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“They want real colonies, not self-governing members of some international gentleman’s club,” Karl said. “If the British give self-rule to their protectorates, it will stir up trouble in French possessions. Just a few months ago, the French had to crush a revolt in Syria that was led by Lawrence’s friend Feisal. They won’t want to risk that again.”
His voice trailed off and Karl sat silently, the glow of his pipe going dark while his mind was far away. His hands had stopped moving, too, just as I had sunk into the sensation of his fingers on my feet and had almost begun to imagine … well, more.
A few minutes passed. Feeling invisible and let down, I lifted my feet out of his lap and slid to the edge of the chair.
Karl noticed the movement and shook off his thoughts. “Agnes, forgive me,” he said, his face showing genuine concern. He reached toward my hair and lifted it slightly away from my temple. My eye must have been wandering, because he said, “You are exhausted. I can see this. And perhaps bored. Yes! Don’t deny it! Let me walk you to your room.”
The concierge nodded as we passed and wished us a good night. It felt cozy and intimate: to be sleepy and on the way up to bed, to laugh quietly together at Rosie’s comic leaping progress up the stairs.
Her short little legs reminded me of Lawrence’s sensitivity about his height, and I asked Karl about that. “Yes,” he told me, “Ned’s brothers were quite tall, but he broke his leg as a boy and never grew after that. Here’s irony: if he’d been drafted instead of volunteering for intelligence work, the Uncrowned King of Arabia would have been relegated to a ‘bantam brigade’ filled with malnourished little men from the countryside! For anyone to be underestimated seems a personal affront to him, I think. He is drawn to the underdog.”
While I fit the key into my door, Karl asked, “Agnes, what are your plans for tomorrow?”
“Goodness! I’ve lost track of the days. Was today Saturday?” I asked, and he nodded. “Well, I have a tour of the city booked with Cook’s on Sunday and—”
“Cancel it,” he urged. “You must rest, I think. Take a day or two to recover from your travels. Sleep late. I’ll make sure the boy comes round to walk Rosie for you.”
I unlocked my door. Rosie trotted ahead and waited to be lifted, tossing her nose toward the pillows expectantly. Made shy by the hour, and the quiet, and the bed so near, I busied myself with her, embarrassed by my own thoughts.
“I have business in Alexandria,” Karl told me, “but on Tuesday? Please, allow me to take you to the Old City. It is one of my favorite places in Cairo. I would like to share it with you.”
“That would be lovely,” I said for the second time that evening, “if it’s no trouble.”
Karl’s face changed again, softening but serious. Eyes on my own, he took my hand and brushed it with his lips. “Truly, Agnes, I believe this: to be enjoyed, life must be shared.”
Even now, I can remember how I felt that night as I watched him turn and stride down the corridor. Can you see why I loved him so quickly? I hope you can. He was such a nice man.
As Karl promised, the little boy came for Rosie first thing in the morning. I stumbled back to bed. Half an hour later I roused myself briefly to welcome her return and paid the child what was obviously too much, given his reaction. Utter disbelief was rapidly replaced by a studied nonchalance that said, Oh, yes, madams! This is most assuredly the common fee for walking foreign dogs and includes, naturally, a surcharge for being seen in public with a loathsome short-legged one.
Dachshunds have a remarkable capacity for resting even under the most leisurely of regimes, but thirty minutes on foot was a twenty-mile hike for Rosie. Reunited, we went back to bed and slept again until it was nearly noon. Feeling refreshed at last, I dressed in no great hurry and ordered a light lunch from room service.
“Goodness gracious,” I said to Rosie. “Two days ago, we were still on the boat! We’ve ridden the whirlwind to Oz, haven’t we! But this will be a lazy day,” I promised us both.
When we’d finished with our meal, I carried a lemonade out to the balcony and made use of the wicker chair and table there. Rosie settled in my lap. Contented and becalmed, I stroked her long back and watched the sky begin to whiten. The day was going to be hot, though it was still early spring and vast flocks of birds were traveling northward. Squadrons of pelicans, storks, and cranes soared high above a layer of violently flapping warblers and swallows. Nearby some sort of shrike gripped the hotel’s telephone wires. Boldly patterned if dully colored, it opened its wings and swept downward, noiselessly capturing what might have been a grasshopper or perhaps a small lizard. Horrified and fascinated, I watched the bird impale its tiny victim on the thorn of a climbing rose that scrambled up the hotel wall, a few yards from where I sat.
Retreating to the printed page, I spent a quiet hour browsing through my guidebooks, reading with special attention about the Old City. I was wondering just how one pronounced the name of the Church of El-Moallaqa when an immensely long black car rolled up to the entrance of the Continental.
The sun was at full strength. Yesterday’s warmth was now real heat and made me think of July in Cleveland. Even so, I felt a shiver of dread when I saw Mr. Churchill’s enormous bodyguard climb out. Of course, there were plenty of other guests in this hotel and no reason in the world to imagine that I was the subject of Detective Sergeant Thompson’s errand, but a minute later the telephone in my room rang, just as I’d feared.
“Miss Shanklin?” a weary voice asked. “Thompson here. I’m in the lobby of your hotel, miss. Mr. Churchill requests the pleasure of your company this afternoon. We’re going to see the pyramids.”
Well, who wouldn’t want to see the pyramids? But I had imagined I might go with Karl. “Sergeant Thompson, that’s a very kind invitation, but I was counting on a quiet day today and—”
“Miss? I was assigned to this duty six weeks ago,” Thompson told me in a tone that suggested his spirit had been broken. “I’ve learned this much about my boss already: it’s no good arguing with him. Please, miss. I’d take it as a personal favor.”
I let out a long breath. Rosie did love car rides. “I couldn’t leave my little dog in the room. May I bring her along?”
“Miss Shanklin, you can bring the contents of Noah’s ark, if that’s what it takes,” Thompson said, sounding infinitely relieved. “Honestly, miss, thank you. Once he’s made up his mind … you have no idea.”
Well, I didn’t then, but I would soon obtain one.
Sergeant Thompson was waiting for me at the far end of the lobby. With the stiff and stoic look of a man who was duty-bound to follow foolish orders, he escorted me outside. “I was supposed to have the afternoon off as well,” he told me while Rosie made use of a flower bed, “but he took it into his head to paint the pyramids. It’s a disease with him, painting. I’m fed to the teeth with it. You couldn’t pay me to walk into a museum now. I’m not a bloody porter, but he’s got me carrying his damned boxes of paints—pardon my French, miss—and his easel, and his umbrella, and his chair. ”
Rosie was already panting. I shrugged off the linen jacket I’d tossed over my dress. The car was going to be hot, and I’d be among Europeans.
“We’ve been attacked by mobs twice since we docked in Alexandria,” Thompson continued. “I’m supposed to be guarding his life, not carrying his bloody boxes.” He leaned past me then, to open the door, but not before muttering, “If something happens, miss, I’m required to protect him. Get yourself back to the car and stay away from the windows.”
Have you ever found yourself agreeing to something because you’re simply too polite to object? If I’d had a moment to think things through, I might well have said, “On second thought, perhaps I’ll take a rain check,” but it was all such a surprise that I just ducked into the car and hoped for the best.