Paul Christopher: The Lucifer Gospel

She humped her luggage across the broad sidewalk and crossed the street to the flat-nosed vehicle. “I’m Finn Ryan.”

The young man gave a worldly sigh, breathing twin lines of smoke from his nostrils. He looked ridiculous. “Which one are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. Field Crew? Lab Crew? Volunteer? Specialist?” His English was perfect and nearly without accent.

“I’m the staff illustrator.”

He nodded, looking her up and down. If he hadn’t been so young she might have called it a leer. “Specialist.”

“Who exactly are you?”

He made a sour face. “Achmed, the driver. Achmed, the translator. Achmed, the labor supervisor.”

“I gather your name is Achmed.”

“You couldn’t pronounce my real name. Americans think all Egyptians are named Achmed, or Abdullah, or Mohammed, so I’m Achmed. Achmed the Egyptian.” He barked out a bitter little laugh.

Finn smiled. “What do Egyptians think all Americans are called?”

“In your case, Ah’mar katha ath nan,” Achmed replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?”

“It means red-haired… sort of,” said a voice behind her. It was Hilts, the dark-haired photographer from the plane. He was now wearing a battered pair of amber-tinted aviator-style Serengeti Drivers, a very old dark blue peaked cap with gold pilot wings embroidered on the band, and a cracked and ancient leather flying jacket that was far too heavy for the terrible heat. He smoked a fuming, slightly deformed cigarillo. His only luggage was a large gray canvas duffel bag with the name HILTS stenciled on the side.

“I’m Hilts,” he said, leaning close to Achmed, then whispering, “Balaak bennana derri lawTul’a!”

Achmed’s jaw dropped. “Aawwaah! You speak Dardja?”

Hilts rattled off another brief speech in the melodic, high-speed dialect, and the blood ran out of the young Egyptian’s face. He muttered something to Finn, his eyes refusing to meet hers.

Hilts translated. “He apologizes for what he said and for offending you and he also begs your forgiveness.”

“What did he say?”

“You don’t want to know.” He turned back to Achmed. “Why don’t you put our bags on the bus?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Hilts,” Achmed said with a nod. He began loading the luggage.

“You’re part of the expedition?” Finn asked, surprised.

“I told you, I’m a photographer.”

“You look more like a flyer wearing that getup,” she said, nodding at the cap and jacket.

“That too.” He smiled. “I’m-”

“Don’t tell me,” Finn said and laughed, “you’re an aerial photographer.”

“You’re quick for a girl.”

They climbed into the minibus. Achmed got behind the wheel and they headed into the city. The drive into Cairo was a quick education in the art of automotive mayhem. There were thirteen million people living in Egypt’s capital city, and by the looks of things all of them were in their cars and trying to get somewhere. Most of the vehicles were old and Japanese, Russian, or French, and the vast majority were missing at least one body part. All of them were blowing their horns. Red lights were ignored. There were no lanes of any kind and traffic cops were everywhere, having absolutely no effect on anything.

“Think like an autumn leaf floating on a fast-flowing river,” Hilts cautioned philosophically as Achmed bullied his way into the city. “You’ll eventually get there, but not necessarily by the route you intended or the speed you thought you’d be going.”

The Nile Hilton was a late-50s monolithic slab and the first modern hotel built in Cairo. It sat like a giant pack of cigarettes blocking the view of the Nile on Midan Tahir, the overpopulated dead center of the city’s financial district and the place where, one way or the other, all that traffic was headed. Achmed dropped them off at the Corniche El Nil entrance, dumped their bags on the sidewalk, and promised to be back in forty-eight hours to take them and the rest of the expedition to the civil airport in the Imbaba district on the other side of the river. The young man gave them a brief nod, slammed his door, and drove back into the seething traffic in a blast of exhaust, horn blaring.

“Welcome to Cairo,” said Hilts. He helped Finn with her luggage and they checked in at the standard blonde oak and marble front desk. When they were done the pilot-photographer rode up with her in the elevator. “I’ll meet you at Da Mario’s in an hour,” he said, getting out on his floor. “I need a lasagna fix.”

“Da Mario’s?”

“The best Italian food in Cairo. It’s either that or Latex.”

“Latex?”

“It’s the hotel bar; very classy, believe it or not. They’ve got flavored vodka hookahs.”

“I’ll go for the lasagna.”

“Good choice. Da Mario’s, an hour.” The door slid closed. Finn rode up another two floors, found her room, and dropped her bags at the end of the bed. She went to the balcony and stepped out. The sun was setting now and the western horizon was a streaked bloody fog of dying light. It was the most sinister, most dangerous, most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, like looking at the memory of a battle fought long ago, or a vision of one yet to come. She thought about where she would be going the day after tomorrow-out there, six thousand years of history waiting just around the corner. She stayed for a moment, then turned away, her heart beating hard with excitement. She went back into her room and began to unpack.

Da Mario’s had old lamps, dark wood, and raffia-covered Chianti bottles. Very Egyptian-looking waiters wandered around with huge pepper grinders, inviting the guests to have pepper on any and everything. Somebody in a dark corner was playing “Che Sera, Sera” on a twelve-string Spanish guitar. Hilts was sawing his way through a vast plate of liberally peppered lasagna and Finn was working on a small salad. They were sharing one of the raffia-covered bottles of Chianti. Hilts was now wearing shorts and a plain red T-shirt, while Finn had changed into jeans and an NYU sweatshirt against the frigid air conditioning.

Finn took a bite of salad and shook her head. “My first meal in Egypt and it winds up being something I could get just as easily on Mulberry Street.”

“We could go out to a local joint and get you some nice bamya or maybe some shakshukat beed iskandarani if you wanted something light, but you’d spend the next three days on the toilet, if you’ll pardon my French.” He took a sip of wine and then continued attacking his lasagna. “The first rule about Egypt is don’t ever drink the water. The second is, don’t ever eat the food.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s not a question of bad, it’s a question of acclimatization. The tap water here is what they cook with, what they mix their food with. Anything in the tap water is going to wind up in the food. They’re used to the particular bugs, you’re not. It’s pretty simple.”

“What about the dig?”

He shrugged. “You’ll probably be sick as a dog for a couple of days. And they’ll most likely boil the water. You’ll be okay.”

“The things my father never told me about the life of an archaeologist.”

“You’re L. A. Ryan’s kid, right?”

“That’s right. You knew him?”

“Knew of him. I resurveyed his original site in Mexico.”

“The one in Yucatan? All I can really remember were the spiders. The size of dinner plates.”

“That’s the one. Quintana Roo. Chan Santa Cruz. It was the first time they ever had an infrared survey done. Tricky flying.”

“You really have been everywhere.”

He grinned. “I get around.” His shoulders lifted and he took another sip of wine. “It’s a job.”