“How should I know?” Julien said with a shrug. “But I’m sure they’re compensated.”
He didn’t care, Harte realized, because it wasn’t his problem. Julien had been born free to make his own choices, to pick his own paths—to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He couldn’t understand what it might be like to live a different life.
One of the women caught Harte’s eye and lifted her arm to offer him a bracelet. He shook his head in a gentle refusal, but not before he realized that Esta was right. Behind the placid expression the woman wore was something Harte recognized too easily—a frustration and disappointment with the world that she hadn’t been able to hide, at least not from him. Because he felt it too keenly himself.
He pulled out a couple of coins and traded them for one of the bracelets. The woman showed no sign of pleasure as she pocketed the money and selected an item for him. Not even bothering to look at the bracelet, he ran his thumb over the smooth beads as he tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat—a reminder that the world was wider than he had realized and there was no end to the troubles it contained.
The three of them made their way through the parade of grotesquely beautiful sights. The architecture might not be authentic, but it was still astounding. All along the brick-lined boulevard, average citizens mixed with people dressed in fanciful costumes. Whether they were authentic, Harte didn’t know, but the embroidery and beading and detail of each costume had a certain beauty nonetheless.
Music poured out of the buildings, the different styles blending and clashing with the noise of the street. The fair’s organizers had created a world where fantasies of far-off lands and exotic people could come to life for anyone willing to pay twenty-five cents. Maybe it wasn’t real, but Harte understood implicitly that veracity didn’t matter—to the fair or to the people who attended. Those who handed over their coins here were no different from the ones who had sat in the seats watching his act night after night. They didn’t want reality, with all its messy complications and unpleasant truths; they wanted the fantasy—the possibility of escape. And even Harte, who knew better, couldn’t help but be a little drawn in by the spectacle of it all.
“Here we are,” Julien said, when they arrived at an enormous archway emblazoned with the words THE STREETS OF CAIRO.
Beyond the opening, the street led through a veritable city of sand-colored buildings, all with Arabic flourishes—a series of arches and minarets accented the flat-sided buildings. Above, domed rooftops blocked out the blue summer sky, and in the streets, men dressed in flowing robes called out, advertising camel and donkey rides through the streets of the reproduced city. It was clearly supposed to be Egypt, but it was a fanciful, stylized version of Egypt that was meant for those who would never travel there.
“This had better have something to do with the necklace, Jules,” Harte told him.
“This is the Society’s special offering for the fair,” Julien told them, his voice barely audible above the noisy streets. “The centerpiece, from what I’ve been told, is a mystical artifact from the ancient world—a necklace with a stone that contains stars within it.”
“It’s here?” Esta asked.
“Not that it’ll do you any good,” Julien said. “The security is top-notch, and with the recent activity of the Antistasi, everyone is on high alert.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Harte said. “Let’s make sure it’s the necklace we’re looking for.”
Together they followed the maze of buildings past a makeshift bazaar, with stands selling reams of brightly woven material and small trinkets that looked like items that could have been taken from a pharaoh’s tomb. There was an enormous restaurant that spilled the scent of roasting meats and heady spices out into the streets, tempting the people who passed. Finally, in the deepest heart of the attraction, they came to a building carved to look as though it had come directly from ancient Egypt.
A large, deep portico was flanked with striped sandstone columns, each painted with something that looked like hieroglyphics. It reminded Harte of Khafre Hall, with its gilded flourishes and bright cerulean accents. From the way Esta had gone very still, as though every cell in her body had come alert, he figured she thought the same.
“Are you ready to take a trip down the Nile?” Julien asked.
But Harte didn’t have the patience for Julien’s games. The heat of the day was getting to him, making his head pound and his vision swim, and suddenly he couldn’t hear anything but a roaring in his mind.
The sun was high enough that the temple threw no shadow. It would be cool inside, welcoming and safe within the shade of its thick walls.
Just as quickly as the vision had submerged him in a different time and place, it drained away, leaving Harte’s ears ringing and a cold sweat coating his skin.
“Harte?” Esta was saying his name, and when he met her eyes, he saw the worry in them. It should have felt better than the indifference she’d shown him all day, but the vision had left him shaken.
Pull yourself together.
“I’m fine, Slim,” he told her with a wink.
Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “But you just—”
“Let it go,” he told her. Then he directed his attention to Julien, who was watching him with a serious expression. “Let’s get this done and see what we’re dealing with.”
Apparently, Julien wasn’t being overly dramatic—inside the building they found a line of people waiting to board actual boats that were shaped like long, flat-bottomed canoes with upturned ends, meant to look like boats that had once sailed down the Nile. When it was their turn to board, Julien slipped the line attendant a few coins and managed to get them a boat to themselves.
“After you,” he said to Esta, allowing her to step into the small craft first.
She took a bench in the middle, and Julien began to follow, but Harte grabbed his arm, to stop him.
“Youth before beauty,” he told Julien as he took the opportunity to slide into the seat next to her. He ignored the knowing smirk playing at Julien’s mouth and pretended that he didn’t notice Esta’s annoyance.
At the rear of the ship, an oarsman was dressed in a linen robe shot through with gold and the worst wig Harte had ever seen. The black coiled braids were ratty and matted, and they hung around the man’s lean face, framing bright blue eyes that had been ringed with kohl. It looked like his skin had been turned tan with makeup as well—it was too russet colored to be natural. He probably was supposed to look like an Egyptian painting come to life, but unlike Julien’s impersonation of a woman, the oarsman’s costume was a caricature. Like the white vaudeville performers who blackened their faces with burnt cork for minstrel numbers, it was a mockery of the very people it was trying to depict.
The oarsman remained silent as the boat started moving. Slowly and steadily, he pushed the craft away from the loading dock and down a narrow channel of unnaturally blue water. Next to Harte, Esta was straight-backed and alert, taking in everything as the boat approached a darkened tunnel.
“Here we go,” Julien murmured, tossing a mischievous look back to the two of them just as the boat glided into the tunnel.
The farther they went, the darker it became, until the boat was traveling through an artificial night, and the only noise was the soft lapping of the water as they moved onward.