Rakitaki: A Jonas Quartermain Adventure Read online

  When Jonas woke, they were back in Cairo. He sat up from his spot at the rear doors and looked through the windshield. He recognized the museum outside.

  “Hey,” he said. “What are we doing here?”

  Simon shifted on the bench, his voice loud even over the terrible clangor of the engine. “Dropping off artifacts to be cleaned up and prepared for display in that exhibit Mister Korekiyo showed us.”

  Jonas’ mind was fuzzy. “Why are we here then? We don’t have any artifacts in the van.”

  “If I had to guess, we’re here in case there are any questions for us,” Dylan said. He had a book in his hands.

  “How can you read in here?” Jonas asked. He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

  “There’s plenty of light,” Dylan replied.

  “Right, but the van has been in motion for the last two hours.”

  “I don’t get carsick.”

  “Lucky,” Jodie muttered. Sidney was asleep against her shoulder.

  Just then, Calhoun climbed back into the passenger seat. “Alright, we’re all set. Back to the hotel. You guys deserve some rest.”

  The driver had been smoking outside the van up until that point. He climbed in, reeking of Turkish tobacco. He had been their driver on every trip, though he rarely spoke. He turned to Jonas with a big grin and tobacco-stained teeth. “My friends, you have the freedom time?”

  “Uh, yeah, we have the freedom time,” Jonas said. It sounded like the driver might have something interesting to recommend.

  “Excellent! My friends, we go to a party tonight. I know of one nearby, with many women! You will enjoy much, I think.” His excitement was palpable even through the thick Turkish accent.

  Jonas shot a look at Calhoun. “Uh, is that a good idea?”

  “None of my business, Mister Quartermain. You’re an adult. We go back day after tomorrow, don’t be late.”

  “Alright,” Jonas said. He returned his attention to the driver. “Where is it at?”

  “Sharm El-Sheikh, on the Red Sea.” He waved out to the east. “Very popular. Many resident of Cairo go there to party.”

  Jonas was enthralled by the idea of a party, but was unsure of how they would get there.

  “That sounds great, but how would we get to the party? We don't even know where Sharm Shake is.” Simon laughed at Jonas’ slip-up.

  The driver shook his head. “Sharm El-Sheikh is not far from here. We go to the hotel now, get ready, go party, yes?”

  “Yes,” Jonas said hesitantly.

  “Excellent!” He said excitedly. He reached into the door well and withdrew a flask. When the lid popped open, Jonas smelled the telltale scent of whiskey. He held it up and said “şerefe” before taking a deep drink.

  “I will pick you up tonight, and we will go together.”

  Jonas was disturbed by their driver drinking casually, but dismissed it as a cultural norm.

  “I don't want…” Dylan started to say.

  Simon clapped a hand over his friend’s mouth. Jonas quickly and loudly talked over the noise. “We'd love to go. Pick us up at seven?”

  “Perfect, my friend. I will pick you up at seven.” The driver smiled and shook his head. “However, I fear we may be at the party early.”

  “Seven it is,” Jonas confirmed. He looked at the other two. Simon nodded, a gleam in his eye. Dylan looked miserable with Simon's massive hand plastered over his mouth.

  Suddenly, Simon jerked his hand back and looked at it in disgust. “Dude, really?” He wiped the saliva on the leg of his pants.

  Dylan stuck his tongue out at Simon, but stayed quiet.

  Jodie looked across the van at the two of them. “If that’s how you’re going to behave at a party, I’m not going.”

  Sidney shook her head in agreement.

  Jonas shrugged. “More party for us then.”

  “That makes no sense,” Jodie said as she crossed her arms. It was awkward looking and shoved Sidney against the shelving.

  The driver laughed uproariously, though Jonas was unsure why. The short drive to the hotel was unremarkable. Jonas thanked the man, then watched as he sped off in the van. Simon and Dylan led the group with Jonas just behind, then Sidney and Jodie behind him. Calhoun brought up the rear. They walked into the hotel.

  “What are you going to wear?” Jonas thought of his own meager selection.

  “I don't know, but I am getting like three showers in first. I don't want to smell like this when we meet women,” Simon replied. Dylan still looked miserable.

  “Dylan, it's going to be a good time,” Jonas said. He smiled when Dylan looked up at him.

  “Yeah, maybe you're right.” The smaller man still sounded downbeat, but he tried on a smile. It looked pained.

  “Besides, you have me now,” Simon said as he slapped a massive palm on his friend’s back, nearly toppling him to the ground.

  Dylan caught himself, then slowly stood. “Yeah, yeah. Let's go,” he said with a sigh.

  20

  Jonas woke and dressed in his finest clothes: a pair of gray slacks and a white button up with a white undershirt. He had showered before bed, but gave himself a sniff test to make sure. A quick application of deodorant later, he was on his way to the lobby. There, he met up with Dylan and Simon. They had dressed up, though Simon's idea of 'dress up' was a long stretch even for a yoga master. He wore a muscle shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. It was complete with Stetson hat, the epitome of American country boy. Jonas took note of the scruff on Simon’s jawline. He felt a measure of envy for the man as he rubbed his own patchy chin.

  Dylan, on the other hand, looked like he had been handed an invite to a formal dinner. The short redhead was dressed to make the nines look bad. He had a perfectly fitted charcoal gray suit, blue tie, burnt orange pocket square, and even a brass pocket-watch. His shirt was crisp, his pants had an actual hard crease, and his black shoes were so shiny that they could see their reflections.

  “Did you pack that when we flew out here?”

  Simon ignored the question and asked his own. “Dylan, bro, you think this might be a bit much?”

  “I am here to find ancient discoveries and slay women,” Dylan said in an all-too-confident tone.

  “Good thing you're not out of ancient discoveries, or we might have a new Jack the Ripper here,” Jonas said. Simon snorted, but Dylan looked down at himself in disappointment. “Chill, dude. It's a joke. You look great. Pretty sure my grandma would love you.”

  Dylan flipped Jonas off as they left the hotel. Simon waited, then gave Jonas a high five for the joke. Outside, the air was warm, even for the season.

  “By the way, was that a reference to something? It sounded familiar.”

  Dylan shook his head. “Maybe an old movie? It just kinda came to me.”

  They found their driver friend, whom they had never asked for a name, idling in a white BMW E535i. Simon and Jonas let out simultaneous whistles of appreciation. Even accounting for the huge number of dents, dings, and scratches, it was a work of art.

  “Are we sure this is a good idea?” Dylan looked between the two larger men, then back at the car.

  “Yeah, I want to party like there’s no tomorrow and this guy sounds like he’s got the hookup,” Simon replied.

  “I haven’t been to a party in weeks. I think I’m suffering from withdrawals,” Jonas joked.

  “My friends, so good to see you,” the driver shouted to them through an open window. They could hear American rock blaring from the crackling speakers.

  “You're up front,” Dylan told Jonas. Simon snickered as they climbed into the rear seats. Jonas sighed, then took the passenger seat. He was not excited for the Cairo driving experience in the front seat. They roared off, horn blaring and lights flashing. Jonas wondered just how long the drive would be and if they would make it in one piece.

  Twenty tense minutes later, they left the noise and chaos of the city and were on a wide highway in the desert. Jonas began to relax, and when he looked into
the back seat, he found Simon and Dylan already snoozing. They had barely slept five hours. Jonas shared their exhaustion.

  He was lulled once again by the roaring of the engine, the thumping tunes from the blown speakers, and the descending sun. Jonas tried to stay awake, but conversation was difficult with their driver over the music. Eventually, he gave up on the shallow conversation they had been holding about the city and the weather. The road began to hypnotize him. Jonas slipped into sleep without noticing.

  “Woah, man. Egypt is a trip. Who knew it was so big,” said a familiar voice.

  Jonas looked around himself. He stood in the middle of a sandy desert plain. Far off he could see mountains hazed by heat and distance. The voice was coming from the air all around, but the burly dealer was nowhere to be seen. “Tricky?”

  “Who told you my name?” The voice came from right behind him. He whirled, finding nothing.

  “You did, you doofus,” he said to the air.

  Tricky laughed wheezily. “Who is doofus? Do they want to buy some weed?”

  “No, Tricky, they don't. What are you doing here?” Jonas turned in place, finally locating the strange man a few paces away. He hadn’t been there the last time Jonas had looked. He was framed by the hazy mountains, almost like he had stepped out of a portal that was still disappearing. He was in a hoody and jeans, hair flowing from the hood. He looked extremely baked.

  “I'm not here. You are,” Tricky said with a finger pointed at Jonas’ chest.

  He sighed. He didn't have the mental capacity to deal with Tricky's insanity after two weeks of being worked to the bone.

  “Listen, man. I get it,” said Tricky.

  Caught aback, Jonas looked at the stoner. “You get what?”

  “You're tired, exhausted even. You don't know what's going on, you don't know what the darkness is.” His voice was unusually clear now, intelligent even. Jonas’ head was whirling as he tried to keep up with the changing conversation.

  “What? What darkness?” Jonas spun in place as he looked for the ‘darkness’ being spoken of. All he could see was the bright, unending desert with a sunless sky overhead.

  Tricky scratched his head. “Ah, sorry, that's something else. Uh, where are we?”

  “Cairo?” Responded Jonas.

  “No way, I always wanted to go there. What year is it?” Tricky produced a joint from nowhere, then a lighter. He stuck the joint in his mouth and lit up.

  “Dude, it just turned 1984. Kind of a hard one to forget, you know, with the book.” Jonas mimed opening a book.

  “Well, believe me there are bigger years coming,” Tricky said as he waved the joint around to emphasize his point.

  “What?” Asked Jonas.

  Tricky waved his hand. “Never mind. Just remember, red means stop. Hey, you want a hit?”

  “What the hell does that—”

  Jonas snapped awake.

  The driver looked over at Jonas’ sudden jerk. “Are you okay, my friend?”

  “Yeah,” Jonas said as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. He realized the music had been turned down to a tolerable level, no longer rattling the car. The dash clock read 09:45pm. “It’s been like three hours. Are we close?”

  “Yes, yes, my friend. Perhaps another 20 minutes.” He produced the flask from earlier. He held it up, said “Şerefe” and took a drink, then held it out to Jonas. Unnerved, Jonas waved it off.

  “That’s a crazy long drive. I thought you said it was close.”

  “It is only a few hours. This will be a good time, trust me.”

  “You’ve said that word a few times– şerefe. What does it mean?”

  “It is a toast. To your good health,” he said as he tipped the flask back again.

  “Would you mind not doing that? Drinking and driving is dangerous.”

  “We will be fine, my friend.”

  He looked out the window and was instantly nauseous. The scenery was passing by so quickly he felt vertigo creep along his limbs. He immediately looked down, heaving. A few long breaths later, he was feeling better.

  “Not so much good with the moving car, my friend?” The man looked over, a worried expression on his face.

  Jonas shook his head. “No, not so good with moving cars. Or heights. What is your name?”

  “Hatem Bitar, my friend. And you?” Hatem waved with his right hand at Jonas, left still holding the flask.

  Jonas started to reach for the steering wheel before Hatem grabbed it again. He took a deep breath before speaking. “Quartermain, Jonas Quartermain.”

  “Your name is Quartermain Jonas Quartermain? What a strange name.”

  “No, I was just... doing a thing.” He put a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples. “My name is Jonas Quartermain.”

  Hatem nodded. “I see. That is much confusing.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  He raised his flask. “It is, how as you say, no problem, Jonas Quartermain.”

  Jonas nodded, not sure how to respond. They rode in silence for the last twenty minutes. The road looked smooth in the brief glances he took, though Jonas felt some bumps as they hurtled along. He snuck a look at the speedometer and looked away when he couldn't find the needle in the first half of the display.

  They came to a smooth stop in front of a white building of brutalist architecture. It had a blank white façade, no windows, and a set of double doors leading in. A neon sign was lit above the doors, though Jonas couldn’t read the Arabic writing. A long line of people in clubwear stood impatiently, waiting to get into the club. Men and women of all nationalities and skin colors chatting in small groups. The line extended along the front of the building, and around the corner into the darkness of the night. Two white men stood in front of the doors with a velvet rope blocking the way. They looked like twins, burly men with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail, black suit and black shirt. Black sunglasses covered their eyes. They were intimidating without doing anything.

  The sea crashed against the shore only a few dozen feet away, audible even over the music and through the sound-proofing of the car. As soon as one of the car doors opened, Jonas could smell the salt water. Hatem waved them toward the club. Jonas could hear the music thumping through the front doors.

  “Are they going to let us in?” Jonas asked Hatem as he led them to the doors.

  “Please, my friends, trust in me. I will have us inside in no time,” Hatem said as he waved their worries off.

  They followed their newfound friend to the roped-off line. The two bouncers were even larger up close.

  “Wait, what about the car?” Asked Jonas.

  Hatem waved the concern off. “It is already taken care of, my friend. They know me here.”

  Jonas looked back to see a young Egyptian man getting into the BMW they had driven. He started the engine and quickly drove the vehicle around the corner. Jonas assumed the man was some sort of valet for the club.

  The bouncers stopped Hatem's group, but he walked chest-to-chest and glared up at the bouncer for a long moment.

  “Yeah, yeah, get inside, Bitar,” the man rumbled. He sounded like an ex-pat from somewhere in the American Midwest.

  Hatem hooked a thumb over his shoulder, an unusually American action. “These three are with me.”

  “Whatever, just get out of my line,” the bouncer replied as he opened the velvet rope.

  Hatem walked past the bouncers. As the doors opened, the music rolled out with enough bass to shake his chest. Jonas could just hear the women at the head of the line shouting in Arabic. The bouncers stoically closed the velvet rope and the doors, cutting them off.

  Hatem raised his hands while he walked as if in praise. He spun and started walking backwards as he shouted to his companions. “Welcome to the Marqas!”

  Lights flashed all around the club, not just on the dance floor. The décor was dark chic, red plush velvet on black leather. Dark red curtains hung from the ceiling, and it looked like they could lower to provide smal
l private spaces in the booths. Half-circle couches lined the space with the dance floor in the center. Corner booths were three-quarter circles, allowing for a large table and more significant seating. There were dozens of standing tables with fixed stools scattered across the first half of the open club.

  The bar was off to the left side before the dance floor, made of black stained wood. On the right side of the dance floor was a large metal staircase that led to a second floor. There was a glass-lined private room at the top to the left of the stairs, while to the right was a walkway that allowed people to look down and watch the dance floor. Jonas took in the dark and chaotic aesthetic of the club. The dance floor had panels that lit up, throwing light everywhere. Lights on the ceiling revolved and flashed different colors.

  There were hundreds of people dancing and drinking. Some people stood with only one another, a man and woman grinding in the corner, another couple kissing in shadows cast by the curtains. Every table and booth looked to be full. The men were dressed like him for the most part, with button up shirts that were often undone to show the chest of the men. Slacks and dress shoes completed the look for most of the men. Surprisingly, he saw more than a few men dressed like Simon, with simple cowboy-type attire. None looked like Dylan, who stood out with his full suit. The women wore slim dresses that often left little to the imagination, even if a good number of the women wore hijabs over their hair. The clash of modern, revealing clothing, with the conservative religious garb was strange.

  The music was loud to the point of overwhelming. Jonas could feel the bass in his chest. Hatem turned back around, hands still held up and danced his way through the club; gyrating his hips wildly.

  As they stepped up to the bar, Jonas' worst nightmare thundered from the speakers.

  Dun, dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun...

  The opening refrain to Toto's Africa started. A thumping bass line joined it, separate from the radio edit the Americans were used to. Hatem leaned over the counter and flashed a bill.