Grains of Truth (9 page)

Well, Julia thought later with a sigh, not entirely perfect. Their union was certainly passionate and loving. In spite of all this, they did not make love. Not really.

“I cannot,” he said with guilty remorse. “It is forbidden by the Koran. Only with my lawful wife can I complete the act of making love. In all my life, I have obeyed this, Julia. I cannot.”

The days drifted by in discovery and, to some extent, contentment. In the cool of the mornings they revisited the sites where their ardor had blossomed. They discovered a shared interest in two of Egypt’s most notorious pharaohs: Hatshepsut, the ambitious queen who declared herself pharaoh; and Akhenaton, the controversial ruler who plunged Egypt into turmoil by abolishing worship of all gods save one: Amun-Re. By glorifying the sun god, he created the world’s first monotheism. When Mohamed spoke of Akhenaton, Julia asked if they could visit Amarna, the ruined capital city built by the “heretic” pharaoh along the Nile between Cairo and Luxor, near Mallawi.

He shook his head. “This is not a good idea. The villages in that area are not safe, even for Egyptians. The Muslim Brotherhood is strong there and militants cause much trouble. Even I, the bravest of men,” he said with a droll smile, straightening and touching his proud chest, “would not feel safe to go there.”

~

Four days later, Julia watched him approach from where she waited on a plush sofa in a deserted upstairs lobby of her stylish Cairo hotel. At her suggestion, he’d spent the previous day and night with his family. It was important to her that he understood how much she respected his commitment and devotion to his family. Today she knew instantly by the look on his face, like that of a stone statue of a long-dead pharaoh, something was wrong.

“What is it?” she murmured as he sat in the gilded chair next to her.

“Nothing. It is nothing.” His voice sounded like grinding gravel. “Are you ready to go?”

“Mohamed, don’t lie to me. Something is very wrong. Please tell me what it is.”

He shook his head with a sad smile. “I cannot fool you, can I? How is it that you know me so well?”

“Tell me,” she said softly.

“It is a friend. A good, close friend. He is,” he took a deep, ragged breath, “he has committed suicide.” The words now poured like molten lead from the depth of his pain. “We were at school together. He was best man at my wedding. He was an engineer, a fine, good man. He had no work in almost two years and could not provide for his wife and child.”

Tears gathered in Mohamed’s dark, fathomless eyes as he forced out each word. “He set himself on fire. In shame. This is how he died.”

Paralyzed with horror, Julia felt cold to the bone. She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him close. To comfort him and let him weep on her shoulder for this tragic loss, this unthinkable atrocity. But she could not. They could not touch in public, for propriety’s sake. She couldn’t even hold his hand.

She felt like screaming, from the feelings of helplessness and despair, for the ghastly realities of the economic stagnation that caused good men to set their bodies on fire in final, desperate, tormented defeat. Guilt and shame flooded over her for her shallow and selfish carnal desires and her stupidity in thinking it possible to take a “vacation” from the heavy burdens these men carried every day of their lives. While she day-dreamed of love and romance, he lived a daily nightmare of struggle for survival. His friends set themselves on fire. 

There they sat, separately and in silence, making a heartbreaking effort to keep their sorrow from spilling out into the elegant lobby. This marked the dawning of Julia’s awareness, and abhorrence, of the dark side of modern Egyptian society.

~

Love is a gift. Julia now knew she’d been given the gift of loving this man. This unattainable man, shackled with commitments and full of contradictions. He made her heart remember how to sing.

She loved him as she’d never loved before.

Despite the differences of age, culture, and religion, they communicated on a visceral level. The connection between them resonated like a live wire, an astonishing bond. The inescapable intensity of it provoked her imagination to seriously consider the concept of reincarnation. Nothing else came close to explaining it. The complexities and difficulties that lay ahead made her afraid. But she’d waited her entire life to love this way—to the core of her being—and, somehow, someway, love him she would.

~

An armed guard dozed in his chair at the end of the hotel corridor. Julia gently closed the door to her room so as not to wake him. These guards were everywhere in Egypt, at least everywhere the “wealthy” tourists were expected to go. And the island of Zamalek was definitely one of those places. Her research in preparation for her return drew her here.

In 1869, Khedive Ismail, Egypt’s viceroy, planned elaborate celebrations to mark the inauguration of the Suez Canal. Empress Eugenie of France was persuaded to open the ceremonies and, in her honor, a lavish palace was built on the island in the Nile, in the heart of Cairo. A French landscape architect transformed the entire island into a magnificent formal park.

For decades, the palace served as one of the Middle East’s largest and most frequented hotels. Julia chose it not only for its central location but also for the sheer spectacle. Tables shaded by large umbrellas lined the terrace overlooking lush gardens. Water splashing in ornate stone fountains provided the perfect backdrop for an endless parade of international visitors along the garden promenade, like a film set.

Men in white robes with red-checked head cloths were trailed by their women veiled from head to toe. The female feet contradicted their show of modesty, with painted nails in golden sandals glittering with jewels. Men and women in western business attire negotiated at tables strewn with various types of state-of-the-art technology. Young men, casually and expensively dressed in the latest fashions from Milan, strolled by, speaking with animation into mobile phones in various Arabic dialects.

As Julia came down the walk and spotted Mohamed waiting patiently at one of the tables, her heart, as always, skipped a beat. He rose at her approach, with the inevitably extended hand. They sat for a while, not saying all the things in their hearts, as their untouched ice cream melted in the desert sun. At length, he folded his napkin, placing it carefully on the table, and pushed back his chair.

“I must go.”

She nodded mutely and followed him through the sliding glass doors that led to the lower level of the lobby. Two waiters loitered at the entrance to the indoor café and bowed in greeting as they passed. They watched the handsome couple ascend the wide mahogany staircase, side by side. Halfway up, Mohamed stopped a step above, uncharacteristically placing a hand on her arm.

“Don’t come any further, Julia. It’s time to say goodbye.”

She looked up into his dark, expressive eyes. He bent to kiss her, first on one cheek, then the other. Without the slightest falter, his lips brushed hers, their coolness belied by the strength of his grip on her arm. The unprecedented public familiarity dazed her into immobility. At the top of the stairs, he turned for one last look and found her as he’d left her, motionless—eyes only for him—with a hand on the rail.

And then he was gone.

Chapter 12

James Marshall’s silver Bentley wove through heavy traffic toward the terminal. The perpetual state of reconstruction of London’s Heathrow, one of the world’s busiest airports, made the going slow. An understandable need for improvements failed to negate the resulting constant confusion—or the fact that it presented a security nightmare. It was one of the many places where people had once felt secure, and were all now too aware of an incipient vulnerability. International throngs trailed in and out of buildings, up and down escalators, on and off shuttle buses and stood in endless lines to move from point to point.

Alexander Bryant checked his single suitcase and worked his way to the VIP lounge. Within its tranquil comfort, a cold beer on the table before him, he popped opened his briefcase. On top lay the manila envelope James handed him as he dropped him off at the curb. He broke the seal and quickly scanned the contents: a few photographs and two sheets of closely printed type, along with a handwritten note directing that he destroy everything before disembarking in Cairo. Good old James. He never failed in his thoroughness, or attention to detail.

~

Alexander leaned back to sip his beer, its temperature a clear indication that he’d been pegged as an American: unlike the Europeans, Americans always wanted their beer cold. An unconscious frown creased his brow as his thoughts jumped unbidden to another time when he was automatically served the same in this very lounge.

Anne had returned from the duty-free shops and laughed at his chagrin over being so easily categorized. Anne. How he missed that laugh. How he missed her—her everything. He missed the straw-pale, straight blonde hair framing her sweet, shy smile. She was the antithesis of his first wife, his college sweetheart. Guilt rippled up from his subconscious at the thought of Debbie, who personified the outgoing, take-charge sportswoman but never felt at ease as a military wife. Only after it was too late had he realized the depth of her resentment of the constant relocations. After the first few years, they’d spent more time apart than together. He unintentionally let that marriage just fade away, like a silent film in slow motion.

Alexander took a long pull at his beer, allowing himself the rare indulgence of his memories. After he somehow managed several lonely years as a single soldier, Anne came into his life like a cool, refreshing breeze. They stopped in this lounge on their way to France, after a year of marriage, at last taking the much-delayed honeymoon, a month of idyllic bliss. Wandering down narrow, cobble-stoned Paris streets, hand-in-hand, peering in shop windows. Dining in the moonlight overlooking the Seine. They shared stories and secrets from their pasts. She taught him how to laugh again, at life as well as himself. They drifted through the charming villages of the Loire Valley—the Garden of France—delighting in its world-renowned cuisine and old historic chateaux. 

One night in a famous hotel where kings and queens once lived and loved, he and Anne made love with the doors of the balcony flung open in welcome to the incandescent light of a colossal moon. It was the first time in his entire life that he felt pure, all-consuming joy. The first time he opened himself to another, holding nothing back, exposing his very soul. It marked the beginning of a whole new world for him, and he found himself ecstatic in the wonder of it.

A week after their return home to the quaint, thatch-roofed house in fashionable Chiswick-by-the-Thames, Anne was diagnosed with breast cancer. She suffered stoically through an agonizing year of treatments, hope and uncertainty, only to surrender in the end. Her death left Alexander an empty shell. He managed to function—to walk and talk, to breathe. But he lost all feeling for life.

After a while, he resumed his professional activities as a “military advisor,” pursuing them with a vengeance. Completely gone was any weight on his conscience or trace of remorse he may once have felt for the consequences of how he now made his extremely lucrative living. He took up a grueling schedule, with exhausting trips to far-flung places, often to war-torn countries where the constant presence of danger lay like a heavy, wet cloak. It put him in close contact with the “upper echelon” of societies in developing countries where the general populace, inevitably depressingly poor, was perpetually restless—if not in open revolt. 

Women were attracted to Alexander Bryant, always had been. His overt masculinity and polite indifference drew them to him like freezing fingers to a flame. Frequently the daughters, sisters and sometimes wives of his clients made subtle—or not so subtle—advances that placed him in awkward situations. Like Imolee Ranakawa in Sri Lanka. A lifetime of military discipline enabled him to resist their charms, for the most part. When he did succumb, it was never more than a brief meeting of the flesh.

The loss of his beloved Anne had left a scar that repelled all feeling other than the occasional primal urge.

~

As a leggy flight attendant bent across Alexander to set a glass of neat scotch on the tray beside him, her ample breast brushed his arm. Mischief lifted the corners of her mouth, assuring him it was no mistake. Other passengers began to board and she grudgingly stepped aside.

Alexander looked up as a slender, auburn-haired woman came down the aisle. Their eyes met for one brief moment before she passed and made her way to her seat.

~

Julia stared at her reflection in the window as the plane pulled away from the gate and taxied to the queue for take-off. As soon as they were air-borne, she reclined her seat and closed her eyes.

Chapter 13

“We are meant to be together, Julia. It is fate, out of our hands. Inshallah.”

We create our own reality. As Milton wrote in Paradise Lost, The mind can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of hell. Somewhere along the way, Julia realized she’d lost the ability to comprehend her reality, to separate fact from fiction. Back in San Francisco, life loomed dull and flat. Without Mohamed, what would she do? When his proposal came, light came flashing brilliantly back into her world.

“Marry me, Julia. Be my wife.”

Not one second of doubt crossed her mind. No thought of what it would mean to be the number-two wife of a devout Muslim, for there was no question that he would end his marriage to Shahida. Nor did she want him to. They’d been through all that and the subject need not even be mentioned. But how would it all work out? That they would resolve in Rome.