Inside Straight

The long road from the Aswan airport was drifted with sand, and the air above the asphalt wavered and rippled. The wind through the open windows of the taxi only seemed to stir the heat. “It has not rained here in six years,” the driver said, glancing over his shoulder to where Michael was crammed uncomfortably into the rear seat. His eyes widened slightly, and Michael figured he must look like a large spider stuffed into a too-small box. “When our people weep, we save the tears.”

The car seemed ready to shed side panels like a snake’s discarded skin with every pothole and bump. The vehicle shuddered from badly out-of-alignment tires, every inch of the interior was coated with a fine layer of sand, and the driver—“Ahmed,” he said. “It is like ‘Bob’ in your language. A common name, but I am a man of uncommon talent”—used his horn at every possible opportunity, or simply as punctuation. Ahmed spoke English well enough, but he also spoke it constantly. “The Living Gods, they say ’Ah, we will take us back to the old ways, the right ways, the way it should be for us.’ Egypt, she is ancient and that’s why she likes them, but these Ikhlas al-Din and the Caliph …” He shook his head and swerved violently around a slower car, horn blaring, as Michael’s head banged first against the roof, then the side.

“Ta’ala musso!” Ahmed shouted from the window. Michael assumed it was a curse. Ahmed wrestled the car back into its lane and continued his monologue. Michael wished that Ahmed would look more at the road and less at him. “You are what they call a ‘joker,’ yes? Myself, I have many friends who are jokers and a few even in my family, so I am not offended to look at you. Here, so many with the virus take on the shapes of the old gods—it is the very land that does this. Their forms are in the sand and the stones and the air. The waters of the Nile flow with it. You, in your United States, you take on whatever shape you wish, like you with your many arms to make much noise, but here—here the old gods use the virus to allow their shapes to return to their ancient home. These Ikhlas al-Din, they believe that Allah has cursed the deformed ones for their sins, but even though I am Muslim I am not so certain. I wonder if the Old Ones aren’t truly attempting to return. When you go see the temples and the places of the gods here, you’ll wonder, too. Go to Philae, or even to Sehel; I will take you.”

Michael grunted, his head slamming against the roof of the car with every bump, his legs folded up against his chest, his several hands clutching at any hold he could find. The heat made him sweat, which made the sand stick to his bare skin, and he could taste the gritty stuff in his mouth. They drove rapidly east, through a village where people watched the taxi from open doorways or behind shuttered windows. The market they passed was closed and deserted; Michael suspected that most of the inhabitants had already fled the area. The driver turned onto a four-lane highway, and Michael saw ahead the curve of the massive dam that held Lake Nasser. “Sadd el Aali,” Ahmed said, pointing through the sandblasted windshield. “The High Dam. And there, that is our memorial, celebrating the cooperation of Egypt and the Soviet Union which allowed us to build such a wonderful dam.”

The memorial was monumentally ugly to Michael’s eyes: five huge pillars like the petals of a concrete flower holding up a concrete ring at the summit. There were tents erected in the open space around the memorial. As they approached, guards with automatic weapons waved the taxi to the side of the road. AH of the guards appeared to be jokers. Ahmed honked at the men and appeared prepared to run them down, but Michael reached over the seat with a muscular top hand and pulled the wheel hard to the right. “This is my stop,” he said, and Ahmed shrugged and braked. Michael opened one of the rear doors and managed to unfold himself from the car without quite falling down. He rummaged in a pocket and tossed several bills onto the passenger seat of the taxi. “Salam alekum,” he said.

“Wa alekum es salam,” Ahmed replied, glancing at the bills—that he didn’t bother to haggle told Michael he’d drastically overpaid. “Though I doubt that you will find much peace here,” Ahmed said solemnly. “Here, my number if you need me again.” Michael took the crumpled business card as the guards approached, their weapons trained on his bare chest. He put down his duffel bag and raised his many hands.

“Hey, Drummer Boy!” one of them said in Arabic-accented English. He lifted an iPod from the breast pocket of his fatigues, and Michael saw the white cord of headphones running up to a hairless head that looked more like a skull, the buds stuffed into earless holes. “Joker Plague—love your music. I have all your CDs.”