uninterested in anyone else. Not once had he pressed Pitt as to what he did, where he came from, or why he was going to Egypt.
Narraway had given Pitt no story to explain himself, leaving it entirely up to him to invent whatever he pleased. He held that a man who created his own story was more likely to believe it and make no slips which would give him away. Pitt had spent the two-hour train journey from London to Southampton racking his brains for some excuse which did not rely on knowledge he did not possess. There was no point at all in suggesting any kind of business. Five minutes’ conversation would show that he knew nothing about commerce. He was no scholar, and certainly not in the history or antiquities of Egypt, which was a subject of such interest now, and increasing all the time. His ignorance would show at the very first question.
What sort of man goes alone for a holiday to a foreign country about which he knows nothing, and where he has no friends or family? Not a married man, and he had chosen to be as close to the truth as possible, for convenience and safety, and because it gave him an anchor within himself. But if he did not go for pleasure, then it had to be some kind of necessity.
He settled on the invention of a brother who had gone for reasons of business and not been heard from in over two months. That gave him a compelling purpose and at the same time a justification for asking questions, and an explanation for his own ignorance on almost everything. So far he had answered all questions to everyone’s apparent satisfaction. His cabin companion had responded only that if the brother’s business was in cotton then he was doomed, and Pitt had best start looking in the alleys or even the river for what was left of him. Pitt had not replied.
Now he stared at the blue water and felt the breeze sweet and quite warm on his skin, and looked forward to the interest of a new place unlike anything he had ever imagined, let alone seen.
As soon as he landed he presented his passport, then saw to the disembarking of his luggage. With his case in his hand he stood on the quayside amid the shouting and the bustle. He heard a dozen different languages, none of which he understood, but there was something common to docksides the world over. In London it would have been bright at least, but there was always that chill in the wind up from the water. Here the heat wrapped around him like a damp, muffling blanket. The smells were at once familiar-tar, salt, fish. But there were also different smells- spices, dust, something warm, and sweat.
Some of the men worked naked to the waist. Others stood around dressed in long robes and turbans, talking to each other, inspecting a box here or a bale there.
With the captain’s assistance he had already changed a little of his money into the local currency of piasters, he suspected at a highly unfavorable rate, but the convenience was worth a price.
It was late afternoon already and he must find lodgings before dark. He picked up his case and started to walk off the quay towards the busy street. Was there anyone who would at least understand English, even if they did not speak it? What sort of public transport was there?
He saw a horse and open carriage near the curb, presumably Alexandria’s equivalent of a hansom. He was about to go over and ask the driver to take him to the British consulate when another man in Western clothes cut in front of him at a brisk stride, climbed up and swung into the seat, shouting his instructions in English.
Pitt determined to be quicker next time.
It took him twenty minutes to find another carriage, and a further five to persuade the driver to take him to the consulate for what he considered to be a reasonable fare. Of course he had no notion as to whether this man was taking him as he wished or not. He could have ended up in the desert, for all he was able to judge for himself, but he was too fascinated not to stare around as he was jerked and jolted along the streets. Narrow alleys opened into wide, sunlit thoroughfares.
Everything was of warm sand colors shifting into darker terra-cotta and the soft browns of wooden windows jutting out over the unpaved earth and stones below. Sun-bleached awnings hung motionless. Chickens and pigeons moved at will, pecking and squawking. Now and then a camel lurched with the peculiar grace of a ship bucking against the tide. Heavy-laden donkeys plodded along.
People wore pale robes, men with turbans, women with flowing scarves that also covered the lower half of their faces. Here and there was a splash of red or clear blue-green.
There seemed to be insects everywhere. Over and over again Pitt felt the needlelike sting of mosquitoes, but he could not move quickly enough to swat them.
All around him the air was pungent with the smell of spices and hot food, the sound of voices, laughter, now and then metal bells with a strange, hollow music to them.
Dusk came suddenly, and in an enamel-clear sky changing from hard blue to luminous turquoise there floated the most haunting cry, singing and yet not as he had ever heard it before. It seemed to ululate up and down without drawing breath, and floated as if from a height, penetrating the evening till it shivered from the towers and walls of every building.
No one looked startled. They seemed to have expected it exactly at the instant it came.
The carriage drew up at a marble-faced building of great beauty, its smooth stones alternating in lighter and darker shades to give it a rich appearance. Pitt thanked the driver, handed over the agreed price, and stepped out onto the baking footpath. The air around him was balmy, warm on his skin as if he were inside a room facing the sun, although the sky was darkening so rapidly he could barely see across the street for the depth of the shadows under the farther walls. There had been no twilight. The sun had disappeared and night was immediate. Already the footpaths were filling with people laughing and talking.
But it was dark already, and he had nowhere to spend the night, and the immediacy of that need should override interest. He went up the steps of the building and inside. A young Egyptian in an earth-colored robe addressed him in perfect English and asked in what way he could assist. Pitt replied that he sought advice, and repeated the name Narraway had given him.
Five minutes later he stood in Trenchard’s office, the oil lamps giving a soft, muted glow to a room of antique and startlingly simple beauty. On one wall a painting of sunset over the Nile was haunting in its loveliness. On a small table a piece of Greek sculpture sat next to a rolled-up papyrus and a gold ornament that could have come from the sarcophagus of a pharaoh.
“You like them?” Trenchard asked with a smile, snapping Pitt’s attention back to the present.
“Yes,” Pitt said apologetically. “I’m sorry.” He must be too tired, too overwhelmed by new sensation to be thinking properly.
“Not at all,” Trenchard assured him. “You could never love the mystery and the splendor of Egypt more than I do. Especially Alexandria! Here the corners of the world are folded together with a vitality you will find nowhere else. Rome, Greece, Byzantium, and Egypt!” He said their names as if the words themselves captured an impressionable magic.
He was a man of instant charm and perfect diction, as if he read poetry aloud for his pleasure. He was of average height, but looked taller because he was slender, and he moved with unusual grace as he came around his desk to shake Pitt’s hand. His face was patrician, with a rather large aquiline nose, and his fair brown hair waved a trifle extravagantly. Pitt had the impression of a gentleman, perhaps posted here to suit the convenience of his family rather than from any innate skill. He was no doubt well educated in the classics, possibly even with a dilettante interest in Egyptology, but he had the air of one who takes his pleasures seriously and his work with relative lightness.
“What can we do for you?” he asked warmly. “Jackson said you asked for me by name?” It was a question that politely required an explanation.
“Mr. Victor Narraway suggested you might be able to give me some advice,” Pitt replied.
Trenchard’s eyes flashed with understanding. “Indeed,” he acknowledged. “Do sit down. You have just arrived in Egypt?”
“Off the steamer docked an hour ago,” Pitt acknowledged, accepting the seat gratefully. He had not walked very far, but he had been standing on deck for a long time, too eager and too interested to wait below in his cabin.
“Have you somewhere to stay?” Trenchard asked, but his expression assumed the negative. “I would suggest Casino San Stefano. It’s a very good hotel-a hundred rooms, so you’ll have no trouble getting one. They are all twenty-five piasters a day, and the food is excellent. If you don’t care for Egyptian, they serve French as well. Rather more important than that, you can get there by carriage down the Strada Rossa, or perhaps less expensive and more discreet is an excellent tramway, twenty-four trams a day, and both the Schatz and the Racos end at the
