Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (81 page)

The street in front of the hotel teemed with the usual motley array of beggars, guides, donkeys and donkey boys, lying in wait for the tourists. Sure enough, Ramses was among them. Though I had expected to find him there, it took me several moments to recognize him. Barefoot and bareheaded, his white nightgown similar in design (and, by now, in filthiness) to the robes worn by the donkey boys, he blended admirably with the others, even to his tanned complexion and tousled black curls. I admit it gave me something of a shock. I was unable to move for an instant; and during that instant one of the bigger boys, finding Ramses blocking his path, addressed him in a flood of gutter slang. The shock I had experienced earlier paled by comparison to the sensation that seized me when I heard my offspring respond with a phrase of whose meaning even I was uncertain, though the general reference, to certain animals and their habits, was unfortunately only too clear.

I was not the only European standing on the terrace. Several other early birds had emerged, ready for touring. Though I am ordinarily unmoved by the uninformed opinions of others, I was not keen to admit an acquaintance with the dusty child in the dirty white robe; but, seeing that Ramses was about to be knocked unconscious by the infuriated young person he had just addressed as a misbegotten offspring of an Englishman and a camel, I thought I had better intervene.

‘Ramses!’ I shouted.

Everyone within earshot stopped and stared. I suppose it must have been startling to hear an aristocratic English person shout the name of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh at dawn on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel.

Ramses, who had ducked behind a morose little donkey, started to his feet. His assailant halted, fist raised; and the cat Bastet, appearing out of nowhere, landed on the latter’s back. The cat Bastet is a large cat, weighing approximately twelve pounds. The unlucky donkey boy fell flat upon the ground with a sound like that of a cannonball hitting a wall, this effect being further strengthened by the cloud of dust that billowed up. Emerging from the cloud, Bastet sneezed and fell in behind Ramses, who advanced towards me. I seized him by the collar. In silence we retreated into the hotel.

We found Emerson placidly drinking tea. ‘Good morning, my dears,’ he said, with a smile. ‘What have you been doing so bright and early?’

Bastet sat down and began to wash herself. This struck me as an excellent idea. I thrust Ramses into his father’s arms. ‘Wash him,’ I said briefly.

As they went out I heard Ramses explain, ‘I was improving my command of de colloquial form of de language, Papa,’ to which Emerson replied, ‘Splendid, my boy, splendid.’

After breakfast we set out on our errands, Emerson to call on M. de Morgan, in order to obtain his firman for excavating at Dahshoor, I to do some necessary shopping. Normally I would have accompanied Emerson, but that would have meant taking Ramses along, and after hearing the latest additions to his Arabic vocabulary I felt it would be unwise to expose de Morgan to my linguistically unpredictable child – not to mention the cat, for Ramses refused to stir a step without her. I gave in to this request, since one of my errands was to buy a proper collar for Bastet.

The Muski, which is the main thoroughfare of old Cairo, had quite lost its former quaint oriental character; modern shops and buildings lined its broad expanse. We left our hired carriage at the entrance to the bazaars, for the narrow alleyways do not permit vehicular traffic. At my suggestion Ramses took the cat up lest she be stepped on. She assumed her favourite position, her head on one of Ramses’ shoulders and her hindquarters on the other, with her tail hanging down in front.

We went first to the bazaar of the leathermakers, where we purchased not one but two collars for Bastet. One was plain and well constructed (my selection); the other was bright-red, adorned with fake scarabs and imitation turquoise. I was surprised to see Ramses exhibit such tawdry taste, but decided the issue was not worth arguing about. Ramses immediately decorated Bastet with the bejewelled collar and attached the matching crimson lead. They made a singular pair, Ramses in the tweed jacket and trousers his father had ordered to be made in imitation of his own working costume and the great feline, looking exactly like the hunting cats depicted in Egyptian tomb paintings. I was only relieved that Ramses had not suggested putting a gold earring in her ear, as had been done by the ancient pet owners.

I proceeded methodically with my shopping – medications, tools, ropes and other professional needs. The morning was well advanced by the time I finished, for even the simplest transaction cannot be completed without bargaining, coffee drinking and an exchange of florid compliments. There was one other inquiry I wanted to pursue before returning to the hotel; turning to ask if Ramses was hungry, I saw the question was unnecessary. He had just stuffed into his mouth a piece of pastry dripping with honey and bristling with nuts. The honey had trickled down his chin and onto his jacket. Each spot was already black with flies.

‘Where did you get that?’’ I demanded.

‘De man gave it to me.’ Ramses indicated a vendor of sweetmeats who stood nearby, his large wooden tray balanced expertly on his head. Through the swarm of insects that surrounded him the vendor gave me a gap-toothed smile and a respectful salutation.

‘Did I not tell you you were not to eat anything unless I gave you permission?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Ramses.

‘Oh. Well, I am telling you now.’

‘Very well,’ said Ramses. He wiped his sticky hands on his trousers. A wave of flies dived upon the new spots.

We proceeded in single file through a covered passageway into a small square with a public fountain. Women in ragged black robes clustered around the marble structure, filling their jars. The appearance of Ramses and Bastet distracted them; they pointed and giggled, and one boldly lifted her veil in order to see better.

‘Where are we going?’ Ramses asked.

‘To the shop of an antiquities dealer. I promised your Uncle Walter I would look for papyri.’

Ramses began, ‘Papa says antiquities dealers are cursed rascals who – ’

‘I know your papa’s opinions concerning antiquities dealers. However, it is sometimes necessary to resort to these persons. You are not to repeat your papa’s comments to the man we are about to meet. You are not to speak at all unless you are asked a direct question. Do not leave the shop. Do not touch anything in the shop. Do not allow the cat to wander off. And,’ I added, ‘do not eat anything unless I tell you you may.’

‘Yes, Mama,’ said Ramses.

The Khan el Khaleel, the bazaar of the metalworkers, is, if possible, even more crowded than the others. We threaded our way past the cupboard-sized shops and the narrow stone benches called mastabas in front of them. Many of the mastabas were occupied by customers; the merchant, just inside the shop, produced his glittering wares from the locked drawers within.

Abd el Atti’s place of business was on the edge of the Khan el Khaleel. The small shop in front was only a blind; preferred customers were invited into a larger room at the rear of the shop, where the old rascal’s collection of antiquities was displayed.

Ever since the days of M. Mariette, the distinguished founder of the Department of Antiquities, excavation in Egypt has been – in theory at least – strictly controlled. Firmans are awarded only to trained scholars. The results of their labours are studied by an official of the Department, who selects the choicest objects for the Museum. The excavator is allowed to keep the remainder. Anyone wishing to export antiquities must have a permit, but this is not hard to obtain when the object in question has no particular monetary or historical value.

The system would work well enough if the law were obeyed. Unfortunately it is impossible to supervise every square acre of the country, and illegal excavation is common. Working in haste and in fear of discovery, untrained diggers demolish the sites at which they work and of course keep no records of where the objects were found. The fellahin of Egypt have a keen nose for treasure; they have often located tombs unknown to archaeologists. The famous cache of royal mummies that Emerson had mentioned is a conspicuous example. But the peasants are not the only offenders. Wallis Budge of the British Museum took a positive delight in outwitting the antiquities officials. The Amarna tablets, the papyrus of Ani, and the great Greek manuscript of the
Odes
of Bacchylides are among the valuables smuggled out of Egypt by this so-called scholar.

In this ambiguous moral ambience the antiquities dealers flourished. Some were more unscrupulous than others, but scarcely any of them operated wholly within the law. The honest merchant had no chance against his dishonest colleagues, for the best wares were obtained from illegal excavations. Abd el Atti’s reputation was middle-of-the-road – worse than some merchants, not so bad as others – which meant he might have the kind of papyrus I wanted for Walter.

The mastaba before the shop was unoccupied. I looked within. The room was dimly lit and crowded with merchandise. Most of the remaining space was filled by Abd el Atti himself. He was almost as short as I and almost as wide as he was tall. Before affluence got the better of his figure he must have been a handsome fellow, with soft brown eyes and regular features. He was still something of a dandy. His outer robe was of salmon-pink cashmere and he wore a huge green turban, perhaps in order to increase his stature. From behind, which was how I saw him, the effect was that of a large orange balloon surmounted by a cabbage.

His body very nearly concealed the other man, who stood just inside the curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. I saw only the latter’s face, and a most sinister countenance it was – almost as dark as a Nubian’s, shaped into lines and pouches of sagging flesh that suggested dissipation rather than age. When he saw me, his lips drew back in a snarl under his ragged black moustaches, and he interrupted Abd el Atti with a harsh warning.
‘Gaff ha ’at iggaft …’
– followed by another comment of which I caught only a few words.

Turning with a serpentine swiftness surprising in a man of his bulk, Abd el Atti cut the other short with a peremptory gesture. His brown face shone greasily with perspiration. ‘It Is the Sitt Hakim,’ he said. ‘Wife to Emerson. You honour my house, Sitt.’

Since
I
knew who I was, and Abd el Atti knew who I was, I could only assume that the identifying statement was aimed at the other man. It was not an introduction, for upon hearing it the creature vanished, so suddenly and smoothly that the curtain scarcely swayed. A warning, then? I had no doubt of it. When he greeted me, Abd el Atti had spoken ordinary Arabic. The whispered remarks I had overheard had been in another kind of speech.

Abd el Atti bowed, or tried to; he did not bend easily. ‘Be welcome, honoured lady. And this young nobleman – who can he be but the son of the great Emerson! How handsome he is, and how great the intelligence that shines in his eyes.’

This was a deadly insult, for one does not praise a child for fear of attracting the envy of malicious demons. I knew Abd el Atti must be badly rattled to make such a mistake.

Ramses said not a word, only bowed in response. The cat – I observed with a touch of uneasiness – was nowhere to be seen.

‘But come,’ Abd el Atti went on, ‘sit on the mastaba; we will drink coffee; you will tell me how I may serve you.’

I let him nudge me out of the shop. He squatted beside me on the mastaba and clapped his hands to summon a servant. Under his salmon robe he wore a long vest of striped Syrian silk, bound with a sash stiff with pearls and gold thread. He paid no attention to Ramses, who remained inside the shop. Hands clasped ostentatiously behind his back in compliance with my instructions, Ramses appeared to be studying the merchandise on display. I decided to let him remain where he was. Even if he broke something, it would not matter; most of the objects were forgeries.

Abd el Atti and I drank coffee and exchanged insincere compliments for a while. Then he said, apropos of nothing in particular, ‘I hope the speech of that vile beggar did not offend you. He was trying to sell me some antiquities. However, I suspected they were stolen, and as you and my great good friend Emerson know, I do not deal with dishonest people.’

I nodded agreeably. I knew he was lying and he knew I knew; we were playing the time-honoured game of mercantile duplicity, in which both parties profess the most noble sentiments while each plans to cheat the other as thoroughly as possible.

Abd el Atti smiled. His countenance was trained in imperturbability, but I knew the old wretch well; his remark was not an apology, but an implicit question. He was desperately anxious to learn whether I had understood those whispered words.

Many trades and professions, especially criminal trades, develop private languages in order that the members may speak among themselves without being understood by outsiders. The thieves’ cant of seventeenth-century London is one example of such an argot, as it is called. Abd el Atti and his companion had employed the
siim issaagha,
the argot of the gold- and silver-sellers of Cairo. It is based on ancient Hebrew, a language I had studied with my late father. In fact, they had spoken so rapidly and so softly, I had only comprehended a few words.

Abd el Atti had said, ‘The Master will eat our hearts if …’ Then the other man had warned him to watch what he said, since a stranger had entered.

I had no intention of admitting that I was familiar with the
siim issaagha.
Let the old man wonder and worry.

He was worried. Instead of
fahddling
(gossiping) for the prescribed length of time, he abruptly got down to business, asking what I wanted.

‘It is for the brother of Emerson that I come,’ I explained. ‘He studies the ancient language of Egypt, and I promised I would bring him papyri.’

Abd el Atti sat like a glittering statue, his hands rocksteady; but a strange livid hue overspread his face. The harmless word ‘papyri’ had wrought that remarkable change; could it be, I wondered, that a cache of these objects had been found? I saw myself exposing the criminal ring, arresting the criminals, carrying back basketfuls of papyri to Walter.