Lucy & the Night-Train to Luxor  

With the setting sun, Set rules over the darkness. He’s a moody one. Lord of Chaos. Drunk Uncle. We will be in the dark until Set’s nephew, Horus, rises with the sun on the horizon. 

Francis is emboldened by nightfall and boldly quotes Shakespeare’s Antony & Cleopatra, the bright day is done, and we are for the Dark! He draws curious glances along the train platform from the masses of Egyptians, Nubians, Bedouin gathered there. The locals do not seem impressed. Wonderful, they must think, more sunburnt fortune-seekers who’ve listened to too much Joe Rogan. While Francis is a few martinis deep, Chuck Morris’s enthusiasm comes despite months of sobriety. The Aussie grabs a handful of Francis’s shoulder and says, can you believe it, mate?, this morning we was crawlin’ under a fucking pyramid. Colonoscopied old Khufu’s tomb. Fuckin’ ‘ell, boys! We scrappy blokes…?, draggin’ our unworthy knuckles in the land of the pharaohs…? Bloody ripper!

The train arrives and we board the overnight sleeper car. Each of us is giddy with summer camp vibes. Our fellowship of half a dozen wanderers is mere days old. 40 hours ago, we were strangers in the lounge of Cairo’s Pharaoh Hotel. Now, we’re frenetically moving along the train car, peeking-in, chatting, hey!, what’s your bunk look like?, yeah?, mine too! And then back to our individual unpacking. Chuck Morris comes by my room, tapping his tattooed fist at the open door as the night train begins to lurch forward – southward into the dark of Upper Egypt. Oi, how ya goin’? Chuck asks, am I in the right place?, is this the train for sexy egyptologists looking for a good time? Yeah man, I say with my stupid grin, this must be the place.  

Francis is headed to the bar car, I say and it is enough wind to blow Chuck in that direction. Alone in the cabin I’m to share with Francis, the only other American I’ve seen for days, I take advantage of the fleeting privacy to freshen-up. There are several coats of sweaty, sandy, filth painted over my skin after a day of chasing sphinxes in the desert. I deodorize with the perfume (dogwood, jasmine, rose water) a Cairene hustler conned me into over-paying for; splashing the concoction into strategic areas. There are no showers on this train. The public toilet in each car is a literal hole overlooking the tracks below. Masking the funk is the best I can do. I shake the tomb dust out of my hair, put on fresh underwear, brush my teeth with water from a plastic jug, making myself… presentable. ish.

Following a knock, I open the door to find the South African, Remus. He has an air of somber intensity. And his hair is fantastic. He looks like a shampoo model. Did he get a touch-up in Cairo? How does he not look as haggard as the rest of us? Remus asks, seen Lucy? No. Ag, he groans. Remus’ eyes perform a casual inspection of my disemboweled backpack. He says, I am going to give her an ultimatum. Oh? It’s either him or me, he says. Who? Chuck, he says. Lucy needs to decide between Chuck and me. Who does she love? Once and for all. And it has to be tonight, Remus says. I can’t spend another night with my brother. I’d rather spend it wrapped in her caresses. Or, should she choose that Aussie bastard, Chuck can bunk with her whilst I occupy his vacated cabin. I win either way, but she must choose. Howzit go?, he asks, what’s it said in the States?, “give me liberty or give me meth?” Uh, well… I say with consideration, that’s the general premise of Florida. 

Before he leaves, I say to Remus, dude… there’s a potential fly in your ointment. Ag, what’s it?, he asks. I say, if you are going to push Lucy to choose the man she loves, she might choose me. Remus doesn’t blink during his pause of deliberation before saying, impossible. Oh?, I ask, how would you know? You’ven’t witnessed our connection, I say. Lucy’s been reading my copy of Alexandria Quartet and asked me if she was my “Justine”. Eish!, Remus scoffs at me. Impossible, he says again. Lucy is not looking for a book club, Vic. She’s not interested in a rusty, latter-century, has-been like you. I’m not being cruel; these are facts. Lucy wants to escape the binds of the established norms. She doesn’t want your patriarchy. Besides… you’re nearly old enough to be her father, brah. 

Ha!, I laugh. Jokes on you, buddy!, I say. I shoot more blanks than a spaghetti western. I can be no one’s father. But wait… How old do you think she is?, I ask him. Remus says, Lucy is 23. 24 at most. You’re a fool, I tell him. No, dude, I say, Lucy is hovering somewhere near 40. I forget you are from South Africa, I admit to Remus. Women must age quicker down there. Northern hemisphere women like Lucy practice skincare, pal. Not to mention, dude, you are only 5 years younger than me. Even if I was too old for her, you are not far behind. 

Remus squints at me as we stand-off in my cabin. Yeah?, he eventually says. But do you have moves like these?, he asks and performs a quick dance-kick maneuver, which is, I have to admit, impressive in these tight quarters. See you later old man, he says as he turns to leave. I have a lover to woo!, Remus shouts from the hall of the train car.

Remus and Francis run into each other outside my room. I can’t hear their mumbled dialogue over the clickity-fuckity-clack of this old German train built on the East side of the Wall. When Francis arrives, I ask what news of the bar car. There is tea, coffee and cigarettes, Francis says. He tells me he is going to change clothes and return to meet with Khalid, our Egyptian dragoman. There are some other westerners one car down, Francis says. Scottish. They’re looking for wine and I mentioned you have some. They are willing to barter for it. They have Xanax, Adderall, Dramamine, Cialis, malaria meds. Nah, I say as I flip through my various history books looking for a note. I say, this is Lucy’s favorite local red wine. Even if she doesn’t come by later, I’ll need my share to help me sleep aboard this steel death-trap. Francis nods and says, what I figured you’d say. He summons his stage voice and quotes, The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip! Likely another quote from Tony or Cleo. Francis recently indoctrinated himself on Antony & Cleopatra when he took a hero’s dose of psilocybin during his transatlantic flight and listened to performances of the Shakespeare play. Now he’s Lawrence fucking Olivier. 

Francis sniffs one undershirt from his luggage and compares it with a whiff from another. I say to him, Remus is looking for Lucy. Remus is going to give her an ultimatum… Either him or Chuck Morris. Francis considers this news carefully before saying, I really like Remus, but the guy is too sly for his own good. He’s got the quiet confidence of a mock turtleneck at a fondue party, but as all mock turtlenecks do, he is hiding something devious, Francis says. Lucy is a free-spirit, which is what makes her vulnerable, he says. Her flame needs to be protected in order for her to shine. I might sound old-fashioned, but I worry about her traveling alone through Africa, through the world. I worry about the snakes in the grass at her feet, he says. 

Dude… Frank…, I say while thumbing through a book on Ptolemaic dynasties. Have a you seen a loose note?, I ask. It’s a letter written to me by Lucy on Pharaoh Hotel stationary. I stuffed it in one of my books. I thought she closed with “exclusively yours, Lucy”, which, I think, proves her intention…, but now I wonder if I misread and she actually signed it “elusively yours, Lucy”… which, now I think about it, sounds more her style. Yes, Francis says, that would be quite illuminating of Lucy. He returns to his favorite Shakespearan quote, the bright of day is done!, and we!, Vic, we are for the dark!

Well…, I say after giving up my search, in the dark we shall remain. I uncork the bottle of wine and pour a few glugs into my empty metal water-bottle. I take a sip, swish the wine around my palette, detecting subtle notes of… split-lip?, or is that loosed-tooth? Perhaps the tannic quality of copper penny under tongue. I inform Francis, I am going to look for Lucy. And maybe throw Remus from the train. Brother, Francis says before I leave, do as the Romans and make death proud to take us. 

The rest of the train car is empty, except for the South Africans’ cabin where Remus’ brother is carefully trimming his meticulous mustache in the mirror. I check-in to see if he’s seen or heard from Lucy. He has not. When I suggest Remus intends to court Lucy, Romulus laughs with subtle restraint. She’s too keen for his pool-deck flexes, Romulus says. She’s refined. Cosmopolitan. Not easily distracted by peacocks. Lucy requires naught from men; any man who wishes to attract her attention should be capable of recognizing her sophistication and admire her steadfastness. Remus, Romulus says, lacks the wherewithal to properly appreciate her. Let alone match her. As we say of fools in Cape Town, he’s scratching a lion’s balls with a short stick. Lucy will see right through Remus and eat him alive.

I leave the South African cabin and head to the next train car, passing the Egyptian steward napping within his cubby. There is no gentle passage along the train. The rickety planks between cars jump and twist between hard-fast doors on rusty hinges. I go from car to car in the direction of the bar, pausing briefly to consider a toilet visit. This one looks clean. ish. I step within and attempt to balance as my world rocks side-to-side. Rather than standing to urinate in the direction of the moving target, it may be easier to sit or hover above the hole, but I don’t want my prized equipment swaying so close to the open tracks. Not to mention, I can imagine a cobra seeking heat at the last train station, crawling up into one of these shit gaps, coiled there in the dark. No. There will be no sitting. Nor will there be shitting. Nope. No thank you. No shit ’til Luxor.  

Arriving at the bar car, I am engulfed in smoke. If I smelled the hint of barbecue, I’d think I was Joan of Arc. Instead, I mistakenly believe the train is on fire until I realize the source of smoke is charred tobacco & tar. Through the murk, I can see Egyptians engaging in coffee & cigarettes throughout. At a low table, I find my traveling companions, Khalid and Chuck, drinking tea. Oi!, Vic, ‘ave a seat, mate! A bit dusty, isn’t it?, Chuck says. He introduces me to a third man at their table, Rasoul, an engineer from the Aswan dam. Rasoul offers me a cigarette, which I quickly decline. Chuck isn’t smoking, but he says, first-hand smoke is much better than second-hand, mate. At least if you are smoking, you have the advantage of breathing through a filter. Nah, I say, no thanks. I raise my voice to speak boldly, saying, thank you Rasoul, but I only smoke cigarettes after having to kill a good man or having laid with a bad woman. Khalid grins at my comments while Chuck laughs out-loud, bloody fucking ripper, mate! Vic, we needs to put some meat on your bones, brother, but then you’d be a proper heel in the ring. Rasoul, meanwhile, looks concerned with my comments. Rasoul turns to Khalid and they speak together in Arabic. The two Egyptians share a nod. Rasoul has been assured I am no killer. And that I do not lay with witches. 

Your name, Rasoul says to Chuck, it is like the American action star? Nah, mate, Chuck shakes his head, I am Aussie. I say to him, no, Rasoul is referring to Chuck Norris. Walker Texas Ranger. Fought Bruce Lee. Never heard of him, Chuck says with a straight face. He ain’t me, mate. I am Chuck Morris. Morris with an “m”, like Mutton. I don’t karate, Chuck says, I wrassle, brother. But your Yank sounds like a handsome bloke. 

I laugh. Shrug. Never can tell when Chuck is bullshitting. He is a piss artist. And an actor, or, in the least, he’s a professional wrestler in the South Australian circuit. Despite being the kindest Australian I’ve ever met, Chuck Morris plays a villain for a living.

Fellas, Chuck Morris changes the conversation and leans over the table conspiratorially. I heard a rumor that Egyptian women wear fancy negligée under their robes. Izzit true?, he asks. I cringe at the query and sip wine to hide my horror. Fortunately, Rasoul and Khalid are laughing, shaking their heads. No, this is not true, Khalid says. Who says such things?, Khalid asks. Oh, brilliant, Chuck says, it’s a relief really. Nah yeah, I’ve had the bloodiest time walking around the bazaars trying to not think about what these women have on underneath. 

Oi!, Vic, Chuck says, you missed it, mate, Rasoul was earlier telling us about the divorced women of Cairo. Divorce is legal, right?, but it is still frowned on by society. At least for the women. Men can remarry and are fine. Fuckin’ bastards. Divorced women, meanwhile, they suffer most. They can be denied an apartment due to marital status. So there are enclaves of living quarters which cater to divorced women. I’m thinking you, me, and Frank, we start a lawn maintenance company and service these communities. I have no problem with disgraced women. Some of my greatest loves were graceless. 

Francis arrives at the table with a steaming mug. He says, this has the feel of the last tea party of Pompeii. I ask Chuck if Remus has approached him about Lucy. Yeah nah, haven’t seen ‘im since we boarded, Chucks says. I explain Remus’ ultimatum. Christ, mate!, Chuck shakes his head and says in reference to the South African, go easy turbo. Remus can be a bit of drop kick, can’t he? Yeah nah, mate, if Lucy habibi will have him, it’s fine by me. I’ve only fraternal feelings for her, he says. Besides, mate, my heart is bloody fucked. I would only corrupt something as wonderful as Lucy.

There is a fortune teller…, Francis says to Chuck, in Anthony & Cleopatra who says to Charmian he is fated to love more than he will be loved. And to this, Charmian says, I had rather heat my liver with drinking. Chuck Morris nods at the quote. He tilts his head to consider it. Righto, Frank…, Chuck says, I’ve already tried the drinking bit though, haven’t I? I’ll stick to me Coca-Colas. 

I’m afraid you are all mistaken, Khalid says to us. His face has adopted the mystical seriousness he speaks with when discussing the Book of the Dead. Lucy, Khalid says, is not interested in your pleasures of the flesh. She has asked to be my apprentice in Sufi spirituality. There is nothing you could offer her which she would be interested in.

What about foot rubs?, I ask Khalid and he laughs, nods, returns to his cigarette with a shrug.

Rasoul speaks to Khalid in Arabic. Khalid is silent a moment before responding. For the sake of Francis, Chuck and me, Khalid speaks to Rasoul in English. Khalid says to the other Egyptian, no, there is no Lucy. There once was a woman who was going to join our group. She had to cancel. None of these men knew that woman. They decided to name her “Lucy” and each has constructed a different idealized version of this Lucy. 

Rasoul tilts his head back and looks over at us westerners. He must think us insane. 

Khalid continues as he points his cigarette in the direction of the Aussie, saying, for Chuck, Lucy is representation of familial love. For Vic, she is an inspirational muse. For Francis, she summons feelings of paternal protection. Khalid then speaks of the South Africans, for Romulus, Lucy is affirmation of status. And for Remus, Lucy represents an escape from his brother’s shadow. Lucy, Khalid says to Rasoul, is their own chosen delusion. Lucy is their private mirage.

To Lucy!, Francis says, raising his tea cup in salute. Lucy habibi, Chuck says. Lucy habibi!, we all raise our glasses. Francis finishes with another Shakespearean reference of Cleopatra, saying, she makes hungry where she most satisfies… 

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Lucy’s degenerates sail the Nile