Connie Willis - The Best of Connie Willis

Chapter Two: Arriving at the Airport

“So this is Cairo?” Zoe’s husband says, looking around. The plane has stopped at the end of the runway and deplaned us onto the asphalt by means of a metal stairway.

The terminal is off to the east, a low building with palm trees around it, and the Japanese tour group sets off toward it immediately, shouldering their carry-on bags and camera cases.

We do not have any carry-ons. Since we always have to wait at the baggage claim for Zoe’s guidebooks anyway, we check our carry-ons, too. Every time we do it, I am convinced they will go to Tokyo or disappear altogether, but now I’m glad we don’t have to lug them all the way to the terminal. It looks like it is miles away, and the Japanese are already slowing.

Zoe is reading the guidebook. The rest of us stand around her, looking impatient. Lissa has caught the heel of her sandal in one of the metal steps coming down and is leaning against Neil.

“Did you twist it?” Neil asks anxiously.

The flight attendants clatter down the steps with their navy blue overnight cases. They still look nervous. At the bottom of the stairs they unfold wheeled metal carriers and strap the overnight cases to them and set off for the terminal. After a few steps they stop, and one of them takes off her jacket and drapes it over the wheeled carrier, and they start off again, walking rapidly in their high heels.

It is not as hot as I expected, even though the distant terminal shimmers in the heated air rising from the asphalt. There is no sign of the clouds we flew through, just a thin white haze, which disperses the sun’s light into an even glare. We are all squinting. Lissa lets go of Neil’s arm for a second to get her sunglasses out of her bag.

“What do they drink around here?” Lissa’s husband asks, squinting over Zoe’s shoulder at the guidebook. “I want a drink.”

“The local drink is zibib,” Zoe says. “It’s like ouzo.” She looks up from the guidebook. “I think we should go see the Pyramids.” The professional tour guide strikes again.

“Don’t you think we’d better take care of first things first?” I say. “Like customs? And picking up our luggage?”

“And finding a drink of… what did you call it? Zibab?” Lissa’s husband says.

“No,” Zoe says. “I think we should do the Pyramids first. It’ll take an hour to do the baggage claim and customs, and we can’t take our luggage with us to the Pyramids. We’ll have to go to the hotel, and by that time everyone will be out there. I think we should go right now.” She gestures at the terminal. “We can run out and see them and be back before the Japanese tour group’s even through customs.”

She turns and starts walking in the opposite direction from the terminal, and the others straggle obediently after her.

I look back at the terminal. The flight attendants have passed the Japanese tour group and are nearly to the palm trees.

“You’re going the wrong way,” I say to Zoe. “We’ve got to go to the terminal to get a taxi.”

Zoe stops. “A taxi?” she says. “What for? They aren’t far. We can walk it in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes?” I say. “Giza’s nine miles west of Cairo. You have to cross the Nile to get there.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, “they’re right there,” and points in the direction she was walking, and there, beyond the asphalt in an expanse of sand, so close they do not shimmer at all, are the Pyramids.

Chapter Three: Getting Around

It takes us longer than fifteen minutes. The Pyramids are farther away than they look, and the sand is deep and hard to walk in. We have to stop every few feet so Lissa can empty out her sandals, leaning against Neil.

“We should have taken a taxi,” Zoe’s husband says, but there are no roads, and no sign of the refreshment stands and souvenir vendors the guidebook complained about, only the unbroken expanse of deep sand and the white, even sky, and in the distance the three yellow pyramids, standing in a row.

“‘The tallest of the three is the Pyramid of Cheops, built in 2690 B.C.,’” Zoe says, reading as she walks. “‘It took thirty years to complete.’”

“You have to take a taxi to get to the Pyramids,” I say. “There’s a lot of traffic.”

“‘It was built on the west bank of the Nile, which the ancient Egyptians believed was the land of the dead.’”

There is a flicker of movement ahead, between the pyramids, and I stop and shade my eyes against the glare to look at it, hoping it is a souvenir vendor, but I can’t see anything. We start walking again.

It flickers again, and this time I catch sight of it running, hunched over, its hands nearly touching the ground. It disappears behind the middle pyramid.

“I saw something,” I say, catching up to Zoe. “Some kind of animal. It looked like a baboon.”

Zoe leafs through the guidebook and then says, “Monkeys. They’re found frequently near Giza. They beg for food from the tourists.”

“There aren’t any tourists,” I say.

“I know,” Zoe says happily. “I told you we’d avoid the rush.”

“You have to go through customs, even in Egypt,” I say. “You can’t just leave the airport.”

“The pyramid on the left is Kheophren,” Zoe says, “built in 2650 B.C.”

“In the movie, they wouldn’t believe they were dead even when somebody told them,” I say. “Giza is nine miles from Cairo.”

“What are you talking about?” Neil says. Lissa has stopped again and is leaning against him, standing on one foot and shaking her sandal out. “That mystery of Lissa’s, Death on the Nile ?”

“This was a movie ,” I say. “They were on this ship, and they were all dead.”

“We saw that movie, didn’t we, Zoe?” Zoe’s husband says. “Mia Farrow was in it, and Bette Davis. And the detective guy, what was his name—?”

“Hercule Poirot,” Zoe says. “Played by Peter Ustinov. The Pyramids are open daily from eight A.M. to five P.M. Evenings there is a Son et Lumière show with colored floodlights and a narration in English and Japanese.”

“There were all sorts of clues,” I say, “but they just ignored them.”

“I don’t like Agatha Christie,” Lissa says. “Murder and trying to find out who killed who. I’m never able to figure out what’s going on. All those people on the train together.”

“You’re thinking of Murder on the Orient Express ,” Neil says. “I saw that.”

“Is that the one where they got killed off one by one?” Lissa’s husband says.

“I saw that one,” Zoe’s husband says. “They got what they deserved, as far as I’m concerned, going off on their own like that when they knew they should keep together.”

“Giza is nine miles west of Cairo,” I say. “You have to take a taxi to get there. There is all this traffic.”

“Peter Ustinov was in that one, too, wasn’t he?” Neil says. “The one with the train?”

“No,” Zoe’s husband says. “It was the other one, what’s his name?”

“Albert Finney,” Zoe says.

Chapter Four: Places of Interest

The Pyramids are closed. Fifty yards (45.7 m.) from the base of Cheops there is a chain barring our way. A metal sign hangs from it that says CLOSED in English and Japanese.

“Prepare to be disappointed,” I say.

“I thought you said they were open daily,” Lissa says, knocking sand out of her sandals.

“It must be a holiday,” Zoe says, leafing through her guidebook. “Here it is. ‘Egyptian holidays.’” She begins reading. “‘Antiquities sites are closed during Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting in March. On Fridays the sites are closed from eleven to one P.M.’”