Free Dreamers of the Day by Mary Doria Russell Page A

troubled in the slightest by what you anticipate. When you encounter it, I shall be safe at home, and snug in my own bed.”
    To be fair, I had only asked “Mr. Twain” if there would be a problem traveling with my dog. I had not thought to inquire about being admitted to my hotel room in Cairo with Rosie at my side.
    The Semiramis, I was given to understand, was one of the finest hotels in the world. Certainly it was one of the most expensive, but by the time I made the reservation, I was long past pinching pennies. I put down a substantial deposit and, having parted with that kind of money, it never occurred to me to ask, “Will Rosie (who you very well know will be traveling with me) also be permitted to stay at the Semiramis?”
    After the cool, blue beauty of the Mediterranean, the port of Alexandria greeted our steamer with milky heat and a buzzing horror of flies. Above us, vultures wheeled or seemed to stall, stationary in the sky. Peddlers on the squalid dock hawked sugarcane and dates and lemonade in an aggravating singsong serenade. Beyond them, woeful donkeys complained while being grossly overloaded by sweating stevedores.
    An alarming crowd of nearly naked men had gathered, hoping for work, I supposed, but with a sullen temper that certainly would have discouraged me from speaking to any. One stood out, however, handsome in a white turban, his bare brown legs beneath a long blue gown held close by a vivid red belt. Raising a hand to shield his eyes against the glare, he seemed to search the deck. Just as I saw “Cook’s Porter” emblazoned across his chest, he spotted me and called out, “You travel Cook, madams? All right! I am here!”
    Courteous and efficient, this gentleman saw to it that my bags and my person were safely and efficiently transferred to the train station, and that I had exchanged ten dollars American for the equivalent in local currency. Rosie was always a good traveler and seemed to know that she should take care of business before we boarded the southbound train. That accomplished, the two of us were ushered into a first-class compartment. It was well appointed if a bit garish, and stifling hot, but provided blessed relief from the flies that covered one like soot outside.
    The man from Cook’s stood at the door, looking expectant. I opened my pocketbook and held out a handful of Egyptian coins. “Um…how much is appropriate?”
    He delicately selected two piastres, making sure that he did not touch my palm as he did so. “Thank you, madams. My pleasure, madams. Speak well of me to Cook’s, yes?” And with that, he was gone.
    “Well, Rosie,” I whispered, “here we are in Egypt! Imagine that!”
    I was trying to be thrilled but so far, Egypt had failed to charm, although the porter was quite nice. Maybe it was just too warm to generate any excitement. Rosie was panting and couldn’t be bothered to work up so much as a growl when two gentlemen slid open the compartment door and took their seats across from us. After murmuring courtesies, they flicked on the lights and two small electric fans I had not noticed mounted above the luggage rack.
    “Egypt would be materially improved if relocated to a better climate,” the first one remarked in a lovely accent.
    “Yes,” his companion agreed amiably. “We seem to have situated all our colonies in the world’s worst geography.”
    I smiled and was about to ask if they were British, but they each rattled open their newspapers, making it clear that no conversation was invited.
    The train lurched and pulled away slowly, seemingly reluctant to leave the station. That reluctance lingered for no reason I could discover. Rarely topping thirty miles an hour, we creaked slowly through the tan Egyptian landscape, the surface of which was cracked like pound cake baked at too high a temperature. Outside, beyond the dusty window, the high-pitched train whistle barely drew the attention of brown-bodied peasants who stood as unmoving as