stolen his morning and the whole episode had left him feeling resentful – the afternoon and an intense study of the sandbanks adjacent to the ship would provide the necessary recompense.

But even as he gathered his gear together in his cabin he realised he’d left it too late. The ship was already in motion and the brown waters of the Nile were gliding gently past his bedroom window. They must have set off during the course of lunch but amid the various comings and goings at the table the transition had been so smooth as to be imperceptible. Now, the sandbanks were receding steadily into the distance and the chance to observe whatever inhabited them had been lost. It was another setback – but he was determined to remain philosophical and settled for the idea of scanning the river and the nearby fields. This tactic was soon rewarded as Pied Kingfisher were almost constantly in view, hovering over the shallows and diving for prey.

It grew hot in the afternoon sun. It was only the third week in January but the heat was intense. He’d retained his Panama hat and neckerchief and buttoned down the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt to prevent his arms from burning. And once he’d taken these precautions it was actually quite pleasant to be out on deck – what with the river, the fields, the blue of the sky, and here and
there the splash of kingfisher plunging. This was surely what he’d come for, to be outdoors in the fresh air, luxuriating in the quiet contemplation of birds.

It might therefore have been enjoyable had he not been subjected to a constant stream of interruptions. His telescope and tripod, standing nearby, continually attracted attention and he was eventually forced to go back to his cabin and the small dressing table where he attempted to write up his notes. He’d been on board for the best part of twenty-four hours and as yet nothing had gone down on paper. With his illustrated guide beside him on the makeshift desk, he opened his diary and began the first bird list of the trip, noting down the cast in order of appearance – House Sparrow, Barn Swallow, Palm Dove. He wanted to create a lasting record of the trip and what he’d seen – but he couldn’t concentrate. He’d got no further than the Colossi of Memnon and the recollection of Spur-winged Plover when he was suddenly overwhelmed by a bout of tiredness and felt compelled to slip off his shoes and lie down on the bed. Within a matter of moments he had dropped off and his bird list remained frustratingly incomplete.

He awoke slowly and found himself lying on his back, staring up at a blank ceiling. For a moment he panicked, wondering where he was and how he’d got there. But then it all came back to him – the boat, the Nile, the search for birds, the fact he was no longer employed…

Outside his cabin window it was dark and there was no indication of movement. He looked at his watch. Five to seven already. He panicked and pulling open the side drawer of the dressing table, took out the itinerary he’d put there the day before. In the entry for the day an item was highlighted in red.

6.30pm. Cocktail Reception in the Forward Lounge
.

Well, he’d clearly missed that! Then,

7pm Gala Dinner
.

And if he didn’t get his skates on he’d miss that too. He cursed silently – there was barely time to change and get spruced up.

He arrived in the dining room ten minutes late and a little out of breath. He’d taken off his neckerchief and rearranged his shirt, leaving the top button undone in an attempt to appear casual. Then he’d pulled on his linen jacket and had selected a formal pair of shoes rather than the slip-ons he’d worn on deck. He still felt horribly under-dressed. Gala Dinner. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Keith had come down sporting a dinner suit and bow tie.

Something new awaited him at the table. He had assumed he would return to the same place as the night before but it was already occupied – by Miss Malaysia. It seemed she’d solved the mystery they’d all been pondering by announcing herself as the eighth member of their party. Blake was horrified.

She’d changed and having dispensed with her jeans and Cuban heels, was now sporting a long silver evening dress. Set against the brown skin of her bare shoulders, it made her look even more attractive. And although she’d retained the same set of earrings she’d been wearing earlier, she’d taken the time to restyle her hair which added to her elegant appearance. In her lap, she clasped a small matching bag. The overall effect was stunning. If he’d not already known who she was, Blake might never have recognised her as the slight Asian girl who’d stared him down that morning.

In his absence she’d taken the opportunity to move up a place, presumably so as to be closer to the middle of the table. If her objective was to become the centre of attention, then along with her choice of apparel she could hardly have done any more, for even allowing for Mrs Biltmore’s continual failure of fashion (she was still in the same dull green top), the rest of the table looked positively drab by comparison.

Blake felt relieved rather than concerned. She could have the
limelight – he personally had no desire to shine. If pushed to the front, what would he have chosen to say? No-one wanted to hear him talk about birds.

He pulled out the one remaining chair and took his seat on the end.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled. “Unavoidably detained.”

“No problem,” said Keith. Rather than the dinner suit Blake had feared, he too had opted for something casual. “In fact, you’ve got here just in time. Lee Yong was on the point of telling us all about herself.”

Lee Yong! So she
was
Malaysian after all. Blake pricked up his ears – this was something he wanted to hear.

“…intend to travel the world,” she was saying. “For a year. Maybe two. It depends.” Although on what, she did not immediately make clear. “Then, I want to go to America to study.”

“America!” exclaimed Mrs Biltmore. “You know what, honey? I am so glad to hear you say that. Why, there isn’t a finer place for learning in the whole wide world than the United States – you just can’t beat it.”

Blake found himself rankled by this assertion. There were other equally good alternatives he could think of but for the sake of maintaining peaceful relations he decided to keep his counsel.

“And we know just the spot, don’t we, Ira?” continued the American.

“Yup,” said her husband. “We sure do.”

After his bout of unexpected freedom that morning, Ira had reverted to his normal monosyllabic self – although with his wife’s bulky presence looming beside him, there was probably little else he could do but concur.

“You need to come to Johns Hopkins, honey,” said Mrs Biltmore. “I guess it must be just about the best university in the country. We sent both our boys to Johns Hopkins and they turned out just fine. We wouldn’t have sent them anywhere else, would we, Ira?”

“Nope,” said Ira. “We wouldn’t.”

“But we do have a little secret.” Mrs Biltmore lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s too kinda bashful to tell you himself, but Ira used to work at Johns Hopkins, didn’t you, Ira?” And then, before he could respond, “How long were you at Johns Hopkins? Thirty-three years, was it, Ira?”

“Thirty-four,” said Ira.

“Oh,” said Mrs Biltmore, taken aback. “I thought we discussed this the other day and you told me it was thirty-three years.”

“Nope.” Ira nailed his colours bravely to the mast. “Thirty-four.”

“Now are you sure about that? We’ve been married thirty-two and I swear you said you’d been there just the one year before.”

Blake sensed that this was about to develop into a repeat of the previous evening and he felt his blood pressure starting to rise. With her continual dominance of the conversation the American had begun to annoy him. He’d spent too long living alone to learn how to tolerate the foibles of others. He no more cared how many years Ira had worked at Johns Hopkins than he did as to whether Mrs Biltmore’s handbag had been lost or whether it had been stolen. What he wanted was to hear Miss Malaysia’s story and he’d have been prepared to interrupt affairs in order to achieve it. Fortunately it did not prove necessary as things moved quickly on.

“Anyways,” said Mrs Biltmore. “I guess it doesn’t matter if it was thirty-three or thirty-four, it sure seemed like a lifetime to me. Good old Johns Hopkins! Well, that’s what I’d do if I were you, honey. And as soon as you’re ready, you just come right over to Baltimore and Ira’ll put in a word for you, won’t you, Ira?”

“Sure will,” said Ira, reverting to type once more.

Blake wondered what position at the university he might have held. His lack of words hardly seemed to qualify him as a lecturer. So had he been principal – or janitor? No explanation
had been given and as he did not wish to delay matters further, he declined to ask.

“That’s very kind of you,” Lee Yong resumed, after the long interruption. “I’ll definitely consider it. But I’ve a lot of travelling to do first.”

“Of course.” Keith had been waiting patiently on the sidelines. “But what do you think you might study?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s why I have to travel to find out.”

Her innocent and unintentional joke provoked a ripple of laughter round the table. Even Joan managed to conjure up a smile. Up until now her face had been permanently sour. Blake thought it was probably because she’d been upstaged in the dress department since her own offering, although eye-catching, was nowhere near as stylish as that of the young Malaysian.

“So where have you been so far?” Keith continued.

“I started off in India – then flew to South Africa…”

There was an enforced pause as the starter arrived.

“You weren’t here so I ordered you a soup,” said Keith in a whispered aside. “I hope that’s alright.”

“Fine,” said Blake. Soup was as good as anything else.

India
. Along with his beef consommé, Blake tasted a twinge of jealousy. It was a country he’d always wanted to visit – but like so much else, he’d never got round to it. And yet here was this young woman, this girl (she could hardly have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three) who had already done in a few short months what he had put off for years. He imagined her standing outside the Taj Mahal, her beautiful figure swathed in a sari, scattering flower petals onto a pond – although in reality, she was far more likely to be stomping around in her Cuban heels and jeans.

“…and worked my way up country.”

The word ‘worked’ attracted Blake’s attention. He was certain she’d used it to mean ‘progressed’ rather than engaged in any form of paid employment. Lee Yong did not look like the type
who ‘worked’. She was no backpacker – her adventure was prepaid with no expense spared. She no doubt came from a wealthy family. Her father was probably an entrepreneur or industrialist, one of those who had built their empires in the economic boom of the 1980s and early ’90s – cars, steel, computers, it could be any one of a number of sectors. Those who had been clever (or lucky) enough to survive the downturn that followed were still fantastically rich and a by-product of their fortune was the fact that their offspring were now free to roam the world without restraint. And here was one of them doing just that, in style.

Her immediate plan, Lee Yong explained, was to move on to Jordan and visit the rock-cut city of Petra. (Blake felt relieved – this was one place he
had
been to). Afterwards, she would take in Jerusalem, and possibly Damascus, before beginning a tour of the capitals of Europe – Paris, London, and Rome. Having conquered the Old World, she then planned to take on the New, crossing the Atlantic to America where she would explore the country as a tourist before commencing her studies (whatever they might be). It was an ambitious programme – Africa, Egypt, the Middle East, Europe, the States – the itinerary looked like a journey through time, the history of the world compressed into the space of eighteen months. And as yet, she’d failed to mention Russia, the Baltic, Scandinavia and South America – no doubt she would simply fit these in ‘en route’. Nothing, it seemed, was beyond her. The question was not whether Miss Malaysia was ready for the world – that was obvious – but whether the world was ready for Miss Malaysia.

With the main course served and Lee Yong’s travel plans laid before them, the conversation turned to how she might make best use of her time. There were innumerable suggestions.

“I don’t see how you can go to Italy and not visit Florence…”

“When you get to Paris, there’s a wonderful little bistro in the Rue de Rivoli…”

“Didn’t Ron and Margaret buy a place in Spain? I can get their number for you if you like…”

Sat quietly at the end of the table, Blake reserved judgement. Surely they were missing the point. Here they were, privileged visitors to an ancient civilisation, surrounded by its treasures, and all they could talk about was going somewhere else. This obvious oversight irked him, but it was not until they were halfway through dessert that he was able to bring the discussion back to what he considered was its rightful starting point.

“But what about Egypt? How are you finding it?”

By now Lee Yong should have been overwhelmed by the relentless questioning, but far from it. In fact, she seemed to revel in it.

“I like it very much,” she responded. “Very much indeed.” Then, in an aside meant only for him, as if she were divulging some secret. “You will discover, Mr Blake, that I have a passion for all things Egyptian.”

This casual yet deliberate statement puzzled him. Was she trying to appease him after her performance that morning? Or was there more to it than that? There was something mischievous about her, but before he could get her to elaborate, their têtê à têtê was interrupted.