be harsh and irritated with those on his level who were behaving badly. He was willing to roll up his sleeves and do menial work when required, but he was proud, even haughty, with his fellow vamps, holding them to a code of ethics that they’d never subscribed to.
He was stubborn, my God was he stubborn! But he could be strangely open minded, too, accompanying me to shows for artists he’d never heard of, or listening—with the strangest look on his face—to some of the garage and neo-punk bands I liked, trying to see the allure. I don’t think that had worked, but we had discovered a mutual appreciation for trashy novels and spicy Sichuan cooking, so I supposed that was something.
But, no, I didn’t pretend to understand him. I’d partly agreed to this trip hoping to get away from the war and spend some quiet time together. And we had had a single, wonderful day. Hassani had been held up from playing chaperone by some court issue a couple of days ago, so we’d been given a local guide and a trip to the temple of Abu Simbel, the famous memorial to Ramses II and Queen Nefertiti.
Fortunately, we never made it there. I was already tired of aging stone monuments, desert sand, and heat. Instead, when our airplane stopped at Aswan, the nearest airport, we discovered a Nubian market and fell in love. Or, at least, I did, and Louis-Cesare hadn’t seemed to mind the idea of spending the day among a gorgeous collection of blue, yellow and green buildings, with colorful murals and quirky inhabitants, instead of a long, dusty trip into the desert.
So, we’d overruled our guide and gone shopping.
We’d started with a visit to a local family, who gave us bright red hibiscus tea while we tossed treats to their pet crocodiles. Crocs were everywhere in the village: alive, and waiting for their next snack; dead and carefully mummified; tiny and perched on a local man’s shoulder; or huge and skinned and splayed out above doorways. The usually vicious creatures had been tamed by being hand reared, along with being fed a hefty diet of chicken and fish, to the point that several of them were positively potbellied.
The left-over dinosaurs were well taken care of, being an important money maker for the locals. It was much needed after the famous Aswan Dam took their land away, which they were still waiting to be compensated for. The crocs were also a nod to the crocodile-headed, ancient Egyptian god Sobek, who ironically, like the dam, was supposed to control the flooding of the Nile.
Afterwards, we’d eaten an early lunch of hawawshi bought from a street vendor, which turned out to be a crispy pita bread stuffed with beef, onions, peppers and chilies—basically an Egyptian taco and every bit as good as it sounds. Then we wandered the streets, marveling at the artwork on the houses, which was huge, in your face, and exuberant. There was everything from abstract designs to full on murals, including a beautiful one of feluccas sailing on the Nile; from dusky Nubian beauties in traditional attire, to gorgeous Arabic calligraphy flowing along the sides of buildings like water; and, in a memorable instance, of a bunch of pert camels, one with his tongue sticking out.
Speaking of camels, the real things had been everywhere, with happy-looking pom poms dancing on their bridles in every color of the rainbow, to lure in tourists whose feet were starting to hurt. I had eyed them speculatively, but we’d chosen to walk to the market instead, where the hunt was soon on for the tackiest souvenir possible for my uncle Radu. He managed to combine deep pockets with Liberace taste, so it had been a struggle to find something suitable.
We’d finally settled on a galabeya, one of the full-length robes worn by men and women all over Egypt, in eye searing purple, with a shimmering phoenix on the back in gold paillettes and sequins. I was pretty sure it was supposed to be for a woman, but Louis-Cesare knew his Sire. He’d immediately declared the search over, and that Radu would love it.
He was very likely right.
The day had ended with savory-sweet chicken tagines with preserved lemon at a colorful restaurant overlooking the Nile. We’d completed the meal with spicy Nubian ginger-coffee made on charcoal and hot sand, while a glorious orange sunset splashed our faces. It was one of those perfect days, a picture postcard glimpse of a