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“I’m going to the bazaar. If you want to make sure I stay safe, then come along. But don’t bother trying to take me back.” I poked him in his very broad chest. “I can be incredibly loud and annoying when I want to be.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Mr. Hayes fumed, his blue eyes bloodshot.
I whirled and walked on, not caring which direction I went for the moment. But I felt Mr. Hayes’s scheming gaze between my shoulder blades with every step I took.
CAPÍTULO OCHO
I was horribly lost. Khan el-Khalili had rudely decided to keep itself hidden, and several of the buildings all looked suspiciously familiar. They were all tall and narrow with sculpted recesses that displayed ornate entrances and front porches. Pale-skinned gentlemen wearing palm-leaf hats strode through the thick crowd as if they owned the dirt under our feet. A grand opera house added a sense of opulence to the busy street. With a jolt, I remembered how Papá had taken my mother to seeAida,and they had reenacted the performance for me months later. Mamá forgot the lines, and Papá had valiantly tried to carry on without her, but it only made me wish I could have been there with them. All I wanted was to share memories with them. In the end, we had all sat atop the plush rug in front of the fireplace and talked long into the night.
Grief was like a memory keeper. It showed me moments I’d forgotten, and I was grateful, even as my stomach hollowed out. I never wanted to forget them, no matter how painful it was to remember. I wiped my eyes, making sure Mr. Hayes didn’t see, and strode on toward the bazaar.
Or where I imagined it to be, anyway.
Mr. Hayes followed me without saying a word for one block, and then another. When I made a turn he broke his silence. “You don’t have the slightest idea where you’re going,” he said cheerfully.
“I’m sightseeing. I believe the dictionary would say that there’s a significant difference.”
“In this case, not bloody likely.”
He walked at my side, keeping a careful distance while somehow communicating to others that we were together.
“I can help,” he said after another moment.
“I won’t believe a word out of your mouth.”
He blocked my path and folded his arms across his broad chest. And then waited.
“Remove yourself from my way,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You’re going to have to trust me,” he said with a coaxing smile.
I narrowed my gaze.
“Do you want to see Khan el-Khalili, or don’t you?” Some of his anger had melted off him, and amusement curled at the edge of his mouth, a secret waiting to be told. His easy manner only inflamed my distrust. I felt as if he werehandlingme again. Accommodating me only until an opportunity presented itself.
My guard remained. “Of course I do.”
Mr. Hayes tilted his head toward a street we hadn’t traversed. “Then follow me.”
He walked away without seeing if I’d follow. A soft wind caressed my cheeks as I deliberated. Then, shrugging, I set off after him. If he tried to trick me, I’d make such a racket that he’d come to regret it. He hadn’t seen me at my loudest. He slowed to match my shorter stride.
“How far is it?”
“Not far,” he said with a quick look in my direction. “You’ll love it.”
The street became smaller and with every step, Mr. Hayes seemed to shed the layer of aristocracy that clung to him like a well-tailored cloak. His movements became looser, his long limbs more relaxed. We crossed into a slender lane, lined with what seemed like hundreds of shops. High and narrow houses sat above the little storefronts, the upper stories projecting outward and peppered with windows bracketed by wooden shutters carved in delicate latticework.
“Oh,” I breathed.
Mr. Hayes smirked. “Told you.”
We were surrounded by a thick, moving crowd, dappled in sunlight from the overhead rafters that occasionally permitted rays of light to passthrough. The owners of the various establishments watched the people coursing through the unpaved path, sometimes calling out prices for their wares, sometimes silently smoking. The tourists spoke mostly in English—American or British—and occasionally snippets of German, French, and Dutch reached my ears. We were in the height of an Egyptian season, and it seemed everyone from the known world had gathered onto this same road.
Mr. Hayes led the way through the throng, careful to keep us from getting squashed by the noisy and restless crowd who wandered on foot or on horseback. Women took hold of their children, guiding them while also somehow managing to shop and barter and carry on conversations with their companions at the same time. British officers in their formidable livery marched through the cramped space, keeping order.
To my surprise, Mr. Hayes eyed them with the same level of distrust as I did.
I made him stop every few feet, first to buy lemonade from a seller carrying a tin jar. He filled a brass cup to the brim and handed it to me. The first taste of the tart liquid exploded on my tongue. I immediately bought one for Mr. Hayes.
