simply removed her stuff and taken it for her convenience to her place of detention.Yes, that was it. It was good that she had those familiar things around her.
I climbed into my bunk, congratulating myself on the fact that I had had the foresight to use the first-class powder room while I was upstairs. The third-class washroom hadn’t been decontaminated since the start of the cruise, if indeed then, and besides the ever-present queue made access near impossible.
I snuffed out the candle, not wishing to waste it, and lay back thinking of the ventriloquist. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I could still hear that voice whispering in my ear. I could feel the tickle of breath that formed those words:
“Freda… I am your destiny.” Was it really true?
As I dozed I remember hearing an enormous splash coupled with the sort of gulp that a body of deep water makes when it swallows something heavy. Then I slept a thick, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 18
A t five AM the Klaxon sounded in third class.
“All rise. All rise,” insisted the robotic voice.
There was an air of happy excitement as we scrambled to get ready. We were coming into harbor at Port Said, for our once-in-a-lifetime visit to the Sphinx and the pyramids. I still remember the thrill of standing on the deck in the fresh new air, watching the shore draw near, seeing all the boats and bustling action of the port, and behind it the domes and minarets, the huge advertising billboards, jostling blocks of flats, and plenteous palm trees that herald the traveler’s arrival in that fascinating maritime city. For those moments of joy, it had all been worthwhile; I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.
There was the usual delay as we moored, and then, class by class, like in school, we were allowed to disembark onto the pontoon of floating oilcans that led to the dockside. I loved the pontoon. The bobbing up and down. I thought of Clodia. I know she would have liked it too.
Once through customs we emerged into Egypt, and a heat that was like a bread oven. Immediately my senses came alive. My eyes smarted at the incredible intensity of the light, and colors seemed so bright: blinding blues, reds, yellows, the whitest possible whites. The air was filled with an exciting din: the call to prayer from the minarets filled me with delight; the cries of the street vendors were wonderfully exotic; even the roar of traffic and sirens seemed new and mysterious. Smells bombarded my nostrils: diesel fumes, drains, cumin, overripe bananas, roasting goat flesh, melting tarmac, garbage, dung.
I was in love with the place already.
The stewards directed us to the dusty parking area in front of the customs shed, where first- and second-class passengers embarked on their air-conditioned luxury coaches that boasted a chemical lavatory and hostess service providing ice-cold drinks and gastronomic nibbles.
We in third class were to take local transport. So much the better, I thought. I would much rather experience the real Egypt than be in a hermetically sealed pod.
While we waited for our bus, the luxury coaches pulled away. Some of the occupants waved. None of us waved back.
The sun grew hotter by the minute. Soon we were beset by a gang of small children offering cool water from a glass tank with half a lemon floating in it.The lemon didn’t appear to be in the first flush of youth, but no doubt it was flavorsome.
Other children offered postcards of camels wearing sun hats, fezzes made of felt, packets of biscuits, toffee apples, chewing gum, and slices of mango.They were cheeky little fellows, and reluctant to take no for an answer. When their sales tech-niques were becoming threatening rather than endearing, a police officer approached and beat them away with a stick.
By this time the more anxious of the sightseers began consulting their wristwatches with increasing urgency, and demanded to know when our bus would be coming. But I was enjoying myself; it was part of the
I climbed into my bunk, congratulating myself on the fact that I had had the foresight to use the first-class powder room while I was upstairs. The third-class washroom hadn’t been decontaminated since the start of the cruise, if indeed then, and besides the ever-present queue made access near impossible.
I snuffed out the candle, not wishing to waste it, and lay back thinking of the ventriloquist. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I could still hear that voice whispering in my ear. I could feel the tickle of breath that formed those words:
“Freda… I am your destiny.” Was it really true?
As I dozed I remember hearing an enormous splash coupled with the sort of gulp that a body of deep water makes when it swallows something heavy. Then I slept a thick, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 18
A t five AM the Klaxon sounded in third class.
“All rise. All rise,” insisted the robotic voice.
There was an air of happy excitement as we scrambled to get ready. We were coming into harbor at Port Said, for our once-in-a-lifetime visit to the Sphinx and the pyramids. I still remember the thrill of standing on the deck in the fresh new air, watching the shore draw near, seeing all the boats and bustling action of the port, and behind it the domes and minarets, the huge advertising billboards, jostling blocks of flats, and plenteous palm trees that herald the traveler’s arrival in that fascinating maritime city. For those moments of joy, it had all been worthwhile; I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.
There was the usual delay as we moored, and then, class by class, like in school, we were allowed to disembark onto the pontoon of floating oilcans that led to the dockside. I loved the pontoon. The bobbing up and down. I thought of Clodia. I know she would have liked it too.
Once through customs we emerged into Egypt, and a heat that was like a bread oven. Immediately my senses came alive. My eyes smarted at the incredible intensity of the light, and colors seemed so bright: blinding blues, reds, yellows, the whitest possible whites. The air was filled with an exciting din: the call to prayer from the minarets filled me with delight; the cries of the street vendors were wonderfully exotic; even the roar of traffic and sirens seemed new and mysterious. Smells bombarded my nostrils: diesel fumes, drains, cumin, overripe bananas, roasting goat flesh, melting tarmac, garbage, dung.
I was in love with the place already.
The stewards directed us to the dusty parking area in front of the customs shed, where first- and second-class passengers embarked on their air-conditioned luxury coaches that boasted a chemical lavatory and hostess service providing ice-cold drinks and gastronomic nibbles.
We in third class were to take local transport. So much the better, I thought. I would much rather experience the real Egypt than be in a hermetically sealed pod.
While we waited for our bus, the luxury coaches pulled away. Some of the occupants waved. None of us waved back.
The sun grew hotter by the minute. Soon we were beset by a gang of small children offering cool water from a glass tank with half a lemon floating in it.The lemon didn’t appear to be in the first flush of youth, but no doubt it was flavorsome.
Other children offered postcards of camels wearing sun hats, fezzes made of felt, packets of biscuits, toffee apples, chewing gum, and slices of mango.They were cheeky little fellows, and reluctant to take no for an answer. When their sales tech-niques were becoming threatening rather than endearing, a police officer approached and beat them away with a stick.
By this time the more anxious of the sightseers began consulting their wristwatches with increasing urgency, and demanded to know when our bus would be coming. But I was enjoying myself; it was part of the
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