Author's Note. I'm not really sure where this came from, but it's been sitting around collecting dust on my computer, so I thought I'd post it.
Disclaimer. The characters of The Mummy are the property of Universal Studios.
Mr. Davis
Beni should have turned left. He knew it, surer than the hysteria thum-throbbing through his veins. Surer than his breath coming in wheezing heaves. Should have turned left, to the dark. To the safety of a narrow little staircase where narrow little people bustled and shuffled. Maids and bellhops and the other unsightlies. That was his way out and he knew to take it. Was about to take it, only—
The elevator unfolded right when he slipped into the hall. And the elevator boy met his eyes. Frowning at Beni's dirty shirt. Unshaved face. Lip wrinkling at the bulging satchel on his shoulder. He started to say, Hold on a minute—And Beni bolted.
The wrong way.
Into the light, blood red carpet squishing under his frantic feet. Rows of bright white doors with bright gold numbers. Too bright on his stained clothes. On his smudged face and on his smudged, trembling, sweaty hands nervously grasping at each doorknob. Ears straining for the thud of footsteps behind him. He had to hide, or they'd find him. Throw him into prison, and he couldn't go back to prison. Not after that guard's grim warning, Next time we take your thieving hand! Beni yelped and clutched another doorknob. Rattle-locked. Rattle-locked. Rattle—
The door flung open and he flew in, stopping himself from slamming it shut. Closed it carefully, carefully! Turned the bolt and hung the chain and breathed a trembling sigh. He leaned hard into the door and rubbed his face with the hands he very much intended to keep. And still had.
For now.
"Is that you, George?"
Beni froze. He squinted around the dark hotel room—the neatly made white bed, the clean red carpet and the framed print of Giza on the wall—gaze snagging on the yellow sliver of light under the cracked bathroom door.
He reached into his waistband for his pistol.
A hard knock on the door shuddered through his back. He yelped and clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Hello in there! Open up!" someone called from the hallway.
And the voice from the bathroom again—"You'll get that, won't you, George?"
Beni gripped his pistol and stalked across the room. Threw open the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind him.
"George!"
The worn soles of his sandals slid to a stop on the blue and white tiles. To his left was a broad marble sink with a fogged mirror. To his right, a steaming claw-footed bathtub. And a bobbed blonde head turning to gaze at him with wide eyes. Her jaw dropped, and Beni held up his gun. Put a finger to his lips and hissed—
"You will go to the door and tell them you have not seen me."
She swallowed, glancing past him to the bathroom door.
"No I won't."
Beni glared. "What?"
"That is—of course—I would." She swallowed. "But now that you've closed it, the door won't open. The lock trips as soon as it closes."
His eyes narrowed. He whirled around and grasped the doorknob. Twisting and jostling and rattling as panic bubbled in his gut.
"That doesn't make any sense!" he whined. "It locks on this side; it should pop. Why won't it pop?"
Her bare shoulders jerked a shrug. She spoke to his gun, "I don't know. I don't know anything about it. I just know they're sending a fellow to hang a new door in the morning, so it must be—"
"What?"
"I said they're sending a fellow to hang a new door—"
"I heard what you said," he snapped. "You mean we are stuck here til morning?"
Her hands curled around the lip of the tub. Bone white, steeling herself. "I could scream and they would let us out right now."
Beni's eyes widened. "Don't scream." And leveled the pistol at her face. "Don't scream."
She flinched. Selecting her words like chess pieces: "Unless they know we're in here, neither of us is getting out of this room any time soon."
Beni frowned suspiciously. "What about your friend George?"
She shuddered. A frantic shake of her head, "George doesn't have a key. Even if he did, I don't know how he would get in when you've hung the chain. There's really no way out." Glancing incredulously at the window and muttering under her breath, "Unless you can fly. We're ten stories up."
"I know what floor it is," Beni snapped.
She glanced down, fingers tapping on the lip of the tub. Took a breath and met his eyes again. Studying him uncertainly at first, but the longer her gaze lingered, the more agitated Beni became. He gripped the gun harder. Glared meaner, trying to frighten her. But when she looked into his face again, her eyes were calm.
"Are you new at this?"
His eye twitched. "What? Why would you ask me that?"
She swallowed. "Well, you...I'm only wondering if this is merely...merely some desperate thing you've done because you felt as if you had to. You—you aren't a bad person, are you? This isn't the sort of thing you do all the time, or you would have done it differently—"
Irritation sparked between Beni's ears. "Because you know so much about this kind of thing, I can tell."
She blushed. "I don't know anything about it. It's just—well. I don't think someone who does this often would come barreling in through the first open door, like you've done. Anyone at all might have been in here. A boxer, a soldier—or—"
"How fortunate I happened upon a naked whore instead."
She gasped. Horror and alarm filled her eyes as she gaped. And told him at last, sharply, "I'm not a whore."
"And yet here you are in a bathtub, waiting for 'George.'"
She turned away, gazing stubbornly at the opposite wall.
"You don't know anything about me."
Beni snorted. His hand relaxed on the gun and he strolled casually across the room. There was nowhere to sit but the toilet on the other side of the tub. He sighed, leaning against the sink instead. The bathtub was directly across from him, but the room was wide and the tub was so deep, he couldn't make out much below her collarbones. A white foam of bubbles covered all the good parts. And her glare burned away any hope slinking closer.
"Get back there where you were," she snapped. Suddenly very sharp, and dark. Suddenly not so nervous.
"Am I supposed to keep talking to the back of your head?"
"I don't know, and I don't care. But you're not seeing me naked; I know that much."
Beni scoffed. "I can't see anything, anyway."
"Get back or I'll scream."
He held up his gun. "I think you're forgetting something."
She huffed, glaring right at him. "And are you really going to fire a gun in a crowded hotel room with all of them out looking for you? It's perfectly obvious you don't belong here. There are holes in your trousers—and that ratty old satchel? No one who can afford a room here would be carrying that thing around. When last time you even bathed?"
Beni tugged on the frayed hem of his shirt. "Mind your own business."
She leveled a grim smile at him. Deadlier than the gun in his hand. "I could scream and tell them anything at all, and who would they believe?"
His eyes narrowed. "I suppose it depends one what sort of girl you are."
"What on earth does that mean?"
He smirked. "Who's George? He can't be your husband, or he would have a key. And he isn't your beau, or else you would have come up with a more elegant solution than simply leaving the door unlocked. And I know he isn't your brother or your cousin or your beloved papa because you took off all your clothes and climbed into this bath waiting for him." She paled, and his face split in a yellow grin. "So who is he, eh? Some fellow you met an hour ago at the hotel bar? Just waiting for him to make an excuse to the wife, put the little ones to bed, and come by?"
"Mind your own business."
Beni chuckled. While she huffed and glared at the faucet. Jaw clenched, arms crossed tight. Her breath came in little gasps and she kept flinching. Tense like a spring. He liked the slope of her neck, and the way her bobbed hair curled around her ear. And he wondered about the rest of her, in the water. If she was long and sharp like her collarbones, or if her breasts were full and soft like her cheek—
She felt him watching. And flushed, uncrossing her arms and sliding lower in the water. Beni thought about shuffling closer, just to worry her. Just to bring some of the fear back into her eyes. She deserved it, after telling him he wasn't any good at this. But she turned, suddenly. Looking at him with a very different glimmer in her dark eyes. Swallowed hard and pushed the disdain from her pouting lips.
He didn't remember the disdain until later.
Until after she tilted her head and whispered, "What if he was just some fellow, and I was just in a particular mood? Lonely...and..." Bright red cheeks. "Wanting a man. George can't come anymore, but...you're here. And we're stuck. Here."
Beni frowned. Flexing on his pistol. He took a cautious step closer, and her gaze didn't flicker away. She leaned back, one finger lazing on the lip of the tub, drawing a wet line. Her other hand in the water somewhere. Maybe between her legs. He slipped closer and her warm, soft eyes followed him until he was standing over her. She tilted her chin and licked her lips.
"You're in a mood, eh?"
She braced against a shiver and nodded. Watching his mouth as he bent to kiss her. He liked the way she tasted. Clean and sweet. And wanted more of her, slipping a hand into the water. His fingertips brushed her smooth thigh—
Hot pain slashed his face. He cried out and tumbled to the floor. Clutching his cheek with both hands. Remembering too late, far too late, her disdain—and—
The gun.
She held it in one shaking hand. A women's razor in the other. And stood, her small body blotchy and trembling. Leveling the pistol at his face. While his blood dribbled from the edge of the razor, a little red stain on her thigh where he'd touched her. Barely touched her. Beni held up his hands and tried to swallow his gaping panic.
"Don't look at me," she snapped. "Bring me that robe."
Beni scurried to the door and tugged a silk robe from the hook. He held it out at arm's length and she snatched it from his hand.
"Turn around," she ordered.
Forgetting, perhaps, about the mirror. But Beni didn't watch her put her robe on, her form a grim ghost glittering in the fog. He gaped at his own reflection, feeling along the cut. Blood seeped over his fingers, and he grimaced.
"Now this is what's going to happen," she said coolly. Stepping out of the tub. Perfumed water slid down her legs, pooling around her toes. "I'm going to call for help, and you're going to hand over whatever you took, and cooperate with the authorities."
Beni turned, staring at her with his widest, most pathetic eyes. He cradled his face and pressed gently on the cut, letting blood spill down his fingers. "But you can't hand me over to the authorities! They'll take me to prison—do you know what happens to a man like me in prison? It's bad enough when you're in good condition—but no, you would send me there after cutting open my whole face. If I do not starve to death, I'll die of infection. And all for what? Taking a few valuables no one will even miss. I'm not a murderer—I never hurt anyone! I'm only a lowly thief, just trying to make my way. You have no reason to send me to prison. I didn't take anything from you. Can you heart be so hard, so cold? That you would stab a man and then send him to a miserable death, starving and dirty, face festering and festering with flies and maggots..."
She sighed loudly, tracing his face with uncertain eyes. Wincing when her gaze lingered on his cut. She bit her lip and took a careful step closer. "Look, I didn't mean to cut you that deeply."
Beni sniffed and clutched a towel to his face.
"You're a monster," he whimpered.
Her eyes narrowed. "I am not. You broke into my room, remember? And trapped us both in here. I was naked and completely defenseless. All I had was that razor—thank goodness I was shaving my legs—"
"You seduced me. Then you stabbed me."
She blinked. "I didn't stab you. It was a graze—"
"Slit my entire face open—"
"It's only your cheek—"
"—and now you will send me to prison like this." He shook his head. Wet, miserable eyes and a quivering lip. "How will you ever sleep at night?"
She sighed. Leaning against the sink beside him, finger curled protectively around the trigger. He watched her and she watched the floor. Biting her lip, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head. She sucked in a breath and drew a long, wet line across the tiles with her toe.
"I can't believe this," she murmured. And met his eyes. "All right. What about this? You clean up in that tub, and then we'll both call for help."
Suspicion filled Beni's eyes. "Why would I do that?"
"Because if you're clean, and you're not wearing those ratty, awful clothes, you might just pass as my husband."
"No one's going to believe we're married."
"Sure they will," she said. "There are stranger pairs than you and I in the world. And I've seen men in the lobby who've come back from digs looking nearly as haggard as you. No one will bat an eye if they can't tell you're...uh...you know—"
He crossed his arms. "Even if that's true, if you rented this room alone, the hotel knows you don't have a husband."
She quirked an eyebrow. "I rented this room under my name, Mrs. Davis, because as it turns out, I do have a husband." And sighed. "Or did, anyway..."
Beni scoffed. "War widow?"
"Of a manner," she whispered.
He sighed, fiddling with the first button on his shirt. Gaze lingering on the tub. It had been nearly two weeks since he'd bathed, and the steamy, perfumed air was making his dirty skin itch. He scratched the back of his neck and glanced at his reflection in the mirror, wondering if her idea could really work. She smoothed away a grimace when he set his fez on the counter, meeting his gaze with a smile.
"Let's give it a go, at least. You've managed to make me feel positively dreadful for cutting your face, even though I'm the defenseless one and who knows what you might have done to me—"
Beni groaned. "Oh, come on. I wasn't going to do anything to you."
She straightened her shoulders, fingers tightening around the gun. Firm lips and cool, cool eyes. "To your merit, you didn't attempt anything until so invited. So for that, I'm willing to try this. Are you?"
He shrugged. "Sure. I sound so much like a 'Mr. Davis,' and what wife doesn't greet her husband with a razor to the face every now and then? It's the perfect cover."
"Is that your way of saying you'd prefer if I just called for help and turned you in?"
His eyes widened. "Nope." And ran deft fingers down the front of his shirt. The third button snapped off its thread and clinked to the floor. Beni ignored it, but she stared at it, a little circle of brass on the bright white and blue tile. And bent to pick it up after a moment, setting it on the sink. Frowning when Beni's shirt hit the floor in a dark, threadbare ball.
She met his eyes, gaze retreating with a flush when he unbuttoned his trousers. Sucking in a breath and talking to his shirt: "George is—was—my husband. We married right before he left for the war. He's a surgeon. He was stationed in a French hospital, and that's where he met Rochelle..." She shuddered. "The divorce papers came in the mail. He didn't even have the decency to tell me in person that he didn't want to be married to me anymore."
Beni stepped into the tub. The water was still surprisingly hot, but comfortable. He dunked his head under the water, enveloped in the soft, quiet heat. Hoping she would be done talking about this drivel when he resurfaced.
"Anyway, I still love him. He's here vacationing with his new wife and I'm here making a proper fool of myself. Or would have, if you hadn't burst through the door instead."
Beni scoffed. "You're welcome."
She looked away, pretending to occupy herself with the bottles on the sink. She selected a tin of cream and rubbed it into her hands, murmuring about the desert air. Smoothing a little more down her legs, buffing his dried blood from her skin. She blushed, glancing at him to make sure he wasn't watching—or perhaps just wondering if he was. He was too busy fumbling for a cake of soap, cursing at his slick hands.
"You know," she said. A forced kind of breezy, "you have nice cheekbones."
His gaze snapped up. Frowning at her. "What?"
Her cheeks grew redder. "I just...Well. You do."
"What does that mean, nice cheekbones? Is it supposed to be a compliment?"
She jerked a shrug. "Yes, it's...I suppose...Nice cheekbones are, you know...high? High cheekbones are considered desirable."
Beni snorted. "I've never heard of that. Nice cheekbones. You Americans are so bored, you have to invent new things to congratulate each other on."
She laughed, trailing off sadly at the end. "It's obvious I'm American, then."
"I can tell by your accent."
"I can't tell a thing by yours, however," she said. Tilting her head to the side. "Other than it's not from anywhere I'm familiar with."
"Good."
He pretended to ignore her persistent gaze while he scraped the soap through his hair and ducked under the water again. Her sheepish eyes were waiting for him when he broke through the bubbles. She didn't seem to hear his groan.
"I'm Vivian, by the way."
"That's fantastic."
She glanced down. Toes curling. "What's your name?"
Beni cleared his throat. "Uh, John."
"No it isn't," she whispered. And tugged a snowy towel from the stack on the counter. She held it to him at arm's length and wouldn't quite meet his gaze. "But that's all right."
Turning away when he stood. Vivian stared at a corner of the floor while he tied the towel around his waist. Startling when he strode to the mirror, standing a little too close beside her. She shifted her weight but didn't inch away. He ignored her and looked himself over in the mirror. The cut didn't bleed when he pressed it now. He wiped his hair back into place, irritated by her lingering gaze. She swallowed uneasily, nodding at his chest.
"You should take those off."
Beni frowned, clutching his necklaces instinctively. "What if I left the cross?"
She shook her head. "No man renting a room here would wear a pewter cross on a piece of twine."
With a sigh, he pulled them off and shoved them into her hand. Her fingers curled in a fist around them while she glanced thoughtfully around the room. At last tugging open the cabinet under the sink and stuffing his necklaces—and his satchel—and his clothes—out of sight.
She straightened, looking him in the eye and giving a nervous smile. "See? You pass for a gentleman."
Beni turned to the mirror again. He didn't know what she was talking about. He looked the same. Well. His skin was much whiter now; he'd thought it was suntan but apparently he was dustier than he realized. And he supposed he didn't look quite so thin without those streaks of sweat and dirt on his sides, making his ribs appear to protrude worse than they were. But he was still sallow, undernourished with bloodshot eyes. The cut on his cheek was fresh but the break in his nose was old, and the scar on his chest was thin and dark and obvious on his clean skin.
"Did you get that in the war?" Vivian asked softly.
He flinched, covering the scar with his palm. "No."
"Oh." She glanced away. "Well. Plenty of men have scars like that from the war. It doesn't give you away. And if you shaved—"
"I can't shave," he snapped. "You cut my face open, remember?"
She swallowed hard. "Yes, I know." And met his gaze. "I really am sorry. I didn't want to do it, I just...I didn't know what else to do." He scoffed, and she took a nervous step closer. "But if you shaved around it, and at least took most of the scruff off, especially where it's a little thick on your lip there—"
"I don't want to shave my mustache."
"Oh." She blinked. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had it like that on purpose."
Beni glared. "Douglas Fairbanks has a mustache like this."
"Yes, but he's—" She stopped herself and cleared her throat. Meeting his grim eyes with attempted brightness. "Never mind. If we say you've been away on a dig for the past week or so, no one should bother over it..." And sighed, turning the gun over in her hand. Rubbing her wrist. It was probably getting heavy, the way she gripped it so tightly.
"You don't really think this will work, do you?"
Her gaze snapped to his. "It could—I think, you know, if we just act natural and—"
"'Natural,'" Beni scoffed. "Please. My father broke my mother's jaw over cold gulyas and she never looked half as nervous around him as you look standing next to me right now." Vivian tensed, and Beni shook his head. "This is useless. They will never believe we were stupid enough to lock ourselves in the bathroom."
She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her robe sheepishly, a flush on her cheeks she cooled when she met his gaze again. Surprisingly casual, "I take it you've never gotten a little carried away before."
He frowned. "What?"
"You know, with a...lover. You've never been so consumed that you did something rather silly? Knocked over a vase, or—or cracked a headboard?"
Beni smirked, but it quickly soured. "Is that what we're hoping they believe, then? That I am your beloved Mr. Davis, who was away on a dig, and when I returned to you, we were so overcome by our love that we trapped ourselves in the bathroom?"
She huffed. "It's not such an outlandish possibility—"
"Why didn't we just fuck in the bed?"
She crossed her arms. Matter-of-fact, "Because I was in the bath when you came in—"
"With the key I never asked for from the front desk?"
She didn't blink. "You knocked and I answered. In a towel. I knew you were due back any moment so I supposed it was probably you. You were dirty. Scruffy. Exhausted from the dig and irritable after cutting your face on an archeological pick while packing up your tools. But as soon as you saw me, you forgot all about your disappointing dig. You kissed me with every intention of making love to me right there, in the bed. But I'd left the water running in the tub. So you followed me into the bathroom, and as soon as I turned off the faucet, you pulled off my towel, pushed me against the door, and neither of us gave a thought to it until a good long while after."
Beni stared. A knot in his throat and the sudden urge to take her by the hips and do just that. She didn't glance away from him, watching her conjectured story fog his eyes. Slowly, she set the gun on the counter, trailing her hand along the sink. Not so very far from where he leaned. And lifted her fingertips to the scar on his chest, hovering an uncertain moment over his skin—
Heavy knocking on the hotel made her flinch. She whirled around at the sound of a muffled voice:
"Mrs. Davis! Hullo! Mrs. Davis, are you in there? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Croaking. Clearing her throat and trying again. Clearer now, "I'm fine! But we're trapped in the bathroom! Could you let us out?!"
"Straight away, ma'am!"
She sighed. Closed-eyed relief and a mumbled, "Thank God." She opened her eyes and met Beni's twitching, nervous face. Pressing her lips against a frown. She leaned sharply away from him against the sink and glared at the floor.
Jingles and rattles and a snap-thud. Oh, the chain's on, someone said, and Beni flexed his hands. More fussing and scraping and jingling, while Vivian tugged on her hair. It didn't curl so nicely around her ear when she let it go. She bit her lip and suddenly dropped to her knees, stuffing Beni's pistol under the sink with the rest of his things. She reached and he stared at her hand a moment before taking it, reluctantly, and helping her to her feet. Her palm was as soft and smooth as her thigh. She wouldn't meet his gaze, but she didn't pull away.
A tumble of steps. And the same voice, nearer now—
"This is that troublesome door we're re-hanging, isn't it?"
Vivian called, "Yes!"
"All right. Stand back, then!"
She led Beni to the opposite wall. Shuffled a little closer and leaned into him, lacing her fingers through his. He frowned, but her wet, desperate eyes stared back as firmly as her hand gripping his.
"There now," she whispered, "I don't look so nervous this way, do I?"
A sharp crack and the door split from the lock, crashing into the wall. The concierge and a bellhop stumbled in, gaping at them with wide eyes. Their faces flushed dark red, gazes dropping to the floor. They held up their hands and backed out of the threshold.
"Oh, do excuse us, ma'am!" said the concierge, gray mustache shivering. Grappling at the bellhop's arm and shoving him back. "Do forgive us. We hadn't any idea—" Cough.
"It's no trouble," Vivian said brightly. "You must forgive us, really. I tried to warn John about the door, but he's just come back from a dig, and—I suppose we got a bit...carried away..."
The concierge flushed harder. Lobster red to his ears. He held his hands higher. "No trouble, no trouble! We understand, of course." And backpedaled into the hotel room. Nearly to the door before calling reluctantly, "But Mr. Davis, if I might have a word?"
Beni frowned at Vivian. She shrugged helplessly and waved him on. He sucked in a deep breath, legs tingling to bolt, and picked his way around the splintered door. Into the dark hotel room, where the concierge waited by the door, jingling change in his pocket. Too embarrassed to look Beni in the eye.
"I didn't want to disturb the lady," he murmured. "But it seems we have a thief loose in this hotel. I assure you, this is most unusual. But—your wife, being alone as she was—as we certainly believed she still was—Well, when no one answered the door earlier, we wanted to be quite sure she was safe. Had we known—oh, you must forgive us, Mr. Davis. I sincerely—sincerely!—apologize on behalf of myself and our entire hotel. Our guests' privacy is of the utmost importance, and I'm absolutely aghast to think we might have interrupted a man's pleasant reunion with his wife. Please, if there's anything we can do—Say! What if I sent up a bottle of our finest champagne? Compliments of the hotel. And—and in the morning, whenever you might desire for the fellow to hang the new door (do forgive us, we never should have rented the room with the door in that condition!), we'll send him. We shouldn't ever desire to interrupt your privacy again, Mr. Davis. When you ring, it shall be done. Not a moment sooner. You have my word. I'll have that champagne sent up straight away. Thank you for choosing the Hotel Atwater for your stay in Egypt. We do hope this terrible little hiccup won't dissuade you from choosing us the next time you're in town. You have a fine evening, sir."
Sputtering his way right out the door, closing it carefully behind him. Scolding the bellhop loudly all the way down the hall.
Beni sighed. He didn't hear her footsteps, but he could feel Vivian's gaze on his spine. He didn't turn around.
"I'm surprised," he said. "I thought you were going to give me up."
"I thought I was, too."
She sank to a seat on the bed. Twisting her hands in her lap. "It's peculiar. Honestly, rather pathetic. But they barged in and actually thought we were...Anyway. I couldn't bear to correct it. It was nice to pretend to be happily married again." She took a breath and met his eyes. "Anyway, you might as well stay for a glass or two of champagne. This nonsense makes me an accessory now, and I'm not about to go to prison with you."
Beni nodded and sat on the opposite side of the bed. Waiting with her in the dim silence til the concierge returned, breathless, with the champagne and two flutes. He popped the cork for them and hurried off without a word.
And Beni drank with her, in the silence. Glancing now and then at her legs dangling off the bed. Thinking of her smooth skin under his fingertips, and the way she reached to caress his scar. Wondering why she told him he had nice cheekbones. But never asking, not even when the champagne bubbled fuzzy and pleasant and bold between his eyes. He wanted to say, Can you believe that idiot was so nervous he missed the cut on my face? But the bath and champagne left him groggy. Listless. He leaned back on the bed and she leaned beside him. Pleasant but never once touching, though Beni thought about it. He wondered if he reached across the bed and took her arm, if she would draw close. Kiss him back. Let his hand wander further up her thigh and all over her.
He lay still and drank instead.
When the bottle was empty he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. She watched him trip over the broken door in perfect silence. He dressed clumsily in the bathroom, wondering if she watched him from the bed. Wanting to ask, Is there anything else nice about me? But not asking, while she wasn't telling. She was drunk enough to say so, if she was watching him. And maybe she had. And maybe she had not. But regardless she said nothing, and neither did he.
He stumbled into the darkened hallway with his satchel. Fumbled his way to the service exit and hurried down the dark and narrow stairs. No one grasped his elbow, jerking him to a stop. No one said, Hold on there! His clothes were dirty but his skin smelled like jasmine. No one shoved by him and thought that was strange. The stairwell was vacant.
He burst into the night air, expecting, for a moment, the rough hand of a waiting policeman. There was none. No one called, Stop thief! But also no one said, in all the years that wore on him in Egypt, in the time that sifted through his fingers like sand—not once, not ever again, Have a nice evening, sir.