Part 4 (1/2)
”Only wise,” Ramses said, joining in his laughter. ”Your English gets better all the time, Selim. I say, is Daoud offended by our levity? Even his back looks hurt. What's this all about?”
”Perhaps it is better that you see,” Selim admitted.
Their destination was the modern cemetery near the village. Like the ancient burial grounds, it was located in the desert, not in the green strip of irrigation bordering the river. It was the hottest time of the day; the barren ground baked in the sun's rays. For the most part the graves were small and humble, marked only by simple pillars or low benchlike tombstones. The most impressive monument was the tomb they had had built for Abdullah. Designed by David, it was of conventional form-a domed, four-sided structure-but unusually graceful and attractive. Even from a distance Ramses saw that it looked different. His amazement mounted as they drew nearer. A rope slung across the lovely arched entrance held a bizarre variety of what must be offerings-strings of beads and gla.s.s, handkerchiefs, a bunch of hair. Under the cupola, next to the low monument over the tomb itself, sat a motionless form, turbaned head bent, hands folded.
”Good Lord,” Ramses exclaimed. ”It's Ha.s.san. What the devil is he doing?”
”He is the servant of the sheikh,” Daoud said.
”What sheikh? Not Abdullah!”
Ha.s.san got up and came to meet them, ducking his head under the rope with its motley attachments. Ramses observed that the white marble floor was strewn with flowers and palm branches, some fresh and colorful, some withered. Ha.s.san did not appear to be practicing asceticism. He had been smoking a narghile and there were plates of bread and other food around him.
”What is this, Ha.s.san?” Ramses demanded. ”No one loved and admired Abdullah more than I, but he was no holy man.”
”It is good that you have come, Brother of Demons,” said Ha.s.san, employing Ramses's Egyptian nickname. His smile was beatific. Ramses wondered if there had been something in the pipe besides tobacco.
”He is a sheikh, without doubt,” Ha.s.san went on. ”Did he not save the life of the Sitt Hakim at the sacrifice of his own? Did he not come to her in a dream, as holy men do, and tell her to build him a proper tomb?”
Ramses looked at Daoud, who met his critical gaze with an unembarra.s.sed smile. How their large friend had heard of his mother's dreams of Abdullah he could not imagine; she had not confided even in the immediate family until recently. Her belief in the validity of those dreams was one of her few streaks of superst.i.tion; but believe she did. The skepticism of the rest of them did not affect her in the slightest, and Ramses had to admit, if only to himself, that the consistency and vividness of the visions were oddly impressive. One of the household staff must have overheard her talking about them, and pa.s.sed the word on. Once it reached Daoud, the whole West Bank would know.
”But a holy man must perform miracles,” he argued.
”He has done that,” Ha.s.san said. ”When that wretched boy, who had sinned against the laws of the Prophet, would have killed again in the very shadow of Sheikh Abdullah's tomb, did he not destroy the sinner? He performed other miracles for me. My heart was guilty and afraid. As soon as I came here and promised to be his servant I was glad again, and the pains in my body went away, and now you see that others have come to ask for his favor.” He gestured at the sad little offerings. ”Already he has stopped the cough that kept Mohammed Ibrahim from drawing breath and cured Ali's goat. Come, and pray with me. Ask him for his blessing.”
It wasn't has.h.i.+sh that brought the light to his eyes. It was religious fervor-and who the h.e.l.l am I, Ramses thought, to tell him he's wrong, or deny such a harmless request?
He knew the prayers. He had known them since childhood. Removing his shoes, he followed the prescribed path round the catafalque. Daoud's sincere, deep ba.s.s voice blended with his. ”Peace be on the Apostles, and praise be to G.o.d, the Lord of the beings of the entire earth.”
They started back to Selim's house, leaving Ha.s.san cross-legged under the cupola. Daoud was enormously pleased with his surprise. ”My uncle Abdullah will be happy to be a sheikh,” he remarked. ”When next he speaks to the Sitt Hakim he will no doubt tell her so.”
”I will be sure to let you know if he does,” Ramses said wryly. He couldn't imagine how his mother was going to react to this news.
Selim had joined in the prayers but not in the discussion. He strode along in silence. Ramses was not certain how devout he was; he followed the Five Pillars of Islam, observing the fast of Ramadan and giving generously to the poor, but some of his habits had been affected by his unabashed Anglophilia. He was more indulgent to his young wives than most local men, and he had adopted a number of English customs.
Including afternoon tea, which was ready when they reached the house, and the mingling of the s.e.xes for that meal. Ramses had hoped for a private conversation with Selim; but there was no chance of that, with the children das.h.i.+ng around and shrieking, and the women all talking at once. Accepting a cup of tea from Selim's younger wife, he smiled at Nefret, who had Selim's baby on her lap. Did she want another child? he wondered. They hadn't talked about it. As far as he was concerned, two were quite enough. He never wanted to see Nefret go through that ordeal of blood and pain again. Being a father was such a gigantic responsibility. A dozen times a day he asked himself if he was doing it right.
The dregs of his tea spattered the floor but he managed to hold on to the cup as Davy clambered onto his lap. He held the warm little body close. Maybe he was doing something right.
Kadija was watching them from over her veil. She was the only one of the women who would not unveil in his presence. His mother had often reminded her that since David's marriage to Lia they were all one family now, but Kadija came from a Nubian tribe where the old traditions were strong. She had finally consented to use his first name, however.
”How did you hurt your hand, Ramses?” she asked. ”They are like the marks left by the claws of an animal.”
He glanced at his wrist, where the cuff of his s.h.i.+rt had been pulled up. The scratches were deeper than he had realized, ragged and ugly. ”A little souvenir from a man named Francois,” he said. ”Though he does have some beastly habits, including sharp nails and a willingness to use them. It's nothing.”
He tried to pull his cuff down but was prevented by Davy, who clutched his hand and pressed damp kisses on the scratches, murmuring distressfully (or perhaps chanting incantations).
”Why didn't you tell me?” Nefret demanded, putting the baby down.
”It's nothing,” Ramses repeated.
Kadija rose and went into the house.
”Not the famous green ointment,” Ramses protested. ”It leaves indelible stains on one's clothes. Thank you, Davy, that's done the job. All better now.”
”I've never been able to isolate the effective ingredient, but the ointment certainly has antiseptic and anti-inflammatory qualities,” Nefret said. ”Human fingernails are filthy, and I doubt if our Francois visits a manicurist. Those scratches should have been disinfected immediately.”
”What is this?” Selim demanded. ”Who is this man like a wild animal? A new enemy?”
”Nothing of the sort,” Ramses replied. Kadija came back, carrying a small pot, and Ramses submitted to having the stuff smeared over his wrist while he told Selim about the encounter. Selim's handsome face fell. He had been with them on several of their wilder adventures, and he thoroughly enjoyed a good fight.
”Sorry to disappoint you, Selim,” Ramses said. ”They are tourists, and it is most unlikely that we will encounter them again. Anyhow, the whole business was a misunderstanding. The fellow bears me no ill will.”
”Huh,” said Selim.
Before long the children had reached a stage experienced parents know well; tears and howls of juvenile rage became more frequent, and Labiba slapped Davy for pus.h.i.+ng the baby. He slapped her back.
”Time we were going home,” Nefret said, holding the combatants apart by main force. ”They're getting tired.”
”Right.” Ramses collared his daughter, who began an indignant explanation-or perhaps it was a protest. He recognized two words. One sounded like Swahili and the other like Swedish. Neither could be said to have any particular bearing on the situation.
Daoud enveloped both squirming, grubby children in a loving embrace and handed them up to Ramses and Nefret after they had mounted their horses. ”You're disgusting,” Ramses informed his daughter. ”What is that purple stuff on your face?”
She gave him a wide grin and rubbed her face against his s.h.i.+rt.
As usual, the women took forever to say good-bye. While they were exchanging final farewells and last-minute gossip, Selim came and stood by him.
”Will you tell the Sitt Hakim about Ha.s.san and my father's tomb?”
”She'll find out sooner or later. What's the trouble, Selim? I could see something was worrying you.”
”It is not important.” Selim tugged at his beard. ”Only . . . what did Ha.s.san do, that he should feel guilt and the need for forgiveness?”
EMERSON STORMED WHEN HE DISCOVERED I had finished his article for him. We had a refres.h.i.+ng little discussion, and then he set about revising my text, muttering under his breath and throwing pens at the wall. I congratulated myself on this idea, which served two useful purposes: it forced Emerson to finish the article, which he would never have done without my intervention, and it stopped him from brooding about the theft and his inability to do anything about it. Emerson is always greatly relieved by his explosions, which in my opinion are an excellent method of reducing an excess of spleen.
As I had expected, our telegrams produced no new information. Thomas Russell's reply arrived on the Sat.u.r.day. Like Emerson's, his epistolary style was terse. No one of that description or name had been on the train. He had not wasted extra words demanding an explanation; he knew Emerson well enough to know none would be forthcoming.
Emerson crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and tossed it to the Great Cat of Re, who sniffed it, decided it was inedible, and ignored it.
By the time we prepared to take the Sunday-evening train, there had been no response from Sethos. Emerson had telegraphed him at both his residences. At my request he showed me the telegram, and I must say he had communicated the necessary information without giving away the truth. That would have been disastrous, since the clerks at the telegraph office would have spread the news all over Luxor.
Cyrus's initial frenzy had been replaced by a state of profound gloom. He had been torn between rus.h.i.+ng off to Cairo in pursuit of the thief and mounting guard over the remaining artifacts. The latter consideration won out, after I explained to him that although Martinelli might well have eluded the police, we had no certain proof that he was in Cairo. The very idea that the evildoer might be lurking, waiting for an opportunity to make another raid on the treasure, made Cyrus break out into a cold sweat. He did not even come to the railroad station to see us off.
Other friends and family members were there. Daoud considered it his duty to send us away with the proper blessings; he had dressed in his most elegant silken robes, as he always did on such occasions, though he was sulking a bit because he had wanted to come along. The twins were not coming either. If I understood the tenor of their remarks, they were extremely indignant at being left without parents and grandparents for several days. Emerson, who is a perfect coward with children and women, had wanted to creep away without telling them, but Nefret had insisted that we could not suddenly disappear without explanation and rea.s.surance of return. I agreed with her, and began quoting from various authorities on child-rearing until Emerson cut me off with his usual shout of ”Don't talk psychology at me, Peabody!”
After bidding the others an affectionate farewell, I turned last of all to Selim. A little pang, half pleasure, half pain, ran through me, for he looked so like his father-more slightly built and not as tall, but with the same aristocratic bearing and finely cut features. He was the only other person we had taken into our confidence.
”Remember, Selim,” I said softly, ”you are to open all telegrams and send the information on to us at Shepheard's if it is from . . . him. Keep on the alert for any rumors that may-”
Emerson shouted for me to board the train, and Selim showed his white teeth in a smile. ”Yes, Sitt, you have told me. Do I not always obey your slightest command? A good journey. Maa.s.salameh.”