The rain is penetrating by the time I land in London, and I quickly hop into a cab and name the bar where I am to meet my lover. Due to my altered appearence, having discarded my dark robes for the traditional black trousers and matching shirt, I receive nothing more then a cursory glance from the driver before he revvs the engine and heads out onto the busy streets of London. I lean back in my seat and begin reminiscing.
Truth be told, I had never planned for it to be like this. The feelings I foster are against God and even my own conscience. At home in the camp awaits my beautiful young wife, with her black eyes filled with understanding and misery that she will never voice aloud. When she discovered the truth shortly after we were married, I had expected her to hit me, throw things, at least regard me with silent resentment. How could I have known understanding would be the worst of all? That it would make me hate her?
I shudder as I recall another pair of eyes, dark like those of my wife, except they belong to his wife, and are filled with fire and passion. There are nights, I will confess, a few scotches in, on the nights when the loneliness becomes almost penetrating and the yearning for his body has become almost physical pain, that I convince myself that we could unmask and come out of the shadows. Then I remember how Evie O´Connell looks at her husband, how my lover smiles when he holds his young son, and I know that I can never be the means to deprieve a beloved friend of her happiness. Certainly it would help if I stopped banging her husband but I cannot. I must be the lowliest vermin that the world ever produced.
The cab comes to a screeching halt before the bar in question and I duck inside after paying the driver. I order a drink and sit in the darkest corner where my face cannot be distinguished, knowing that the tattoos on my face can be easily identified should they be seen. It is a dive with only the bartender and two heavy drinkers sitting by the bar. It is a safe retreat away from prying eyes which nobody who knows Evie or my lover is likely to frequent. As I wait for the arrival of my lover I think back on that first night we shared together.
It seemed to be as if by unspoken agreement that we met that first night in the camp after Evie had drunk herself into a stupor. Having received nothing from her, he was on the prowl and we met in the ruins of the temple at Hamunaptra, where we had met for the first time earlier in the evening. There was little in the way of greetings or even preparation before he pushed me up against one of the pillars, hitched up my cloak and grunted out his passion. Afterwards, I turned around and noted he looked like a God in the flickering flames from the torches all around us. Yet, the emptiness in his blue eyes as he gazed upon me before he left to return to his own camp made me shiver with something akin to fear.
I never tried to demand more of him then he was prepared to offer, never demanded of him an explanation as to where we stood exactly, because deep down I recognised the truth. I was forced to acknowledge it after our second encounter in Cairo. He accompanied Evie there about six months after our adventures at Hamunaptra, she had now become the darling of every scholar, and had come to hold a speech at the university on the city she had visited while in Egypt last. While Evie had dinner with the dean of the university and the curator of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, her lover was having mind-blowing sex with me in an anonymous hotel room. As he lay asleep beside me after our session together, I could not help the yearning which descended upon me. Why must he continue to live this farce of a life, pretending to be in love with a woman he did not care about? Surely he could end their relationship and we could be together? After some consideration, I wrote him a note about my feelings and decided to slip it into his trouser pocket for him to find later. The coward that I was could not face his reaction. I figured if he did not care for the message, that he would then simply toss it away. As I picked up his trousers from the floor, something fell out of the pocket and onto the floor. I quickly picked it up and noted that it was a small jewellery box. Opening it, I noted that it contained a small gold band. The realization that my lover was about to propose to his girlfriend did not surprise me. I merely put the box back into the trouser pocket and tore up the note I had written like the wish that never should have been. I went back to bed and laid my head on his arm, but he pushed me away and slept on his right side, facing away from me, for the rest of the night. Never before had I felt so cold. He was gone by the time the dawn breaks in the east, leaving nothing to indicate whether we should ever meet again.
In the end, I could not blame him for choosing the safety of Evie above the uncertainty of the life he would have faced with me. He was doing what he thought he should be doing, the plan was safe, secure and completely thought through. After all, it stands to reason that our worlds would never mesh. A gulf seperates us and it cannot be bridged. In the same way he is never going to live in the desert among the Medjai, I am never going to settle in London. We maintained contact through the years to come, even after we had both gotten married and he had become a father. Horus was our messenger, carting papers from the deserts to rainy London on a monthly basis. We had to rely upon him since telephones were not an option and letters might arouse the suspicious mind of Evie. We met whenever the couple was staying in Egypt and once a year, I could make up an excuse to the Medjai and escape to London for the duration of a few days.
When he finally walks into the bar, it is almost midnight. The greetings are awkward, as they usually are, given that we cannot ask one another about the seperate worlds we inhabit. Instead, we merely order drinks and consume them before we head by foot to the motel where he has reserved a room for the night. As we walk together, side by side, without speaking, I cannot help but throw him a glance sideways and wonder what lie he told Evie this time around. I quickly forget Evie, however, when we reach the room, and he pushes me on top of the bed, attacking my neck in the most ferocious manner and pushing his hand underneath the waistband of my trousers.
As usual, he is up at the crack of dawn, preparing to leave before I wake up. This time, however, I stir as he begins to dress and watch as he pulls on his trousers. When he sees that I am finally awake, he turns to me.
"This is the last damn time, Ardeth." I do not try to argue with him, since he says this each time we meet.
"I know," is all the response I am capable of.
He runs his hand through his brown locks and sighs. "This is not fair to my family or to you."
I nod in compliance and am about to climb off the bed when he comes to stand beside me and leans down to join our foreheads together. I can feel his breath on my skin and when he runs his fingers through my long, dark hair, I feel as if I must have died and gone to Heaven. Rick has never allowed himself these moments of affection with me, always steadfastly refusing to kiss me at all, seeing that as something reserved for his wife alone. Now, however, he leans down and joins our lips together and I soar to the skies with happiness.
As I pull him down upon the bed with me, we both know that this is merely the beginning.