Demon Box

Left alone, I tried to recall what I knew about geodetic phenomena. I remembered my trip to Stonehenge, watching the winter solstice sun rise up the slot between those two rocks directly in front of me, knowing that exactly half a year later it would slide up between those other two rocks exactly to my right, and how the phenomenon forced you to strain your concept of where you are to include the tilt of our axis, the swing of our orbit around the sun, the singular position on our globe of this circle of prehistoric rocks—how it made you appreciate being in the only place on earth where those two solstice suns would rise thus.

I know that the pyramid was built in such a place—one of the acupuncture points of the physical planet—but no matter how I tried I couldn’t get that planetary orientation that Stonehenge gives you.

For one thing I was still disoriented by that feeling of dimensions dropping away—everything still seemed flat, even the back of the Sphinx’s head—and for another, I couldn’t quite convince myself that I was alone. There seemed to be someone still close, and coming closer! The two hundred Egyptian pound notes in my pocket were suddenly bleeping like a beacon and I was beginning to glance about for a weapon when, down the hill, the Sphinx’s whole head lit up and proclaimed in a voice like Orson Welles to the tenth power:

“I… am… the… Sphinx. I am… very old.”

It boomed this out over the accompanying strains of Verdi’s Aida, as Chephren lit up a glorious green, and little Mykerinos glowed blue, and the Great Pyramid blazed an appropriate gold. It was the Sound and Light show, put on for the benefit of an outdoor audience at the bottom of the hill. From the tombs and mastabas everywhere banks of concealed floodlights illuminated the pyramids in slowly shifting hues while the Sphinx ran it all down in grandly amplified English. I just happened to hit it English night. The other performances rotate through French, German, Russian, and Arabic.

In this golden glow I suddenly saw the little figure I had sensed, hunkered on a limestone block about thirty yards away, watching me. Taking advantage of the light, I got up and headed immediately back around the Great Pyramid in long strides. I didn’t turn until I had reached the road. He was right behind me.

“Good evening, my friend. A very nice evening, yes?” He hurried the last few steps to fall in beside me. He wore a blue gellabia and scuffed black oxfords without socks. “My name is Marag.”

I came to know that it was spelled that way but it was pronounced with a soft “g” so it rhymed with collage, only with the accent on the first syllable: Mah-razhhh.

“Excuse me but I hear you wish to buy some hashish? Five pounds, this much.”

He made a little circle with his thumb and finger and smiled through it. His face was polished teak, alert and angled, with a neat black mustache over tiny white teeth. His eyes flashed from their webwork of amused wrinkles. An old amusement. I judged him to be at least forty, as easily seventy, and not quite as tall as my thirteen-year-old son. Hurrying along beside me he seemed to barely touch the ground. When at last I relinquished the five-pound note and shook his hand to seal our deal, his fingers sifted through my grip like so much sand.

There’s a little outdoor restaurant at the edge of the aouda where I sipped Turkish coffee and watched the pyramid change colors until the lights went out and the Sphinx shut up, then I paid my tab and left. I had waited nearly an hour. He had said twenty minutes. But I knew the rules, they’re international: whether you’re in Tangiers or Tijuana, North Beach or Novato, you don’t get up off the bread till you see the score. Twenty minutes ... in the season of the apricots.

But just as I came out of the restaurant I saw a little blue figure come whisking around up the shadowy trail from the village. Panting and sweating, he slipped five little packages into my hand, each about the size of a .45 cartridge and wrapped in paper tape. I started digging at one with my thumbnail.

“I had to go more far than I think,” he apologized. “Eh? Is good? Five pieces, five pounds?”

I realized he was telling me that the score had cost him exactly what I had put out, none left over for his efforts. His face sparkled up at me. Reaching again for my wallet, I also realized that he could have packaged five goat turds.

He saw my hesitation. “As you wish.” He shrugged. I gave him two American bucks, worth about a pound and a half on the black market. After examining the two greenbacks he grinned to let me know he appreciated my logic if not my generosity.

“Any night, this corner. Ask for Marag. Everybody know where to find Marag.” Reaching out, he sifted his hand again through mine, his eyes glittering. “And your name?”

I told him, somewhat suspicious still: was he going to burn me, bust me, or both, as the dealers were known to do in Tijuana?