Cairo, Egypt 1938

[henry_jones_jr]

[January 20th, 1938 @ 3:03 pm EET]The Al Ghourieh quarter of Old Cairo is a spellbinding latticework of streets and alleyways. The severed head of Touman Bey, Egypt’s last Mameluke sultan, was hung over the gate to this neighborhood after the Ottoman Turks killed him in the 16th century. A year earlier his father, Sultan Al Ghouri, had been killed

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[slayer_fray]

Mel ignores the beggars with the ease of someone who sees them every day, instead whipped a leather glvoed hand up to protect her eyes from the sudden bright sunlight.

"Jesu, how're we supposed to see anything?"

[comm_npc]

The end of the alley does not open to a market per se, but the crossing way is a more-heavily trafficed thoroughfare. There are a few street vendors manning ramshackled stalls and trying to press their oils, rugs and produce upon other dispassionate locals. Several black veiled women shuffle along meekly, trying their best not to rub shoulders with grubbily robed arab men also present.

Two low-ranking German soldiers also meander through the light crowd, chatting idly and smoking cigarettes. Standard MP-35 machine guns hang below their green jackets, knocking gently at their hips.

[slayer_fray]

Mel doesn't slow, or lok in their direction. She just continues on her way, which just so happens to be in the same direction as the soldiers.

Under her breath, mouth hardly moving: "OK, what now?"

[slayer_fray]

"Will that help?" Mel asks as they approach the soldiers, before which she drops the whisper ans starts talking more naturally.

"These silk baggy things with lace bits around the hems. Only just covered the ass. I was worried my fingernails were gonna go right through."

[slayer_fray]

"Just keep walking like it's natural," Mel suggests. "At least til we figure out where we're going."

She scratches the back of her head restlessly, bringing a few strands of pink hair loose.

[comm_npc]

Even if one has a different purpose, such a neighborhood as this can hold a strange attraction. Something in the close-knit fabric of the buildings, in the vibrations of the passing crowd, excites the imagination. One can almost guess what the interiors of the houses look like, enter the alcoves, share amorous embraces, follow the silent gaze of women behind the musharabiehs.

The Germans just saunter on with little interest however. Their route takes them onto an exotically scented street named after Al Hakim Bi Amr Illah where tradesmen aggressively hawk their perfumes and medicinal plants. And then into the poky Al Fichawi cafe, where they sit down and are soon provided with a royal hookah to share.

This little coffee-house is a microcosm of street life: an endless stream of newspaper vendors, shoe-shine men, beggars and street peddlers-as well as clusters of romantic-looking Westerners, most of whom are not wearing military attire.

[slayer_fray]

Mel glances around once more, and turns to Mike, nodding at the coffee house meaningfully.

"Think you need to go in first?"

[slayer_fray]

She sends a tight little smile his way, hoping it looks like a mean Nazi officer, and steps in.

"Danke."

It's danke, right, I'm supposed to say that? Oh for ut's sake why can't we just shoot our way to Indy?

[slayer_fray]

Still striding like a man - or like Mel, really, she allows herself to be ushered and takes a seat, wondering as she sits exactly how ladies in this century were supposed to act.

She tugs on her glove fingers nervously, but places her hands firmly in her lap, looking around with idle curiosity.

[slayer_fray]

"When was the last time you were here?" Mel asks, struggling to lift her dainty cup in her gloved hands.