Free Dreamers of the Day by Mary Doria Russell Page B

scarecrows in the scorched fields we traveled through.
    “Gracious! Look at that!” I cried, pointing at a building that seemed to float above its foundation, twenty degrees above the horizon in the shimmering air.
    The gentlemen barely glanced out the window. “A mir-a-age,” one informed me, drawing the word out, as though speaking to some pitiable dunce.
    “First visit?” the other asked, brows raised.
    “Yes,” I admitted, and felt as though I’d committed some unpardonable gaffe. They shot small knowing smiles at each other and went back to their reading. Embarrassed that I was not equally blasé, I moved Rosie’s hot little body off my lap, fussing over her a bit to change the subject in my own mind, if not my companions’.
    Mirages became routine. Like Rosie, I dozed as the time passed, molasses slow. Eventually we entered the Delta, where the temperature moderated and the landscape changed dramatically. Natives working in the startlingly green countryside looked more energetic and alive. The train picked up speed as well. I thought, At last—we’re getting somewhere! But a few minutes later, we slowed again and stopped.
    Up ahead, the track curved and I could see a pair of automobiles waiting. An English army officer’s spectacles flashed in the light. A few minutes later, a native conductor in a red uniform with a gold sash slid open the door of our compartment. “Gentlemen, your motors are waiting,” he announced, and they disappeared down the corridor with him.
    I felt stupid, not sure if we had arrived somewhere or not. I might have asked, of course, but I’d already exposed my ignorance once and was unwilling to invite additional scorn. Before I could decide what to do next, the train lurched forward. I sat back, anxious and confused.
    Once again the train picked up speed. Cairo came into sight: an immense agglomeration of low, clay-colored cubes and rectangles. Sidetracks appeared, ran parallel, converged. Suddenly, the roadbed was lined by a mob of furious-looking men in white dresses who screamed and chanted something that sounded to me like
“Ah-bah sure-shill! Ahbah sure-shill!”
Rocks began to hit the windows. I shrank back into the compartment, clutching at Rosie, who flung herself toward the window, barking and snarling. Then, just as suddenly, the train outran the mob, and a few minutes later we pulled into the darkness of the Cairo station.
    The compartment lights went out. The fans stopped. I sat still, dazed in the eerie silence. The conductor reappeared briefly and indicated that I should leave.
    I gathered my things and joined the rest of the passengers in the aisle, keeping Rosie tucked up in my arms so she wouldn’t be stepped on. We emerged into a chaos of jostling, shouting, and rushing.
    Rosie and I hurried through the crowd toward the baggage car and waited for my belongings to be unloaded. I sat on my steamer trunk, doing my best to appear both fearless and serenely expectant that someone wearing Cook’s livery would arrive. Time passed. Rosie relieved herself nearby. I pretended not to notice. No one from Cook’s appeared, and the platform was all but deserted. Tired and close to tears, I could just hear Mumma say,
Well, you got yourself into this, Agnes. Are you just going to sit there like some greenhorn immigrant, fresh off the boat?
    I drew myself up and waved to a passing workman two tracks away. We engaged in a brief, shouted conversation, during which he made reassuring Egyptian noises in response to my distressed American ones. With gestures and smiles, he indicated that I should stay where I was, and then he hustled away.
    Eventually the workman returned, grinning happily. He was accompanied by a railway porter who spoke some English and was at pains to point out that the chanting had ended and that the mob outside had dispersed. “No worries, madams,” he soothed, while he and the workman heaved my baggage onto a luggage dolly. “No worries atall!”
    The