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EVEN HERE, MARIA THOUGHT, a pebble’s throw from the grimy once-ornate facade of the Egyptian Museum, the fetid stew of Cairo in July hung in the air, noxious and unhealthy. From the car she could see shimmering thermal patterns, like ghostly dervishes, whirling through the late-afternoon falluca traffic on the river. Joey’s rubber ball made pocking sounds against the rear deck of the Mercedes. It printed smudges in the dusty surface but left no damage, and she let him amuse himself. Her gaze drifted toward the hodgepodge of vehicles thrashing forward in the streets: ramshackle buses choked with people, trucks belching dark exhausts, cars of every vintage, donkeys pulling flatbed carts, a slow-moving river of molasses. She contemplated the impending Friday run to Alexandria. It would be a gut-wrenching punishment. One more time she looked at her watch. Robert had told her that the schedule called for the delegation to be finished with the museum tour by four, which meant five or thereabouts, acknowledging the Egyptian penchant for defying punctuality. It was now fifteen minutes past five. “Can’t duck this one,” Robert had apologized at breakfast, offering his mock-exasperated smile, mischievous under his shock of sandy hair, which made him appear so deceptively yielding and innocent. How misleading, she thought, warmed, once again, by the image. After all, hadn’t he defied the vaunted all-powerful Padre? She allowed herself a private grin as a momentary picture of her father, like a bit of flotsam on the slate gray of the Nile, passed briefly on the flow of memory. Padre! Her voice could never say it, although it resonated often in her mind. Heis daddy, she protested, yet again, whispering the word. “What?” Joey asked, coming to the open window. “Nothing, sweets.” “We’ll be late, Mommy.” “Late for what?” she asked patiently. “For a swim.” Joey pouted. “You promised.” “Then I’ll keep it. Even if it’s dark.” “But I’m afraid of the dark, Mommy.” She was disturbed that her irritation had made her say that. Impatience and the heat, she rationalized. “We’ll make it, sweets. You’ll see,” she said gently, putting out her hand, ruffling his hair. He smiled and went back to the rear of the car, resuming his game. The Assistant Secretary was a classmate from Princeton, Robert had explained with his usual bias, one of the foot soldiers who ventured into the muck of irreversible entropy, which was, specifically, modern Egypt and the Arab world in general. Robert, ever the antiquarian, often vented his contempt for the modern world using the Arab example. The visit of the Assistant Secretary had set him off that morning. “Their entire culture is dominated by a mentality that will not rest until it gets the upper hand, which is impossible, like immortality. Yet they continue to haggle away like traders in the marketplace. They have a sweetness in them that is very attractive, but they cannot compromise.”