Behind the Correspondent's Curtain
107
down," I countered. I left a few cigarettes on the rock, and
began my perilous descent.
"Wait!" Khalil called out. "I come."
I assumed an air of impatience.
Khalil brushed past me in his skirts, and led the way down.
I expected the worst from him now, and I was doubly wary.
First, I waited to make sure we were going the same way we
came up, lest he maneuver me to an inaccessible part of the
Pyramid and strand me there for the night. If that was his
plan, he had chosen the proper moment. All the guides had
disappeared. There was no soul in sight. We were enveloped
in heavy silence. Not even a dog barked. Khalil and I were
utterly alone in the vastness of desert, perched atop Cheops,
with God as the only witness. Tiny human specks clinging to
this gigantic masonry, we were invisible even from Mcna
House, the closest habitation, almost a mile away. Under
these circumstances, I was also wary of a possible "accident."
A slight push might easily send me crashing down, with no
witnesses except Khalil to testify that it was my fault—and
no witnesses to watch while he picked my corpse later for
whatever of value I had on me.
As we worked our way down, every few minutes I would
pause and yell: "This way is not right, Khalil. You arc taking
me down wrong. This other way is right."
We would argue back and forth on the rock, closer to
heaven than earth, and I would finally follow him. Halfway
down, Khalil waited till I had caught up.
"I want three dollars now," he announced.
I sat down in a corner formed by two giant rocks, and
waved him on:
"Go ahead alone. I stay here. When I come down I pay
you."
Khalil looked at me: "You speak Amerikan, but you are not
Amerikan, yes?"
I knew what he meant. "Yes and no, Khalil," I said. "I was