Three Rivers by Roberta Latow

with a good night’s sleep. There was a knock on the door. It was Gamal with a silver salver and a cup of black coffee on it. He announced that they would land in one hour and that breakfast and the gentlemen were in the dining room.
    She noticed when he left that he no longer had on his trousers and jacket. He was now in his galabia of cream-colored shiny cotton with a fine stripe of dark olive green in it. There was a dark olive sash around his waist, and he had a turban of simple white cotton covering his hair. The three deep scars slashed in his cheek seemed more regal and less sinister than they had looked in London. Isabel knew those slashes to be a tribal ritual. The Sudanese were proud to wear them.
    Once Gamal had left the room, Isabel sat back with her cup of coffee and sipped the thick, sweet liquid slowly. She reminded herself to tell Gamal no sugar and read a few more pages of her book before placing it in her nightcase and shutting it.
    She then went to the commode and checked her looks in the mirror. Isabel knew that she was a beauty, but shenever took her appearance for granted. Her long dark chestnut hair was shiny and falling in just the right way, and the elegance and simplicity of her white dress were perfect for the impression she was out to make.
    Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she turned around and checked the room to see that all was in order. For one fleeting moment she thought of Anthony and the night before. She was not looking forward to meeting him in the presence of the two other men. The fact was that she would never again experience the Anthony that she knew last night. She sighed, not out of unhappiness so much as resignation. The one thing Isabel had learned, and the hard way, was to accept as graciously as she could what life had to offer her.
    She turned around and left Sir Alexis’s cabin. In the dining room the three men rose from their seats as Isabel approached the table. André Beshawi kissed her hand and wished her a good morning, Alexander reached across the table, took her hand and gave it a firm, friendly pat, saying how lovely and radiant she looked this morning and how did she manage it? Anthony came around, pulled a chair out for her and said he hoped that she had slept well.
    The table was a wonder. The night before when she had seen it, it appeared to be nothing more than a conference table, stark and very businesslike with its twenty chairs around it. This morning, the center was filled with lilacs and tulips in white and pink and with peach-colored zenias; there were heavy, ornate silver pitchers of mango, orange, pineapple, and coconut juices, heavy crystal goblets and an enormous silver bowl of tiny white peaches. There were placemats of pink-and-peach silk organza with hand-painted white polka dots and napkins to match. The plates were of silver. The cups and saucers were white Belleek.
    The same stewards were attending the table, and one came over to Isabel to explain that they would only serve juice, fruit and coffee. Breakfast would be served at the house later.
    Everyone was a bit subdued. Alexander seemed more like the Alexander she had first met. André Beshawi and Anthony were discussing the latter’s visit to Sir Alexis. Isabel listened, wanting to hear why Anthony was in Egyptand his connection with Alexis Hyatt. She could have guessed it.
    Anthony had sold Sir Alexis two paintings a few years before. Recently, by chance, they met in Paris, and Sir Alexis said that he thought that one of the paintings was in need of some restoration. The pigment was cracking and some had even flaked off. Would it be possible for Sir Alexis to send it to Anthony for the work that had to be done? He would have it put on his plane and delivered directly to Anthony. Anthony, of course, suggested that he fly out to do the repair whenever it was convenient for Sir Alexis; in that way he could see the painting and where it was hung, which would be a great pleasure. He would