Dreamers of the Day (19 page)

“And what of your father?” he asked next.

“Have you noticed?” he asked a few minutes later. “No matter what I ask, the answer is always ‘Mumma.’”

I laughed and put my face in my hands. “I know, I know! Mumma always told me, ‘Agnes! Do
try
to keep to the point!’ But one thing always leads me to another, I’m afraid.” And off I went again, in my rattletrap way.

Karl’s face, ordinarily open, became quite unreadable until I got to the part where Mumma sold the factory so that we girls could go to college. To my surprise, he laughed, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Agnes, your mother did not sell the factory for you and your sister! She sold it because your brother refused to work for her.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t that—”

“But, yes! Don’t you see? Your brother knew he would be under her rule forever, so? He ran from her to the army. When her plans were opposed, she threw the factory away in anger.”

“Karl, no! It wasn’t like that at all—”

“And your sister left, just as your brother did! Do you think it is only chance that she moved so far from home?”

“But that was missionary work! Her husband was—”

“A man who could take her far from Mumma, and for an irreproachable reason,” Karl said, rendering me speechless. “Your father did just the same. He worked hard because it was his duty, but it was also an honorable way to escape his wife. He could not bring himself to abandon his family. So? He chose to work himself to death.”

“Well! That was hardly a choice,” I said huffily. “Papa had debts, Karl. He had to make good—”

“It is remarkable what people choose to do, and then insist they had no choice. You had plans to leave as well, but your Mumma cried. Some tears and
paf
! You gave up your dreams.”

I had no answer for him. I was stunned, astonished that he would turn on me like that.

“Your mother believed she was harmed when your brother left,” Karl said, “but no! That was disappointment.” He sat back in his chair and waved his pipe in the direction of an imaginary vista. “If your home has a beautiful view of a forest on someone else’s land, you may enjoy the view, but you have no right to it. It does not belong to you. If one day the owner decides to cut down all his trees for lumber, you may be disappointed, but you are not harmed. It is his, not yours, to dispose of as he wishes. Your mother acted as though your lives were hers. When your plans differed from hers, she lost a view of the future that she imagined but had no right to.” He leaned over the table, his eyes as merrily compassionate as his words were harsh. “Agnes, your mother was a tyrant.”

“Karl!” I gasped. “You don’t—How can—You’re not being fair!”

He laid his pipe in the ashtray and reached across the table to take my hands in his. “Think!” he commanded with a curious kindly insistence. “Was there ever a time when your mother did not get exactly what she wanted?”

How often had I imagined that he would take my hands? But not like that, not after saying such awful things about Mumma—about my whole family!

“The only way to end her tyranny was to leave,” Karl said, “but she cried, and you gave up. Your life is your own, Agnes. You are handsome and accomplished and brave. You must leave your mother behind or you will never become the woman you were meant to be.”

I pulled away, and when we parted a little while later, I felt lost in a fog of anger. Back in my hotel room, I wept and paced, furious and alone except for Rosie. Karl had no right to say all that. He didn’t know Mumma or Papa, or Ernest or Lillie. He didn’t know me! He had no right to call poor Mumma a tyrant. She never asked for anything for herself. She was good and generous and hardworking. He could ask anyone in Cedar Glen. They’d all tell him that!

But I’ll bet he’s right,
Mildred whispered.
Sooner or later, she always got what she wanted, didn’t she? And she had kind of a mean streak.

Mumma herself was strangely silent.

Any grade school teacher knows the demonstration. Lay a bar magnet on the table. Sprinkle iron filings evenly across the surface of ordinary white typing paper. Hold the paper taut between your fingers. Carefully move the paper above the magnet, then give it a slight shake to overcome friction’s resistance.

When you set the particles in motion, the children gasp and clap. As if alive, the iron filings rearrange themselves, fanning out above the positive and negative poles at opposite ends of the magnet, curving inward to form concentric ovals around its shaft.

“Why did you decide to come to Cairo?” Karl had asked me on our first day together as we strolled, side by side, with Rosie in the vanguard. “It is an unusual choice for someone who has not been abroad before. Most Americans go to Paris or London. Or Rome.”

I told him how Lillian had urged me to visit her in the Middle East, back before the war. She had even quoted Muhammad: “‘Do not tell me how educated you are,’ the Prophet said. ‘Tell me how far you have traveled.’”

The explanation seemed to satisfy Karl, but it was not the truth, not if I was honest with myself.

Why do we travel, really? If we are of a thoughtful nature, we may wish to improve our minds, to examine the manners and customs of others and compare them to our own. For these reasons, we study guidebooks and make lists of the churches, palaces, galleries, and museums we’ll visit. We take photographs and write our impressions in diaries. We might even justify the expense of the trip by planning to share our knowledge with others upon our return.

But is it really an education that we yearn to acquire when we travel? Or—be honest, now—do we more sincerely desire souvenirs? What tourist returns with lighter bags than those he packed at home? We want something to display, a memento, a “conversation piece” that will silently inform a guest:
I have traveled. I have awakened under a fierce foreign sun
. We look for a painting, a sculpture, a vase that will whisper:
I have shopped in
souks
and bargained in bazaars, and I have this to show for it
.

In all practicality, of course, one could buy such objects at home. After all, there are importers, antique shops, and art galleries—even in Ohio. Why, then, do we undertake the expense and risk of travel? Why leave the comforts of home for flies and disease, heat and dust, crowds and the risk of theft? Because souvenirs remind even the traveler of his journey:
I was not always who and what I seem, sitting in this Ohio parlor. Here is a talisman of a magical time when nothing—not even I—was ordinary
.

If we are timid or rebellious or both, then travel—by itself and by ourselves—forces us to leave our old lives behind. Travel can overcome habitual resistance and set the soul in motion along magnetic lines of attraction. On foreign soil, desires—denied, policed, constrained at home—can be unbound. What hides beneath the skin-thin surface of the domesticated self is sensual, sexual, adult.

Why then, truly, had I come to Egypt? To flee everything that was conventional and predictable and respectable. I wanted to lock up my mother’s house in Cedar Glen and walk away from my own dull mediocrity. I wanted to escape anyone and everything that had ever told me
No
.

As the hours passed, so did my anger with Karl. I understood at last what I’d experienced while planning this journey: the excitement and fear, the happiness and guilt. Surely those were the very emotions one might have felt when planning a tryst with a secret lover.

You are handsome and accomplished and brave,
he’d said, taking my hands in his.

In those hours, far from home, beyond the scrutiny of those who knew me in Ohio, the very meaning of sin began to change. To leave the apple unpicked—that was sin. To choose loneliness if love—even illicit love—were offered, that seemed worse than sin.

That would make of my life a tragedy.

The next morning there was a knock at my door. Expecting Rosie’s little boy, I ran my hands through my hair, pulled on my wrapper, picked Rosie up, and opened the door.

The room service man bid me, “Good morning, madam,” and wheeled in a cart heavily laden with silver platters, pitchers, and bowls. Behind him in the hallway, Karl was holding flowers and newspapers. On his face was a sheepish look that asked,
Agnes, am I forgiven?

Rosie danced and spun and barked at our feet. Karl tipped the waiter. Grinning crookedly at me, he traded me the flowers for Rosie’s leash. “Walk you dog, madams? I gave the boy a day off. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

I brushed my teeth and bathed and combed my hair. A bit of makeup. A fresh dressing gown. Ready, and slightly breathless, I stepped out onto the balcony to watch the sun climb, listening to the hiss and clatter of palm fronds that rattled in the morning breeze.

I will do this, I thought. I am forty years old, and it is long past time. My life is my own.

At last, I saw Karl on his way back toward the hotel, with Rosie trotting merrily ahead of him. I stretched and waved. The motion caught his attention. He paused, shading his eyes with his hand. When he saw me, he went motionless.

It’s difficult and rather pointless to deceive yourself when you are dead, and I can admit it now: Karl was startled to see me waiting for him, still dressed only in a robe, but I chose to read his expression as mere surprise. There was a long pause before he shortened up on Rosie’s leash and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, glancing each way for traffic. Something he saw made him raise his face to the sky, eyes closed. Then he looked at me and shook his head, smiling ruefully. He and Rosie darted across the street and were lost to my sight as they passed beneath the hotel marquee.

Moments later, I saw what Karl had: Churchill’s long black automobile with miniature Union Jacks affixed to its front fenders. The car rolled to a stop at the Continental. The young driver Davis got out. I heard Karl’s heavy steps hurrying down the hallway. He and Rosie burst into the room just as the telephone rang.

“I completely forgot!” Karl whispered hoarsely. “It’s Sunday! You must go—”

“Yes, of course,” I was saying into the mouthpiece. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Stricken, I replaced the handset in its cradle.

“I’ll take care of Rosie,” Karl said.

“I should have made some excuse!” I cried, exasperated with myself. Perhaps if I had been in the habit of lying, it would have been different, but my mind just didn’t work that way. I lifted my hands in despair. “Karl, what on earth does one wear for a camel ride to the pyramids?”

Galvanized, he threw open the double doors of the room’s tall sandalwood wardrobe and considered the possibilities.

Without thinking, I blurted, “And I had been hoping you would undress me!”

Both of us froze, equally shocked.

Eyes wide, I clapped my hands over my mouth, but the absurdity of it all suddenly blossomed. I began to laugh. An instant later, so did Karl. For a few precious moments, we were helpless in each other’s arms, wailing until we were weak.

“They’re waiting,” I gasped and waved a hand toward the wardrobe. “Pick something! I have no idea!”

Karl flipped through the clothing, pausing when he got to the sport suit Mildred had recommended in case I was invited to play golf or something. Wool flannel, in a smart navy blue, the jacket was fingertip length with braided trim around the cuffs. It looked vaguely equestrian, which seemed appropriate given that camels might be considered vaguely equine. “But it comes with a skirt,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” Karl said. “Tourist saddles allow ladies to sit with modesty.”

I snatched a cream-colored blouse off a hanger and dashed into the bathroom to change. I emerged still buckling a wide belt over the blouse. Karl held out the jacket. I spun into it and grabbed a tan cloth hat with a turned-back brim. Kid gloves in hand, I presented myself for inspection.

“It needs one thing more,” Karl said. He selected a striped scarf and, coming close, knotted it cleverly around my neck. He stepped back, looked me up and down, and pronounced the ensemble “very smart.”

“Now go,” he said. “You can tell me all about it when you get back.”

Then he kissed me and sent me on my way.

It would have been more thrilling, of course, had Karl kissed me on the mouth, but no matter. I flew down the staircase aware of the lingering sensations: his hands on my shoulders, his lips against my forehead. Now that my mind was made up, delay and anticipation could only make romance more delicious. I was off on an adventure, and Karl would be waiting for me when I got back.

“Morning, miss,” said young Davis, holding the door for me. When he declared, “Don’t you look nice!” I accepted the compliment without argument.

The Churchills and Detective Sergeant Thompson had gone ahead earlier with the Coxes, Davis said, and so I had the grand car to myself. The weather had turned fresh and cool overnight. At home I’d have called it Canadian air, and it made my wool worsted suit seem as perfect as the morning. When we arrived at the staging ground, it became apparent that there was no British consensus about what to wear for this event. Miss Bell was off smoking by herself, dressed for the Arctic in high-topped button shoes and an ankle-length woolen coat with a huge fur collar that hid her neck. Her dark felt hat was squashed-looking and small, quite unlike the wide straw sun hat Lady Cox was wearing.

“There is something infuriating about a man’s wardrobe,” Lady Cox remarked, fussing with the woolen cloak she’d pulled over a long day dress. “The only question he ever has to ask is, ‘Dinner jacket or tailcoat?’”

The men, however, were as variously attired as the ladies. Several were in uniform, but headgear ranged from topee to field cap. Colonel Lawrence, Sergeant Thompson, and Lord Cox wore ordinary suits and neckties, their trilbies’ small brims turned up all round. Only the burly Winston Churchill had a topcoat on, and its added bulk made him look more than ever like Mr. Toad of Toad Hall.

“I considered a bedsheet and a pillowcase,” he rumbled, “but Lawrence told me it was not the done thing.”

“You just didn’t want to compete with me,” his wife teased, Clementine herself being swathed top to bottom in a head scarf and white canvas driving duster as voluminous as Arab robes. “I should have consulted with you, Miss Shanklin. A golfing suit is such a good idea! I brought knickerbockers but—” She glanced toward Miss Bell and leaned over to whisper, “I was afraid to wear them.”