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“Why did you decide to come to Cairo?” Karl had asked me on our first day together as we strolled, side by side, with Rosie in the vanguard. “It is an unusual choice for someone who has not been abroad before. Most Americans go to Paris or London. Or Rome.”
I told him how Lillian had urged me to visit her in the Middle East, back before the war. She had even quoted Muhammad: “ ‘Do not tell me how educated you are,’ the Prophet said. ‘Tell me how far you have traveled.’ ”
The explanation seemed to satisfy Karl, but it was not the truth, not if I was honest with myself.
Why do we travel, really? If we are of a thoughtful nature, we may wish to improve our minds, to examine the ma
But is it really an education that we yearn to acquire when we travel? Or—be honest, now—do we more sincerely desire souvenirs? What tourist returns with lighter bags than those he packed at home? We want something to display, a memento, a “conversation piece” that will silently inform a guest: I have traveled. I have awakened under a fierce foreign sun. We look for a painting, a sculpture, a vase that will whisper: I have shopped in souks and bargained in bazaars, and I have this to show for it.
In all practicality, of course, one could buy such objects at home. After all, there are importers, antique shops, and art galleries—even in Ohio. Why, then, do we undertake the expense and risk of travel? Why leave the comforts of home for flies and disease, heat and dust, crowds and the risk of theft? Because souvenirs remind even the traveler of his journey: I was not always who and what I seem, sitting in this Ohio parlor. Here is a talisman of a magical time when nothing—not even I—was ordinary.
If we are timid or rebellious or both, then travel—by itself and by ourselves—forces us to leave our old lives behind. Travel can overcome habitual resistance and set the soul in motion along magnetic lines of attraction. On foreign soil, desires—denied, policed, constrained at home—can be unbound. What hides beneath the skin-thin surface of the domesticated self is sensual, sexual, adult.
Why then, truly, had I come to Egypt? To flee everything that was conventional and predictable and respectable. I wanted to lock up my mother’s house in Cedar Glen and walk away from my own dull mediocrity. I wanted to escape anyone and everything that had ever told me No.
As the hours passed, so did my anger with Karl. I understood at last what I’d experienced while pla
You are handsome and accomplished and brave, he’d said, taking my hands in his.
In those hours, far from home, beyond the scrutiny of those who knew me in Ohio, the very meaning of sin began to change. To leave the apple unpicked—that was sin. To choose loneliness if love—even illicit love—were offered, that seemed worse than sin.
That would make of my life a tragedy.
The next morning there was a knock at my door. Expecting Rosie’s little boy, I ran my hands through my hair, pulled on my wrapper, picked Rosie up, and opened the door.
The room service man bid me, “Good morning, madam,” and wheeled in a cart heavily laden with silver platters, pitchers, and bowls. Behind him in the hallway, Karl was holding flowers and newspapers. On his face was a sheepish look that asked, Agnes, am I forgiven?
Rosie danced and spun and barked at our feet. Karl tipped the waiter. Gri
I brushed my teeth and bathed and combed my hair. A bit of makeup. A fresh dressing gown. Ready, and slightly breathless, I stepped out onto the balcony to watch the sun climb, listening to the hiss and clatter of palm fronds that rattled in the morning breeze.
I will do this, I thought. I am forty years old, and it is long past time. My life is my own.
At last, I saw Karl on his way back toward the hotel, with Rosie trotting merrily ahead of him. I stretched and waved. The motion caught his attention. He paused, shading his eyes with his hand. When he saw me, he went motionless.
It’s difficult and rather pointless to deceive yourself when you are dead, and I can admit it now: Karl was startled to see me waiting for him, still dressed only in a robe, but I chose to read his expression as mere surprise. There was a long pause before he shortened up on Rosie’s leash and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, glancing each way for traffic. Something he saw made him raise his face to the sky, eyes closed. Then he looked at me and shook his head, smiling ruefully. He and Rosie darted across the street and were lost to my sight as they passed beneath the hotel marquee.
Moments later, I saw what Karl had: Churchill’s long black automobile with miniature Union Jacks affixed to its front fenders. The car rolled to a stop at the Continental. The young driver Davis got out. I heard Karl’s heavy steps hurrying down the hallway. He and Rosie burst into the room just as the telephone rang.
“I completely forgot!” Karl whispered hoarsely. “It’s Sunday! You must go—”
“Yes, of course,” I was saying into the mouthpiece. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Stricken, I replaced the handset in its cradle.
“I’ll take care of Rosie,” Karl said.
“I should have made some excuse!” I cried, exasperated with myself. Perhaps if I had been in the habit of lying, it would have been different, but my mind just didn’t work that way. I lifted my hands in despair. “Karl, what on earth does one wear for a camel ride to the pyramids?”
Galvanized, he threw open the double doors of the room’s tall san-dalwood wardrobe and considered the possibilities.
Without thinking, I blurted, “And I had been hoping you would undress me!”
Both of us froze, equally shocked.
Eyes wide, I clapped my hands over my mouth, but the absurdity of it all suddenly blossomed. I began to laugh. An instant later, so did Karl. For a few precious moments, we were helpless in each other’s arms, wailing until we were weak.
“They’re waiting,” I gasped and waved a hand toward the wardrobe. “Pick something! I have no idea!”
Karl flipped through the clothing, pausing when he got to the sport suit Mildred had recommended in case I was invited to play golf or something. Wool fla
“Don’t worry,” Karl said. “Tourist saddles allow ladies to sit with modesty.”
I snatched a cream-colored blouse off a hanger and dashed into the bathroom to change. I emerged still buckling a wide belt over the blouse. Karl held out the jacket. I spun into it and grabbed a tan cloth hat with a turned-back brim. Kid gloves in hand, I presented myself for inspection.
“It needs one thing more,” Karl said. He selected a striped scarf and, coming close, knotted it cleverly around my neck. He stepped back, looked me up and down, and pronounced the ensemble “very smart.”
“Now go,” he said. “You can tell me all about it when you get back.”
Then he kissed me and sent me on my way.
It would have been more thrilling, of course, had Karl kissed me on the mouth, but no matter. I flew down the staircase aware of the lingering sensations: his hands on my shoulders, his lips against my forehead. Now that my mind was made up, delay and anticipation could only make romance more delicious. I was off on an adventure, and Karl would be waiting for me when I got back.