Mary Russel - Dreamers of the Day

“I called for you, Karl. I called, and you didn’t come.”

“This is a new suit!” he objected. “Besides, I don’t swim.”

Only slightly abashed, he dried my lenses with a white linen handkerchief and straightened their frame. Looking about as contrite as a ten-year-old boy who’s just made the whole class laugh by belching, Karl held them out to me, and laughed again when I snatched them back ungraciously.

“Don’t be angry,” he pleaded, and offered by way of apology, “Perhaps this is good luck! They say that if you drink from the Nile, you shall surely return to it someday.”

Ever since that morning, alive and dead, I have gone over and over those few weeks in Egypt. Maybe that’s why I can tell you about them now in such detail.

One thing was clear, even while I sat there fuming and dripping: Karl could not possibly have planned what happened that day on the river, but like any good tactician, he was alert to changing circumstances. When he saw the opportunity to make clear the facts of our relationship, he did so decisively. And really? He must have been astonished they were not obvious to me from the start, for he had concealed very little. If I was blind to reality, it wasn’t his fault.

You see, Karl wasn’t the sort of spy you read about in novels—the ones who skulk around in alleys and know a hundred ways to kill an enemy with a fountain pen. He understood that people love gossip, whether it’s trivia about the neighbors or scandals involving film stars or politicians. He all but told me straight out, on our first morning together, that he was a German intelligence officer with a long-standing professional interest in Colonel Lawrence. He simply let me enjoy sharing what I knew. Imagine that you’d met someone like Colonel Lawrence! You’d have been dying to tell somebody about him, too, wouldn’t you?

Karl gathered intelligence by being interested in other people— especially people who felt insignificant and invisible. Waiters like Ash-our could tell him about the men who came to cafés. Chauffeurs and laundresses and bellhops probably enjoyed Karl’s attention as much as I had. It’s thrilling to share things you know about powerful or well-known people. It lifts you up a notch and makes you their equal, if only in your own mind.

Karl understood as well that sharing secrets is a path to intimacy, both real and artificial. Lonely wives and unappreciated secretaries of officials would have found him a sympathetic listener, just as I had. Perhaps as a young man, even Lawrence had responded to Karl’s friendliness and warmth.

At some level, I suppose I knew all along that I was the source of my own romantic illusions, but for an opportunity to live out those fantasies? I was willing to cast aside morality and dignity, and to pay for my pleasure with anecdotes and information about important people I had met.

What passed between Karl and me was not much more than a banal sexual affair of the sort that is often indulged in while traveling far from home. It was also more one-sided than I had cared to recognize. So he let me splash, and sink, and flop gracelessly back into the felucca, knowing that it was time—knowing that his booming, good-natured laughter would break the spell.

Even before I took my spectacles from him and replaced them on my nose, I saw everything more clearly. The real Karl Weilbacher was a pleasant man who had shared his knowledge and enjoyment of a foreign country with a tourist who—not incidentally—was able to provide him with useful information. For this, Karl had paid me in the coin I valued most: attention and affection. He was a perfect gentleman until I demanded more of him. Then, against his better judgment, he became more deeply involved with me than he’d intended— perhaps out of gratitude for more extensive intelligence than he’d anticipated.

Or, perhaps, out of pity.

I am grateful to him, honestly. A cruel man would have laughed at my desire the day I first kissed him on the mouth. Instead, Karl gave me what I wanted and was kind enough to wait for the right moment to let me down.

With his assignment in Cairo finished, he would soon return to his wife and daughter. I imagined them rejoicing in the promotion he’d earn through his success in collecting information about the Cairo Conference with the fortuitous help of an American lady he met by accident at his own hotel. He might tell his daughter about his childhood dog, Tesssa, who looked so much like Rosie. And if his wife suspected anything, by his very openness Karl would make our time together sound completely innocent.

I knew all that suddenly, and with absolute certainty, and with a curious lack of distress. The mirror of infatuation had shattered, and when it did, I felt many things, but not regret. I had enjoyed something that did not belong to me, you see. When it was taken away, I was disappointed but not harmed. I may not have made history like Gertrude Bell, but I’d had a grand romantic adventure, and I cherish the memories. Even here. Even now.

The rest of our trip up the river was pleasant in a bland and surprisingly comfortable way. For Karl, the tension was gone; for me, the realities had been recognized.

The river was quite beautiful farther south, especially at sunset, with lavender mountains rising beyond reed-fringed banks against a salmon-colored evening sky. And, of course, the pathetic splendor of Thebes, with its hundred gates, could fill a book, but you may read of it elsewhere if you wish.

What else? Let me see … There is lovely pottery made at Kenneh, which is said to be the healthiest place in Egypt. And the Coptic girls in Assiout embroider exquisite net scarves with gold and silver threads. The scarves are sold in Cairo, but don’t buy them in the city. You can choose the best in Assiout and pay much less.

The heat grew more oppressive by the day. We decided to hire a car and drive back to the city. It was the end of the season in Cairo when we arrived, and everyone was leaving, not just the tourists. Sudanese boys—waiters, porters, bellhops—were packing up their velvet trousers and Zouave jackets before heading back to the equator for the summer. Bedouin dragomen would soon return to the desert, to their wives and children, to their camels and tents. Hotel hairdressers, barbers, and chefs were already on their way back to Europe. Jewelers and antiques dealers would shutter their shops and go north as well. On the Cook’s boats, wicker deck chairs were being folded, their cushions cleaned and stored. It was like an army decamping after a successful campaign. Before long, the heat would become unbearable, everyone said. The flies would make life a misery and sandstorms would become more frequent. Already the pyramids were lost in a yellow haze of particles so fine they never seemed to settle to the ground.

There was one final night’s stay at the Continental, but I pleaded headache and slept with only Rosie at my side. To my delight, the little boy appeared first thing in the morning, waking us one last time with his piping offer to “Walk you dog, madams?” Rosie was happy to see him, and when he returned her, I tipped him a princely fifty piastres for his long and faithful service.

Karl and I had one last breakfast, out on a patio, where magpies boldly competed with Rosie for bits of toast. Karl offered to see me off at the Cairo station, but I assured him that courtesy was unnecessary. He arranged for my luggage to be taken down to the taxi.

I lifted Rosie into the backseat. Karl and I faced each other. I offered my hand. Karl held it for a moment or two. Then he said the most extraordinary thing: “Fear not, dear friend, but freely live your days.”

There were no hard feelings, but neither was there an embrace. I thanked him for his companionship and his kindness, and climbed into the cab. As the driver pulled out onto the road, I didn’t turn to see if Karl was still waiting in front of the Continental to wave farewell.