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  GOLDSANDS

  by WILLAM MALTESE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2007 by William Maltese

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by MLR Press, LLC

  3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

  Albion, NY 14411

  Cover art by Deana C. Jamroz

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN# 978-1-934531-38-9

  First Edition 2008

  GOLDSANDS

  CHAPTER ONE

  "THE BENNU,” the man said, referring to the hieroglyph of a heron with two long feathers growing from the back of its head. He'd quietly joined Gil Goldsands in the small alcove on the first floor of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. Gil was facing forward, at the time, toward a sandstone relief that had been saved from the area around Abu Simbel when the Nile had been backed up behind the multimillion-dollar Saad al-Ali—the Aswân High Dam.

  Gil was surprised by his sudden company. The museum was kitty-corner from the Nile Hilton and, therefore, quite accessible to tourists, but most visitors usually kept to the more impressive Tutankhamen exhibit located on the second floor. Gil was saving that until last, rather like saving a fine dessert to be savored after a thoroughly enjoyable and deliciously filling meal.

  At first, Gil assumed he'd been joined by a tourist—the man spoke perfect English, albeit with a thoroughly enchanting accent that was more British than American. Gil should have been forewarned by the way the guy was able to identify a key figure in hieroglyphic script. Gil knew very few people, besides his colleagues in the archaeological profession, who were so thoroughly versed. “Yes,” Gil said, turning, quite prepared to further define the heron character and prove Gil's own more-than-just-a-modicum knowledge of Egyptology. Despite being handicapped by the long-complained-about warehouse-like dimness, for which the Egyptian Museum was notorious, Gil realized immediately that it was Peter Donas beside him.

  "It really isn't a heron at all, you know,” Peter said, failing to notice, what with the poor lighting, the expression of recognition on Gil's face. “It represents the phoenix—that legendary bird that lived for five hundred years before converting its nest into a funeral pyre and cremating itself in the searing flames.” He held up his hand as if to prevent any interruption. “But there is a happy ending,” he continued, “for it emerged as good as new from its own ashes to live for another five hundred years—give or take a hundred years, of course."

  He smiled—a very attractive smile. Peter's pictures always showed him as seemingly very somber. Oh, yes, Gil had Peter's picture—several of them, in fact—mainly culled from archaeological journals and magazines. Gil had faithfully filed them in an album begun in 1922. Not that Peter or Gil had been alive in 1922. The album's first pictures had been of Peter's grandfather, Frederic, followed by Peter's father, Thomas, and then by Peter Donas.

  "I do believe you have a city somewhere in the United States called Phoenix, do you not?” Peter asked. Gil couldn't believe Peter could be so blasé about this first meeting. “It's in Arizona, isn't it?” Peter asked.

  "Arizona?” Gil echoed, sounding to himself very much like a parrot and feeling ridiculous because of it.

  "Phoenix, Arizona,” Peter elucidated. “That is the city in question, yes?"

  "Right,” Gil admitted, trying to get his thoughts into some cohesive order. If Peter could carry this through with such aplomb, Gil was determined to match him. Gil's whole problem, of course, was that he hadn't expected any of this quite yet. He'd arrived in Egypt early just so he would have time to prepare for it—in Hierakonpolis.

  "It symbolized the morning sun rising out of the glow of dawn,” Peter continued non-abashed. For a moment, Gil didn't know what Peter was talking about, and then he realized Peter was still giving him a lesson on the heron hieroglyph. Gil found Peter's patronizing attitude more than a little irritating. Peter had to know Gil was well-acquainted with what Peter was saying. “Hence it was conceived as the bird of the sacred sun-god, Re,” Peter rambled on. If he sensed Gil's growing chagrin, he certainly didn't let on. “It represented the new sun of today emerging from the body of the old sun of yesterday—a manifestation of Osiris, the symbol of resurrection and light.” He finished off with a quote from the book of Job that, some scholars argued, indicated that the phoenix legend had passed over into Judeo-Christian teachings: “'Then I said, I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply my days as the sand.’”

  "'Who forgiveth all thine iniquities, who healeth all thy diseases, who satisfieth thy mouth with good things, so that the youth is renewed like the eagles,'” Gil shot back, glad his voice sounded so calm, cool, and collected. His quotation came from the book of Psalms. While neither reference probably had anything whatsoever to do with the phoenix, although that mythical bird had always been represented as an eagle in Greco-Roman art, Gil had at least proved he could match Peter obscurity for obscurity.

  "I say, that's very good!” Peter complimented, seeming genuinely appreciative. Gil really couldn't believe Peter hadn't expected Gil to be as knowledgeable on the subject. Gil might not have gotten his education at Oxford, like Peter, but he had all the accreditation in their mutually shared field to match Peter diploma for diploma. There were some people who might even say, after Gil's work at the dig at Avaris on the eastern side of the Nile delta, that he was the one more qualified to work on this excavation at Hierakonpolis. “My name is Peter,” he told Gil. “Peter Donas."

  Automatically, Gil held out his hand. He hadn't wanted to. At least, that's what he told himself. His was merely a natural reflex born of introduction after introduction at lectures, college teas, or while meeting the never-ending stream of academicians who moved in, out of, and around Gil's circle. Certainly, he wanted his hand back the moment Peter took it and held it far longer than was prescribed by good etiquette. Gil would have pulled it away by force, except he found something intensely pleasurable in the wraparound of Peter's calloused fingers.

  "Yours?” Peter asked, making Gil wonder whether he was referring to Gil's hand, which he wouldn't release. Gil's fingers seemed way too comfortable within the cupping squeeze of Peter's powerful hand.

  "Yours?" Gil questioned, unsure just what Peter was asking. He continued to be a little muddled, this whole scenario so unexpected. Gil didn't know why their meeting couldn't have taken place later, as scheduled, instead of now. He had hoped to be better prepared.

  "I've already told you my name,” Peter said, clearing up the problem and delivering a delighted laugh. "Peter Donas, remember? What I was hoping, of course, was that you might tell me your name. I know you're American; I overheard you ask the guard back there a question about the present location of Ramses II's mummy, and I detected your accent. So, since we both speak a common language and are both far from home, I was hoping you might not take too unkindly to some company."

  If Gil didn't know better, he'd assume he was someone unknown to Peter and being cruised by him. He'd heard the r
umors of Peter's sexual preferences—once reported as totally heterosexual, then as bisexual, more lately as homosexual—but Gil had never entertained—other than in flights of pure fantasy to match those of the phoenix—that there would ever be any real sexually charged chemistry between them, once they met. Or, had he?

  Somehow, he found the strength to pull back his hand. What's more, he managed with a force that surprised him. He had to admit, however, that he hadn't been all that quick in his recovery.

  "I assure you,” Peter said with an accompanying laugh of apparent pleasure, “my intentions are purely admirable. I have nothing more sinister in mind than a mutually shared wander through these murky halls and then, perhaps, a bit of tea back at the hotel. By chance are you staying at the Hilton, too?” It suddenly struck Gil, slow on the uptake because of his initial confusion, that Peter possibly really didn't know who Gil was. Was that really possible? Gil had been damned quick in identifying Peter. “Really, I'm all innocence,” Peter assured. “Cross my heart; hope to die. All I'm suggesting is walk, talk and tea."

  Apparently, he thought Gil was concerned that Peter was trying to make a pass, there in the dim alcove of the museum, Peter having mistaken Gil for some young—twenty-nine wasn't that old—potentially gay American tourist. This meant Peter really had thought that Gil hadn't known the bennu hieroglyph from that of a ba—a depiction of the Egyptian soul by a bird's body with a human head—until Gil had proven otherwise. No wonder Peter had been surprised when Gil had shot back biblical text about youth renewing itself like eagles. All of which, frankly, was a blow to Gil's personal and professional egos. Peter should have known Gil. He should have been embarrassed, from the get-go, as to how Peter's grandfather had jilted Gil's grandmother, as to how Gil and Peter might well have been brothers had Geraldine Fowler and Frederic Donas ever tied the knot.

  "Gil Goldsands!" Gil wanted to fill in the blank. "Remember my treatise on Crete? I said that Crete was all that remained of Atlantis after it had been destroyed by the volcano on Thira, and you came out publicly and said my theory, while not a new one, was still as much poppycock as it had always been." What audacity to call a person's work and research poppycock when Peter couldn't even recognize Gil standing right next to him! The lighting was bad. The lighting was very bad. But the lighting was definitely not that bad. “You'll have to excuse me; I have to go,” Gil said, deciding to retreat and regroup.

  "Let's talk over tea, then” Peter said. “You're heading back to the hotel now, you say?"

  "No,” Gil answered. “I didn't say that, as a matter of fact."

  "Oh,” Peter said, seemingly chastised and a bit at a loss.

  Gil should have left, right then and there. He'd be better prepared when they met up in Hierakonpolis in a few days’ time. “Tea?” Gil said instead.

  "Tea?” Peter echoed.

  "You did offer to buy me tea, didn't you?” Gil asked, as if Peter were the awkward one. Gil suddenly felt he had a better grasp of the situation and felt a tad more in control of it. “Or did you?"

  "Yes, of course,” Peter affirmed. “I did indeed. I was, however, somehow under the impression that you had refused the offer."

  "Actually, I'd love some tea.” What Gil wanted was to get them out into the full light of day. He wanted that bright Egyptian sun to shine down on him, like a spotlight, pointing out his honey-colored hair; pointing out his dark brown eyes, his pert nose with its five freckles, his sensuous but not too sensuous mouth, his dimple, his skin that, unlike that of so many blondes, tanned to even perfection. Then, Gil would see that flicker of recognition spark at last in Peter Donas's golden eyes. Yes golden eyes—dark and rich gold. Gil had seen such eyes only on certain birds of prey. No; not quite true. The eyes of those birds had been piercing, decidedly dangerous. Peter's eyes were a warm gold that was perfect accompaniment for the attractive squareness of Peter's jaw and the dimple in Peter's chin.

  "Great!” Peter said. “This way.” He maneuvered the dim museum with Gil automatically in tow.

  Thank God, daylight! There it was right up ahead, framed by the massive open doors of the museum's main entrance. It wouldn't be long now. Just a few more steps. One, two, three....

  "Ohhhhhh, fuck!” Gil couldn't believe he'd tripped, like some fucking heroine in a romance novel. There hadn't seemed anything on which to trip. Yet, suddenly, there Gil was stumbling, as if purposely giving Peter Donas a valid excuse for a laying on of hands.

  "Gotcha!” Peter announced triumphantly. He had Gil all right. Such big arms, too. Such strong arms. And how hard Peter's chest felt beneath his shirt as Gil's continuing unbalanced steps brought him into direct contact with his nemesis who had successfully interrupted Gil's fall.

  "I'm fine,” Gil said. “Really, I am fine.” He was trying very hard not to sound as if he had just tripped over the edge of a precipice and was still on his way down.

  "They're supposed to be remodeling this place soon,” Peter told him; his arms no longer wrapped Gil, his chest no longer hard against Gil's chest, his hand no longer on Gil's arm. “They're scheduled to use some of the revenue from the latest Tut exhibit making its world tour."

  They exited into the sunlight, and to Gil's increased chagrin Peter still didn't recognize who he'd picked up (figuratively and literally). In any case, Peter didn't give any indication that he did. “The museum was dark, but at least it was cool,” was all Peter said when they paused on the porch outside the large ocher-colored building behind them. “It must be over a hundred out here.” Gil was somewhat mollified by his, as well as Peter's, inability to see much of anything at the moment. One hand shielded Peter's golden eyes. Gil rationalized that where the museum had been too dark, the outside was too bright. Gil was squinting and could hardly be expected to be recognized with his face all screwed up. So if Peter couldn't recognize Gil in the dark of the museum, and he couldn't recognize Gil in the light dazzling light of the Cairo sunshine, the next step was to seek out the hopefully better lighting inside the hotel.

  Peter became intent upon getting them both across a street congested with traffic that ranged from an expensive Mercedes to a cluttered donkey cart. He was bigger than Gil thought he would be. Gil was six feet, and Peter had to be the same. He looked younger than his pictures, too, probably because he always seemed so dower in his photographs. Editors of scientific journals had a penchant for illustrating the somberness of scientists, perpetuating the myth that one and all within the scientific community were humorless. This simply wasn't true.

  The herd of goats that suddenly came barreling round the corner added to the mess. Gil could never get used to seeing livestock parading through the middle of busy streets in a metropolis of close to ten million people. Peter warned that Gil had better stop or risk getting run over by a vintage-model American car that would have been relegated to the wrecking yard in the United States. Not only was it still running in Egypt, but it would probably continue to run for a good many years to come, held together by prayers, chicken wire, and chewing gum.

  Ahead loomed the Nile Hilton: a modern structure among a conglomeration of new buildings and old. Cairo was one more of those age-old cities trying to make the transition from past to present. What resulted was a hodgepodge of East meeting West and old meeting new, all of which left the visitor imagining himself caught up in a time flux that tossed him from medieval minarets to glass-and-chrome discos.

  Gil glanced sideways, once again taking in Peter Donas in full sunlight. Damn, Peter was handsome, although that had nothing whatsoever to do with anything! Peter and Gil had been destined, long before they'd been born, never to be friends. That this meeting was progressing the way it was now progressing was only because Peter still didn't realize Gil was Gil. And it was obvious he still didn't know Gil when, sensing Gil's eyes on him, he turned in Gil's direction and smiled. Peter Donas smiling at Gil Goldsands was certainly something Gil had never expected—ever—to see. It was a decidedly pleasant smile, too, one that carved faint crink
le lines at the corners of Peter's golden eyes. If Peter's eyes didn't relay any hint of danger, that didn't mean Gil was feeling safe. Gil was feeling anything but safe, although he wasn't quite sure just why. He certainly didn't fear any kind of physical harm. Peter's whole demeanor remained anything but menacing.

  "Safe at last!” Peter announced, headed up the sidewalk toward the entrance to their hotel.

  Maybe, Gil thought, the affinity he'd always felt for his dead grandmother had nothing whatsoever to do with the here and now, only with the fanciful imaginings of a child who, once standing in front of a portrait of Geraldine Fowler, had been told that his face and the one in the painting were strikingly similar. Geraldine, dead at thirty-four in Egypt, dead like so many others who had been there when the Earl of Carnarvon's workmen, under the direction of Howard Carter, had unearthed at Thebes the stairway leading to the tomb of King Tutankhamen. Dead not because of the ancient curse on the tomb, but because the man Geraldine had loved—not her husband but one day to be Peter's grandfather—had married another woman for a sizable dowry.

  Peter's grandfather hadn't looked any more dangerous than Peter looked now. Frederic had looked young, but he had been young—ten years Geraldine's junior. He had been handsome, although not as handsome as Peter. He had told Geraldine he loved her, and then he had gone off to marry Peter's one-day-too-be grandmother in England. Didn't it have to be more than just a coincidence that the grandson of Geraldine Fowler and the grandson of Federic Donas were now in Egypt, both headed for an archaeological dig only a few miles upstream from the scene of that long-ago tragedy?

  Peter stopped at the main door into the hotel, and so did Gil, to avoid the group of German tourists that came sweeping by. The Germans were probably off to visit the treasures of Tutankhamen, which Gil suddenly realized he had left the museum without taking in. Oh, he'd seen the smaller pieces of the collection—those even then making the rounds of the world capitals—but not the bigger items permanently kept on display at the Cairo Museum, among them two of the sarcophagi that, fitting one within the other, had held the boy-king, his mummy wrapped in wings of gold cloisonné. Twice previously, Gil had come to Egypt and not viewed the legendary treasures. There had been no time during his first trip. Gil had flown in to visit his father at the dig at Saïs and had flown out to Crete the very next day. There had been more time when Gil had helped excavate sections of Avaris, but the museum had been closed the one day Gil had made it into Cairo, interrupting a busy work schedule specifically to see the treasures. Gil had never gotten back until now, and now he had missed them because Peter Donas had invited him to tea. Gil couldn't believe it and still wasn't really sure how it had all come about.