Devil's Rhetoric

Daniels refused to purchase another animal -- no matter how sickly and underpriced--for Gretchen's transportation, and Chamberlain was riding, of all things, a donkey. He offered to pay off one of the diggers to stay back so that she could have his horse, but she had adamently refused. The New Yorker had never ridden one of the beasts a day in her life alone, unless one counted the aging gray pony a tired carney led by the halter at Coney Island when she was six. She had no knowledge of the secret language between horse and rider -- of the communication through gentle urging and slight hand movements that kept the animal obedient and willing. After a few minutes more of indecision, the professor begrudgingly handed Beni a couple bills and Gretchen was hoisted up behind him atop his large, smelling camel.

Their journey began just as the desert heat started to rise from the sands. The sizzling waves blurred the horizon and the white sun throbbed mercilessly overheard. The company followed Beni's camel in a loose line; Chamberlain stayed towards the front with Burns and Henderson. Because Gretchen was astride the camel, and because he was still nursing his grudge, Daniels drifted towards the back, saying very little. The natives picked up conversations amongst themselves in their strange language, but remained, for the most part, quiet. The heat weighed down on them like exhaustion and fatigue; it couldn't be much after noon, and Gretchen already felt as if she might fall into a deep sleep. She tried picking up small talk with Chamberlain, but he proved rather bland. It didn't take long for her to figure that he'd hired her, not for the pleasure of her company, but to sour Daniels's mood. The professor thought very highly of himself--he told her so in an eternity's long drone about his accomplishments at Oxford--and the diminutive American must have insulted or cheapened his esteem. Chamberlain frowned and swatted at flies with irritated little huffs; the man was wound so tight and so ridiculously consumed with himself that Gretchen figured he was probably physically incapable of having sex with her or anyone else. She decided he had a nice, plain wife back in London or wherever, and that she messed around with his colleagues. He was that type. Gretchen had known, at one point or another, every type.

The Americans proved even less relatable. Burns and Henderson at least had personality, and they cracked a joke now and then, but Gretchen didn't understand them. They would make some comment or remark about Harrison or the Cubs or Jack Dempsey or Marion Davies, and have a rollicking laugh over it, and she wouldn't have the slightest inclination why. She'd made a few attempts to relate to their exclusive culture, first through geography (but neither one of them had ever been to New York, and, according to Henderson, neither of them planned to), then through heritage (but they were both German Lutheran--well, Henderson was half-Swedish--but either way, it meant that neither American had suffered endless nights of cabbage or knew a grandfather's tale of the Blight). She made her last attempt through sports by casually invoking the Yankees. Both were die-hard Cubs fans and informed her, with blatant arrogance, that the Yankees could go to hell, and if she thought they were still worth a shit now that the Great Bambino was hitting for the Red Sox, well, she could go to hell right along with them. Gretchen thought that was a little overenthusiastic, but said nothing as they drifted back towards Daniels to talk baseball.

Beni was laughing at her. It wasn't exactly full-out amusement, but snickering, certainly. She huffed a sigh, tilting her head over his shoulder.

"What's your problem?"

He shook his head with a nonchalant shrug. "How does it feel to be an Egyptian?"

Gretchen glared at the back of his neck. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He grunted snidely, ridiculously pleased. "I don't know. Why don't you ask those Americans about your Yankees again and see if you can figure it out?"

She hit him upside his head, her face contorting with disgust. Irritated, she wiped his sweat off on her skirt. "You're such an idiot."

"Who's an idiot?" he retorted, reaching around to smack her on the leg in retaliation. "I wasn't the one pretending to know what they were talking about."

Gretchen let out a sigh. "What would you know about it?"

"More than you," Beni's nerve-grating sing-song came back. "I know you're a reject. Just like the diggers. Just like me."

She shoved the pangs of truth down into a number place. "You're a reject because you smell bad and talk funny."

He imitated her tone in an incoherent whine. "Oh, yes. That's funny. Much like that actor Henderson and Burns were talking about. What was his name again?"

Gretchen took a breath to throw a comment back at him, but he easily interceded.

"What was that? You do not know? You have not heard of him because...why is it?" he waited a short, mocking pause. "Oh, yes. Because you live in Egypt!"

She sighed loudly. "You have to be a bastard all the time. You just can't help yourself; you're not happy unless you're annoying as hell."

Beni laughed easily. "Perhaps. But I am still the only person here you have to talk to, and this is still my camel."

"It's Daniels's camel," she corrected, her tone dark.

"If it was truly Daniels's camel, you would be walking right now."

Gretchen leaned back, irritation pulsing in her veins. She realized then why she only spent short amounts of time with the Hungarian thief. She took a few deep breaths and squinted at the horizon--at the nothingness and the promise of nothingness that stretched before them like the gaping mouth of Hell. She turned her gaze reluctantly to the forgiving black length of Beni's shirt, allowing the neutral, dark color to ease her dazzled eyes.

"You know we are in the same place, though," he whispered suddenly. She leaned foward, despite the heat, to hear him better. "No matter what, we are worthless to both of them."

It took Gretchen a moment to realize who he was speaking of.

"The natives hate us because we are white, and the whites hate us because we are native. They don't want us."

She swallowed difficultly, leaning back again. "Don't go kidding yourself. I don't want you, either."

His shoulders rose and fell in a mysterious shrug. "Then it is unfortunate that I am all you've got."

Gretchen caught the glint of his eye as he glanced back at her. Her mouth gaped, uncertain of what to say. She forced a laugh, though her heart was too heavy with something darkly truthful in his words to mean it. "Some bum deal I got."

Beni might have smiled. "We were both cheated. What do I want with a used-up whore?"

She looked down, a pain zinging through her body. What, indeed. If a half-witted thief like Gabor could figure out her worthlessness, then what use was she to anybody else? His words were slowly pulling together, and she was beginning to make sense of them. Not too many people were in their plight; that was true. They were both white people living on the bottom rung of a society that was supposed to be run by them. They were both isolated from the nations they supposedly claimed; they were the tourists that stayed too long. They didn't belong to their mother countries and they did not belong to Egypt; maybe they belonged to each other. Gretchen's stomach twisted sickeningly.

"Do you want to marry me when we get back?"

Her head jerked up, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he stared steadily ahead. His tone was unreadable; she wished she knew if he was joking. A moment later, she didn't care.

"No."

He snorted. "Neither do I. But if we do not marry each other, we probably won't get married at all."

Gretchen shook her head. "Like you want to get married."

"I don't want to die alone."

She breathed an irritated sigh. "Then kill youself in a marketplace."

Beni pulled on the rein, trying to slow the stubborn animal they rode. The sun was pulling at an excrutiating, slow pace towards the horizon. It was nearing the end of another day.

"I'm only saying that you're not good enough for anyone else, so you might as well marry me."

Gretchen glared at the back of his head, her fingers curling into fists that would not be raised--her mind humming with violent acts that would not be realized. She blinked hard a few times, and she really wasn't sure why. Taking a deep breath to check her anger, she glanced skyward and changed the subject.

"Are we going to set up camp or what? I should probably go screw the professor."

Beni lifted himself from the seat of the saddle, rising to a stand with his feet firmly planted in the Arabic equivalent to stirrups. He glanced over the weary travelers, trying to get an approving glance from one of the Americans. His eyes flitted to hers for a moment.

"If I had money, you would marry me."

She glared up at him. "I'd marry anyone with money."

A little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So would I. But you would make me happy."

Gretchen let out an exasperated sigh. "Why the hell is that?"

"Because all I would have to do is give you a little money and you would always put out."

She seriously considered pushing him off the camel. "All I'd have to do is give you a little more money and you'd sleep in a different room."

He laughed outright, waving Burns over. "A match made in heaven."

"We're not getting married," Gretchen pronounced firmly, her patience nearing its end. The sound of hoofbeats neared them. She hadn't realized how far their camel had drifted from the group.

"That's because we do not have the money," he winked at her, glancing at Burns.

"And we won't," she told him pointedly. "Ever."

Beni settled back into the saddle, patting her leg in consolation. "Probably not. If I ever get the money, I am marrying a blonde with breasts twice your size."

Gretchen snorted. "If I ever get the money, I'm having you killed."