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I had a vague impression that Lawrence was keeping an eye on me. While I do not remember getting into the taxi with him, I do recall his tolerant chivalry when I warned him that I was probably going to be sick. The colonel snapped an order to the driver, who pulled to the side of the road halfway over the Gazirah Bridge. Lawrence got out, opened my door, told Rosie to “Stay!” and steadied me on the way to the railing, where I abruptly contributed to the general fetidness of the Nile.
“Oh, good Lord,” I gasped, hilarious and horrified as I took the handkerchief Lawrence offered. “I just puked in front of the Uncrowned King of Arabia.”
“My dear Miss Shanklin,” Lawrence said with a gallantry I have never forgotten, “I was an undergraduate at Oxford. Believe me: I’ve seen worse.”
VOMITING WAS only one of several elements I left out of the tale I told Karl at breakfast on Tuesday morning.
It was just as well that he was away from Cairo until late Monday night, for I had spent the whole of that day nursing a sunburn and a gin headache that seemed hardly less incapacitating than the malaria that tonic water was meant to prevent. Perhaps to distract myself from my own misbehavior, I spent many of those wretched hours in contemplation of Thompson’s suspicions about Karl Weilbacher. At the very least, I had to admit that Karl might be using me as a conduit for information about the conference Lawrence was attending.
And so, between bites of breakfast eggs and toast, I did my best to make amusing anecdotes of Sunday’s adventures, telling Karl all about Winston painting the pyramids, and the riot, and the hilarious drinking that followed, but slyly withholding the slightest mention of Colonel Lawrence. This was, I’m ashamed to admit, a test like the ones that Mumma often set me when I was young.
Such tests were by their very nature covert. When I passed, there was no reward; when I failed, silence was my only clue. Mumma was never a particularly chatty person, so a heavier quiet might go unrecognized in the begi
She would look at me with those sad eyes and that brave, unmoving face. “I shouldn’t have to tell you, Agnes. If you loved me, you would know.”
With no clue as to the nature of my offense, I could only redouble my efforts to please and hope to be restored to Mumma’s good graces. Eventually she would signal the sufficiency of my penance with a gift of heirloom jewelry, perhaps, or a china figurine. “This belonged to your grandmother,” she’d say. That closed the matter in her books, but for me? Always, always, the sword of silence hung over my head. It wasn’t until after Mumma died that I began to wonder why she hadn’t simply told me what she wanted. Why did I have to guess and grovel and work my heart out for some trifling object like a porcelain lady with a parasol? It made no sense to me.
Well! My years at Murray Hill School had taught me that a child can’t correct something if he doesn’t know it’s wrong. That’s like expecting him to learn to spell when his teacher won’t mark his papers and keeps the dictionary hidden! And the Great Influenza had taught me how suddenly life could end, how quickly people could disappear from your life, how important it was to say what you mean and mean what you say. If ever I came to care for someone, I vowed, I would never waste our time together with guessing games. I would speak my mind aloud and clearly.
And yet there I was, setting Karl a secret test every bit as subtle and underhanded as Mumma’s: If you love me, you won’t ask about Lawrence.
At each turn of my story, I braced myself for Karl’s comments, dreading the moment when he would bring up the colonel’s name. And was Lawrence there that night? Karl might ask casually. What did he do then? To whom did he speak? And what did that person say?
Told of Churchill’s tedious monologue on painting, Karl shook his head. “I said I was not inclined in his favor. Now I am against him. He sounds a self-satisfied bore.”
And of the riot: “He put you at such risk! Ach, Agnes! That is unpardonable.”
Then: “Now I think my opinion must change a bit. How clever he was to distract you from the danger!”
And: “No, I understand perfectly what you meant about the oatmeal. When Germany or Belgium or France seize colonies, the intent is to gain wealth and power. The British believe they are doing a selfless service when they impose their empire on others. They are always surprised when their generosity is unappreciated, but to be frankly conquered is less demeaning, I think.”
Then: “Yes, yes, the British set great store by gin and tonic, but I am not so certain. Were you feverish yesterday? Are you entirely well this morning? I must say, your sunburn is quite charming, but if you feel ill, you must tell me at once. I know excellent doctors here in Cairo.”
And finally: “After such an experience, perhaps Rosie will never again set foot in an automobile. I hired a taxicab for the day. What do you think, Rosie? Are you brave enough to go for another drive?”
At the sound of her name, Rosie pricked up her ears, and when the word “go” was uttered, she snapped to attention with a whine of anticipation.
So there! I told Sergeant Thompson in my imagination, for Karl had passed the test he didn’t know he was taking: he had not once mentioned Colonel Lawrence.
And I? I was as serene and naive as a child pulling petals off a daisy. He loves me, he loves me not … He loves me!
The morning was cloudless, as all mornings in Cairo seemed to be. The weekend heat had moderated delightfully. Rosie and Karl and I were all in high spirits as our hired car conveyed us along an excellent highway that paralleled the eastern bank of the Nile.
Egypt dominated the known world once, Karl remarked, but in the mille
Our driver pulled over a few yards from a stepped entrance to a walled enclave where tourists milled near a narrow gate. We made our way through groups of English ladies wearing sun veils and carrying linen parasols, and German hikers in full white shirts sporting short trousers that showed their knees. There was even an American woman wearing knickerbockers and flat shoes who was describing her house in Santa Barbara with a carrying voice that made me cringe. As usual, we foreigners were mobbed by entrepreneurial Egyptians shouting their offers.
“Buy wood of wonder-working tree!”
“I show you where Pharaoh daughter, she find Moses!”
“I show where Holy Virgin, she hide with Christ child!”
“Two thousand years temple for saints!”
The other tourists engaged a guide or stuck close to a Cook’s tour group and entered the city through the gate, but with a few words of Arabic, Karl let the Egyptians know we were not in need of their services. At worst, these “guides” would rob us, he told me quietly. At best, they would lead us to a smelly crypt or dirty cellar that might well be two thousand years old but of no particular significance.