“That was a corner of the Mina, the old port. I imagine Hamza was hoping to catch a glimpse of a loose woman. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeming to know, but we passed right by Madame Heloise’s, the most notorious brothel still doing business. The whole area was once the fleshpot of all fleshpots, catering to any and all predilections, one hears. It still has a certain reputation—nothing like in the old days, of course. Today, the clientele is mainly oil Arabs. No offense—certainly, our chaps had their innings.”

Amira shrugged. Why should she be offended? Everyone knew what men could be like away from home.

The afternoon was devoted to another place, the Muntaza, a pinkish sand-castle fantasy set in a park of eucalyptus and pepper trees on a cool-breezed hill above a lovely beach. Amira recalled Jihan’s stories about the Muntaza, but nowhere did she see the pool where Farouk’s naked bathing beauties cavorted. Perhaps it had been filled in, forgotten.

After touring the building and grounds, she and Margaret walked barefoot on the shore, Hamza accompanying them so that there would be no difficulty. It was a public beach but lined with cabanas—comfortable little houses, really—for private rental. Elderly men crisscrossed the sand offering coffee or lemonade to families basking in the blue-and-gold afternoon.

The last stop was the British consulate in Roushdy, scarcely a mile from home, for an elaborate tea. Amira had been in London once; this little corner of Egypt seemed far more English. As the setting sun threw long shadows across the combed lawns, she found herself wishing she could push it higher in the sky to keep the day from ending. It was Margaret, she realized, who made her feel that way.

Amira had been truly close to three women: Laila, Miss Vanderbeek, and Jihan. All were gone. Now, out of nowhere in this foreign place, she had found a little of each of them—the adventurous companion, the teacher, the mother—in Margaret Edwin.

It was time to go. Margaret had sent for the car. They stood at the door making small talk. Yes, Amira might be free tomorrow; she would ask Ali. Good. Perhaps they could see the museum after all.

Then, unexpectedly, Margaret said, “Charles and I had a daughter.

She died in a sailing accident when she was twelve. She would have been just your age. We were talking about it last night, after we met you. Charles said you had a lovely smile, but your eyes seemed sad. I know I’m being pre- sumptuous, but if you need someone to talk with, I’m here—for a few days, at any rate.”

“Thank you.” Amira didn’t know what else to say. Again, it was as if the older woman had read her thoughts.

O