Dreamers of the Day

I expected Karl’s usual response: Agnes, you must go! Instead, his face clouded over. “I’m not certain this is a good idea, Agnes. Churchill is unpopular here, but he is truly hated in Palestine.”

“Do you think I should decline?” I chewed a bit of buttered toast, trying not to look delighted at the idea of staying here with Karl. “Lawrence wanted to show me where my sister used to teach, in Jebail, just north of Beirut. That’s where he and Lillie met before the war, but perhaps you could take me there instead?”

He said nothing, and there it was again: a silence that felt like punishment. Even a few seconds distressed me, and the old habit of appeasement and ingratiation reasserted itself, as though a switch had been thrown.

“Karl,” I said tentatively, “wouldn’t it be useful to you? If I were to go with them, I mean? People just talk to me. I don’t think they realize …”

“ … that you are a woman of intelligence?” he suggested.

“Well, I guess I just look so harmless, nobody imagines— And really, I just listen, but maybe I—I could—I could be useful.”

“Mother’s little helper.” With a deep breath, he looked away, deliberating. At last he made up his mind. “Lawrence would not have invited you, I think, if he were not confident that you will come to no harm. All right,” Karl agreed. “You must be careful, but yes! This is an extraordinary opportunity.” There was a long moment while he held my gaze, and then he added, “For both of us, I think.” And I felt a sort of bone-deep relief, as though Mumma had told me that she was pleased by a gift I’d given her.

While I finished my supper, we discussed the vagaries of traveling with Rosie. She certainly made everything more complicated, but I could not have imagined leaving her at home in Ohio. “And if you had, we never should have met,” Karl said. “So I am glad that you brought your wursthund with you.” In the end, we decided that Rosie would be perfectly happy to let Karl feed her sausage for a few days. He had business in Alexandria, but she could easily come with him on the train, whereas things were likely to be much less flexible on a British diplomatic excursion to one of the empire’s embattled protectorates.

Karl would make arrangements for the concierge to help me pack for the trip to Palestine tomorrow; the bulk of my belongings would be stored while I was gone. “And when you come back to Cairo, what would you say to a voyage up the Nile?” Karl asked, his eyes sparkling. “It is the least I can do for such a helpful friend.”

“That would be wonderful,” I said.

“It’s settled, then! Would you like more tea? No? Have you had quite enough to eat? Yes? Then it is time for you to rest.”

He turned down the bedcovers and gently took the robe from my shoulders, offering a steady arm as I climbed groaningly into the bed. Rosie, boosted up beside me, promptly nosed her way under the sheets, settling against my aching, blistered hip.

“I’ll come round for her in the morning,” Karl said softly, turning out the light. I heard the door latch click when he left, and nothing more after that.

I suppose you’re wondering if I was disappointed to be retiring alone that evening. After all, just that morning, I had made up my mind to— well, you know.

To tell the truth, I was rather relieved. Yes, of course, “Birds do it, bees do it,” as the song goes, but it was not so easy to throw off the fear that decades of spinsterhood had rested upon, and reinforced. Since Papa died, I had lived by the maxim “You can because you must.” Duties, tasks. Self-control, self-denial.

To delay a little longer—to wait a week or so for the next step— that seemed the better part of valor. Under the circumstances, then, to be fussed over and tucked into bed was not merely sweet but entirely satisfying—for the time being, at least.

When I get back from Palestine, I’ll be ready, I thought. And I slept very soundly that night.

MOST DOGS, WHEN THEY MEET your eyes, intend to intimidate you. For example, when a collie stares, he is giving an order: Be quiet, you! Go stand in that group where you belong! All the world’s a flock of sheep, to a collie.

Not so with dachshunds. Dachshunds gaze. When a dachshund like Rosie looks softly into your eyes, her sweet expression seems to say that you are the most important person she has ever met in her whole life. Moreover, she considers it a high honor and distinct privilege to be your pet. She’s only being nice. Within that absurd tubular body beats the heart of a princess. She gazes at you to demonstrate the very devotion she expects, but she is also issuing a warning: If you leave me home alone, you’ll be sorry.

Abandon a dachshund and upon your return, you may well be confronted with a small token of her displeasure. This, for the dachshund, is an undignified but necessary form of training. Eventually, you will learn your lesson, which is to take her with you everywhere. When you have finally accepted this, you will be generously rewarded for your good behavior by a jaunty, joyful companion.

I was an exceedingly well-trained subject. Leaving Rosie with Karl was awful. “I can’t stand it. Look at that face! Look at those eyes!”

“She’ll be fine,” Karl insisted, kissing my forehead. “She’ll have many walks and an entire sausage every day.”

“Don’t overfeed her.”

“Agnes, you’re going to be late for the train.”

“You be a good girl, Rosie. I promise, I’ll come back.”

“Agnes, if you don’t make a fuss, she won’t be upset. Into the taxi with you!”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told. Rosie, by contrast, set off happily with Karl on their first walk of the morning, her meaty little hindquarters sashaying gaily down the street. She never looked back, and as the taxi turned onto the bridge, it was I who had to reconcile myself to the separation.

The cab picked up speed and I watched the city slide by. Cairo was slow to awaken: dawn not so much greeted as slept through. Despite the wailing calls to prayer from every minaret, the commercial boulevards remained nearly empty until noon. A donkey cart loaded with dates might clip-clop along a road. A baker’s deliveryman might bicycle across a square, balancing a huge tray of fresh bread on his head while he pedaled. A sweet-potato seller might pass, pushing his rumbling wagon toward a market. Then quiet would descend again.

Thus, my taxi had hardly any competition in the streets that separated the Continental Hotel from the main Cairo train station. I smiled, thinking back to my adventures on the dragoman’s cart, amazed to realize that just ten days had passed since Rosie and I arrived here. In that short time, I had hobnobbed with diplomats, explored the great Egyptian Museum, sipped coffee with a child-bride’s husband, ridden a camel to the pyramids, and met the love of my life. One could hardly ask for more from a vacation, I thought giddily. And now, it was on to Palestine, and to the Lebanon beyond!

I paid the cabbie and followed the sound of British voices to the train. Passengers were assembling on the main platform, and the place was crawling with British soldiers. Suddenly, I found my path decisively barred, and though the soldiers were quieter about excluding me than the doorman at the Semiramis, they were equally determined, and I had nothing to prove I’d been invited. The longer we discussed the matter, the more likely I was to miss the train, and I’m afraid I raised my voice when pointing that out. To my relief, Detective Sergeant Thompson emerged from one of the first-class cars and saw the difficulty I was in. I expected him to come to my rescue, but he scowled and stalked toward me like an unusually menacing heron.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

I glanced over my shoulder. There was nobody behind me. “I—I’m going to Palestine.”