The Lure of Gold

While waiting for our group to be assembled in the lobby of the hotel, I can’t help but traipse over to the jewellery store. I can’t blame the tractor beam for this: this is all my doing. Looking has never hurt anyone, as far as I know. Looking ends up hurting my wallet. In one of the display cases, I spot a stunning cartouche pendant of Tutankhamun’s name, fashioned in gold, lapis, turquoise, and coral. Magically, my credit card leaves the confines of my wallet and hurls itself into the hands of the shopkeeper, who then joyfully swipes it to process the electronic transaction. It fails. The merchant tries twice more with no better result. 

Not fully understanding why the credit card company has no problem allowing charges of thousands of dollars for hospital bills, but gets into a snit for a measly little pendant, I ask Mr. Vendor if I can call them by making a toll-free call from his phone. He doesn’t understand and wants me to pay for the phone call. I try to explain the mechanics of a toll-free call. Still no go. With time running out and not wanting to pay thirty dollars for a free phone call—and not wanting to give Matilda an excuse to pound the card-swiping machine to a pulp—I express my apologies to Mr. Vendor and leave the store without buying the pendant. 

By the time I crutch past the concierge’s desk on my way to the bus, the running shopkeeper has caught up to me. Mr. Vendor really wants the sale, so he convinces the concierge to put my call through. I talk to the credit card person who doesn’t know why the transaction blew a gasket in their system. He advises me to get Mr. Vendor to try again, requiring a return visit to the jewellery shop. By now, the bus is at the front of the hotel, and my travel companions are boarding, ready to leave. I’m torn. I really want the cartouche but I don’t want to delay the group.

In the end, I follow Mr. Vendor back to the store, the lure of gold having won. The electronic transaction goes through. Success! I fly out of the store, triumphant. Throughout the lobby, groups of people, tourists, and other bipeds part like the Red (Blue) Sea to let me pass, not wanting to get run over by the metallic blur with the geeky hat and the two stomachs. I get to the bus, knee-climb into it, and find my seat. Okay, we can leave.

We can’t leave. One gentleman in our group can’t find his passport. Suitcases are opened, bags are emptied, pockets are probed, and finally the errant passport is located. Now we can leave. With the bus pulling out onto the road, I show off my new acquisition. Amid the oohs and aahs, one of the peanuts from the gallery at the back of the bus jokingly pipes up, “Did it have your name on it, for you to be so intent on buying it?” 

“Yes, I’m Tutankhamun, King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Ruler of Thebes. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Now bow to me, minion.” I retort sarcastically.

“Well, I’m Nefertiti”, another voice chimes in from the middle of the bus.

“Hatshepsut and Amenhotep, over here!” 

Before long, we have a full complement of ancient Egyptian royalty on board, Ramses being wisely absent. My tour mates know better than to utter the name of my nemesis. That doesn’t stop me from thinking about him and his connection to the pugnacious Matilda. The bus ride offers a good opportunity to sit quietly and delve into the matter. 

A thought occurs to me. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. While it has been easy to blame Ramses for everything that’s gone wrong—and he is guilty of many things—maybe he’s not responsible for this. Maybe this is the one thing in which he’s had no part whatsoever. 

Thinking about it, the trouble started shortly after I bestowed the new monikers on the crutches. Maybe Matilda just doesn’t like her name. Could it be that simple?

Another thought dawns on me. I inspect Beatrice and Matilda closely. They look identical, yet I can tell them apart, which is why I always use Beatrice on my left and Matilda on my right. There’s no discerning characteristic to differentiate one from the other. From a standpoint of functionality, there’s no left and right crutch; they can be used on either side. Yet I somehow know which one is which. I keep looking, much to the amusement of the others on the bus who have no idea what I’m doing. All they see is Tutankhamun playing with her crutches, lifting one, scrutinizing it, turning it every which way, and putting it down only to repeat the same rigmarole with the other one.

I’m about to give up in exasperation when I spot it. I see a subtle difference, one which my brain has assimilated but which has bypassed my consciousness. The rubber tips are faintly different in colour. Beatrice’s tip is a light grey and Matilda’s, a darker light grey. I’m not overly familiar with crutch anatomy, but maybe this spells the difference between girl crutch and boy crutch. If I’m right, then Matilda should be Mathias, or Victor, or Wendell, or Trevor. 

Yes, yes, yes, I know. Logically, this is absolute nonsense. Crutches are inanimate objects; they are not sentient entities. They do not feel or think, or have behavioural issues. But this is not all that different from guys who name their cars, or talk to their golf clubs, beseeching them for a hole in one at their company’s annual tournament, in the hopes of impressing the boss and snaring that coveted promotion. And what of the hockey fans who scream and yell at the television, somehow believing that their favourite team will hear them, through the wiring, and score a goal? Is that any more rational? 

I’m in a strange country, cursed beyond belief, and having to deal with a misbehaving crutch. So, if rechristening Matilda will bring me peace of mind, then by George, I’m all over it. There! George. That’s a good crutch name. From now on, it’s Beatrice, George, and Marie: the three crutcheteers.

The bus stops in the middle of my crutch-naming epiphany. My shopping addiction and the temporarily AWOL passport having delayed our departure, the driver has been speeding toward the airport for our flight back to Cairo, trying to make up for lost time. We’ve now arrived, only to join a long line of buses, cars, and taxis waiting to pass through the security gate and gain access to the airport parking lot. 

The gate is operated by a security guard sitting comfortably in his booth and who seems in no hurry to move the traffic along. The clock is ticking and we’re running late. Even though there are two other lanes and booths, only the one booth with the mile-long queue is manned and active. 

Suddenly, our impetuous driver veers out of the lane onto the empty one, and drives past all the other vehicles to one of the unoccupied booths. The gate is down and I’m not sure if he intends to stop or smash through the barrier like an out of control James Bond. Security guards, appearing out of the blue, start running toward the bus, yelling all sorts of things. I don’t speak Arabic, but even I can figure out the gist of the shouting. It’s pretty evident that they want us to stop, halt, brake, cease moving, go to jail, not pass GO, and not collect two hundred dollars.

The driver stops the bus before obliterating the gate. In a non-stop torrent of Arabic, he explains the situation to one very big, very muscular, and very irritated guard as other guards arrive and surround the vehicle. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost expect to be detained, searched, arrested, or even shot on the spot just to save time, the fact that we’re ancient Egyptian royalty not mattering in the least. 

This doesn’t look favourable, but before I can consider reciting my first Hail Mary, the gate is lifted. I don’t know what our driver said to King Kong, but the commotion ends as quickly as it started. The once fire-breathing security officer is now smiling broadly and waves us through as though we were honoured guests. The rest of the firing squad instantly dissipates, the men returning to their stations while we drive into the parking lot.

I still know what you’re thinking. I hear you loud and clear. She can’t blame the spooky gods this time. She was scared. Well, maybe this time I was a mite concerned. But although the impressionable and theatrically-minded neurons were panicking, the logical and analytical brain was relatively calm and collected. So, taking the average, it was a level-headed state of unease.

Finally, with everyone having disembarked the Kamikaze Bus, we enter the airport in search of the boarding gate. Finding it, we have only a short wait before boarding the plane. Yasmin takes this opportunity to review the upcoming itinerary with the group. We’ll be landing in Cairo where we’ll stay overnight in one of the oldest and nicest hotels in the city, before our return flight to Canada. What we haven’t been told is that there’s a surprise awaiting us in Cairo.