Three Americans and a Pompous Professor
"Let's get moving."
Gretchen's gaze jerked away from the loud, irritable struggle awkwardly attempting to drag itself across the river. Her stomach churned uncomfortably as the incoherent curses rose with continuing frequency, and seemed to be vocalized most often from her client. If he was even still her client any longer...She snorted. Like he was really going to miss that gun. He'd had two in his holsters, ready and waiting when the whole foray...thing broke out.
Her Legionnaire--O'Connell--his name was O'Connell and he wasn't her Legionnaire--but, all things aside, he was hauling suitcases with sudden urgency. She swallowed hard, glancing across the Nile again. She ran her tongue over her lips indecisively, squinting to perhaps clear up the dirty, angry mess of action taking place on the opposite bank. She opened her mouth to make some kind of protest, but that bookish lady from the deck beat her to it:
"It's near midnight!"
He grunted in return. A thick, short hand gripped her elbow suddenly, tugging for her attention. She didn't realize until she turned to see who was wanting her that Jonathan had taken a firm, instinctive grip on her shoulders. Gretchen could feel his breath wafting down on her, and she could smell the rank familiarity of alcohol in the warm, uneasy air slipping from his nose and open mouth. She wondered how drunk he was, and if he could stand on his own without swaying.
Gretchen glanced down and met the invading glare of the warden of Cairo Prison. At that moment, she couldn't quite recall his name; he always re-introduced himself when he employed her services, and despite the regularity of their meetings, she only remembered his name for a day or two. Something with an H. Ha--Hass...
"You!" he exclaimed with an accusing finger. His round, homely face broke out in a grin of crooked and discolored teeth. She smiled back.
"Well, Warden, I never expected you to be--Hey!"
O'Connell was determined to struggle out of the brush and muck they happened to be in. Gretchen glanced over at the other crew again, sighing impatiently. What was the matter with them? Strapping men and a dozen hardworking, rough-backed natives, and they hadn't progressed an inch!
The tall American turned, meeting her eyes with his pointed, fantasy-blue gaze. His brow furrowed curiously. "Who the hell're you?"
She swallowed difficultly. It was as if then, suddenly, the other three demanded to know the same, despite the fact that Jonathan and Warden Hassan--ha!--already knew her...in practically every sense of the word. Still, when O'Connell noticed her, she felt uneasy, as if someone had shown a white-hot light into her eyes.
"I'm, uh--I'm with the others..."
Jonathan grinned his personal reassurance. "O'Connell, this is Gretchen. She's a...um, friend of mine. "
Before anyone present could decipher the obvious implications of that language, Gretchen cut in with a new subject. "Don't you think we should wait?"
O'Connell glanced at that woman in her soaking nightgown, as if what he was about to say depended on her. "Not with a five hundred dollar bet saying we get there first."
Well didn't that figure?
She could feel Jonathan's sympathetic eyes, but she knew there was no use in them. A wager was something like a sacrament to the swaggering Englishman. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the red-faced company. Burns had lost his glasses in the water and Henderson was helping him find them; Beni was tugging at the rope of a camel and Daniels splashed him in the face, taking the rein himself. The fact that the men on the opposite bank were absolute morons happened to be an all too important factor in measuring whether or not Gretchen would be sitting here alone tonight. She was soaked through and chilled, and the bugs swarmed around her with fitful vengence, it seemed. She could only imagine the number of little red bites crawling up and down her arms and legs in the morning. God, if only it was morning.
"Are you comin'?"
Gretchen whirled around, noticing that her companions of present were pulling themselves inland. O'Connell waited a few yards away, and he seemed impatient.
"I think I should wait for them--"
His muscular shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "If you wanna wait on the bank with the crocodiles, that's your business, lady. But there's a village about half a mile north of here, and that's where we're spending the night."
She glanced one more futile time across the river, and nodded. Her feet pushed awkwardly through the muck, and O'Connell extended his arm to her. She smiled politely, wrapping her fingers around his elbow and steadying herself. Gretchen decided that the others didn't matter anymore. She knew, what with their supplies getting doubly soaked, that there was a likely possibility of them stopping at the same village, since it happened to be so close. But if they didn't, then she made the commitment of not being completely crushed. After all, who was to say Daniels would want her anymore? Whether he did or not, she deduced that seeing him tomorrow morning--rather than whatever time he finally made it across the river -- was probably in her best interest. His temper pulsed red and hot; she could hear it in every throbbing string of curses he spat out.
Gretchen's shoes scraped against the satisfying gravel of a country road. O'Connell released her arm awkwardly, his eyes studying her in vague confusion.
"Do I know you from somewhere?"
She smiled uneasily, glancing at the book lady shivering against Jonathan. "Yeah, but..."
He looked down her body and back up to her eyes. Even in the dim, pallid glow of moonlight, Gretchen could see the flush in his cheeks. She forced a nervous laugh, and he gulped, his Adam's apple jerking uncomfortably.
"You're a, uh--hm. Jonathan's 'friend,' huh?"
Gretchen sighed, catching a glimpse of Hassan's dark eyes and licked lips. "I'm a lot of people's friend."
The woman walked a yard or so ahead of them glanced over her shoulder. Her flesh was overrun with goosebumps, and the prostitute shivered her sympathy. Why was the desert night so cold?
"I'm Evelyn Carnahan, by the way."
Gretchen's stomach dropped. Great. Not only was Jonathan married, his wife was right here before her. As a rule, Gretchen didn't like wives. The feeling was generally mutual. She watched Jonathan wrap his arms about the pretty brunette. He looked back at her with a wink.
"My baby sister," he added for her benefit. Gretchen sighed. Sisters weren't much better than wives, but at least they didn't confront with the intent to harm. Gretchen had harbored a black eye for a week because of a lousy German's wife. Sisters weren't that dangerous.
"Gretchen," she supplied in return. Evelyn forced a little smile over her shoulder.
"Pleasure to meet you."
Gretchen doubted that. "Yeah. A pleasure."
The brunette continued to walk briskly beside Jonathan; the prostitute continued to step carefully beside O'Connell; Hassan continued to grumble along behind. The dark, still night yawned around them, cold and desolate and dirty. This whole country was a mess. The cities--even the tourist cities--were squalor and the roads were dangerous. Children died of starvation and illness and rickets; women were subhuman caregivers. Gretchen hated this place. She hated the natives and she hated the English; she especially hated the tourists. She hated the desert with its endless golden nothing; she hated the wind that howled in her ears when it was gusty enough. She hated everything about Egypt, and she wondered about the people who didn't. She wondered if those who believed in the haunted beauty of this place seriously existed. She wondered if maybe one has to be outside of a cage to appreciate it.
"I thought you said this town was close by!" Jonathan groaned ahead of them. Gretchen heard O'Connell take in a sharp breath.
"Walk faster. It'll feel closer," he retorted darkly. In ridiculous response, the fortuneless Englishman extended his steps and hurried forward. They walked another ten minutes before a huddle of primitive tents began to take shape on the blue-black horizon. Gretchen sighed, glancing up at her fellow American.
"That's what you call a town?"
He must have grown up in the country.
O'Connell bristled. "I said it was a village. A...small village."
Evelyn snorted loudly. "It will due for the night. Where do we, um...sleep?"
Her hazel eyes scanned the assortment of camel-hair establishments. O'Connell strode to the front of their small group. "Evelyn, I'm disappointed in you."
Her brow furrowed with offense. "Why?"
He took a breath, motioning to the sleepy village. "We're in the Middle East. After...'honor Allah,' hospitality is pretty much the major commandment. Go knock on a door."
"They don't have doors," Gretchen put in. O'Connell turned his flashing eyes to hers, opening his mouth to say something. The warden had already made his way to a tent and opened the flap. The company turned in silent interest, the sound of Arabic conversation rustling in smooth whispers on the cold, night breeze. Jonathan's jaw went slack as Hassan was admitted entrance, leaving the rest of them to the desert.
"Well," Jonathan breathed in surprise. "I guess if a stinking bugger like him can get a place to hole up for the night, I can."
Gretchen could feel Evelyn's gaze on her face expectantly. She turned slowly to look at the other woman, aprehension rising in her throat. "I'm a bit...scared to stay on my own. Will you go with me?"
The haphazard words clanged against the prostitute's ears, but she forced a smile and nodded. Truth be told, her Arabic was nothing impressive, and only worsened with exhaustion. She longed to be in a warm bed, and followed the Englishwoman complacently to a tent.
The hushed activity of morning pulled Gretchen into dim alertness, and she cracked open her eyes to recollect where she was, and what was happening. The previous night flowed through her memory with relative ease; she remembered the aging Arabic woman, smiling despite her lack of teeth, and her several daughters (Gretchen hadn't cared enough to count just then) welcoming her into their home. She knew very little of the culture of this place for the specific reason of apathy, but she was aware that turning away a guest at any time of the night or day was virtually heretical. She had learned of this practice, not through observance, but through Beni. He told her that he'd finally decided to settle in Cairo after a few months of village-hopping, taking advantage of the age-old tradition and robbing the impoverished for pocket-change. He'd informed her that it wasn't worth the trouble; what he stole was the equivalant of a few dollars at most, and if the man of the house should happen to wake up mid-heist, he was forced to high-tail it for his life. Thievery was punishable by amputation--one hand or both--but few were the protesters of a good, old-fashioned stoning. At least that was the way Beni described it, and Gretchen hadn't honestly cared enough to look into it.
The soft, warm scent of fresh bread filled her nostrils and tempted her stomach. Her tongue watered for food and mmm...the rich, lovely aroma of hot coffee wafted around her, coaxing her body to sit up. The brown, wrinkled woman caught her glance and smiled, motioning an arthritis-gnarled hand at the breakfast array set out in the center of the floor. Gretchen forced a polite smile, pulling herself across the cramped space to the Arabic "table," barely noticing Evelyn's alert gaze. The Englishwoman primly lifted a cup to her lips and took a ladylike sip.
"Good morning," she greeted after swallowing. Gretchen met her sparkling, green-gray eyes.
"Sure."
She turned her attention to the feast spread before them; breakfast was the most significant meal for desert-dwellers, and the most food was expected to be consumed in the morning. Gretchen passed over the food for the moment, reaching for a cup and filling it half-way with coffee. She filled it the rest of the way with frothy goat's milk and took a long, satisfying gulp of the scalding liquid. Well, if nothing else, Egypt had better coffee than the U.S. She supposed food and drink were always better in the places they came from.
"Did you sleep all right?"
Gretchen hated Evelyn's half-hearted attempts at conversation. It wasn't that she had anything against the woman, personally. But Evelyn was a woman, and women, as a rule, were nearly impossible for her to deal with. Even before she'd adopted her present occupation, Gretchen had had trouble with her fellow members of femininity. From her mother to the girls in the neighborhood to that German's wife--she simply didn't know how to react to them. Men were so easy, so direct. A man didn't take the time to bullshit; women seemed to create their whole personas on pretensious lies.
"Sure," she shrugged, reaching for a slice of flat bread. Evelyn sighed, toying with the corner of the itchy, goat hair slip their host had supplied each of them with. She turned her gaze to the thin, virginal white nightgown--clean, dry, and folded--at her side.
"I shouldn't have changed out of my clothes so quickly last night," she commented. "You were smart."
Gretchen scoffed quietly. "Gotta be prepared for creeps in black to set the boat on fire."
A polite smile pulled at the corners of Evelyn's lips. "I must have missed that in the traveler's guide."
The prostitute took another gulp of coffee and reached for a cluster of plump, red grapes. The Englishwoman's gaze stayed steady on her face.
"Gretchen--"
Her horrible name sounded somewhat less harsh when strained through her British accent. She looked up.
"I just want you to know, whatever your relation to my brother--"
Oh, here it came. The polite little threat.
"--you don't need to fear me."
Gretchen's brow furrowed curiously. Well, that was new. She stared into her crystalline eyes a moment longer, and she noticed a glint of loneliness that had not been visible before. The brown-eyed woman nodded slowly, ignoring the prick of sympathy that poked needlelike at her heart.
"Okay."
Evelyn swallowed, glancing away to scan over the foods. "Alright then."
The tent flap was tacked open, and the daughters of their hostess slipped in, giggling. They flocked around Evelyn, touching her thick, dark curls and staring into her unusual eyes. The Englishwoman smiled politely, shooting Gretchen a helpless look. The prostitute shrugged empathetically, reaching for the soft, white mound of cheese with a broken sheet of flatbread. They jabbered with her in Arabic and the Carnahan lady's cheeks flushed, an embarrassed chuckle sounding from her throat as they draped a robe over her shoulders and lead her out of the tent. Gretchen gulped more coffee, not entirely surprised at the fuss. Evelyn was a beautiful woman, and probably shown even brighter when sitting across from the likes of Gretchen. The Cairo hooker knew she had none of the traits they valued as lovely: no hips shaped for childbrith, no heavy breasts, no light, exotic eyes, no thick waves of hair. Gretchen was a skinny white girl with brown eyes and ratty locks, and it just didn't matter. Her looks could still be sold, and as long as her body could continue to make her money, she wasn't going to search for faults.
Gretchen finished off her coffee and poured another cup. She wasn't much with alcohol; she was drunk in three drinks--less if she hadn't eaten that day. But she could drink anyone under the table in coffee. She would suck down the hot, black liquid with equal parts milk or cream until her thin, bony frame shook from the caffeine. She could drink coffee steadily for as long as it was available to her; she'd drink it in, strong or weak, until it buzzed like cocaine in her blood. The only substance she truly could not live without was filling her cup just now. The dark, bitter drink was waking her mind and filling her stomach. She knew she ought to be eating more, but she wasn't accustomed to having so much for breakfast, and her body was unprepared for an onslaught of food.
Setting her cup down, she rose and stripped off her slip, reaching for her clothing on the floor. She tried to get dressed quickly, before those sisters came back and drug her off to wherever they'd taken Evelyn. Picking up her cup, she slipped out of the tent and into the blazing white light of morning. She squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust from the dim coccoon of her cloth-haven. The bustle of activity jolted noisely around her; in the midst of native gibberish and lowing animals, Gretchen picked out the exasperated notes of natural-spoken English. She scanned the village until her eyes caught sight of Jonathan and O'Connell.
"I said four, you imbecile! Four! I only want four--not a whole bloody herd--"
She snorted, walking slowly towards her previous night's companions with even steps, careful not to upset the prized liquid sloshing in her cup. She glanced up again, meeting Jonathan's disgruntled face as he dragged a set of camels behind him.
"Morning," O'Connell greeted, pushing the sun-kissed locks of brown hair out of his face. Gretchen nodded, taking a sip of coffee. The opposite man slapped her shoulder to get her attention.
"Now, love, can you believe four of these stinking beasts would cost--"
The American grunted an incoherent warning, and Jonathan let out his losses with a sigh. "You know, we probably could've gotten 'em for free. All we had to do was give him your sister."
Gretchen smiled; her English friend laughed. "Yes...awfully tempting, wasn't it?"
She looked up to see O'Connell's reaction, but the tall, strapping man was far off. He gazed into the distance, and she tilted her head in interest, following his eyes to the distracting object. Gretchen sighed; even if she was at her best--at a healthy weight and well-kept--she wouldn't look that good in native garb.
"Awfully..."
Evelyn approached them, a coy smile set helplessly into her pretty features. Gretchen decided to rescue the moment from awkward obscurity. The way O'Connell and Jonathan were gaping ... well, no one would be speaking for a matter of minutes.
"Well, thanks," she managed strangely, not really looking at any of them. "I'm sure everyone else is on the way."
Jonathan tore his shocked eyes away from his sister to give Gretchen a smile. "We'll see you in Hamunapatra."
She snorted, mumuring, "We'll see."
Gretchen started back for the tent slowly. Quick footsteps followed her.
"Wait!"
She glanced up to meet Jonathan's strangely nervous gaze. He forced a quick, nervous smile and rest his hand on her shoulder. She glanced down at this unusual gesture, and he followed her eyes, quickly retracting his touch. Something in her stomach dropped like disappointment, and she could not place why.
"Well," he breathed. His shoulders jerked with a little shrug. "Good luck, then."
She almost smiled. "Thanks...You, too."
He smiled, also, dropping his head in a nod. He turned and left her without another word, hurriedly rejoining his companions. Gretchen watched him walk away, but he didn't look over his shoulder at her again. With a sigh, she decided to finish off her coffee and wait. In her circumstances, she really had nothing else to do. She supposed she could sleep, but she wasn't entirely tired.
The minutes passed by like days. She watched O'Connell and all of them leave, watched their forms lurching on the humped backs of the odd desert beasts. She watched the American Legionnaire with a thoughtfulness she wasn't completely aware of. She studied his tall, straight-backed form, and the bronzed muscles bulging with use in his arms. She studied the off-white color of his shirt, and the sweat stains soaking the fabric. She tried to remember her night with him, and tried to remember what about it had made him so memorable. She tried to remember if it was just his eyes, or more. Before she could even consider this for very long, though, she noticed a bustle occuring with the same man that had sold Jonathan the camels. Uneasy relief tilted her senses as Gretchen approached the crowd of natives and vocal Westerners. She pushed through the mess of sweating people and horses to Daniels. He was in some kind of verbal tryst with Burns, and she had to touch his elbow to get his attention. He whirled around and glared at her with feral eyes.
"Hell do you want?"
She forced a little smile, lifting her hair from her neck. "I'm coming with you, I thought--"
He snorted loudly. "You can forget it. Deal's off. You're fired."
Gretchen took a breath, ignoring the threatening glint in his dark gaze. "So you're going to leave me here. Just like that?"
Daniels's jaw clenched, and his hands curled into fists at his side. "That was my granddaddy's pistol. He was one 'a the first sheriffs in the West and that gun was made special for him. Now it's at the bottom 'a the goddamn Nile River, and it's your fault. So yeah, I'm leavin' ya. And I don't give a rat's ass in hell what happens to you."
She took a step back, nodding slowly. "Okay, then. Just give me the money for the past two nights and you never have to see me again."
Gretchen wasn't going to be unreasonable; she wasn't going to make a fuss. She knew he would sooner beat her to death than give her the money he owed, but she figured it was worth a shot anyway. He shook his head, spitting a wad of tobacco juice uncomfortably close to her feet.
"You ain't gettin' shit from me."
She took a breath, turning to struggle back through the workers. Another American voice stopped her.
"Well then I want her," Henderson was saying, almost conversationally to his stewing friend. "Don't feel right leavin' her here all alone after draggin' her down the river. And I wouldn't mind the company."
Gretchen could see the tent where she had slept the previous night, and sighed with relief at the blond cowboy's words. If he was anywhere near as generous as Daniels, well--
"You hire that broad and you ain't no friend 'a mine."
That seemed a little juvenile, but Gretchen was too focused on her crashing hopes to examine that for long. The angry man rose his voice above the general noise to be sure all in his company could hear him.
"Any 'a you hire her, and you're fired."
The prostitute half-expected the crowd to part after such a melodramatic exclamation, but rather, a hand caught her arm and held her at a stop.
"I would like to employ your services."
Everyone was looking now. The whole ordeal seemed so heavily dramatized that Gretchen found herself wanting to laugh. She glanced at the renegade who dared ignite Daniels's already abbreviated temper, and her jaw went slack with the rest of them. Could this situation get any more ridiculous? Or was that monocled tight-ass from the ship really gripping her arm in his long, slender fingers?
His much shorter employer strode over to the long-faced Englishman, glaring up at him in rage.
"Beggin' your pardon?"
The professor sniffed, staring down the American with unblinking eyes. "How does three hundred for the entire trip sound?"
The pair of them gazed at each other: Daniels sizzling with a threat and the monocled man coolly challenging it; a perfect situation to raise the price. Gretchen let out a nervous breath.
"He was going to pay me five hundred."
Without even a thought. "He is an idiot. Three hundred dollars."
Gretchen licked her lips, glancing anxiously at her previous employer from time to time. She opened her mouth to accept, but Daniels's patience had reached its termination.
"You're gonna get your ass fired, Chamberlain."
"It's no difference to me," the taller man retorted smoothly. "I'm not the one in need of an egyptologist."
Daniels breathed smoke. "Fuck you, Professor. Our guide knows all about Hamunaptra."
Beni forced a nervous grin, beginning to sputter an argument. He didn't need to; Chamberlain had taken complete, collected control of the situation. "Don't be a fool, Mr. Daniels. That conning twit can barely write his own name, much less decipher ancient hieroglyphics."
A heavy silence filled the slim space between the two men. Burns was the voice of reason. "C'mon, Daniels. We got five hundred dollars on this deal!"
Daniels studied the professor a moment longer before shooting a deadly gare at Gretchen. "You better stay the hell away from me next couple 'a days."
Gretchen almost told him he didn't have to worry about that.