Ten Years Past Cairo 

by Teresa Allen

Islamic Law:  Conflicts and Contrasts with Non-Islamic Legal Systems  ~  

Coming Soon:
Architecture and its Development in Egypt and Mesopotamia ~ 
Astronomical Comparisons of the Ancient Middle East ~
Egyptian Tarot Reading ~ Egyptian Hieroglyphics 

Journal Middle East    ~    Journal Europe    ~    Pictures Middle East 1993
Interview with a Saudi Woman    ~   Analysis of a Middle East Culture 

Synopsis of Ten Years Past Cairo

My first novel (after stumbling through Moonbeams), tells of a young woman traveler who has a baby with her Egyptian lover. She is forced to leave the child in Egypt, but ten years later she kidnaps her son from his father and escapes to Israel.

Chapter One

Paris:  February, 1984

        Sirens wails, traffic screeches and honks at the dreary winter night.  Beneath a street lamp on the Pont Neuf, Sarah Prentice shivers against the hard stone wall, her tall slender figure bundled in a heavy overcoat and wool hat.  She gazes downward at the city lights shining on the dark river.  A family of British tourists walk by discussing their visit to the Notre Dame Cathedral. 

        I have no time to sight- see, Sarah thinks.  Maybe later, after my life is settled.  After I decide. 

        She flicks her Gauloises cigarette into the water and turns to view the Isle de la Cité.  Taxis and Citrons rush by.  The pace is unyielding, reminiscent of Cairo.  Except Cairo has never been cold.  Never wet.  And nothing, not the Seine nor the Mississippi, could ever be as beautiful, as life-giving and as perilous as the river Nile. 

        Sarah laughs aloud, nervously recalling her recent nightmare in Cairo.  Thank God Daddy has money, she thought, shaking her head.  Her freedom had cost him thirty thousand dollars.  "I've baled you out for the last time," he had scolded.  He swore to disinherit her if she ever returned to Egypt or committed another crime. 

        He can't forgive me, Sarah thought, because he doesn't understand why I had to do it.  He's stubborn, but so am I.  And I can't stop fighting now.  No!  I must have my child!  At any cost.  My son is my future.  He is my life. 

        A motorcycle zooms by, its engine roar trailing.  Sarah deeply inhales the cold smoggy air.  She needs the courage to embark, once again, on her destiny.  She reachs into her overcoat and pulls out the note that reads, "34 1/2 Bis Rue D'Arbervillers.  Jacques Richards Lemach." 

        "Tonight I'll go."  She crinkles the paper and tosses it into the river.  "I'm not choosing death, but if death finds me tonight, I welcome you." 

        A police siren harrows past.  For a moment, time stops.  Sarah forgets where life has brought her and why she stands on the bridge.  

        Then she remembers.  And then she thinks.  I've tried so hard.  But I've failed and I've suffered.  Why can't we have what's rightfully ours?  Why is the world so unjust?  A mistake made during youth has to be forgiven, one day. 

        Holding back her tears, Sarah closed her eyes, and remembers, once more....  

Venice:  July 1972

        Venice breathes enchantment especially for the youthful traveler seeking romance and adventure.  

        On July 13, 1972, a soft breeze from the lagoon crossed San Marco's Square.  The hot morning sun cast playful shadows on the Piazza.  Pigeons and tourists wandered upon stone block ground, in pairs, groups, or alone.  People fed the birds, sat at cafés and watched each other, or read guide books and talked about the city of canals. 

        The bell in the red brick Campanile tower announced the noon hour.  An open air orchestra in the famous Café Quadri drummed up, "The Blue Danube Waltz."  

        Near the orchestra, three eighteen year old American girls sat around an outside table.  Slung over their chairs were Polaroid cameras and Gucci purses.  Each wore stylish blue jeans, two girls wore bright cotton blouses from India and one girl had on a taffeta blouse that slunk over her freckled shoulder.   They scented the surrounding air with Tosca, Charlie and Channel #5. 

        The girls sipped the strong aromatic coffee, giggled, and remembered their month of travel.  With pleasure, they talked about the men they had met, the things they had bought, and the places they were going to see during the next six months of freedom from school and home.  It was a grand time, they agreed.  Not once, had the girls lost their enthusiasm for traveling, despite the occasional disagreements that flared up among them.  So far, their arguments were trifle and always short lived. 

        The girls had arrived at Heathrow Airport on June 10th, two weeks after graduating from Frampton High, Paletine, Illinois.  They spent a week in London, took the boat from Dover to Calais, and then a train to Paris.  At the Guar du Nord they met three men they assumed were Parisian, but the men turned out to be dashing Moroccans who showed them the City of Lights.  After Paris, the girls encountered other men, further adventures, new cities and towns.  Early this morning, they arrived in Venice -- the most captivating city they had so far seen, they agreed.  

        "God I'm in love with this place," said the blond girl as the orchestra played Verdi's Othello.  "Everything's so incredibly beautiful..."

        "And romantic!"

        "Really.  It's like a dream..."

        "I still can't believe that old fart from New York heard us talk about Talal.  How embarrassing."  The girls laughed about an incident that occurred on a waterbus that morning.  They had been talking about a Jordanian man, Talal, they had met in Piza.  The girl with the freckled shoulder, Sarah, had spent the day with Talal and on the waterbus the girls razed Sarah about having actually "done it" with Talal.  As they spoke, a New Yorker in the seat behind asked where the girls came from.  They politely told him Chicago, then giggled from embarrassment.

        "Well, Sarah," blond, blue eyed Jennifer said.  "You never did tell us how it was.  Come on, fess up."

        "Never mind," Sarah replied.  "And what about you -- Mary, in Paris, when you tried using that bidet as a toilet."

        "Yeah, that was pretty gross, Mary," Jennifer added about the brunette with short curly hair, the more reserved of the three high school friends.

        "All right, all right," Mary said.  The others continued to laugh. 

        "Anyway, we'd better be more careful about mouthing off in public.  No telling who speaks English..."

        "Or who's listening in on the conversation.  Dirty old man." The girls giggled again. 

        Momentarily, Jennifer returned to her novel.  Mary continued writing her series of fifteen post cards, slightly varying the comments on each one.  Sarah Prentice, the boldest and prettiest of the three, leaned back, propped her feet on a chair, and braided her long wavy auburn hair to one side.  

       Tour groups meandered the Piazza.  Old Italian men and women sold bird seed.  Italian boys pushed carts brimming with magazines, guide books, post cards, fans, and trinket gondolas.  Some pigeons around the restaurant tables were missing toes or entire feet as they scrounged for scraps.  

        The tall slender waiter returned to the table.  He had a thick moustache and bushy eyebrows.  Sarah ordered another round of coffees.  She lazily stretched her arms back, yawned, and placed her hands behind her head.  As she did so, she noticed an Italian man in his fifties push his cart near the cafe Sarah thought about her father.  She missed him even though she called home at least twice a week.  Other than the endless weeks spent in summer camps, this was Sarah's first real adventure away from her parents and three older brothers.  It was her father that she really missed, more than her brothers or mother.  Thinking about him made her smile.  He was paying for her trip to Europe, as a graduation gift before she started college.  

        At first, he had insisted she go straight to college, but soon he gave in to his daughter, as he generally did.  Sarah always had been Daddy's little girl.  She loved the attention he lavished on her.  She even loved his stern attempts to keep her out of mischief.  Mother never cared, Sarah thought.  Her charities, clubs and friends were much more important than her little girl.  But Daddy cared.  It was always up to him to love me.  To let me have my way. 

        The waiter returned with the coffees.  Sarah sipped the steaming brew while peering at her best friends who were still writing and reading.  Sarah was glad they were traveling together.  Maybe they'd even visit the Holy Land, or north Africa.  Jennifer and Mary seemed equally willing to travel forever.  But even if they weren't, Sarah felt brave enough to travel on her own.  After all, she had been more willing than her friends to risk accepting invitations from strange men, and hitchhiking alone to explore out of the way places, and, as in Monaco, gambling away five hundred dollars.  She had called her father and claimed a thief had stole her billfold on the train one night.  As predicted, he quickly wired her more money.  She could depend on him even in her foolishness.  It was no wonder she loved him so much.  He'd always been there for her. 

        The bell struck one o'clock and the waiter gave the girls a bill that included service, music, and cover charges.  Jennifer paid the bill this time, and the waiter, in broken English, invited the girls to dinner that evening with him and his two friends.  The girls laughed and looked at the two waiters standing together beside a pillar.  They smiled and the girls giggled. 

        When the waiter left to fetch the change, the girls spoke among themselves and decided that an evening out with these older, fairly nice looking Italian men might be amusing.  So after the waiter returned to their table, they arranged to meet later that evening.  

Sarah felt indifferent about the plan, not finding any of the waiters all that attractive.  But an evening out in Venice was better than reading a book at the youth hostel.

        Early that morning, the girls had checked into Ostella di Venezia, the Vencie Youth Hostel on Giudecca Island, across the wide canal from San Marco Square.  Soon after they had begun traveling, they discovered that youth hostels were the best places to learn about traveling and to meet intriguing adventurers -- such as the gruff man in the Munich hostel who claimed to be a mercenary, or the French speaking women from Haiti, in the hostel in Paris, who was living in exile.  Although not as comfortable as hotels, the youth hostels were much more interesting and cheaper.  And by saving money on hotel costs, the girls could spend more on shopping. 

        The Ostella di Venezia was larger than most youth hostels and it had the charm of an old Venetian building.  It stood off the Fondamenta Zitelle, a stone promenade bordering the Giudecca canal, a large body of water that glistened and flapped under the mid-day sun.  Wooden boats tied along the Fondamenta Zitelle bobbed up and down. 

        Also on Giudecca Island white stone Baroque churches with arches and pillars stood amid several brick residential buildings that strung clothes across narrow canals.  Caged canaries and parakeets hung from apartment windows and doorways.  Cats, muzzled dogs, and cooing pigeons roamed the island.  Old couples strolled the walkways carrying knitted bags of fresh produce, pasta, and bread.  School boys whizzed by on rusty bicycles.  On a dare, a boy dashed up to a young foreign woman to pinch her crotch.  

        Always, the sound of boats on a wind blown sea and the taste of salt loomed in the breeze.  This was Venice.  All of it -- the beauty, the romance and the sludge rift canals.  But the girls were so thrilled to be in the City on Water that they hardly noticed anything unpleasant.  Venice was theirs for whatever they desired.

        At five o'clock, the Ostella di Veniza opened its large front doors.  The girls entered with the mob of international travelers, retrieved their luggage from the storage room and freshened up in the bathroom off the women's dormitory.  

        Shortly, they gathered at one of the many tables in the large front dining hall to eat potato chips and drink sodas. 

        While the girls chatted about the waiters they planned to meet in an hour, a tall young man in jeans and a stylish sweater came up to their table.  He had short curly brown hair.  Sarah remembered his green eyes from that morning, when he had pleasantly joked with the girls while checking them into the hostel. 

        "And where are you ladies from?" he asked.  He had a bright smile with straight white teeth.  Sarah thought his accent was British, but he looked either Italian or Arab.  He's probably Middle Eastern, she thought, though he's rather fair complexioned.

        "We come from France," Sarah teased with a French accent.

        The man winked and said with a grin, "Parlez-vous Pompidoux?"

        Sarah laughed, enthralled by the man's bright eyes. 

        "No," Jennifer said.  "We're really from Chicago."

        "Chicago?  Really?"  The man looked at Sarah as he mocked the American proclivity for saying, "really" throughout a conversation. 

        Sarah coquettishly giggled, thoroughly enjoying at the man's sense of humor.  But Mary and Jennifer turned away from the intruder.  He flirted with Sarah, as was typically the case.  

        Sarah could do nothing about these situations, she expected her friends to handle themselves while she either chose to speak with the newcomer or to shoo him away.  Most often Mary and Jennifer spoke to each other, as they now did, while Sarah decided what to do.  In this case, the girls quickly inferred that Sarah liked the man and would probably not be joining them for the evening.

        "Where are your from?" Sarah asked as the man pulled a chair to her side.

        "I come from Cairo."  He beamed with pride.

        "Wow, I've never met anyone from Egypt before."

        The young man grinned.  "Maybe you have met an ancient Egyptian -- your mummy."  He grinned.  "Surely you have met Anwar Sadat.  Or have you already seen me on the television.  I'm in the Olympic Games this year."

        "The Olympic Games?  In Munich?"  Sarah could hardly believe it, but she did.  The man was well built and certainly capable of being a world class athlete.

        "Really!  I'll be on the handball team."

         "What's your name?" Sarah asked, wondering if she had heard of him before, or read about him in the papers.

        "I am Amar Mohammed Abdullah Thomas-Bartlett."  He held out his warm moist hand and she shook it.  He then shook hands with the other two girls, out of politeness. 

        "Thomas-Bartlett?" Sarah asked, surprised at the English sounding name.  She took from her purse a pack of cigarettes and her gold plated lighter.

        "My grandfather was British."  Amar took the cigarette Sarah offered, then lighted Sarah's and his own.

        "Lets get going."  Jennifer peered at Sarah, then she and Mary stood to leave. 

        Sarah had no desire to rendezvous with a middle- aged Italian waiter after having just met an attractive Egyptian athlete.  As usual, she didn't feel obligated to do everything with her two friends, so she said, "You two go on, I've changed my mind.  I want to rest tonight."

        "Where were you going?" Amar asked. 

        "Oh, these waiters at the Café Quadri invited us out," Sarah said.

        "But I wish to take you out to dinner," he said, gently taking her hand and kissing it.  "I want to show you Venice at night."

        "I thought you'd be working here tonight," Sarah said.

        "I work only part of the time.  I can take off for the night to be together with someone as beautiful as you."

        "Suit yourself," Jennifer said with irritation as she and Mary left the table.

        "Have fun you two," Amar said, turning his attention from Sarah for the first time.  "Your friend will see Venice with me."  He looked back at Sarah and winked as he had when first meeting her that morning.  "You have the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen," he said.  "Deep blue, like the the twilight sky over Cairo."  

        Sarah gazed at his green eyes, lost in his flattery.  She knew her eyes were beautiful.  She had always been told this, even as a small girl.  But never before with such splendid style.  Cairo, she thought, must be the most spectacular city in the world.  

        Within twenty minutes, Sarah and Amar were on a boat crossing the Grand Canal.  The cool refreshing breeze sent her long hair flying.  Sarah felt mesmerized by the charm and self-assurance of her latest adventure.  She knew Venice would be the best time she'd have, so far.

        Amar led her by hand through the dark narrow paths in the Rialto to what he claimed was the best restaurant in Venice, the Opulatzia.  Garlic and spices scented the small cafe where tables draped with white linen held Chianti bottles burning candles.  Two other couples intimately dined at corner tables. 

        They each had a dish of tender grilled tuna and linguini with sweet aromatic basil and pine nuts.  After ordering a second bottle of wine, Amar leaned across the table and took Sarah's hand.  

        "I must confess," he said.  "I picked you out this morning when I saw you enter the hostel.  My friend said he would like to meet you and I said, 'No she is mine.'" 

        "You really are a charmer."  She sipped her glass of Chianti and he again kissed her hand.  

        Everything happened quickly.  Sarah barely knew this enchanting Egyptian man and already she envisioned making love as soon as they left the restaurant.  She ached to kiss him to have him hold her, kiss her passionately.  It was so different this time.  Her control was slipping away.  The man before her was so gentle, so utterly charming and attractive. 

        She set down her glass and looked at the hand holding hers.  It was strong, and had long well manicured fingers.  She like this as well.  It spoke of sophistication, a good upbringing.  But, she wondered, why would a man with such style work at the youth hostel?  She asked him just this.

        He laughed.  "I'm studying in the University of Languages.  Next year I will go to Cairo University to study argiculture."

        "So you're playing around for a year, like me."

        "Like you," he said teasingly.

        "I'm going to college next fall," Sarah said.  "Hopefully to study archaeology, maybe Egyptology, but my father wants me to go into business.  His business."  

        "Egyptology!" he questioned.  "You really are looking for your mummy."

        "Oh, you're such a tease," Sarah squeezed his hand.

        "What is this business of your father?"  Amar's eyes sparked with interest.

        "Trucking.  My father own's a trucking firm in Chicago.  He's a pretty well to do man, which makes me lucky, I guess."

        "So you are an American princess?"

        She laughed.  "Not quite.  Just lucky."

        "What's your father's name?"

        "William Prentice.  He's a self-made man."

        "You mean, he made himself?  He must be a god.  Amon-ra!"  He laughed, pleased with his flippant wit.

        "No," she smiled from amusement, "he made his own money from scratch.  And he's very tough.  Goes after what he wants.  And gets it, too. Although he's got a soft spot in his heart for me."

        "And so do I ."  Amar tenderly caressed her hand.  "What about your mother?  Not your mummy."

        Sarah pulled back, wondering why he wanted to know so much about her family.  Must be the Arab way, she decided.  Generally, she avoided discussing her mother, but the wine had loosened her reserve, and she felt inclined to tell Amar how she grew up the youngest child and had always viewed her mother as more or less another member of the family, like her older brothers.   

        "Anyway, I've always gone to Daddy when I wanted anything, including attention."  Sarah hated talking about her mother.  Whenever she did she'd remembered the frustration.  She had thrown tantrums that didn't even nudge her mother.  And she doubted Daddy loved her mother either.  He just put up with his wife for the sake of integrity, something he greatly possessed. 

        "I think my mother's mentally ill.  Her disease is called indifference.  I think she never really wanted kids.  I don't know.  I quit wondering or caring a long time ago."  Sarah began to weary of the topic.  It was depressing and she wanted to return to her uplifting infatuation with her charming date.  "Anyway," she added, "I think Mother likes my brothers more than me.  They tell me to be patient with her, like they know her better."

        "Ah, of course.  They're sons.  It's like the Egyptian mother.  Sons are number one, sorry to say my little princess."  He squeezed her hands.  "But fear not.  For it is sons who fall in love with daughters.  Like I am falling for you." 

        The flattery freed Sarah from her melancholic mood.  Generally, she was high spirited, outspoken, always determined to get what she wanted.  And it was the men in her life -- her Daddy, her brothers, and charmers like Amar -- who gave her the confidence to conquer her own self doubts.  

        "Well," she said at last, taking another sip of wine then giggling.  "I'm glad Daddy's always been so good to me.  I don't know how I'd manage if he hadn't....  What about your family, Amar?  Is your father Anwar Sadat?" 

        "Ah, of course."  He laughed.  "Actually, my father has been dead since I was five.  Now my mother and sister and her family live together in my house in Cairo.  I have two older brothers who work in Kuwait."

        The waiter came to the table and was about to pour the last bit of wine when Amar stopped him and suggested they leave to go see a movie.

        As they set out for the evening Amar led her along the narrow dark pathways through the island city.  A cool misty breeze made the setting nearly mystical.  For Sarah, it seemed like a fairy tale romance unfolding with each step she took with her chivalrous companion.  He had appeared in her life, to love her while guiding her through the maze of streets, alleys, and bridges over canals. 

        In the dotted street lamps, silhouettes of people appeared everywhere  -- lovers stood on bridges to gaze at canals streaming beneath, families walked beside canals laughing and responding to the marvel of Venice.  

           "Donde esta el cinema?" Amar asked an old woman walking along a plaza.  She spoke and pointed across another canal at the far corner of the plaza. 

        "Gratza," he said.

        "How did you learn Italian?" Sarah asked.

        "See-It-and-Say-It in Italian."

        "And English?"

        "Everyone speaks English in Cairo.  I learned it in primary school."

        "And where did you learn to parlez-vous Pompideux," she joked, recalling Amar's favorite remark toward the tourists he met.

        "Ha!" he laughed, then took her hand and they raced up the steps of nearby a bridge, then down the other side.  When they arrived at the cinema, exhausted and full of laughter, they found it was playing The Ten Commandments staring Charelton Heston.  Sarah wanted to see the film, but Amar claimed it was not the sort of movie he liked. 

        "But it's about Egypt."

        "No.  It's about the Jews.  Tonight I don't want to be reminded of them.  I spent two years in the Army and my brother nearly died fighting the Jews."

        "Really?  You were a soldier?"

        "Yes," he affectionately squeezed her hand to lessen his somber mood.  "Really!  A year ago...  Anyway forget about the movie and the army.  Let's walk around and enjoy the evening."

        Sarah agreed to leave the cinema with a playful tug at his arm.  As they strolled back across the plaza, arm in arm.  She recalled news about the Arab-Israeli War, but she knew little about its circumstances.  In fact, she knew very little about anything other than the Protestant community of Paletine, Illinois.  No wonder she had yearned to travel beyond her family and hometown to other parts of the world.  Perhaps later she'd learn more about this mysterious man, the soldier turned athlete who was destined to be her lover.  But for now, she wanted to enjoy the enchantment of the night. 

        Near the Rialto, they stood along the Grand Canal to watch the boat lights waver across the deep green water.  Amar took her in his arms and kissed her.  His lips were so soft and wet as she melted in his arms, under the spell of Venice.  It was time now.  She was ready, eager for some crazed passionate love making.  She returned the kiss, running her slender hands through his thick curly hair. 

        "Tomorrow," he whispered.  "I'll take you to Lido.  But now, what do you think?"  There was magic in his dark green eyes that sparkled from the nearby light.  More magic than in Talal's or the Moroccan man in Paris.  More magic than in any high school sweetheart.  Amar was soft, handsome, fun to be with.  The best man she had ever met.  She would tell Jennifer and Mary that while they stayed in Venice, she was going to be with Amar.

        From the Grand Canal they wandered to Hotel Al Mondo appeared, near the Campo di San Polo.  "We can stay here tonight, if you like," Amar politely asked.  

        They couldn't stay together in the hostel, she knew.  And she wanted him, more than she had ever wanted any other man.  It was a strange powerful feeling, a point of "letting go" so life could uplift her adventurous heart.

        In dim light, Sarah lay naked on the bed and watched Amar undress, slowly, carefully, neatly laying his clothes over the chair.  He comes from a good family, she thought.  Probably high class Egyptian, a banker's son, or the son of a university professor.  His skin was creamy and smooth like golden honey.  His chest was firm and clean of hair.  

        He crawled beside her, hard, but he had restraint, gentlemanly control.  He tenderly stroked her long auburn hair.  

        "Sarah Prentice," he said," daughter of William the self-made man.  You make me so happy."  

        She ran her hand down his back as he lay on his side, feeling his firm and tender body.  She was wet, as ready for him as he was for her.  Tonight, she thought, will be the night I drift on the Nile of Cairo, like Cleopatra and Amon-Ra.

        Sarah felt young, beautiful, spirited with passion.  Men wanted her.  Men had always wanted her, since she had lost her virginity at fifteen.  Not with a high school steady, but with her brother's best friend, during a camping trip to Wisconsin.  The night had been cold when she and Randy slipped into a sleeping bag together, away from her brother's sight.  Since then, she quickly learned to shape a  man's whim to her desires.  And during this trip to Europe she desired the young attractive foreign men she encountered, but she carefully used a diaphragm and insisted the man use a rubber.  

        Until tonight, with Amar.  Now she wanted to feel the strength of his body.  It was part of the enchantment.  The magic.  She wanted him, Amon-Ra, to release her passion, set it soaring as high as the stars over Cairo. 

        Their love making was tender, nothing fast or impatient.  It was good, as if they had been married a long long time.  The way love making should be, when two people are strongly attracted to each other -- physically and mentally.  Sarah loved Amar's personality and sense of humor as much as his body.  He made her laugh, even during the height of making love.  

        Amar lay back in exhaustion.  She rested in his arms.

        "How many boyfriends have you had?"

        She reached over and kissed his soft moist lips, then teased, "You are my first."

        "Really?  I don't believe you."

        "No, not really.  But you are my best."  

        He smiled. 

        "I think you had many boyfriends in America.  You are too beautiful to ever be alone."

        "Well, in high school I went with one guy for almost a year."

        "Did he make love as good as me?"

        She leaned up on her elbow and looked him in the eyes, smiling.  "Why?  Are you jealous Amar?"

        Amar tenderly stroked her breasts, feeling the soft round contour and firm red nipples.  "Your body is perfect," he said.  He began to draw her long hair down over one breast.  "I want you all to myself." 

        Without another word, she leaned to kiss him and to have him once more.

        For the next several days Sarah spent all of her time alone with Amar.  Before, when she had ventured off with the men she'd met in Europe, it had only been for a day at most.  Now, she and Amar were inseparable, spending each night together at the Hotel Al Mondo.       

        Sarah liked everything about Amar, the way he dropped ice cubes in her mouth during a kiss, the way he boyishly played around.  They way they ran up and down the stairs of the many bridges.  

        When Amar finished his morning's work at the hostel, he would take Sarah to the long sandy Lido beach.  They spent the afternoons stretching out on beach towels under the warm summer sun, giggling at fat American tourists walking by.  They'd make love in one of the small dressing rooms along the beach, until the heat and bodily sweat made them nearly faint from exhaustion.  Then they'd giggle and he'd chase her splashing through the surf.  They'd swim to the distant jetty, no further.  Amar was too cautious, even in his play.  He generally let Sarah win on their race back to shore.  And she loved this about him. 

        Sarah rarely saw or thought about Mary and Jennifer.  They went out with the waiters once more, then with an Iraqi and Algerian who were also working at the hostel.  When Sarah did run across Mary and Jennifer, they seemed annoyed.  Sarah didn't see why.  After all, she couldn't help it if she were falling in love.  And love was far more important, far more necessary, than mere friendship.  No, if her friends couldn't control their jealously over Sarah's happiness, then to hell with them.  

        After a week in Venice, Sarah's friends were ready to head for Greece.  

        "I can't leave Amar," she told them this as they sat at a hostel table one evening.  Amar was busy behind the counter.  It was one of the few times the girls were alone together, without a foreign man present.

        "Lets split up for a while," Sarah suggested.  "We can meet in a few weeks."

        "But you have to come with us.  You promised your father," Mary said emphatically.

        "He wouldn't have to know unless you two blab about it.  I'll just call instead of writing and he'll never know where I'm at." 

        "When was the last time you called him?" Jennifer asked, reproachfully.

        Sarah thought a moment, then admitted she hadn't called for over a week.

        "Don't you see what's happening, Sarah," Mary said.  "Your careless now.  Pretty soon you'll be in some kind of trouble.  Besides, if you and Amar really love each other, a few weeks apart shouldn't hurt your relationship."

        "Distance makes the heart grow stronger," Jennifer piped in.  "It'll prove whether he really loves you.  I've never seen you so taken away like this, by any guy.  Really, Sarah, for your own good I insist you come with us.  Besides, I would feel terrible just leaving you here.  Really!"  She reached over and affectionately patted her friend's shoulder.  During their several years of friendship, Jennifer had always watched over her high spirited friend, keeping her from too much trouble or mischief.  Sarah, in turn, loved and respected her friend for this.  And so in the end the girls compromised by agreeing to travel together to Greece and then, on the way back home, return to Venice for another week.  At that time, if Amar were still around and still in love with Sarah, well, the girls reasoned, Sarah would know exactly what to do. 

        "Oh, my darling princess.  I don't want you to leave," Amar said, as they sat, arm in arm, in a gondola traveling down the Canale San Lorenzo.  Pigeons cooed on window ledges and waves lapped against the boat.  The boatman sang a Rossini aria that echoed against the moss covered stone walls edging the canal. 

        Before she flew off to Greece, Sarah had wanted to take this boat ride through romantic Venice.  Now, as she sniffed the fragrant rose Amar had given her, she wondered if she had the will power to actually leave this man in this wondrous setting.  Her heart was being ripped from her soul, she felt.  But deep inside she knew she had to leave.  She had to see clearly, to gain some kind of order.  Her emotions had taken her too far, for the first time in her life.  

        "I promise to come back," her soft voice quivered.  "Soon."  She felt the tears well up as immense sadness filled her heart.  "But when will you play at the Olympics?" she asked, trying to suppress the tears.

        "What?"

        "On the handball team."

        "Oh, that.  Never mind about that." Amar kissed away her tears.  The shadow of an arched bridge passed over the gondola.  "I'm just a substitute player," he added.  "And I promise to be here when you return.  But how can I live without you in the mean time?  My beautiful American princess?" 

        She could say no more.  If she did, she knew she'd weep uncontrollably.  And she was not one for losing her composure, even now.  To keep strong, she quietly listened to the boatman's melodic song and to the swishing rap of his oar against the cool choppy water. 

        Amar held her tightly, shedding a tear.  

        Sarah clung to him.   She was determined that, if nothing else, she had one more night to spend with Amar Mohammed Thomas-Bartlett, her Amon-Ra in Venice.

© 2000 by Teresa Allen. All Rights Reserved.

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(last edit:  12-30-00 Happy New Year!)