Moynihan's Journey: And the Clash of Civilizations

kind

One

SONG OF ZARIFA

Sam Mansour was Tom’s friend, a little older than Tom and somewhat introverted. He was always whining about things: You can start a conversation with anybody, Tom. I can’t open a chat with a turtle. Both would laugh knowing that Sam was overly modest. He wasn’t shy in most social situations, just the one-on-ones with lovely young ladies. Sam liked being with Tom because everyone found him friendly, charming, and exciting to be around, and that was a good thing when you were lonely in a nerve-racking metroplex like Cairo.

Seriously, Moynihan, how do you do it? Sam asked.

Serious is your problem, Tom replied. Young women like funny. Just loosen up. Sam never said it to anyone, but he was always thinking, I’m with him.

Tom liked Mansour, too. Sam had been in Egypt longer than Tom, and knew how to get around: where to buy fresh fish, how to find a cheap taxi, where the good restaurants were, and how to avoid the shoplifters and Salafi preachers. Besides, he was Egyptian – well, his ancestors were. From the city of Mansoura in the Nile Delta, he’d brag to his friends. It was a good match: Thomas Moynihan, the American attaché, and Sami Mansour, the media professor.

Today, as Moynihan stepped off the elevator, someone called out, Tom. It was Sam, waiting for his breakfast buddy in the foyer of the Shepheard Hotel.

"Sabah al-kheyr, Professor Sami," said Tom, knowing full well that his friend would not return his morning hello because he had used Sam’s Arabic name.

Stop that, Sam whispered. You know it embarrasses me. Mansour was from St. Louis, Missouri, but he didn’t speak the tongue of his ancestors.

Tom and Sam had been getting together for breakfast every Monday for the past several months. When most Cairenes were still snoozing, they would meet at 8:00 am and walk to the Hilton for an American breakfast. For the most part, their morning talk was about sports, particularly the hockey rivalry between the Chicago Blackhawks and the St. Louis Blues. But every so often, Tom would turn the friendly banter into a discussion of religion. Tom was an excellent Arabic speaker, but like many Americans, he had a blind spot when it came to Arabic culture, and in lands where Islam reigns, religion is the mother of culture.

One morning Moynihan said, "Jihad, Sam. Tell me about jihad."

The good one or the bad one? Mansour replied.

There are two?

Yes, my Christian friend, there are two: the struggle within… and the other one. Sam explained, Greater Jihad is a personal journey from badness to goodness. When Tom asked about the other, Sam put it in plain words, Well now, that’s something Muslims do when outside evil-doers come knocking on the door.

Like the Crusaders, I suppose? Tom replied.

Like the Crusaders.

"You know, my Muslim buddy, I went to Brother Rice High School in Chicago. Our school nickname was Crusaders."

Dropping his head lower and peering through his dark unibrow, Sam said, I wouldn’t mention that in Fatimid City if I were you, my ol’ Crusader buddy. It was a bit melodramatic, but Sam felt that Tom needed to be more thoughtful about Islamic sensibilities. That’s how their conversations would go: sarcasm from one, counterpunch from the other.

A few Mondays later Tom said, We’re in a rut. Let’s get out and have some fun.

Fine by me, Sam replied. You find the party, and I’ll be your trusty sidekick.

Deal, agreed Moynihan. They shook on it. It wasn’t a real plan – just a notion – something a Catholic guy and a Muslim guy might entertain if the opportunity ever came knocking at the door.

When Tom Moynihan arrived in Cairo that winter he was 23, and Egypt was not the diplomatic post he had hoped for, but what could he expect as a first assignment? His master’s degree was in Middle Eastern languages, and the U.S. Foreign Service wasn’t going send him to Ireland to teach Arabic to kids there. No, Tom hadn’t thought it through entirely. But now, having lived along the Nile shore for four months, he was growing fond of the desert civilization and its friendly people.

Tom got there in January, and the Embassy was supposed to house him in a shared apartment at the American compound, but it wasn’t ready. So the controller’s office leased a small suite for him at the Shepheard Hotel near Tahrir Square. For an attaché just starting out in life, being lodged at the Shepheard wasn’t so bad. It had a stunning view of the Nile, was cheap, and was right next-door to two luxury hotels, the Semiramis and the Hilton. Almost every night, there was some lively event happening at one place or the other, and to crash a party, all Moynihan had to do was cross the street.

The Shepheard had history and class as well. It was built on a major promontory of the Nile River, where centuries earlier it had been the command post for Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt. Today, there was a military garrison nearby, on Gezira Island offshore. And on the last Friday of each month – following mosque prayers and political speeches – the Egyptian Armed Forces always put on a show.

Parading down the Corniche El-Nil to glorious marching bands, all branches of the military participated. Near the end, a dozen fighter jets would do a fly-over, and the crowds along the streets would cheer wildly for their stable and secure Egypt. All Egyptian television stations and satellite networks were required to broadcast the happenings. It was a clear but heavy-handed reminder to friend and foe alike that the ninth dynasty of the Generals’ Republic was still the top dog in the Middle East. From his balcony, Tom had a picture-perfect view of the spectacle. He would pour himself a gin and tonic, and watch all the proceedings until it was time for dinner.

Moynihan’s two-room suite was typical 19th-century architecture and decor: an 11-foot ceiling, spacious but with no built-ins, a chifferobe next to the bathroom, and garish Sahara desert prints on the walls. It was a choice suite because the balcony faced the Nile, and the third floor was sufficiently high enough to soften the traffic noise, yet low enough to allow a clear view of the bustling neighborhoods along the Nile. It was just right for Tom’s new pastime – eavesdropping on the people strolling in the gardens and parks below.

After dinner, when the traffic had subsided and with nothing much to do, Tom took to his balcony and became what Chicagoans called ‘a neighborhood busybody.’ A terrible character flaw, he thought. Mother would be disappointed. More than disappointed, Ellen Moynihan would have been mortified, and would have demanded he go straight to the confessional to seek absolution for his sin. But this was an Islamic country, and Catholic churches were few and far between. Besides, she wasn’t here (saints be praised), and Tom liked being a voyeur.

Tom rationalized his behavior, of course. I am learning the Cairene vernacular, he would tell himself. In fact, his Arabic had gotten so good that he now knew idioms of earthiness and vulgarity in several Egyptian dialects. If he were not a foreigner, Tom thought he might make a living as a scandal-blogger or a gossip columnist in the Cairo Gazette. As always, Sam would offer his opinion about that, You understand the language, Tom, but you don’t understand Arabic humor. Tom supposed his friend was kidding, but he didn’t know for sure.

One thing on the street below caught Tom’s eye. It was a showboat moored only a few steps from the Shepheard. It was called the Mustafa, and from his vantage point, Tom could see all the happenings aboard as well as the comings and goings of the people who worked there. The busybody found it irresistible.

Every evening, the cruiser would cast off about thirty minutes before sunset. The guests would gather on the upper deck, have a cocktail, and take in the splendor of the sparkling Nile waters. It would sail up the river some twenty miles, and then return to dock about three hours later. Not surprisingly, what attracted customers was entertainment: the magicians, the comics, the singers, and, as the sandwich boards on the sidewalks declared, the belly dancers extraordinaire. Everyone said it was a delightful show, an experience not to be missed.

The Mustafa’s clientele was another thing that fascinated the young attaché, in particular, the wealthy Gulf sheiks that patronized the showboat at least once a month. He asked the Shepheard’s bell captain about the loose-fitting coats they wore over their Armani suits. They are kaftans, said Musa.

A tribal garment of some sort?

Musa, a normally stoic fellow, was amused. Not really, sir, just a personal choice. He explained, Saudis usually wear white, and the Kuwaitis black. Tuscan brown is very popular these days, especially among the young men. Musa paused to assess Moynihan’s interest, then said, There is an extra fine men’s store nearby. We will find a nice kaftan for you, Mr. Thomas. But Tom shook his head no and felt somewhat embarrassed.

It was true, the sheiks were fun to watch, but the entertainers were the ones that really caught the voyeur’s eye. The Mustafa’s impresario was widely known for the exotic acts he brought to the showboat, and since he had landed, Mustafa’s featured act was an all-girl band. The marquee above the dockside’s entrance read, "Bul-Bul, pop sensation from Azerbaijan." Tom thought, That’s curious – Azeris were Shiites, and not always welcome in Egypt – I should find out more. It didn’t take long. Tom asked Musa. The bell captain knew all hotel intrigues and loved to talk about them. He said: Bul-Bul was a Muğam band, a musical style unfamiliar to most Egyptians and Europeans, and that the entire troupe had been living at the Shepheard for almost a year.

Tom’s interest was peaked, so he began an investigation. What he discovered was: every afternoon about an hour before public boarding, the musical troupe would leave the hotel for the evening’s performance. They were all women and wore full-length tunics to hide their costumes. Each would exit the Shepheard’s rear door, dart into an onslaught of traffic, and then pinball her way to the opposite side of the street. As soon as one made it across she would turn back and, with grand hand gestures, direct the others over to safety. Once all were dockside, they would stop for a group hug, and then hop across a rickety gangplank that took them inside the showboat.

One particular member of the troupe seemed to always win the pinball game. Tom pictured her as the youngest, the prettiest, and the bossiest. He didn’t mind. In fact, he liked that. In the Azeri language, Bul-Bul means Nightingales, and for some time now Tom had found himself mesmerized. Over and over, one question kept popping up: Why didn’t Papa Martin tell me about Azerbaijan and its wondrous enchantments?

When the cruise was finished, and the Mustafa had returned to its dock, the musicians would play on for as long as waiters could sell drinks. Tom would listen to the strange sounds deep into the night. Then, after the music had ended, he would head inside and lie down for a while, too excited to fall asleep. Moynihan would think about his first assignment here in Egypt, and how much he had come to appreciate it. I may never leave, he mused. But then the reality of his rather mundane work in the Public Information Office would return, and he’d start thinking about other things – about his career and where his next posting might take him.

But such thoughts were for another day. Tom was anxious to get to the Embassy this particular morning. His boss, JK Burke, had promised a new assignment was coming his way, and he was eager to find out what it might be.

After he had stepped off the elevator, JK Burke hurried down the hallway of the main floor of the American Embassy. JK saw one of the floor attendants sitting at the help desk along the broad corridor that led to his office, and said, Coffee, Karim.

American or Turkish, Mr. Burke?

Turkish… and two sugars. It was evident the head of the Public Information sector was being forced into action. Salma Jili, the office manager, promptly followed her boss into the conference room.

I need to see the agreement between the Security Council of the Armed Forces and the DayStar Group, the one the ambassador negotiated last month, Burke said. Please ask Ms. Ibrahim to find it. Alesha was Salma’s assistant. Having heard the PIO’s request, she didn’t wait for orders. She knew what to do.

JK, how about a coffee? Salma recognized her boss’ mood and was trying to bring a little calm to his agitated state.

Karim’s on it.

Do you want all projections, Salma asked, or just the ones we’re paying for?

Everything. Alesha returned with a three-ring binder and placed it on the table next to Burke. Thanks, Ms. Ibrahim.

As Alesha was leaving, the attendant entered with Burke’s coffee. After he had served the coffee, Karim closed the door, and Salma and JK were alone. Burke asked, What have you heard from the street?

The street?

The Brotherhood, Salma, he asked, somewhat exasperated. Are they stirring up trouble again?

Nothing unusual, just the same old story, she replied, the young turkeys challenging the old gobblers. Salma hoped her boss might enjoy the play on words.

Salma Jili was 45, Egyptian and well connected to Cairene power brokers: the armed forces, the elites, and, as JK had put it, the street. Her father had once been in line to join SCAF, Egypt’s all-powerful ruling military. But he broke his back in a battle with Sinai terrorists, and that put an end to his active army career. He was forced to retire, but of course, still had extensive ties to SCAF members and their friends. JK said, Apparently, one of the generals has insisted that DayStar hire an outside firm to run the transportation show. Some gang from Azerbaijan with a dodgy reputation.

Salma replied, Just another money-making scheme, I’m sure. She would know. Her husband worked for Egyptian Water and Irrigation, one of the many businesses secretly owned by chummy SCAF generals. If you like, we could make contact with our CIA partner, said Salma. He could ask their mole inside to do some checking.

Not that important, JK replied. "We need the 7th Cataract for bigger fish. I just have to see if we can find anything unusual. At that point, the PIO opened the dossier and then buzzed the intercom. Ms. Ibrahim, come in please, and bring the financial records for the DayStar Group contract."

Hiring Azeris is surprising, Salma was thinking out loud. They’re not of our culture. They’re Shia, and don’t play well with the Brotherhood or the Salafis.

Maybe that’s the idea.

Salma thought about it, how it didn’t make sense, at least with the usual insider groups. And then she asked, Who’s the general?

Nawawy, said Burke.

"That is interesting," said Salma.

Why so?

He’s a Shiite too, said Salma, the only Shiite, who has ever been a SCAF member. Most of the other generals don’t trust him. She knew, in fact, that a few of the more skeptical military brass were watching Nawawy carefully. Salma remembered her father speaking of this: Nawawy is there to protect the Generals’ Republic, a failsafe, so to speak. He acts as a liaison between the Shia world and Sunni Egypt.

When Alesha returned, she handed the report to Salma. Jonathan took a long look at Salma’s assistant as she left – a look of concern. Is anything wrong with Alesha?

What do you mean? Salma asked.

She looks pale and thin. She’s lost weight, hasn’t she? Even though Salma and JK had a well-grounded relationship, in Muslim countries this kind of a question was not a subject for the office. But JK was a blunt man, and after two years of service at the Cairo Embassy, Salma was used to his straight-to-the-point way of doing things.

You know, Jonathan, we do not speak of such things, said Salma instructively. Not in public.

JK said, If something’s happening on Embassy grounds, Salma, that would mean big trouble. The boss was thinking of sexual harassment. The awkwardness of the conversation was interrupted when Alesha rang in. Yes?

Mr. Burke, your nine o’clock appointment is here. Mr. Morley from the DayStar Group. There was a strain in Alesha’s voice. JK glanced at Salma and raised one eyebrow as if to say, See, I told you. Salma acknowledged his point but said nothing.

I’ll be there in a moment, Ms. Ibrahim. JK began gathering up the DayStar files. I’ll take Mr. Morley to the gazebo. We’ll have a chat there.

Salma stood up and, in a rather formal manner, asked, Would you like some sweet cakes? I can have Karim bring some down.

Yes, that would be nice. But he added, We’re not done here, Salma. You shouldn’t treat me as just another foreigner.

She nodded in agreement. In truth, she wanted to tell JK, but long-held Arab conventions often drove such discussions in unexpected directions.

If I fail to catch Moynihan when he comes in, send him down to the gazebo.

A new assignment, then?

Yes, you could call it that, JK scoffed, or you might call it pigeon duty.

A diversion of some sort? Salma asked.

He’ll be ‘our mole’ inside the DayStar operation, JK replied. "They’ll find that meddlesome, and will be focusing on him when or if the CIA has to employ the services of the 7th Cataract. One day we will need to know what Nawawy and his DayStar crony, Elshan Kedar, are actually up to."

I’m sure Mr. Moynihan will be happy to get out of the office. Then Salma added, Tom needs to experience something of genuine Cairene ways. Moynihan was being thrown to the wolves. The PIO knew it, and so did Salma. He’s a greenhorn, JK. It could be dangerous. You will let him make a choice about this?

JK answered gruffly, Women get to choose, Salma. Men are tasked.

If he gets in trouble, you will pull him out?

Yeah, sure, said JK, if he gets in trouble, we’ll pull him out.

With that, Jili and Burke went their separate ways. JK stepped into the reception area. Marty, he said, How’s the family? They shook hands and then headed for the stairwell. The two men had been Georgetown undergraduates together and had been friends ever since.

Salma turned to her assistant. You look anxious, Alesha. Are you still upset over Omar? Alesha Ibrahim did have a haggard appearance. Her ordinarily lovely face was tense and gaunt, and her whole body appeared to be worn down by an emotional battle she felt she could not win.

Almost in a whisper Alesha said, I need your advice.

We’ll go to lunch… at the Marriott. We can talk in private there. Alesha smiled. It would be a comfort just to talk out her troubles with a friend.

Alesha’s problem was a prearranged marriage. She had been pledged to a pig named Omar Sawad. He was from a notable Egyptian family, but it wasn’t going well.

It was just fifteen minutes later that Moynihan arrived. He was cheery enough, even though he wasn’t looking forward to his daily routine. When Salma explained that JK had something new, Tom, out of the blue, kissed her on the cheek. Wholly inappropriate, it was something only a Catholic boy from Chicago would do. It didn’t bother Salma. At least she didn’t show that it did. Tom was happy and practically skipped down the stairs. As he stepped out to the courtyard, JK spotted his attaché and motioned him to the gazebo. The PIO was seated there with a stranger. As Tom approached, the two men stood up. Tom Moynihan, Marty Morley, field manager of the DayStar.

Mr. Morley. They shook hands.

Moynihan, you ready to get some air? He was.

Tom had been shuffling paper in the PIO office for the past several months and was way beyond ready. Right… with Mr. Morley, then?

JK nodded. I’m assigning you to DayStar. Tell him what you do, Marty.

Crowd control, mostly. DayStar trains police units and military personnel in crowd control… mainly friendlies, you see.

Right. You’re the guys who keep the soccer hooligans in check, herding up the rowdies, the rioters, and all that.

We don’t do the herding, said Morley. We train the locals to manage the crowds, to move them in useful directions, to avoid nasty confrontations and such.

JK added, The Egyptians asked the ambassador for some recommendations, and he suggested Marty’s team. You’ll be our rep on the ground. We’re calling you a communications specialist. It was the mission’s euphemism for a junior spy. Everyone in Cairo knew what a communications specialist did, even Tom Moynihan.

Right, Tom said, but I’ll have to give up my job at the desk, sir. Moynihan had a quaint wit – a trait part and parcel of his Irish genome – something he’d learned from his grandfather. Papa Martin was both comforter and coach to his grandson. When Tom was five and housebound because of surgeries to repair a clubfoot, his Papa told and retold funny stories of the Irish ambassador’s overseas adventures.

Give up? That’s rich, Moynihan. The PIO was amused. You’ll be helping with translation, culture, and liaison issues.

Me, the newbie from Chicago, Mr. Burke?

Let’s see. You’ve been in-country how long? It was JK’s turn to be a bit derisive, Oh yes, four months. You’re an expert now. Both had a good chuckle on that score.

In the meantime, Ms. Ibrahim had unexpectedly materialized near the gazebo and was waiting for a break in the conversation. She found herself staring at young Tom. His Irish-American features were so different from those of Arabic men – the square jaw, the ruddy skin, the strawberry blonde hair, and those blue eyes, the color of the Mediterranean in mid-summer. Except, he was more… Tom was friendly, funny and kind, so unlike Omar Sawad. When Burke saw her standing there, he gestured for her to come over. Alesha handed him a folded message. He scanned it quickly and said, Tell Mr. Johnston I’ll call him after lunch.

As she walked away, JK again took notice of Alesha’s oddly reserved manner. He resolved to drag the secret out of Salma, whatever it was.

You’re fluent in Arabic, Tom? asked Morley.

Yes, JK cut in, and he speaks Turkish and some Azerbaijani as well, so he can help with your Azeri problem. There it was, the real subject of his communications duties. The PIO’s remark had piqued Moynihan’s interest.

Azeri problem, Mr. Morley?

Call me Marty.

Moynihan, JK said, we’ve got a car coming. I want you to go with Marty to SCAF-84, to meet the DayStar team.

SCAF-84? Tom didn’t recognize the acronym.

It’s the Heliopolis training academy for the Egyptian armed forces, Burke said. You know – SCAF. It rang a bell. Tom recalled the Friday military parades along the Corniche El-Nil, the air force flyovers, and the very substantial garrison on Gezira Island.

Sounds like something’s up.

We don’t think it’s a big problem, Morley said, but when Nawawy is involved, you never know. Apparently the DayStar manager didn’t want to get into the issues on embassy grounds. At that moment, the car pulled up. It was a massive SUV, but without embassy identification. Security thought it best these days to have commonplace license plates, but everybody knew that a white SUV with tinted windows belonged to a foreign consulate, which one was the only question.

As the three men headed for the car, JK called to his attaché, Tom, give me a minute. JK pulled him back to the gazebo as the others walked on. About this assignment… it should be simple enough, but be on your toes. Even though JK had shown plenty of swagger in Salma’s presence, he felt he owed Moynihan an explanation – the mission could be dangerous. As for the Azeri gang, I’m told they can be a tough bunch, he said. You can trust Morley, but no one else. We’ll talk when you return.

Understood, Tom said. I can handle it.

Burke gave him a thumbs-up, and Tom was off. As he walked away, JK thought he saw Tom taking a longer stride, his bearing seemed more confident, even a bit cocky. Burke was pleased. As the SUV headed for the security gate Morley said, We’ve hired a special team from Azerbaijan, It was at the request of General Nawawy. You’ll meet the headman of the group next week. His name is Elshan Kedar.

Finally, the promised apartment was ready. Moynihan could move at any time, and that left Tom with nothing much to do for ten days. It’s time to celebrate , he thought. Then he remembered his we’re-in-a-rut pledge to Sam, The Mustafa… it’s perfect. We’ll have a few drinks, see the show and experience the mysteries of the Nightingales.

Such an adventure was exciting but intimidating as well. He’d have to talk to Musa, whom he had come to rely on for all things happening in downtown Cairo. After he had finished with the main desk, Tom stepped to the bellhop station, but Musa was not there. He’s with a guest, said another bellman. He should return briefly.

When he does, would you ask him to see Tom Moynihan?

Of course, Mr. Moynihan, the man replied.

Tom said, I’ll be in the coffee shop. It was near the hotel’s front lobby.

As always, Lina was on duty at her shop, Good morning, Mr. Tom.

Lina sold confections, little cakes, hard rolls, and Western newspapers. She was a delightful person, especially in the morning. Lina knew how to make people smile: her customers, of course, but also the bellmen, the clerks, the housekeepers, and even the grumpy traffic cop who came inside to get tea on his break.

Against all hotel rules, Lina had managed to cram a tiny counter and two bar stools into her lobby nook. It was for her guests, of course. They could sit for a while; enjoy a cup of coffee or tea, and chat. She was proud of her little shop and had decorated it with what she thought her tourist customers might like. It was mostly tacky Pharaonic and Coptic memorabilia.

Top of the mornin, Tom declared in his finest Irish brogue. It was the one that Papa Martin had taught him. Lina liked it when Mr. Tom spoke that Irish to her.

Arabic coffee, two sugars, coming up, she rang out.

Just speak sweetly to it, Lina, ‘tis all the coffee will need. As a perfect highlight to Tom’s blarney, the elevator pinged its arrival at the lobby floor. The residents emptied, and Tom spotted Sam. Good morning, Professor.

Mansour was a visiting lecturer at American University in Cairo and lived at the Shepheard like so many other expats. He glanced Tom’s way and said, "Sabah al-kheyr."

Lina recognized Sam’s odd but passable Arabic. American coffee, no sugars, coming up. The Professor couldn’t resist Lina’s pitch, and sat down with Tom.

"Thanks, Lina… shuk-i-ran." He thought his Arabic was getting better, but it wasn’t.

Off to the University, Sam?

Yes, Sam replied, but apparently there’s a protest taking place on Tahrir Square, garbage collectors complaining about new rules. I think the regime is choking off their jobs. I hope I can get to campus before my students. Class starts at one o’clock.

"And your students, will they be on time? Evidently Tom had experienced Arab punctuality" on previous occasions.

Good heavens, no, Sam responded. My students – never on time, not even on ordinary days. Mansour’s inner news-clock and his students’ notion of time were at loggerheads. Just last week, when I gave them a breather, I pointed to my watch and made it clear, ‘be back in ten minutes.’

Weren’t back on time, were they? Sam shook his head no.

Lina interrupted with the coffees, and as always, a little biscuit for each of her regular customers. These days, the Shepheard had more long-term residents than day guests. Two sugars for the handsome diplomat and no sugars for Professor Sami.

Had to go searching, Sam continued, They’d slipped downstairs and were smoking, drinking tea, and chatting in the courtyard. He tossed his hands in the air, still frustrated. And… and they were offended when I pointed to my watch and insisted that the break was over.

Lina had been listening. "Professor Sami, they heard the word breather… it’s a cultural thing, she said. For Egyptians, it means that the return to class was of their choosing. Lina’s instructive comments were right on target. You must understand, good teacher, you gave them the OK."

Tom took a sip of coffee, and then, agreeing with Lina’s remark, smirked at his friend as if to say, there you go. Sam rolled his eyes. How can I ever teach them journalism skills if they don’t understand deadlines?

You can’t, my friend. It’s not in their DNA. With that, Moynihan changed the subject. Remember our pledge, Sam?

Pledge? What are you talking about?

Our pledge to have some fun once in a while, replied Tom.

Sam remembered, Right, that…

How about joining me on a river cruise?

"On the Mustafa?"

Yes, Sam. It’s time for a bold Nile adventure.

I don’t know how bold it will be, but what do you propose?

Before he could say anything more, the bell captain appeared. Musa… your timing is perfect, Tom said.

Musa said good morning to Lina and the professor, and then asked, How may I be of service, Mr. Tom?

"It’s about the Mustafa, said Tom. Sam and I would like to book a reservation."

It’s no problem, Mr. Tom, Musa replied. When would you like to go?

What do you think, Sam?

What time does the boat set sail? It was that punctuality thing again. Mansour’s inner clock required an answer.

Sam, Tom sneered, you must have a German gene inside your soul.

Time, sir? Musa was puzzled. "The Mustafa departs in the evening, just before sunset… when the waters are most pleasing. It will not leave without you, Professor."

Would this Thursday be good? Tom asked.

As Sam