The Pharaoh's Secret

FTER THE LONG FLIGHT I’M SO GLAD TO get out of the airplane, to move my legs again, that I forget to be excited about being here. But as we drive to the hotel, along the Nile River, a wave of wonder bubbles up inside of me. We’re really here, in Cairo, and suddenly I’m wide awake. I expect to see brilliant colors and ornate palaces. Instead, I see cement slums, cardboard shanties, and then, as we get closer to the center of the city, the same anonymous buildings you see everywhere, sleek glass-and-metal high-rises next to crumbling cinder block monstrosities.

Luckily our hotel is one of the modern buildings, but I can’t help feeling disappointed. This isn’t how I imagined Cairo. Where are the richly woven carpets, the crowded bazaars crammed with spices, olives, and old, battered lamps that might hold a genie? I know I shouldn’t expect Aladdin’s adventures to come to life, but I thought Egypt would feel familiar, like a place I’d known from my dreams. Even though I was born in New York, I’ve always felt that once I came to Egypt, I’d recognize my real home, the place where I belong. After all, for as long as I can remember, my grandparents have been telling me stories about the country they came from, about growing up in a village south of Cairo where the wealthiest family was the one with the most camels, where there was one streetlight for the whole town—and no streets, just dirt lanes—where ancient curses and charms brought magic into the simplest lives. But this isn’t an enchanted village. It’s a big, ugly, modern city.

We get out of the cab and Dad strides inside to the reception desk with my little brother, Adom, bouncing beside him, but I’m not ready to go into the lobby yet. I want to find some hint of an older, more magical Egypt. I stand in the circular drive, facing the river. I’m looking at the Nile, I tell myself, and it’s not just an exotic name anymore, but a real river, flowing brown and wide before my eyes.

I’m standing there, gawking like the tourist I am, when a small, shriveled woman who looks older than the pyramids sidles up to me. I think she’s a beggar, and I’m about to shake my head and tell her I don’t have any money when she presses a small, cold object into my hand, holding my fingers tightly closed over it with her own gnarled hand. A gold snake with ruby eyes circles her wrist and I can’t stop staring at the elegant bracelet, so out of place on her wrinkled skin. I don’t want whatever it is she’s forced into my hand—I want the bracelet, with a sudden, piercing hunger. I’m not the kind of girl who cares much about jewelry, so I can’t explain the yearning ache that comes out of nowhere.

Please, tell me where could I buy . . . I point to the bracelet, but she shakes her head and stares at me with piercing black eyes. Then she nods as if satisfied, loosens her grip, and walks away, leaving a cloud of spicy scent behind and the image of the golden snake seared into my memory. I sniff hungrily, smelling cardamom, pepper, and a trace of some herb. It smells like the Egypt I imagined.

Who was that old woman? What did she want? I open my hand. A stone carving rests in my palm. Although the day is hot, the small sculpture is chilled, as if it’s been buried underground for a long time. It’s a model of some kind of building, like the miniature Colosseums and Parthenons I’ve seen sold on tourist stands in Italy and Greece. Except this isn’t some cheap, plastic, mass-produced souvenir, and I have no idea what it represents. It’s not a place I know, but the carving is clearly a work of art. There are three stories to it, each one slightly smaller than the one below, with beautifully detailed columns. I can even see the suggestions of carvings on the tiny walls. Small statues head the ramps that join the tiers. The stone has a translucent golden glow, capturing the sunlight that touches it. This, I realize, is how I pictured Cairo, something like this. The stone seems to throb in my hand like a living creature. It isn’t the bracelet I wanted so desperately, but it has just as much magical presence. I take out my sketchbook, sit on the bench by the hotel entrance, and start to draw the carving.

Cool! Adom’s voice startles me just as I’ve finished my drawing, and I quickly close my hand over the carving. Where did you get that? What is it? Let me see!

I don’t know what it is, I say, opening my hand again. But it’s amazing. Look at all the detail!

Where’d you get it? Adom asks again.

An old woman gave it to me. I don’t believe it myself, even as I say it. It seems like it magically appeared in my hand, perfect and whole.

Talibah, Adom—there you are! Dad walks out into the glare of the day and shields his eyes from the sun. Come on, our rooms are ready. Let’s get settled, then we can explore a little.

I don’t know why, but I don’t show him the carving. It feels like a secret somehow, and I slip it into my backpack along with the sketchbook. Adom sees me and understands. He doesn’t say anything to Dad, either.

That night I have a strange dream. I’m in a dark corridor, the air stale and warm, tasting of dust and clay. Find him, a woman’s voice says. The walls are alive with the grimacing faces of demons, plodding herds of cows, and dancers swaying, but when I try to look closer, the figures melt and blur, shifting into new forms—from fish leaping out of a river to a procession of men with animal heads. Where am I? And where is the voice coming from? Find him! it demands, more urgent than before.

Who? I yell. Find who? There’s no answer, only the endless corridor and the constantly changing shapes on the walls. Who? I shout again. And then I wake up—the painted corridor is gone, along with the commanding voice.

It takes me a minute to remember I’m not at home, but in the hotel. I rub my eyes, trying to clear out the sleep and the sense that I’ve forgotten something important, something the dream demanded from me. What is it? What am I supposed to do?

Find him! What does it mean? I don’t know anyone who’s missing. Adom is asleep in the bed next to mine, snoring so loudly I’m surprised I was ever able to fall asleep. And Dad’s in his own room next door. There’s no other him, only the strange echo of the dream.

Even though it’s still dark, there’s no way I can get back to sleep. Instead, I get dressed, thinking everything will seem more normal as soon as dawn comes. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something important, like a final exam or a permission slip. Maybe the feeling has to do with being in Egypt for the first time. Mom and Dad were both born here, but we never visited their old home, maybe because we don’t have any relatives left here, except for distant cousins. Dad’s parents live in New York, near us. I never knew my other grandparents, since they died when Mom was young. And all our other relatives are spread around the world. Dad has a brother in Morocco, another in India, and a sister in Jordan.

Now that Mom’s been dead for five years, now that I’m fourteen and Adom, the baby of the family, is ten, Dad finally realized he wanted to show us his native country. Dad’s a historian, specializing in ancient Egyptian literature. His work was the main reason for this trip. Since his meetings coincided with our spring break, he decided to take us with him, something I think he should have done long ago. I’ve wanted to see Egypt ever since Mom showed me photos of the pyramids when I was little, but it was always next year or when your brother is older. We waited so long for the perfect time that it never came—with Mom, that is. Yes, I’m in Egypt, but I never got to go with her.

For Dad, it’s a return to a familiar, beloved home. He’s excited to be here and promises us we’ll have a wonderful time. After begging to come here for so long, I’m still waiting for that to happen. Except for the old woman and the strange carving, Cairo isn’t what I expected. And it’s clear it’s not my home, like I’d hoped. I may look Egyptian, but I can’t speak fluent Arabic. When people talked to me yesterday, most of their words were just piping tones to me—even when I understood small fragments, nothing made sense.

Despite all that’s strange, I have to admit there are parts that seem oddly familiar. The landscape here— the tall palm trees, the brown ribbon of the Nile River cutting through the city, the dusty smell of the air—none of it is at all like New York, but somehow I recognize it. Maybe it’s because of all the stories about Egypt Grandma’s told me. Maybe the words have sunk deep into my bones. Maybe they swim in my veins so that I’m part of this country, too, whether I feel it or not. At least, I want that to be true.

I draw back the edge of the curtain and watch the orange glow of the sun rising between the slender palms on the other side of the Nile. It’s almost morning. For a second, the tall tree trunks look like gold-tipped obelisks balancing the golden sun between them. Obelisks in downtown Cairo? When I blink my eyes, the obelisks vanish, and the familiar palm trees are back where they belong. First I dream of voices, now I’m seeing things. I feel my forehead, but I don’t seem feverish. Maybe I just want so much for this place to be magical, like what I expected, like what it promised to be with the old woman, and I’m imagining it that way. I sigh. I wish there were obelisks across the river. I wish a genie would fly by on a magic carpet. Instead, I’m trapped in a bland, ordinary hotel room. I could be in Anywhere, USA, not in the capital of Egypt.

The obelisks are gone, but I draw them while I can remember what they looked like. Maybe the only place I’ll find the Egypt of my dreams is in my sketchbook.

At breakfast in the hotel restaurant, Dad bubbles over with plans. Today we’ll go to the museum—it’s one of the greatest in the world. Everyone knows about King Tut’s treasure, but there’s so much else to see! I want to show you some of the beautiful papyrus manuscripts on display.

Dad’s writing a book on the most common ancient Egyptian papyrus, the Book of the Dead, so I’m not surprised that manuscripts are on the top of his Must See list. And there are some new artifacts exhibited that recently turned up on eBay and were confiscated by the Egyptian government.

On eBay? Cool! Adom says. Now you can get the mummy’s curse over the Internet!

Don’t be ridiculous. Dad laughs. There is no curse. You’ve been watching too many bad movies. He tries to look serious, but I can see the edge of a smile on his lips. And it’s no joke to see stolen antiquities for sale, even in cyberspace. Then he turns to me. And you, Talibah, aren’t you excited to see these things?

I look up from the eggs I’ve been scraping from one side of my plate to the other. I’m trying not to think about Mom, how she’s not here with us, but the eggs don’t distract me, and no matter how much I rearrange them, they don’t look appetizing. Huh? I mean, yeah.

You must be tired, Dad says. Jet lag, I’m sure. Did you sleep okay?

I hate it when he tells me how I’m feeling, as if I don’t know myself. I can predict what Dad will say if I start on my brother’s snoring, so I just nod my head. He can figure out whether I’m nodding yes to being tired or yes to sleeping okay.

Dad dumps a fresh slice of toast on my plate. Eat something. You’re going to need a lot of energy to handle all the big plans we have today.

That’s Dad’s answer to any problem—eat something. But the toast looks better than the eggs, so I pick it up and nibble on a corner. Anyway, I know how exhausting museums are, especially if my father’s leading the tour. He’s dragged us to museums all our lives and there’s no point whining about yet another stuffy old building crammed with paintings and sculptures. When Dad says you’re going to a museum, there’s no escape. It’s the price Adom and I pay for being able to travel to amazing places.

I finish the toast and some strong, sugary tea. Now I’m awake and ready to go, while Adom is buttering his fifth slice of bread. That boy can really pack it away. If it were up to him, we’d eat breakfast until it was time for lunch, then start all over again. Dad’s busy poring over the train schedule and map, figuring out when to leave for Luxor. He doesn’t care that Adom’s stuffing his face with more food than a camel could stow in its hump.

Can we go now? I ask, sick of waiting for Mr. Eat-It-All to finish.

Dad looks up from the notebook, where he’s been jotting down notes. It’s like he’s the one who’s been caught in a dream and is suddenly waking up, noticing that we’re here, waiting to do something more interesting than eating.

Ah, the two of you are ready? Yes, let’s get going. So much to see, so much to do. He pushes back his chair noisily. Come, come, the museum is just a short walk away, no need for a cab.

That’s a relief! I say. People drive like maniacs here! It’s a wonder there aren’t more accidents. No one pays attention to the concept of lanes or intersections. It’s like the lines on the road are suggestions, not guides to where the cars should go. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a car drive on the sidewalk or into the hotel lobby!

Ah, but there are accidents. Dad winks at me. Constantly, so many no one pays them any mind. But we don’t have to worry about that. Until we cross the street. He winks again, this time at Adom.

Dad’s right. The museum is very close, just around the corner, so we don’t have to brave the rushing flood of cars, donkey carts, and people. As soon as we walk into the vast entrance hall, my heart starts pounding furiously, like it does when I glimpse Casey Moreno in the halls at school. It’s like a tug deep inside me, a pull drawing me into the museum. There’s something for me here—suddenly I’m sure. It’s not my imagination, and I doubt it’s a boyfriend.

SUALLY A MUSEUM IS AN ESCAPE FROM THE noisy rush of city streets. It’s quiet inside the Cairo museum, but just as chaotic as outside—a still version of the same jumbled disorder. I’m used to museums that are chilly, majestic spaces with art evenly distributed on the walls, sculptures lined up with a clean discipline, cases of smaller objects organized so that the smallest fragment of pottery displayed is labeled and explained. The museum in Cairo is more like an old, eccentric aunt’s attic or a giant yard sale, except everything is beyond old. Objects from thousands of years ago are plopped down in the rooms in no order that I can figure out, some identified with yellowed bits of paper, others not described at all, so that you’re left to guess what it is you’re looking at.

It’s exactly the kind of museum that Adom loves. I can tell he’s imagining that he’s rummaging through a pirate’s lair where treasures from exotic voyages have been heaped up while waiting for the captain’s return with yet more loot. To me, it’s more like entering a haunted house. The dusty cobwebs add to the spooky atmosphere, and I can almost hear chains clanking in the ghostly distance. The air is heavy with ancient secrets. I feel sharply alert, as if I expect to bump into a ghost or a mummy risen from the dead.

Dad inhales loudly. Ah, he pronounces in that professorial tone he has, smell that? That, my children, is the perfume of Egypt—her stones, her papyri, her golden riches. The history of Egypt is all here, from the earliest times before the pyramids to Cleopatra and the Romans who followed her.

Adom sniffs. "Smells like they haven’t vacuumed or dusted in a long time. I love this place! Next time you nag me to clean my room, I’ll say