PART I

 1  GIZA

 

After weeks of fog and drizzle, the wind veers northeast and sharpens the cold like a blade.

It no longer concerns me. My mind has already left Holland for South Africa.

For the second time, I will be house-sitting in Cape Town. Affluent South Africans prefer not to leave their homes unguarded over the Christmas holidays; someone must tend to the pets. It is simple work, and for me, a cheap passage to the sun. Mrs. Groenemeyer has arranged three house-sits.

This time, I hope to break the long night flight with a stopover in Cairo.

The Great Pyramid of Giza has held me since I was eighteen. The more I study this monument, the more it becomes like a faceted diamond, reflecting the light of mysteries I cannot fully grasp. I hope to shape those thoughts into a novel, perhaps to understand this last of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

Against my usual habits, I book a rather expensive room with a view of the pyramids, justifying it as research. The title will be Diamond in the Desert. It pleases me, for there is something deceptive about jewels: they glitter, yet they are formed under immense pressure, deep in darkness.

My earlier idea, Jewel Along the Nile, feels too close to an echo of the film The Jewel of the Nile, which I should watch one day. Still, it lingers: a blend of promise and illusion.

Perhaps this journey, too, carries a quiet prophecy for my book—something inward, an unnoticed revolution.

As the plane circles above Cairo, the Nile Delta spreads beneath me, and for a moment it seems to mirror a vast triangle. Is the resemblance to the Great Pyramid a coincidence?

At the airport, heat wraps around me like a blanket. When my suitcase appears on the carousel, I peel away my winter layers.

The transfer winds through dense traffic, engines and horse hooves competing for space. Oriental music seeps from the radio, unfamiliar scales bending the air. At a stop, a veiled woman with sad eyes begs at the window.

The contrast with the hotel is overwhelming: an imposing building, almost theatrical in its luxury. On the rooftop terrace, I accept a welcome drink from a friendly waitress. Although she a has colored skin, her eyes are remarkably light behind her darkened glasses. My attention drifts past her, to three triangles on the horizon, solitary and immovable.

I linger at the railing, then hand her my glass.

“Thank you. It was delicious.”

She wishes me a pleasant day.

From my room, as promised, the pyramids stand clear in the distance, unchanged by centuries. I sit on the balcony only briefly before changing into shorts and a T-shirt. I feel the urge to go towards the stone mountains.

I walk behind the hotel, where deliveries are made, filth gathers in every corner and I smell the chickens, nearly stripped of feathers, shrieking from plastic crates.

Life here seems reduced to supply. I turn away. Tonight, I will not eat chicken. I quickly continue walking, stunned.

The streets are narrow and dusty; garbage collects in every crevice. Guards stand motionless, watching without intervening—authority without motion. I wonder whether order here exists to restrain chaos, or simply to endure it.

Beyond the city, space opens: sun, air, silence. Yet even here, plastic clings to the sand like a second skin.

Let’s enjoy the sunshine, the nice temperature I tell myself.

The necropolis appears deceptively close, but the walk stretches on. Offers trail behind me: cars, camels, carts, each promising ease. Like a pilgrim, I refuse them all. Some distances must be earned on foot.

At last, the Giza Plateau.

The pyramids overwhelm me and, strangely, disappoint me too. Mountains of stone.

The illusion fractures quickly: car horns, shouting vendors, the sour smell of camels, the restless churn of tourists. I had expected silence, a dignified stillness, mystery at first glance. Instead, I find a circus.

I move away from the noise and circle the Great Pyramid in search of the original casing stones. The smooth white outer layer was stripped away long ago, but fragments of polished limestone remain near the base.

When I find them, I am astonished.

I read on the plane that these stones weigh fifteen tons each, cut with nearly perfect right angles on all six sides and polished flat to within a hundredth of an inch. An estimated 144,000 of them once sheathed the pyramid, quarried at Tura-Masara, twelve kilometers south of central Cairo.

Where have I heard that number—144,000—before?

Why all this effort? A question that follows me continuously? What is purpose?

I should have asked a guide. Instead, I wander, wasting time in quiet stubbornness.I look up.

How high could I climb?

Guards are everywhere, yet I see figures standing far above, small against the vastness. Perhaps permission here is a flexible concept.

I wait until the nearest guard turns away and begin to climb.

The stones are warm beneath my hands. I press myself against a massive block and pause.

No shout. No whistle.

Only silence.

The warmth seeps into me, dissolving the memory of the long Dutch winter. I exhale, content.

Resting against these ancient stones, I feel their weight—not only physical, but moral.

Was each block cut, hauled and placed by human hands under a burning sun? Built without haste, without ease.

How does one create something meant to outlast kingdoms, empires, memory itself?

Images of chariots, wheels carved in relief, flicker through my mind.

Real, or borrowed from The Ten Commandments?

How were stones of this size moved?

Some weigh over two thousand kilograms; the granite blocks raised high within the pyramid reach seventy tons. Across rivers, across time, building for eternity.

Perhaps they did not move the stones at all.

Perhaps, one day, this mountain of stone will move everything else.

As the light fades, I descend.

A whistle pierces the air, then another.

Without turning, I raise a hand in casual acknowledgment and continue my walk.

The city calls me back. My body begins to tire, but my mind has only just begun.

Behind me, the pyramids remain silent, patient, waiting.

 

Dinner is served on the terrace, and I notice the guests glancing towards the dark silhouettes in the distance, as if expecting them to reveal something.

The same veiled waitress approaches and asks what I would like to drink.

I order a beer.

When she returns with a bottle, I hesitate, preferring draught.

She gently explains that, Egypt is a Muslim-majority country, where alcohol is avoided as much as possible.

At that moment, the lights come on across the Giza Plateau.

A murmur rises, followed by applause.

It is like a scene from One Thousand and One Nights. Even the waitress pauses beside me, forgetting her duties, her eyes fixed on the glowing pyramids with quiet admiration.

When she turns back, she asks what I would like for dinner.

“No chicken. I saw the animals in crates behind the hotel.”

“I understand your point of view, sir. Animal welfare standards are still developing here. May I recommend the grilled beef?”

“Are cows treated better?” I tease.

She raises an eyebrow, then leaves me with no answer.

When she brings the dessert, I ask whether she knows a professional pyramid guide for the next day. She smiles broadly.

“You must request a guide at the hotel desk, sir. I happen to be an official guide myself, and I study at the Theological Seminary in Cairo, but I am not allowed to arrange private tours.”

“That is quite a coincidence. Tell me your name and I’ll ask for you tomorrow. My name is Tom.”

I reach out my hand, which is stupid.

She only bows with both hands against her breast.

“My name is Petra, nice to meet you Mr Tom. I have to disappoint you. The system assigns guides by rotation. And tomorrow is Sunday, I am free.”

I grin. “Well that is perfect, when you are free!”

She shakes her head.

“No sir, If I guide you privately, I could lose my job.”

With a faint, almost apologetic smile, she bows slightly and walks away, balancing a tray of dishes.

I enjoy watching her move across the terrace: efficient, light, almost fragile.

She catches me looking and smiles.

 

When she offers me coffee, I lower my voice.

“Can I wait here until your shift ends?”

She glances around, then gives a small nod.

By the time the lights on the necropolis fade and most guests have left, she returns.

“Sorry, sir, if I was rude earlier.”

“Rude? I was the one teasing you. Please, sit for a moment.”

She hesitates, then sits.

“Listen, I’m writing a novel about the Great Pyramid. I’m not looking for a tourist tour.

I want a professional lecture, a deeper understanding. Can you help me?”

She considers this, glancing around.

“That sounds like a different request. Eh, I could meet you here around eleven.

Mind you, I will be dressed in a dark hijab and big sunglasses. Keep it a secret, please.”

I nod.

“Sure. But why a hijab?”

“I’ll explain tomorrow, sir.”

She stands and disappears before I can ask more.

 

I look out at the pyramids in the moonlight, satisfied.

I could join the few people chatting on the terrace, or go to the bar by the pool.

Instead, I choose my suite.

Stretched out on the king-size bed, with the pyramids spread before me in the moonlight, I feel a restless excitement.

Tomorrow, I will meet my disguised guide.