Mechanically, he reached for the whiskey glass sitting on the table before him and took a large swallow, leaving only a small pool of the amber liquid at the bottom. Oily streaks traced sluggishly down the sides of the glass, and a pleasant warmth spread down his throat. While he couldn't say he particularly enjoyed the drink, it served its purpose: the delusional, surreal images of the past day began to recede into the background of his mind. The strange events in the depths of the Pyramid of Menkaure, in the cellar beneath the Ohma al Shaktis’s cotton plantation blurred into a confused mass of color in his mind’s eye, losing their sharp edges and their power to call into question everything he had ever believed in. It also numbed the reservations and shame that would normally have held him back from the plan he had made for the night ahead.

Almost on cue, Leo rose beside him, having first made a couple of tentative attempts to nudge Josephine’s shoulder to see if she was still conscious. When the woman responded with nothing more than a barely articulate grumble, he carefully reached under her arms and supported her against his broad shoulder, saying, "I’d better get you back to the hotel, my dear."

Josephine’s barely intelligible reply—which seemed intended to convey something along the lines of "I don't need any help"—was hardly convincing.

Leo casually placed a few coins on the tabletop, his pale blue eye fixing on Nika briefly but intensely. "You aren't coming back with us?"

"No," he replied curtly, downing the last of his whiskey without looking at Leo. He knew his resolve might waver if he saw the open awareness in Leo’s gaze—something he was determined not to risk. Thankfully, Leo let the matter drop and left the bar with Josephine without another word.

Even after his companions had been gone for several minutes, it took a while for Nika to finally bring himself to stand up, pay for the drinks at the counter, and ask the bartender exactly where the street Leo had mentioned was located. Naturally, he would never explicitly ask for the establishment he was actually looking for. After lighting a cigarette, he finally set off.

Despite the late hour, countless people were still milling about the narrow alleys of Cairo, just as they had been in the days prior. A blend of scents—body odors, spices, and hearty or sweet meals—hung like a thick veil over the network of streets, and a multitude of languages ​​and accents could be heard from every direction. The uncanny spectacle of the blood-red night sky, which had occurred shortly after midnight, remained a constant topic of conversation among locals and tourists alike. Nika noticed how this frustrated him. If the event was indeed linked to what he had personally experienced that day, he simply wished people would stop speculating about it in their profound ignorance. After all, they had no idea. Before his thoughts could continue, Nika reflexively shook his head. He didn't want to bother with such considerations anymore today.

Fortunately, the street he was looking for was not far from the bar he had visited with Leo and Josephine. Moreover, the discreetly painted sign bearing the name of the night café—the spot Leo had recommended—was already visible ahead. So there was no need to go around asking for further directions, a realization that brought Nika immense relief. A narrow stone staircase led down to the entrance to the windowless building. The muffled sounds of music pushed through the thin wooden door, which he opened after a final deep breath and disappeared inside.

Just behind the door sat an inconspicuous-looking man in a black suit who examined him with a deliberate, practiced look and then, with a barely noticeable nod and a wave of his hand, asked him through the heavy silk curtain that shielded the small entrance area from the rest of the bar. As Nika stepped inside, he first had to adjust to the dim, hazy light and the heavy scent of countless incense sticks, which lent the room an almost surreal atmosphere. Moments later, he realized that what Leo had heard about the bar’s reputation was true; just a few meters away, several pairs of men, locked in close embraces, were swaying rhythmically to the delicate music played by a three-piece band in the far corner of the room.

Inevitably, Nika felt heat rising up the back of his neck, inwardly annoyed that places like this could still unsettle him so much after all this time. Every instinct in him rebelled against taking another step, yet—after only a brief hesitation—he made his way to the bar to order the evening’s next whisky. Fortunately, the bartender wasn't the talkative type and simply took his order without a word. While waiting for his drink, Nika let his gaze wander casually around the room. Men and women sat in the cushioned seating areas—some in groups, some in pairs, others alone. The atmosphere felt lively, yet not extravagant. Almost intimate, like a family gathering. It was obvious that both tourists and locals frequented the place, and Nika found his gaze lingering a moment too long on the profile of a dark-skinned, black-haired man who was sitting alone near the bar, sipping from a teacup. The image of his former English companion stirred in the back of his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside as the bartender slid his drink toward him. Nika paid, smoothed his palms over the sides of his jacket one last time, and exhaled slowly before walking decisively toward the man, glass in hand.

"May I sit?"

The man’s eyes darted toward him; the deep brown of his irises looked almost black in the dim light, making Nika’s mouth go dry. The curve of the man’s nose tugged at Nika’s visual memory—like a thin rope pulling taut—but the impression vanished the moment the man’s mouth shaped itself into a bold smile.

“Please.”

He took a seat, gripping his drink tightly. To his relief, the other man took the lead in the conversation: “American or European?” he asked, speaking with a noticeable accent.

“European,” Nika replied curtly, taking a sip of whisky to dull his inner tension.

“Are you a tourist?”

“Just passing through.”

The man’s dark eyebrows lifted, and he gave a short laugh. "That sounds interesting."

"It sounds more interesting than it is, actually." Amusingly enough, that was only half a lie.

The man smiled again; Nika took another drink.

"So, what do you do when you’re just passing through?"

"I’m a scientist." In his experience, people found this less interesting than if he had said he was a medical doctor. Yet, the statement also brought the unwelcome realization back to mind that, in the coming days, he would have to tell Aleksandr about his failed investigation of the pyramid. The thought that his former doctoral supervisor might somehow find out what kind of establishment he was currently visiting made him uneasy.

"You aren't exactly talkative, are you?"

Nika tensed his jaw. By now, he had learned that for some men in these situations, it was actually important to engage in casual conversation first and get to know each other on a superficial level—a trait he personally found off-putting. He no longer shied away from avoiding such encounters, so he simply asked: "Sorry—would you like me to ask you some questions, too?"

The other man set down his teacup and looked at him from beneath thick eyelashes. "No, honestly, it’s perfect if you don’t ask any. I’m from around here, you know. I can’t risk anyone telling stories later."

Relief washed over Nika, and he gave a brief shrug. "I’m not interested in that."

The other man’s mouth quirked into a smile again; it seemed to happen almost of its own accord. "Very good. We can go to my place when you’ve finished your drink."

Nika finished his drink, and they left.

The other man walked a short distance ahead of him, leading them out of the crowded alleys lined with small cafés and shops. After a few more turns, he opened the door to a small, adjoining house and slipped inside, though he left the door standing slightly ajar. Nika glanced around the quiet street one last time, cast a final look up at the shimmering, multicolored starry sky, and then followed him in.

A narrow staircase led upward from the hallway. The man’s apartment, located on the first floor, was small—just a single room with a kitchenette and a few pieces of dusty furniture. A coarsely woven rug with a traditional pattern lay at the foot of the small bed. Nika had expected worse. Especially after the last few apartments he had visited during his investigation in Cairo. The man drew the flimsy curtains across the street-facing window after lighting the small kerosene lamp on his nightstand. By the time he returned to him, he had already undone the top buttons of his loose-fitting linen shirt. Dark, curly chest hair peeked out from beneath, and Nika felt a yearning tug run through his body. With a deft movement, the other man began to loosen Nika’s tie, then unfastened his waistcoat and shirt. Meanwhile, Nika’s hand wandered over the man’s chest, pushing the fabric aside and watching the fine hairs glide between his fingers. The other man leaned in, attempting to kiss him on the mouth, but Nika turned his head slightly away and instead pressed his lips gently against the man’s jawbone. The man’s fine stubble tickled him, and he breathed in the other’s rugged scent deeply as the man slid first Nika‘s jacket and then his waistcoat off his shoulders. In turn, Nika deftly stripped him of his linen shirt, which sank carelessly to the floor. The muscles of his slender arms tensed and rippled beneath his warm skin as he pulled Nika onto the bed with him. He eagerly explored the man’s exposed skin, tracing a path down his flat stomach and lower still. When he felt the man’s erection through the firm fabric of his trousers, a pleasant shiver raced down his spine, and he felt himself swelling in response. The other man pressed into the touch with a soft sigh, his mouth slightly open and his lips glistening with a faint sheen of moisture in the dim light.

Just as Nika undid the other man’s belt—intending to slide his trousers down from his hips next—the man ran his fingers through his hair, drawing Nika’s gaze up to meet his own.

“I have one more question, if you’ll allow it?”

Nika felt a searing frustration welling up in his lungs, mingling with his shallow breaths and the heat rising at the back of his neck.

“What do you want to know?” he replied, his voice remarkably steady.

The other man propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes—bright with arousal—scanning Nika’s face more intently now.

“You said you were European. But you certainly aren’t English—or am I mistaken?”

Nika’s fingers remained resting just above the man’s hips; he briefly considered ending this pointless conversation and simply proceeding with what he had originally intended to do. He decided against it.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then where are you from?”

A sigh escaped him—a soft huff through his nose. Yet the warmth in his limbs and the dull, insistent throbbing right beneath his skull prompted him to answer the question quickly, hoping that would settle the matter. “I’m from Russia.”

“Really?” the man asked, sounding genuinely surprised. Nika was just about to lose patience when the man added, “You can hardly hear an accent when you speak English; that’s why I wondered.”

“It’s amazing how little your accent shows when you speak English, Nika.”

Nika blinked at the other man, frozen, as he heard Edgar’s voice echoing ghostlike in his mind. Then, with startling clarity, he suddenly noticed every tiny resemblance between this man and his former traveling companion: the dark hair, the brown eyes, the full lips, the brought snub nose. And even though, at the same time, they looked completely different, the memory of Edgar seemed to drape itself like a thin veil over the man before him; Nika swallowed hard, a sudden impulse surging through him to pull his hands away and straighten up. At that very moment, however, the other man leaned forward again to kiss him on the lips. And as the ghostly image of his friend’s face flickered before him once more, a longing—along with a physical desire he had carefully suppressed for so long—rushed back with such intensity that, this time, he did not turn away, but simply let it happen.

The kiss was wet and demanding, and the fluttering urgency in his chest drew Nika closer to him. And when he closed his eyes, he could imagine—through the dull mental haze of alcohol—that it wasn't this stranger he was tasting, but Edgar. That it was Edgar’s warm skin beneath his palms, his burning breath mingling so unrestrainedly with his own. Edgar’s words overlaid those ragged gasps—”These things are the beautiful, the real, the truth”—and Nika suddenly felt deep regret for how brusquely and ruthlessly he had responded to them in his last letter.