Imhotep by Jerry Dubs Read Free Book Online Page B

House courtyard, were shadows
etched against the eastern sky where night was beginning to lose its grip.
    As he
looked into the fading darkness, the opening words of “The Rubaiyat” came to
him.
     
    “Awake! 
For morning in the bowl of night
    Has
flung the stone that puts the stars to flight;
    And
lo!  The hunter of the East has caught
    The
Sultan’s turret in a noose of light.”
     
    Catching
the scent of jasmine as he turned back toward the main house, Tim suddenly
realized how far he had traveled from his home and his family, from his past.
    He
walked quickly across the deserted courtyard.
    When
he stepped through the lobby doors, he came to a halt.
    A
sand-colored tile floor stretched out before him.  A red-jacketed clerk
holding a water can turned slowly away from a wildly colorful bouquet of
flowers held by a polished brass pot, which sat atop a carved wooden stand at
the center of a magnificent oriental rug.
    The
boundaries of the lobby were marked by carved wooden columns fronted by small
palm trees planted in more polished brass pots.  The beige plaster ceiling
was almost hidden by angled wooden beams woven together like window tracery to
form an arabesque pattern.  In the middle of the lobby, a large Islamic
lamp hung from a coffered ceiling, four of its wooden panels inset with
octangular carvings.
    It was
a scene from a dream, an oriental palace brought to life.
    Last
night, nervous about breaking into Brian and Diane’s room, he had walked
through the lobby to the bar without even noticing it.  Now it looked
magical and mysterious.
    Tim
saw the desk clerk watching him and realized that aside from the clerk and the
man who was watering the plants, he was the only person in the lobby.  He
walked over to the clerk and tried his Arabic, “Sabah el-kheir.”
    The
clerk smiled.  “Good morning to you, sir,” he answered, recognizing Tim’s
accent and telling him that he could speak English.
    “I
couldn’t sleep,” Tim said.  “I’m going to Saqqara this morning and I’m
kind of keyed up.  Is there anyplace I can get some breakfast?”
    The
clerk nodded and pointed off to a red-carpeted stairway to the left of the
reception desk.  “Al Shams is always open,” he said.
    “Shukran,”
Tim said.
    The
clerk smiled. “You’re welcome, sir,” he answered.
    Tim
looked around the deserted lobby.  “When do the taxi drivers start to
arrive?”
    “Usually
after breakfast, sir, in  . . . ” he looked at a clock behind the counter,
“three hours, perhaps.”
    “None earlier?”
    “No,
but I know a driver I could call.  He could be here by the time you finish
your breakfast.  Would you like me to retain him for you?”
    “Yes,”
Tim said.  “Please.  Thank you. Ana mamnoon.”
    The
clerk nodded.  “It is nothing, sir.  Enjoy your breakfast.”
     
     
    W hen Tim returned to the lobby, the clerk
raised his hand and waved to him.
    “Na’am,”
Tim said as he reached the counter.
    The
clerk nodded toward the doorway where a sleepy-eyed, young Egyptian stood, his
hands stiffly at his sides.
    “His
name is Musa.  He is a very good driver.  And he is my sister’s
husband’s brother. He will treat you very well.”
    “Musa?”
    “Yes,
Musa.” The clerk looked at Tim expectantly and Tim realized he was expecting a
tip.  He held out a five-pound note and raised his eyebrows in question.
    The
clerk took the money smoothly.  “Bissalama,” he said.
    Tim
shook his head.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that word.’
    “It
means ‘have a safe journey.’ ”
     
     
    T he predawn light fell on an empty parking
lot.  On the twenty-minute ride, Tim had decided to take Musa with him
into the tomb; he would be another set of hands to help carry Brian and Diane
if they were down there and needed help.
    As
they walked from the unlit parking lot, headlights appeared on the road leading
to Saqqara.  For a moment Tim thought it was the police, that he had been
followed, but then he