Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (45 page)

Emerson let out a cry of outrage. ‘It is worse than it was in Maspero’s day! Curse the rascal, where is he? I want to give him a piece of my mind!’

When antiquities are visible, Emerson is blind to all else. He did not observe the toes of a pair of rather large boots protruding from under a drapery that covered one side of the room.

‘He appears to have stepped out,’ I replied, watching the boots. ‘I wonder if there is a door behind those draperies.’

The polished toes shrank until only a bare inch remained visible. I assumed Grebaut was pressed up against a wall or a closed window and could retreat no further. He is a rather stout man.

‘I have no intention of searching for the wretch,’ Emerson announced loudly. ‘I will leave him a note.’ He began to scrabble in the litter atop the Director’s desk. Grebaut’s papers and correspondence went flying.

‘Calm yourself, Emerson,’ I said. ‘Monsieur Grebaut won’t thank you for making a mess of his desk.’

‘I could not make it worse than it is.’ Emerson tossed away papers with both hands. ‘Just let me come face to face with that imbecile! He is totally incompetent. I intend to demand his resignation.’

‘I am thankful he is not here,’ I said, glancing casually at the drapery. ‘You have such a temper, Emerson; you are really not accountable for your actions at times like this, and I would hate for you to injure the poor man.’

‘I would like to injure him. I would like to break both his arms. A man who would allow such neglect – ’

‘Why don’t you leave a message with the secretary?’ I suggested. ‘He must have pen and paper on his desk. You will never find it there.’

With a final gesture that sent the remaining papers sailing around the room, Emerson stamped out. The secretary had fled. Emerson seized his pen and began scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper. I stood in the open doorway, one eye on Emerson, one eye on the boots; and I said loudly, ‘You might suggest, Emerson, that Monsieur Grebaut send the firman giving you charge of the expedition to our hotel. That will save you another trip.’

‘Good idea,’ Emerson grunted. ‘If I have to come again I
will
murder that moron.’

Gently I closed the door of Grebaut’s office.

We took our departure. Three hours later a messenger delivered the firman to our room.

O
N
my first trip to Egypt I had travelled by dahabeeyah. The elegance and charm of that mode of travel can only be dimly imagined by those who have not experienced it. My boat had been equipped with every comfort, including a grand piano in the salon and an outdoor sitting room on the upper deck. How many blissful hours did I spend there, under the billowing sails, drinking tea and listening to the songs of the sailors while the magnificent panorama of Egyptian life glided by on either side – villages and temples, palm trees, camels, and holy hermits perched precariously on pillars. How fond were my memories of that journey, which had culminated in my betrothal to my spouse! How gladly would I have repeated that glorious experience!

Alas, on this occasion we could not spare the time. The railroad had been extended as far south as Assiût, and since it was by far the fastest means of travel, we endured eleven hours of heat, jolting, and dust. From Assiût we took a steamer for the remaining distance. Though less uncomfortable than the train, it was a far cry from my dear dahabeeyah.

On the day we were to dock at Luxor I was on deck at dawn, hanging over the rail and gaping like any ignorant Cook’s tourist. The Luxor temple had been cleared of the shacks and huts that had so long marred its beauty; its columns and pylons glowed rosy pink in the morning light as the steamer glided in to the dock.

Here the peaceful visions of the past were replaced by noisy modern bustle, as porters and guides converged on the disembarking passengers. The dragomen of the Luxor hotels shouted out the advantages of their various hostelries and attempted to drag bewildered tourists into the waiting carriages. No one bothered us.

Emerson went off to collect our luggage and locate our workmen, who had travelled in the same boat. Leaning on my parasol, I gazed complacently at the scene and took deep breaths of the soft air. Then a hand touched my arm, and I turned to meet the intense gaze of a stout young man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and the most enormous pair of moustaches I had ever seen. The ends of them curled up and around like the horns of a mountain goat.

Heels together, body stiff, he bent himself at the waist and said, ‘Frau Professor Emerson? Karl von Bork, the epigrapher of the ill-fated Baskerville expedition. To Luxor I give you greeting. By Lady Baskerville was I sent. Where is the Professor? Long have I to the honour of meeting him looked forward. The brother of the so distinguished Walter Emerson – ’

This rapid spate of conversation was all the more remarkable because the young man’s face remained utterly expressionless throughout. Only his lips and the gigantic moustache above them moved. As I was to learn, Karl von Bork spoke seldom, but once he began to talk, it was virtually impossible to stop him except by the means I adopted on that occasion.

‘How do you do,’ I said loudly, drowning out his last words. ‘I am pleased to meet you. My husband is just… Where is he? Ah, Emerson; allow me to present Herr von Bork.’

Emerson grasped the young man’s hand. ‘The epigrapher? Good. I trust you have a boat ready – one of sufficient size. I have brought twenty men with me from Cairo.’

Von Bork bowed again. ‘An excellent idea, Herr Professor. A stroke of genius! But I had expected nothing less from the brother of the distinguished – ’

I interrupted this speech, as I had interrupted the first; and we found that when Herr von Bork was not talking he was efficient enough to please even my demanding husband. The felucca he had hired was commodious enough to hold us all. Our men gathered in the bow, looking loftily at the boatmen and making comments about the stupidity of Luxor men. The great sails swelled, the prow dipped and swung about; we turned our backs on the ancient temples and modern houses of Luxor and moved out onto the broad bosom of the Nile.

I could not help but be keenly sensitive to the implications of this westward journey, the same one made by generations of Thebans when, the troubles of life behind them, they set sail on the road to heaven. The rugged western cliffs, gilded by the morning sun, had for thousands of years been honeycombed by tombs of noble, pharaoh, and humble peasant. The ruined remains of once-great mortuary temples began to take shape as we drew near the shore: the curving white colonnades of Deir el Bahri, the frowning walls of the Ramesseum, and, towering above the plain, those colossal statues that alone remained of Amenhotep the Third’s magnificent temple. Even more evocative were the wonders we could not see – the hidden, rock-cut sepulchres of the dead. As I looked, my heart swelled within me, and the last four years in England seemed but a horrid dream.

The sound of von Bork’s voice roused me from my blissful contemplation of that gigantic cemetery. I hoped the young man would not continue to refer to Emerson as the brother of the distinguished Walter. Emerson has the highest regard for Walter’s abilities, but one could hardly blame him for taking umbrage at being regarded only as an appendage to his brother. Von Bork’s speciality was the study of the ancient language, so it was not surprising that he should venerate Walter’s contributions to that field.

However, von Bork was merely telling Emerson the latest news.

‘I have, at Lady Baskerville’s orders, a heavy steel door at the entrance to the tomb erected. In the Valley reside two guards under the authority of a sub-inspector of the Antiquities Department – ’

‘Useless!’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘Many of the guards are related to the tomb robbers of Gurneh, or are so woefully superstitious that they will not leave their huts after dark. You ought to have guarded the tomb yourself, von Bork.’

‘Sie haben recht,
Herr Professor,’ the young German murmured submissively. ‘But difficult it was; only Milverton and myself remain, and he of a fever has been ill. He – ’

‘Mr Milverton is the photographer?’ I asked.

‘Quite correct, Frau Professor. The expedition staff of the finest was; now that you and the Professor have come, only an artist is lacking. Mr Armadale that task performed, and I do not – ’

‘But that is a serious lack,’ Emerson remarked. ‘Where are we to find an artist? If only Evelyn had not abandoned a promising career. She had a nice touch. She might have amounted to something.’

Considering that Evelyn was one of the wealthiest women in England, the devoted mother of three lovely children and the adoring wife of a man who doted on her every movement, I could not see that she had lost a great deal. However, I knew there was no sense in pointing this out to Emerson. I therefore contented myself with remarking, ‘She has promised to come out with us again after the children are in school.’

‘Yes, but when will that be? She keeps on producing the creatures in endless succession and shows no sign of stopping. I am fond of my brother and his wife, but a continual progression of miniature Evelyns and Walters is a bit too much. The human race – ’

When the human race entered the discussion I stopped listening. Emerson is capable of ranting on that subject for hours.

‘If I may suggest,’ von Bork said hesitantly.

I looked at him in surprise. The tentative tone was quite unlike his usual confident voice, and although his countenance remained impassive, his sunburned cheeks had turned a trifle pink.

‘Yes, certainly,’ said Emerson, as surprised as I.

Von Bork cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘There is a young lady – an English lady – in Luxor village who is an accomplished painter. In an emergency she might be persuaded …’

Emerson’s face fell. I sympathised; I shared his opinion of young lady artists of the amateur persuasion.

‘It is early days yet,’ I said tactfully. ‘When we have uncovered something worth copying, we can worry about a painter. But I thank you for the suggestion, Herr von Bork. I believe I will call you Karl. It is easier and more friendly. You do not object, I hope?’

By the time he had finished assuring me that he did not, we were docking on the west bank.

Thanks to Karl’s efficiency and Emerson’s curses, we soon found ourselves mounted on donkeyback and ready to proceed. Leaving Abdullah to arrange for the transport of the men and the baggage, we set out across the fields, now green with crops. The pace of a donkey is leisurely in the extreme, so we were able to converse as we rode along; and as we came near to the place where the fertile black soil left by the annual inundation gives way to the red desert sands, Emerson said abruptly, ‘We will go by way of Gurneh.’

Karl was more relaxed now that he had performed his task of greeting and transporting us without mishap; I observed that when he was calm he was able to keep his verbs straight instead of relapsing into tortuous German sentence structure.

‘It is not the direct path,’ he objected. ‘I had thought you and Mrs Emerson would wish to rest and refresh yourselves after –’

‘I have my reasons for suggesting it,’ Emerson replied.

‘Aber natürlich!
Whatever the Professor wishes.’

Our donkeys crossed into the desert, a line so distinct that their front feet pressed the hot sands while their back feet were still on the cultivated land. The village of Gurneh is several hundred yards beyond the cultivation, in the rocky foothills of the mountains. The huts of sun-dried brick blend into the pale-brown rock of the hillside. One might wonder why the residents, who have lived in this place for hundreds of years, do not seek a more comfortable locale. They have solid economic reasons for remaining, for they make their livelihood on that spot. Between the huts and under their very floors lie the ancient tombs whose treasures form the inhabitants’ source of income. In the hills behind the village, a convenient half-hour’s walk away, are the narrow valleys where the kings and queens of the Empire were buried.

We heard the sounds of the village before we could make out its dwellings – the voices of children, the barking of dogs, and the bleating of goats. The cupola of the old village mosque could be seen on the desert slope, and a few palms and sycamores half concealed a row of antique columns. Emerson headed toward these, and before long I realised why he had chosen that route. A precious spring of water was there, with a broken sarcophagus serving as a cattle trough. The village well is always a scene of much activity, with women filling their jars and men watering their beasts. Silence descended upon the group as we approached, and all movement was suspended. The jars remained poised in the arms of the women; the men stopped smoking and gossiping as they stared at our little caravan.

Emerson called out a greeting in sonorous Arabic. He did not pause or wait for a reply. At as stately a pace as a small donkey could command he rode past, with Karl and me following. Not until we had left the well far behind did I hear the sounds of renewed activity.

As our patient beasts plodded across the sand, I allowed Emerson to remain a few feet ahead, a position he much enjoys and seldom obtains. I could see by the arrogant set of his shoulders that he fancied himself in the role of gallant commander, leading his troops; and I saw no reason to point out that no man can possibly look impressive on donkeyback, particularly when his legs are so long he must hold them out at a forty-five-degree angle to keep his feet from dragging on the ground. (Emerson is not unusually tall; the donkeys are unusually small.)