The booming voice carries on, more fatuous by the second. Angela leans over Sandy to whisper heavily to them all, “I am the Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz,” and with the vocal style of the narrator pegged they can’t restrain themselves, they get more hysterical at every sentence, and they’re attracting a lot of irritated looks from the reverent tourists seated around them. Well, to be obnoxious is un-Californian, so they sit up rigidly and nod their heads in approval at each new absurdity, only giggling in little pressure breakthroughs. But on the drive back they simply roll on the seats and howl. Their guide is mystified.

*   *   *

But that night—that night, after the others have retired—that night, Jim McPherson wanders down to the hotel bar. He feels unsettled, dissatisfied. They aren’t doing the Old World justice, he knows that. Going to see the Pyramids turned into bad pop video; that isn’t the way to do it.

The hotel bar is closed. The clerk recommends McDonald’s, then when she better understands Jim’s desires, the Cairo Sheraton, just a few blocks away. It’s simple to get there, she says, and Jim walks out into the dry, warm night air without a map.

There’s a desert wind blowing. Smell of dust, static cling. Neon scrawls of Arabic script flicker over green pools of light that spill out into the dark streets. A few pedestrians, hardly any cars. From one shop comes the pungent smell of roasting spiced lamb, from another the quarter-tone ululations of a radio singer. Men in caftans are out doing the night business. Hardly anyone glances at Jim, he feels curiously accepted, part of the scene. It’s peaceful in a way, the bustle is half-paced and relaxed. Men sit in open cafes over games that look a bit like dominos, smoking from giant hookahs whose bowls seem to contain chunks of glowing red charcoal. What are they smoking? Sandy would want to inquire, analyze a chunk for chemical clues; Humphrey would want to buy a bushel just in case. Jim just looks and passes on, feeling a ghost. The wailing music is eerie. Arab voices in the street are musical too, especially when relaxed like this. A cab driver plays the fanfare from “Finlandia” on his horn; all the cabbies here use that rhythm.

It occurs to Jim that he should have reached the Sheraton by now. It’s on the Nile and shouldn’t be that hard to find. But where, exactly, is the Nile? He turns toward it and walks on. Auto mechanics work on a car jacked up right in the street. Policemen stay in pairs, carry submachine guns. Jim seems to have gotten into a poorer neighborhood, somehow. Has he gotten his orientation off by ninety degrees, perhaps? He turns again.