Connie Willis - The Best of Connie Willis

He leans over her solicitously to see.

I unsnap my seat belt and start to the back of the plane, but both bathrooms are occupied, and Zoe is perched on the arm of an aisle seat, enlightening the Japanese tour group. “The currency is in Egyptian pounds,” she says. “There are one hundred piasters in a pound.”

I sit back down.

Neil is gently massaging Lissa’s temple. “Is that better?” he asks.

I reach across the aisle for Zoe’s guidebook. “Must-See Attractions,” the chapter is headed, and the first one on the list is the Pyramids.

“Giza, Pyramids of. West bank of Nile, 9 mi. (15 km.) SW of Cairo. Accessible by taxi, bus, rental car. Admission L.E. 3. Comments: You can’t skip the Pyramids, but be prepared to be disappointed. They don’t look at all like you expect, the traffic’s terrible, and the view’s completely ruined by the hordes of tourists, refreshment stands, and souvenir vendors. Open daily.”

I wonder how Zoe stands this stuff. I turn the page to Attraction Number Two. It’s King Tut’s tomb, and whoever wrote the guidebook wasn’t thrilled with it, either. “Tutankhamun, Tomb of. Valley of the Kings, Luxor, 400 mi. (668 km.) south of Cairo. Three unimpressive rooms. Inferior wall paintings.”

There is a map, showing a long, straight corridor (labeled Corridor) and the three unimpressive rooms opening one onto the other in a row—Anteroom, Burial Chamber, Hall of Judgment.

I close the book and put it back on Zoe’s seat. Zoe’s husband is still asleep. Lissa’s is peering back over his seat. “Where’d the flight attendants go?” he asks. “I want another drink.”

“Are you sure it’s not bleeding? I can feel a bump,” Lissa says to Neil, rubbing her head. “Do you think I have a concussion?”

“No,” Neil says, turning her face toward his. “Your pupils aren’t dilated.” He gazes deeply into her eyes.

“Stewardess!” Lissa’s husband shouts. “What do you have to do to get a drink around here?”

Zoe comes back, elated. “They thought I was a professional guide,” she says, sitting down and fastening her seat belt. “They asked if they could join our tour.” She opens the guidebook. “‘The afterworld was full of monsters and demigods in the form of crocodiles and baboons and snakes. These monsters could destroy the deceased before he reached the Hall of Judgment.’”

Neil touches my hand. “Do you have any aspirin?” he asks. “Lissa’s head hurts.”

I fish in my bag for it, and Neil gets up and goes back to get her a glass of water.

“Neil’s so thoughtful,” Lissa says, watching me, her eyes bright.

“‘To protect against these monsters and demigods, the deceased was given The Book of the Dead ,’ ” Zoe reads. “‘More properly translated as The Book of What Is in the Afterworld , The Book of the Dead was a collection of directions for the journey and magic spells to protect the deceased.’”

I think about how I am going to get through the rest of the trip without magic spells to protect me. Six days in Egypt and then three in Israel, and there is still the trip home on a plane like this and nothing to do for fifteen hours but watch Lissa and Neil and listen to Zoe.

I consider cheerier possibilities. “What if we’re not going to Cairo?” I say. “What if we’re dead?”

Zoe looks up from her guidebook, irritated.

“There’ve been a lot of terrorist bombings lately, and this is the Middle East,” I go on. “What if that last air pocket was really a bomb? What if it blew us apart, and right now we’re drifting down over the Aegean Sea in little pieces?”

“Mediterranean,” Zoe says. “We’ve already flown over Crete.”

“How do you know that?” I ask. “Look out the window.” I point out Lissa’s window at the white flatness beyond. “You can’t see the water. We could be anywhere. Or nowhere.”

Neil comes back with the water. He hands it and my aspirin to Lissa.

“They check the planes for bombs, don’t they?” Lissa asks him. “Don’t they use metal detectors and things?”

“I saw this movie once,” I say, “where the people were all dead, only they didn’t know it. They were on a ship, and they thought they were going to America. There was so much fog they couldn’t see the water.”

Lissa looks anxiously out the window.

“It looked just like a real ship, but little by little they began to notice small things that weren’t quite right. There were hardly any people on board, and no crew at all.”

“Stewardess!” Lissa’s husband calls, leaning over Zoe into the aisle. “I need another ouzo.”

His shouting wakes Zoe’s husband up. He blinks at Zoe, confused that she is not reading from her guidebook. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“We’re all dead,” I say. “We were killed by Arab terrorists. We think we’re going to Cairo but we’re really going to heaven. Or hell.”

Lissa, looking out the window, says, “There’s so much fog I can’t see the wing.” She looks frightenedly at Neil. “What if something’s happened to the wing?”

“We’re just going through a cloud,” Neil says. “We’re probably beginning our descent into Cairo.”

“The sky was perfectly clear,” I say, “and then all of a sudden we were in the fog. The people on the ship noticed the fog, too. They noticed that there weren’t any running lights. And they couldn’t find the crew.” I smile at Lissa. “Have you noticed the turbulence stopped all of a sudden? Right after we hit that air pocket. And why—?”

A flight attendant comes out of the cockpit and down the aisle to us, carrying a drink. Everyone looks relieved, and Zoe opens her guidebook and begins thumbing through it, looking for fascinating facts.

“Did someone here want an ouzo?” the flight attendant asks.

“Here,” Lissa’s husband says, reaching for it.

“How long before we get to Cairo?” I say.

She starts toward the back of the plane without answering. I unbuckle my seat belt and follow her. “When will we get to Cairo?” I ask her.

She turns, smiling, but she is still pale and scared-looking. “Did you want another drink, ma’am? Ouzo? Coffee?”

“Why did the turbulence stop?” I say. “How long till we get to Cairo?”

“You need to take your seat,” she says, pointing to the seat belt sign. “We’re beginning our descent. We’ll be at our destination in another twenty minutes.” She bends over the Japanese tour group and tells them to bring their seat backs to the upright position.

“What destination? Our descent to where? We aren’t beginning any descent. The seat belt sign is still off,” I say, and it bings on.

I go back to my seat. Zoe’s husband is already asleep again. Zoe is reading out loud from Egypt Made Easy . “‘The visitor should take precautions before traveling in Egypt. A map is essential, and a flashlight is needed for many of the sites.’”

Lissa has gotten her bag out from under the seat. She puts my Death on the Nile in it and gets out her sunglasses. I look past her and out the window at the white flatness where the wing should be. We should be able to see the lights on the wing even in the fog. That’s what they’re there for, so you can see the plane in the fog. The people on the ship didn’t realize they were dead at first. It was only when they started noticing little things that weren’t quite right that they began to wonder.

“‘A guide is recommended,’” Zoe reads.

I have meant to frighten Lissa, but I have only managed to frighten myself. We are beginning our descent, that’s all, I tell myself, and flying through a cloud. And that must be right.

Because here we are in Cairo.