A River in the Sky Read online

  “It is in your honor,” Daoud explained proudly, embracing the rest of us in turn. Emerson submitted with a resigned roll of his eyes; he had learned it was useless to resist Daoud’s demonstrations of affection. Having greeted Nefret and David, Daoud inspected Mr. Plato with amiable curiosity. Nefret introduced them, adding that the reverend was a friend and a member of our group, whereupon Daoud embraced him as well, to Mr. Plato’s obvious alarm.

  “Where has Selim got to?” I asked, straightening my hat.

  “He is coming. With the porters.”

  The sight of Selim wrung a mild expletive from Emerson. If Daoud had dazzled our eyes, Selim blinded them. His turban pin was larger and more sparkly than Daoud’s, his robes consisted of several layers of silk, each finer and more colorful than the next. Through his sash had been thrust an ornately decorated sword, the hilt ablaze with gems. The gems were—at least I hoped they were—glass, but they made an impressive show.

  Another round of embraces followed. “What the devil is this?” Emerson demanded, indicating the silk, the gems, and the sword.

  Selim grinned. He was a handsome fellow, closely resembling his nephew David except for the beard he had grown so that his men would respect him more. “You will see, Father of Curses. Will you come now? Daoud!”

  “Yes, yes,” said Daoud, beaming. He raised his voice in a shout. “Make way for the Father of Curses and his wife the Sitt Hakim and for Nur Misur, the Light of Egypt!”

  He made sure everyone would make way by preceding us, moving with the ponderous inevitability of an avalanche and gently but firmly moving aside anyone in his path.

  One face I had hoped to see was conspicuous by its absence. Turning to Selim, I said, “Where is Ramses? I ordered him to meet us here and gave him our date of arrival.”

  “He has not come, Sitt Hakim.”

  “Nor any message from him?”

  “Not to me, Sitt. But it may be that there is a message waiting for you at your hotel. We came here from Kantara on the train two days ago, and I made certain that your rooms would be ready for you.”

  “Aren’t you and Daoud staying there?”

  “No, Sitt. The hotel is for Americans and Europeans only.”

  Observing my frown, Selim said tactfully, “Excuse me, Sitt, I must look after the porters. They are not honest people.”

  I expected that we would have some little delay passing through customs. In Egypt we are well known; the mere sight of Emerson is enough to inspire instant obedience from officials, and shouts of welcome from those who recognize him. We had a great deal of luggage, some of which was bound to arouse the suspicion or the cupidity of the inspectors: cameras and photographic plates, tents and sleeping equipment, notebooks and painting materials, medical supplies and what would probably strike the customs officials as an unnecessarily large quantity of soap. But when we approached the counters with their long lines of waiting passengers, I understood the import of our friends’ attire.

  Shouting—and sparkling—Daoud led us past the staring tourists. “Make way for the Father of Curses and his lady, the Sitt Hakim. Make way for Nur Misur, the Light of Egypt, and for the great and powerful Brother of Demons!”

  David, walking beside me, let out a strangled exclamation. “That’s not me!”

  “That is not I,” I corrected. “Perhaps Selim was unable to think of an appropriately impressive sobriquet for you.”

  “But that’s what they call Ramses,” David protested.

  “No one here knows that,” I said. “And it seems to have made quite an impression.”

  People were staring and whispering. I turned my head to look at Emerson, who was escorting Nefret and Mr. Plato. As I had expected, he was bowing from side to side, and raising one hand in a gesture of regal condescension. Behind him trotted a long line of loaded porters, with Selim bringing up the rear. I couldn’t see much of Selim; I wondered if he was brandishing his sword.

  We swept past the crowd of lesser beings and out of the customs shed, the throngs and even the guards at the door parting before Daoud like the waters of the Red Sea.

  “Keep moving,” said Emerson, taking his place at my side and gesturing to David to fall back with Nefret.

  “Carriages—carts,” I gasped, for our pace had quickened.

  “Just follow Daoud.” Emerson gave me his arm. “No doubt the officials have been well bribed and thoroughly intimidated, but if we stop they may have second thoughts.”

  From the quayside we climbed the hill into the old town, and I understood the need for so many porters. Carts and carriages would have had a difficult time passing along the narrow and winding streets. Evidently donkeys did pass through them, for the evidence of their presence littered the street, along with rotting fruit and other signs of habitation.

  We emerged from the old town into a rather pleasant open square, with (as I was later to learn) army barracks on one side and the residence of the kaimakam (governor) on another. Our hotel was just off the square. Leaving the porters to wait outside, we entered the lobby. Everything in the place was brown—an olive-drab carpet on the floor, weak-coffee-brown paint on walls and ceiling, rusty brown upholstery on the chairs and single sofa, a few pathetic potted plants whose leaves had not a trace of green. They were, in short, brown. The walls were hung with notices announcing the hours of meals (no seating after the designated time), the availability of dragomen and porters (arrangements must be made through the manager), a pointed request for payment in British pounds or American dollars, and so on. The most conspicuous notice proclaimed proudly that this was a Temperance Hotel. Behind the registration desk stood a man wearing a morning coat and a supercilious sneer. He could only be British. The sneer faded when Emerson stamped up to the desk and addressed him in a peremptory basso.

  “The rooms of Professor and Mrs. Emerson and their party.”

  “You are Professor Emerson?”

  “Who else would I be? Who the devil are you?”

  “Er—the manager of this hotel, to be sure. My name is Boniface. Mr. Boniface.”

  He held out his hand. Emerson stared at it as if he had never seen such an object before. “Come, man, don’t stand there gaping like a fish; Mrs. Emerson is not accustomed to being kept waiting. Show us to our rooms at once.”

  Visibly unnerved, the manager emerged from behind the desk and led the way to our rooms. Emerson, who takes pleasure in annoying pompous persons, followed close on his heels, so that the manager was almost running when we arrived at our destination. The accommodations consisted of three sleeping chambers on the first floor. The furnishings of the room assigned to Emerson and me were a remarkable combination of European and local wares: a purple plush sofa, toilet articles of porcelain behind an ornately carved wooden screen, and a hideous brass bedstead covered with a spread of woven fabric. Gloomy sepia photographs of Jerusalem and Nazareth were interspersed with even gloomier copies of religious paintings. The one hanging over the bed was a particularly realistic rendition of the Crucifixion.

  Accustomed as I was to the elegance of Shepheard’s and the Winter Palace, I spoke only the truth when I remarked, “If this is the best you can offer, I suppose it will have to do.”

  Nefret’s room, next to ours, had a green plush sofa and a hand-tinted depiction of Saint Veronica wiping the face of Jesus as he knelt beneath the weight of the cross on the Via Dolorosa. Quite a lot of red paint had been employed.

  We left Nefret studying this work of art with pursed lips, and inspected the third room, which contained two beds and very little else.

  “The two—er—gentlemen will share?” said the manager, eyeing David askance.

  “I booked four rooms,” I said. “We are expecting our son, who will share with Mr. Todros. Are you certain he is not here or that there is no message from him?”

  “What name?” Boniface asked nervously.

  “Emerson, of course,” said my husband. “Good Gad, Peabody, the fellow appears to be lacking in his wits.” Thr
usting his face close to that of the manager, he articulated slowly and loudly, as he might have spoken to a person whose hearing was deficient. “Send. Porters. With luggage. Now.”

  “Stop that, Emerson,” I said, tiring of the game. “Mr. Boniface, send our—our attendants here as well, and please look to see whether there are any messages for us. Until our son arrives, these two gentlemen will occupy the third room.”

  Boniface fled, mopping his brow, and we all returned to the room assigned to Emerson and me, which was the largest. Emerson’s first act was to remove the painting of the Crucifixion and put it at the back of the wardrobe.

  By the time the porters had delivered our bundles and we had unpacked our suitcases, we were all ready for a spot of luncheon. The hotel boasted a dining room, but we were in full agreement with Emerson when he refused to patronize it.

  “The food will be the worst of bad British cooking—boiled beef and brown soup—and that pompous ass of a manager probably won’t admit Selim and Daoud. Nor will we be able to get a beer or a glass of wine. Confounded temperance! There must be a decent place to eat in the bazaar.”

  The manager’s coattails whisked out of sight as we passed through the lobby. “I can’t understand why we haven’t heard from Ramses,” I said uneasily. “Could a message have been mislaid?”

  “The pompous ass swore he hadn’t mislaid any messages,” said Emerson, taking my arm. “I am inclined to believe him.”

  So was I. Emerson had reduced Mr. Boniface to such a state, he would have written a note himself if he believed it would satisfy us.

  “The boy will turn up,” Emerson went on. “If he doesn’t, we’ll go after him. You know how uncertain the mails are in this part of the world. He may never have received your letters.”

  The square was crowded with strollers enjoying the balmy air and the pretty flower gardens. Led by Selim, we headed for the old town where, he assured us, there were several adequate establishments—though not, of course, as good as those in Cairo and Luxor.

  “I never knew you were such a snob, Selim,” Nefret said, taking his arm. As the pair strolled on, several passersby stared, frowning, and one female said in a strident American accent, “She’s holding his arm, Hiram, just as if he was a white man.”

  I did not hear Hiram’s response. Letting Emerson go on ahead, I had stopped to admire a particularly attractive bed of marigolds when someone jostled me and I felt a hand press against me. Springing instinctively into defensive mode, I spun round and raised my parasol.

  “What is it, Peabody?” Emerson asked, hastening to my side.

  Gazing about, I was unable to determine which of the other pedestrians had touched me. No one hastened away; no one looked guiltily in my direction. Soldiers wearing Turkish uniforms, sober pilgrims in shades of black and gray, a Greek patriarch, local residents in a variety of headdresses…Surely none of them would have accosted me so rudely or attempted to pick my pocket. My walking costume had several of them, two set into the seams of my skirt and one on either side of my coat. All my valuables were in my handbag; the pockets of my coat contained only a handkerchief and a guidebook.

  “I must have been mistaken,” I began. And then my exploratory fingers contradicted the statement. Nothing had been taken from my coat pockets. Something had been added. Quickly I disengaged it from the fold of my handkerchief.

  It was a small packet, less than two inches square and not very thick, wrapped in white fabric and tied with a bit of string.

  The others gathered round, gazing curiously at the object and asking questions. I began plucking at the string, which was tightly knotted. Emerson snatched the packet from my hand.

  “Come over here,” he said, and led the way to a shady spot under an orange tree.

  “Someone slipped it into my pocket,” I replied, in answer to Nefret. “Just now. Emerson, be careful. It may contain a sharp blade, or a poisonous insect, or—”

  “Balderdash,” said Emerson. Opening his pocketknife, he cut through the string, which he handed to David. After returning the knife to his trouser pocket, he unwrapped the folds of cloth, his big brown hands moving with the delicacy he employed with fragile artifacts. At last the contents lay exposed.

  “It appears to be a piece of paper,” said Emerson. “Folded and refolded.”

  “A message,” Nefret exclaimed, reaching for it. “Perhaps it’s from Ramses.”

  Emerson pushed her hand away. “Be careful. It may contain a sharp blade or poisonous insect.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, open it,” I said irritably.

  We crowded round Emerson, heads together, as he unfolded the paper. I recognized the handwriting at once. Since Ramses’s handwriting is virtually indecipherable, it took us some time to make out all the words.

  “Have been delayed. Will explain when I see you. Proceed to Jerusalem and sit tight. Will meet you there.”

  “Confound the boy,” I exclaimed. “What is he up to now?”

  Emerson refolded the note and put it in his pocket, along with the length of string and piece of cloth.

  “Let us go on,” he said. “We need to discuss this.”

  The eating establishment Selim had found was on the outskirts of the bazaar. Emerson was pleased to learn that alcoholic beverages were available, since as Selim informed us, the place was patronized not only by locals but by the more adventuresome brand of tourists. There weren’t many of the latter, only a young couple in one corner bent over a guidebook. The proprietor greeted us in person, bowing repeatedly, and showed us to a table.

  After Emerson had ordered a glass of beer and we had been proudly presented with actual written menus, Nefret burst out, “Let me see that again, Professor.”

  We passed the note round. “Perhaps,” said David, “it is not from Ramses.”

  “It is his handwriting,” I said. “And the paper appears to be a page torn from one of his notebooks.”

  Emerson took out his pipe. “He wrote it. But he may have been under duress. Curse it,” he added, “we need more light. It is dark in here.”

  A blue haze of smoke filled the low-ceilinged room. Upon being summoned, the proprietor produced a candle which he placed in the center of the table. It didn’t help a great deal, nor did the smoke from Emerson’s pipe, at which he was puffing furiously.

  “If he was a prisoner,” David said, in response to Emerson’s comment, “he gives no indication of it.” He held the paper close to the candle flame. “No cryptic hieroglyphs, no code message.”

  “He could hardly do that if the person who dictated the note was standing over him,” I said. “But let us not wander off into wild avenues of theory. We have no reason to believe he was under duress when he wrote this. It is not unlike Ramses to do something so thoughtless and inconsiderate.”

  “If he is a prisoner,” said Daoud, who had been thinking it over, “we must find him.”

  “Very good, Daoud,” said Selim, giving his uncle a kindly look. “Where shall we start looking?”

  “Oh dear,” I said with a sigh. “Let us consider this matter logically. There are two possibilities. Either Ramses is a prisoner and wrote this at the dictation of his captor, or he has come across something that roused his insatiable curiosity and is pursuing the matter. If we assume that the first alternative is correct, our obvious course is to go to Samaria. He was last seen there, or rather, that is the place where he was last known to be.”

  “Hmph,” said Emerson, chewing on the stem of his pipe. “I can’t see that we have any choice, Peabody. We must go to Samaria, interrogate—er—question Reisner, and trace Ramses’s subsequent movements.”

  “I see several objections to that plan,” I said.

  “I am not at all surprised that you do. Well?”

  “Tracing his movements might mean delaying our arrival in Jerusalem for a considerable period of time, in which case Morley may already have made mischief. Furthermore, if Ramses is off on some quest of his own, our attempts to find him could
endanger him or the quest itself. He says—let me see the note again—yes, he says, ‘Sit tight.’ Does not that imply he wants to be left to his own devices?”

  “That wouldn’t be out of character,” David admitted. “But what could he possibly have found to set him off? An illegal excavation? Rumors of a remarkable discovery he wants to investigate?”

  “I must admit I can’t think of anything that would be so enticing he would ignore my express orders,” I replied. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Emerson demanded.

  “Nothing.” I had been seized by a hideous foreboding, of the sort that often seizes me. Emerson had strictly forbidden me to mention them, since he does not believe in forebodings of any variety.

  The others—except for Daoud, who only spoke when he had something sensible to say—had not remained silent. Speculation ranged from “He broke a leg doing something idiotic and is afraid to admit it,” to “Mr. Reisner has come across a find so important he needs Ramses to stay.”

  “Then why didn’t Reisner write and tell me so?” Emerson demanded.

  The answer to that was obvious, but I was the only one who had the fortitude to state it aloud. “Because he doesn’t want you dashing off to Samaria and interfering with his work.”

  “Bah,” said Emerson indignantly. “I never interfere.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Nefret said. “Professor, please let me see the bit of string and the cloth.”

  Emerson handed them over. “I regret to inform you, Nefret, that the string is nothing out of the ordinary and the knot is not a unique variety only employed by members of a single, unusual profession. As for the cloth—”

  Nefret smoothed it out on the table, pushing aside a platter of bread and a dish of hummus. It was a small square, approximately six inches on a side.

  “What do you see?” Selim asked excitedly. “Is there writing? Is that a bloodstain?”

  “No.” Nefret continued to stare at the cloth. “Just dirt. But there is one interesting thing about it.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Emerson said.