He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Page 17

  “Not without examining him,” I said dryly. “Nefret?”

  She had turned, one of the pots in her hand. “Knowing Aslimi, it could be an ulcer. His nerves have always been bad.”

  “Ah.” The young man straightened, throwing his shoulders back, and gave her a melting smile. Nefret had that effect on men, and this one obviously did not have a low opinion of himself. “What should we do for him, then?”

  “Bland diet,” said Nefret. “No highly spiced foods, or liquids. It can’t hurt him, anyhow,” she added, glancing at me. “He should see a proper doctor, Mr.—what is your name?”

  “Said al-Beitum, at your service. You are most gracious. Now, what can I show you? That pot is a forgery—as you know.”

  “And not a very good one.” Nefret returned the object to the shelf. “Have you anything that might please the high standards of the Father of Curses?”

  “Or the Brother of Demons?” Said grinned. “So quaint, these names—but suitable. Like yours, Nur Misur.”

  “You did know us,” I said.

  “Who does not? It is your holiday season, yes? You look for gifts for those you love. Be seated; I will give you tea and show you my finest things.”

  Another decidedly possessive pronoun, I thought, settling onto the stool he indicated. Was this fellow Aslimi’s designated heir? I had never seen him before.

  He knew something of antiquities, for the objects he produced from the back room were of good quality—and probably obtained illegally. In the end Nefret purchased several items: a string of carnelian beads, a heart scarab of serpentine framed in gold, and a fragment of carved and painted relief that showed a running gazelle. Listening to Said bargain ineffectively and without much interest, I thought Aslimi would not be long in business if his cousin continued to manage the shop. He shook hands with us in the European style before we took our departure and stood in the doorway watching as we walked away.

  “Well!” I said.

  “Quite,” said Nefret.

  “Have you more purchases to make?”

  “No. Let’s go home.”

  I waited until we were in the carriage before I resumed the conversation. “What did you think of Aslimi’s manager?”

  “He’s a pretty creature, isn’t he?”

  Daoud grumbled protestingly, and Nefret laughed. “I assure you, Daoud, I don’t fancy him in the least.”

  “Fancy?” Daoud repeated blankly.

  “Never mind. What did you think? Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No. But,” Daoud said, “I do not know Aslimi’s family. No doubt he has many cousins.”

  “This one is well educated,” I said.

  Nefret nodded. “And perhaps overly optimistic. Aslimi isn’t dead yet. Now, Aunt Amelia, and you, Daoud, swear you won’t tell anyone what I bought. I want to surprise them.”

  * * *

  Our council of war that night was not as late as I had feared. Nefret retired early to her room, saying she had letters to write and presents to wrap. When we joined David, we found him at the mirror applying his makeup. The disguise was not the same one in which I had seen him before; he looked even more disgusting, but less formidable, in the rags of a beggar and a stringy gray beard. Ramses studied him critically.

  “Your hands are too clean.”

  “I’ll rub dirt into them when I’m outside. They won’t be visible, you know, except when I hold one out and whine for baksheesh from Russell. He’s become quite adept at palming the report.”

  He demonstrated, extending his hand. Half-concealed under his thumb, the small roll of paper was no larger than a cigarette.

  “Is that how you do it?” I asked. “Most interesting. I will have to practice that myself. But David, must you go? I’ve hardly seen you, and Ramses should have at least one more day in bed. Can’t this wait until tomorrow night?”

  Both curly black heads moved in emphatic negation. Ramses said, “Our report to Russell has been too long delayed already. I ought to be going myself.”

  “Out of the question,” David said. He picked up a strip of dirty cloth and wound it deftly into a turban. “You’ll be flat on your back again if you don’t go slowly for a few days. I could come here after I’ve seen Russell—take your place again tomorrow…”

  Again Ramses shook his head. “We’ve pushed our luck too far already. It is a miracle Fatima hasn’t decided this room needs cleaning, or Nefret hasn’t spotted you.”

  He had been pacing like a nervous cat, and when he brushed the hair back from his forehead I saw it was beaded with perspiration. “Sit down,” I ordered.

  Emerson took his pipe from his mouth. “Yes, sit down. And you, Peabody, stop fussing. David must go, there is no question of that, and you are only delaying him. I’ll see to it that Ramses does not exert himself unduly tomorrow.”

  “I must be outside the Club before midnight , Aunt Amelia,” David explained. “That is when Russell will leave, and he can’t very well hang about waiting for me.”

  “And afterwards you will investigate the warehouse?”

  “No,” said Ramses. “We agreed at the outset that David was to stay far, far away from Wardani’s old haunts and Wardani’s people. Russell is supposed to have been keeping the warehouse under surveillance. I hope to God he has! With me out of the way, one of the lads might decide to assert his authority and move the damned things elsewhere.”

  “They don’t know you are out of the way,” Emerson said calmly. “Do they?”

  “No,” Ramses admitted. “Not for certain. Not yet.”

  “Then stop worrying. David, you had better be off. Er—take care of yourself, my boy.”

  He wrung David’s hand with such fervor the lad winced even as he smiled. “Yes, sir, I will. Good-bye, Aunt Amelia.”

  “A bientфt,” I corrected.

  We embraced, and Ramses said, “I’ll see you in three days’ time, David.”

  “Or four,” I said.

  “Three,” said Ramses.

  “I’ll be there,” David said hastily. “Both nights.”

  Seshat followed him to the balcony. I heard a faint, fading rustle of foliage, and after a few moments the cat returned.

  “Bed now,” I said, rising.

  Ramses rolled his eyes heavenward.

  From Letter Collection B

  Dear Lia,

  I’m sorry Sylvia Gorst’s letter upset you. She is an empty-headed, vicious gossip, and you ought to know better than to believe anything she says. If I had known she was writing you, I would have had a few words with her. In fact, I will have them next time I see her.

  How could you possibly have given any credence to that story about Ramses fighting a duel with Mr. Simmons? I admit Ramses is not popular in Cairo society these days. The Anglo-Egyptian community is war-mad to the point of jingoism, and you know Ramses’s views about the war. He’s even collected white feathers from a few obsessed old ladies. But a duel? It’s pure Prisoner of Zenda, my dear.

  As for my new admirers, as Sylvia calls them, I cannot imagine why she should have singled out Count de Sevigny and Major Hamilton; you would laugh if you met them, because neither is your (or my) idea of a romantic suitor. I find the Count’s pretensions quite amusing; he stalks about like a stage villain, swirling his black cape and ogling women through his monocle.

  Yes, Lia dear, including me. I ran into him at an evening party a few days ago and he favored me with his undivided attentions; told me all about his chвteau in Provence , and his vineyard, and his devoted family retainers. He’s been married three times, but is now, he assured me as he ogled, a lonely, wealthy widower.

  I asked about his wives, hoping that would put him off, but he made use of the inquiry to pay me extravagant compliments.

  “They were all beautiful, and naturellement of the highest birth. Though none, mademoiselle, was as lovely as you.” He was so moved the glass fell from his eye. He caught it quite deftly and went on pensively, “I have never married a lady of your
coloring. Celeste was a brunette, Aline had black hair—her mother, vous comprenez, was a Spanish noblewoman, and Marie was blonde—a silvery blonde, with blue eyes, but ah! ma chиre mademoiselle, your eyes are larger and deeper and bluer and…”

  He was beginning to run out of adjectives, so I interrupted. “And all three died? How tragic for you, monsieur.”

  “Le bon Dieu took them from me.” He bowed his head, giving me an excellent view of a suspiciously shiny black head of hair. “Celeste was thrown from her horse, Aline succumbed to a wasting fever, and poor Marie… but I cannot speak of her, it was too painful.”

  That gives you a taste of the Count, I hope. I don’t believe in his wives or his chвteau or his protestations of admiration, but he is very entertaining, and he does know something about Egyptology.

  The Major isn’t entertaining, but he is a nice old fellow. Old, my dear—at least fifty! He’s taken a fancy to me, I think, but his interest is purely paternal. He is the uncle of the child I told you about, and I was curious to meet him.

  Sylvia’s other “bit of news” is really the limit. I have not been “seeing” Percy, as she puts it. Oh, certainly, I’ve seen him; one can hardly avoid doing so, since he is now on the General’s staff and quite popular with his brother officers and the ladies. I have even spoken with him once or twice. I would appreciate it if you would not pass on that bit of gossip to the family. It would only cause trouble. And don’t lecture me, please. I know what I’m doing.

  * * *

  Our holiday celebrations were happier than I had expected, possibly because I had not expected very much. But there was cause for rejoicing in that we had pulled off our deception without being detected, and that Ramses was making a good recovery. I believe I may claim that my medical skills were at least partially responsible, though his own strong constitution may have helped.

  At Emerson’s request, he had spent most of the day before Christmas writing up his report on Zawaiet. It was based on the notes David and I had taken and on a certain amount of what I would term logical extrapolation. The rest of us put in a half day’s work at our mastaba; to have done otherwise would have been a suspicious deviation from the norm. When we gathered round the tree on Christmas Eve, only the concerned eye of a parent would have noticed any difference in Ramses’s appearance; his lean face was a little thinner and the movements of his left arm were carefully controlled, but his color was good and his appetite at dinner had been excellent.

  The inadequacies of the little acacia tree had been disguised by Nefret’s decorations; candles glowed softly and charming ornaments of baked clay and tin filled in the empty spaces. David had made those ornaments; for years now they had been part of our holiday tradition. The sight of them dampened my spirits for a moment; I hated to think of him passing the holiday alone in that wretched hovel in Maadi, only a few miles away. At least I had pressed upon him a parcel of food and a nice warm knitted scarf, made by my own hands. My friend Helen McIntosh had shown me how to do it, and I found, as she had claimed, that it actually assisted in ratiocination, since the process soon became mechanical and did not require one’s attention. I had made the scarf for Ramses, but he assured me he did not at all mind relinquishing it to his friend.

  After all the gifts had been unwrapped, and I had put on the elegant tea gown that had been Nefret’s present, and Ramses had pretended to be delighted by the dozen white handkerchiefs I had given him, Emerson rose from his chair.

  “One more,” he said, beaming at me. “Close your eyes, Peabody , and hold out your hands.”

  He had not attempted to wrap the thing; it would have made a cumbersome parcel. As soon as it came to rest on my outstretched palms I knew what it was.

  “Why, Emerson, how nice!” I exclaimed. “Another parasol. I can always use an extra, and this one—”

  “Is more than it appears,” said my husband. “Watch closely.”

  Seizing the handle, he gave it a twist and a pull. This time my exclamation of pleasure was louder and more enthusiastic.

  “A sword umbrella! Oh, Emerson, I have always wanted one! How does it work?”

  He demonstrated again, and I rose to my feet, kicking the elegant lace flounces of my gown aside. “En garde!” I cried, brandishing the weapon.

  Nefret laughed. “Professor, that was sweet of you.”

  “Hmmm,” said Ramses. “Mother, watch out for the candles.”

  “I may need a few lessons,” I admitted. “Ramses, would you show me—”

  “What, now?” His eyebrows tilted till they formed a perfect obtuse angle.

  “I cannot wait to begin!” I cried, bending my knees and thrusting.

  Emerson hastily moved aside—an unnecessary precaution, since the blade had not come within a foot of him. “I am glad you like it, Peabody , but you had better learn how to use it before you go lunging at people.”

  Ramses was trying not to laugh. “I beg your pardon, Mother,” he gasped. “It’s just that I’ve never fenced with an opponent armed with an umbrella, whose head barely reaches my chin.”

  “I see no reason why that should be a difficulty. Do you, Nefret?”

  She was watching Ramses, who had dropped into a chair, helpless with laughter. She started when I addressed her.

  “What? Well, Aunt Amelia, I’m sure you can persuade him. Not with that umbrella, though; it looks frightfully sharp.”

  “Quite,” said Emerson, who looked as if he was having second thoughts. “You’ll need proper foils, with blunted tips. And masks, and plastrons and—”

  That set Ramses off again. I could not understand why he was so amused, but I was pleased to have cheered him up. As David had said, it was necessary to find what enjoyment we could in an otherwise dismal situation.

  After Ramses had calmed down, he condescended to show me how to salute my opponent and place my feet and arms. He stood well behind me, even though I had, of course, sheathed the blade, and for some reason he found it necessary to read me a little lecture.

  “Now, Mother, promise me that if you encounter someone armed with a saber or sword, you won’t whip that thing out and rush at him.”

  “Quite,” said Emerson emphatically. “He’d have you impaled like a butterfly before you got within reach. That is the trouble with deadly weapons; they make people—some people!—overly confident.”

  “What should I do, then?” I inquired, lunging.

  “Run,” said Ramses, helping me up from the floor.

  After we had parted for the night and Emerson and I were alone in our room I thanked him again, with gestures as well as words. “I don’t know any other man who would have given his wife such a lovely gift, Emerson.”

  “I don’t know any other woman who would have been so thrilled about a sword,” said Emerson.

  Afterwards, Emerson immediately dropped off to sleep. I could not follow suit. I was remembering my son’s face, alight with laughter, and wishing I could see that look more often. I thought again of David and the peril he faced because of love and loyalty. I consigned Thomas Russell to the nethermost pits of Hades for putting my boys in such danger—and then, since it was the season of peace and goodwill, I forgave the scoundrel. He was only doing his job.

  Abdullah was also in my thoughts. I dreamed of him from time to time; they were strange dreams, unlike the usual vague vaporings of the unconscious mind, for they were distinct and consistent. In them I saw my old friend as a man still in his prime, his face unlined, his black hair and beard untouched by gray. The setting of the dreams was always the same: the clifftop behind Deir el Bahri at Luxor , where we had so often stopped to rest for a moment after climbing the steep path to the top of the plateau. In one such vision he had warned me of storms ahead—had told me I would need all my courage to pass through them, but in the end… “The clouds will blow away,” he had said. “And the falcon will fly through the portal of the dawn.” He frequently employed such irritating parables, and refused to explain them even when I pressed him.
There was no doubt about the stormclouds he had mentioned; even now they hung heavy over half the world. The rest of it sounded hopeful, but when I was in a discouraged state of mind I needed more than elegant literary metaphors to cheer me. I could have used his reassurance now. But I did not dream of Abdullah that night.

  Dawn light was bright in the sky when I woke. There was a great deal to be done, since we were expecting the Vandergelts for dinner and holding an open house afterwards. However, I could not resist trying out my new parasol, and I was lunging and parrying with considerable skill (having seen Mr. James O’Neill in the film of The Count of Monte Cristo) when a comment from Emerson made me stumble and almost lose my balance. After a short discussion and a longer digression of another nature, he consented to give me a few lessons if Ramses would not. He had studied fencing some years before, but had not kept it up, having found that his bare hands were almost as effective in subduing an attacker.

  “I’m not certain Ramses can bring himself to do it,” he remarked. “A gentleman does not find it easy to attack a lady, especially if the lady is his mother. He is in considerable awe of you, my dear.”

  “He certainly didn’t sound as if he were in awe of me last night,” I remarked, buttoning my combinations.

  Still recumbent, his hands behind his head, Emerson watched me with sleepy appreciation. “It was good to see him laugh so heartily.”

  “Yes. Emerson—”

  “I know what you are thinking, my dear, but dismiss those worries for today at least.” He got out of bed and went to the washbasin. “ Fatima has put rose petals in the water again,” he grumbled, trying to sieve them out with his fingers. “As I was saying, the situation is temporarily under control. Russell has been informed of what transpired and will keep the warehouse under surveillance.”

  “I still think we ought to have invited him to our open house. We might have found an opportunity for a little chat.”

  Emerson deposited a handful of dripping petals onto the table and reached for his shaving tackle. “No, my dear. The fewer contacts between him and Ramses, the better.”