Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (82 page)

Abd el Atti cleared his throat. ‘It grieves me that I cannot assist one whom I would wish to honour. Alas, alas, I have no papyri.’

Well, I had expected that. Abd el Atti never had the object one wanted, and if my suspicions were correct (as I felt sure they were) he had pressing reasons for refusing to admit that he possessed those particular objects. I did not doubt, however, that cupidity would eventually overcome his caution. He had to market his loot to someone; why not to me?

So I proceeded to the next stage of the negotiations, which usually ended with Abd el Atti suddenly remembering that he had heard of such a thing – not that he made a habit of dealing with thieves, but as a favour to an old friend he might be willing to act as middleman… But to my surprise Abd el Atti remained firm. He offered me other antiquities, but not papyri.

Finally I said, ‘It is a pity, my friend. I will have to go to another dealer. I regret this; I would rather have bought from you.’ And I made as if to rise.

This was the last stage in the manoeuvring and usually brought the desired result. An expression of agony crossed Abd el Atti’s rotund face, but he shook his head. ‘I also regret, honoured Sitt. But I have no papyri.’

His fat body filled the narrow doorway of the shop. Over his shoulder there appeared a strange appendage, like a third arm – a small, thin arm clothed in brown tweed. Ramses’ voice piped, ‘Mama, may I speak now?’

Abd el Atti made a frantic grab for the object Ramses was holding. He missed. Before he could try again, a heavy weight landed on his shoulder, tipping him backwards. He let out a shriek and began beating the air with ringed brown hands. Bastet leaped again, onto the mastaba next to me, and Ramses squeezed through the space the cat had cleared for him. He was still holding the scrap of papyrus.

I took it from him. ‘Where did you find this?’ I asked, in English.

‘In de room behind de curtain,’ said Ramses. He squatted beside me, crossing his legs in Egyptian style. Gesturing at Bastet, he added, ‘I was looking for de cat Bastet. You told me not to let her wander off.’

Abd el Atti levered himself to an upright position. I expected he would be angry – and indeed he had some reason to be – but the look he gave the great brindled cat and the small boy held a touch of superstitious terror. I saw his hand move in a quick gesture – the old charm against the evil eye and the forces of darkness. ‘I know nothing of it,’ he said heavily. ‘I have never seen it before.’

The scrap had been broken off a larger manuscript. It was roughly rectangular and about six inches by four in size. The papyrus was brown with age, but less brittle than such relics usually are, and the writing stood out black and firm.

‘It is not hieratic or demotic,’ I said. ‘These are Greek letters.’

‘It is as I said,’ Abd el Atti babbled. ‘You asked for Egyptian papyri, Sitt; this is not what you desire.’

‘I t’ink dat de writing is Coptic,’ said Ramses, legs crossed, arms folded. ‘It is Egyptian – de latest form of de language.’

‘I believe you are correct,’ I said, examining the fragment again. ‘I will take it, Abd el Atti, since you have nothing better. How much?’

The dealer made an odd, jerky gesture of resignation. ‘I ask nothing. But I warn you, Sitt – ’

‘Are you threatening me, Abd el Atti?’

‘Allah forbid!’ For once the dealer sounded wholly sincere. Again he glanced nervously at the cat, at Ramses, who contemplated him in unblinking silence, and at me. And behind me, I knew, he saw the shadow of Emerson, whom the Egyptians called Father of Curses. The combination would have daunted a braver man than poor, fat Abd el Atti. He swallowed. ‘I do not threaten, I warn. Give it to me. If you do, no harm will follow, I swear it.’

As Emerson might have said, this was the wrong approach to take to me. (In fact, Emerson would have put it more emphatically, using terms like ‘red flag to a bull.’) I tucked the fragment carefully into my bag. ‘Thank you for your warning, Abed el Atti. Now hear mine. If the possession of this scrap is dangerous to me, it is also dangerous to you. I suspect you are in over your turbaned head, old friend. Do you want help? Tell me the truth. Emerson and I will protect you – word of an Englishman.’

Abd el Atti hesitated. At that moment Bastet rose upon her hind legs and planted her forefeet on Ramses’ shoulder, butting her head against his. It was a habit of hers when she was restless and desirous of moving on, and it was sheer coincidence that she should have chosen that precise moment to move; but the sight seemed to strike terror into Abd el Atti’s devious soul.

‘It is the will of Allah,’ he whispered. ‘Come tonight, with Emerson – when the muezzin calls from the minaret at midnight.’

He would say no more. As we retraced our steps I glanced over my shoulder and saw him squatting on the mastaba, still as a glittering life-sized statue. He was staring straight ahead.

We pressed against the wall to let a donkey squeeze by. Ramses said, ‘De old gentleman was lying, wasn’t he, Mama?’

‘What about, my boy?’ I inquired absently.

‘About everyt’ing, Mama.’

‘I rather think you are correct, Ramses.’

I was afire with impatience to tell Emerson we had been given an opportunity to expose the ring of antiquities thieves. When we reached Shepheards I was surprised to find he had not yet returned. He was not so fond of de Morgan that he would have lingered, chatting. However, he had many friends in Cairo, and I supposed he had stopped to see one of them and, as he often did, lost track of the time.

After looking in on John and finding him sweetly sleeping, I ordered water to be brought. Ramses needed a bath. He needed a bath three or four times a day under normal circumstances, and the dust of the bazaars, not to mention the honey, had had dire effects. Ramses obediently retired behind the plaited screen that concealed the implements of ablution. For a time he splashed and sputtered in silence; then he began to hum, another annoying habit he had picked up while staying with his aunt and uncle. Like his father, Ramses is completely tone-deaf. The flat insistent drone of his voice was extremely trying to sensitive ears like mine, and it seemed now to have acquired a certain oriental quality – a quavering rise and fall, reminiscent of the Cairo street singers. I listened until I could bear it no longer and then requested that he desist.

He had finished bathing and was almost dressed before my senses, straining for the longed-for harbingers of his father’s return, became aware of a sound like distant thunder. Ever louder and more furious the noise became as it neared our door. I looked at Ramses. He looked at me. The cat Bastet rose from the mat and retreated, with dignity but in haste, under the bed. The door quivered, shuddered, and flew open, striking the wall with a crash. Loosened plaster dribbled floorward.

Emerson stood in the opening. His face was brick-red. The veins in his throat stood out like ropes. He strove to speak, and failed; only a low growling noise emerged from his writhing lips. The growl rose to a roar and from the roar words finally took shape.

I covered my ears with my hands, then removed one hand to gesture imperatively at Ramses. Emerson was cursing in Arabic, and I felt sure the boy was making mental notes of ‘de colloquial speech.’

Emerson’s rolling eyes focused on his son’s fascinated face. With a mighty effort he controlled his wrath. He allowed himself the final solace of kicking the door closed. A stream of plaster added itself to the heap already on the floor. Emerson took a long breath, his chest expanding to such an extent, I feared the buttons would pop off his shirt. ‘Er – hem,’ he said. ‘Hello, my boy. Amelia. Did you have a pleasant morning?’

‘Let us eschew the amenities on this occasion,’ I exclaimed. ‘Get it off your chest, Emerson, before you explode. Only avoid profanity, if at all possible.’

‘It is not possible,’ Emerson cried in an anguished voice. ‘I cannot speak without expletives concerning that villain – that vile – that … that – de Morgan!’

‘He has refused you the firman for Dahshoor.’

Emerson kicked a stool, sending it flying across the room. The head of Bastet, which had cautiously protruded from under the bed, vanished again.

‘He means to work at Dahshoor himself this season,’ said Emerson in a strangled voice. ‘He had the effrontery to tell me I was too late in applying.’

My lips parted. Before I could speak, Emerson turned a hideous glare upon me. ‘If you say “I told you so,” Peabody, I will – I will – kick the bed to splinters!’

‘By all means do so, if it will relieve your feelings, Emerson. I am deeply wounded by your accusation, which I feel sure you would never have made had you been in control of your emotions. You know I abhor the phrase you mentioned and that I never in all the years of our marriage – ’

‘The devil you haven’t,’ Emerson snarled.

‘De devil you haven’t,’ echoed Ramses. ‘Don’t you remember, Mama, yesterday on de train from Alexandria, and de day before dat, when Papa forgot – ’

‘Ramses!’ Emerson turned, more in sorrow than in wrath, to his offending heir. ‘You must not use such language, particularly to your dear mama. Apologize at once.’

‘I apologize,’ Ramses said. ‘I meant no offence, Mama, but I do not see what is wrong wit’ dat expression. It has a quality of colourful emphasis dat appeals strongly – ’

‘Enough, my son.’

‘Yes, Papa.’

The silence that ensued was like the hush after a tempest, when the leaves hang limp in the quiet air and nature seems to catch her breath. Emerson sat down on the bed and mopped his streaming brow. His complexion subsided to the handsome walnut shade that is its normal colour in Egypt, and a tender, affectionate smile transformed his face. ‘Were you waiting for me before lunching? That was kind, my dears. Let us go down at once.’

‘We must discuss this, Emerson,’ I said.

‘Certainly, Amelia. We will discuss it over luncheon.’

‘Not if you are going to lose your temper. Shepheard’s is a respectable hotel. Guests who shout obscenities and throw china across the dining salon – ’

‘I cannot imagine where you get such notions, Amelia,’ Emerson said in a hurt voice. ‘I never lose my temper. Ah – there is Bastet. That is a very handsome collar she is wearing. What is she doing under the bed?’

Bastet declined Ramses’ invitation to lunch – an invitation made, I hardly need say, without reference to me – so the three of us went down. I was not deceived by Emerson’s apparent calm; the blow had been cruel, the disappointment grievous, and I felt it hardly less than he. Of course it was Emerson’s fault for not doing as I had suggested, but I would not for all the world have reminded him of that. After we had taken our places and the waiters had been dispatched in quest of the sustenance we had ordered, I said, ‘Perhaps I might have a little chat with M. de Morgan. He is a Frenchman, after all, and young, his reputation for gallantry – ’

‘Is only too well deserved,’ Emerson growled. ‘You are not to go near him, Amelia. Do you suppose I have forgotten the abominable way he behaved the last time we met?’

M. de Morgan’s abominable behaviour had consisted of kissing my hand and paying me a few flowery French compliments. However, I was touched by Emerson’s assumption that every man I met had amorous designs on me. It was a delusion of his, but a pleasant delusion.

‘What did he do?’ Ramses asked interestedly.

‘Never mind, my boy,’ Emerson said. ‘He is a Frenchman, and Frenchmen are all alike. They are not to be trusted with ladies or with antiquities. I don’t know a single Frenchman who has the slightest notion of how to conduct an excavation.’

Knowing that Emerson was capable of lecturing on this subject interminably and that Ramses was about to request more specific information about the untrustworthiness of Frenchmen with ladies, I turned the conversation back to the subject that concerned me.

‘Very well, Emerson, if you would prefer I did not talk with him I will not. But what are we going to do? I assume he offered you another site?’

Emerson’s cheeks darkened. ‘Control yourself,’ I implored. ‘Speak slowly and breathe deeply, Emerson. It cannot be as bad as that.’

‘It is worse, Peabody. Do you know what site that bas – that wretch had the effrontery to offer me? “You desire pyramids,” he said, with that French smirk of his, “I give you pyramids, my dear cabbage. Mazghunah. What do you say to Mazghunah?”’

He gave the guttural a rolling sound that made the word resemble an oath in some exotic language. ‘Mazghunah,’ I echoed. ‘Emerson, I confess the name is wholly unfamiliar. Where is it?’

My admission of ignorance had the desired effect of soothing Emerson’s wounded dignity. He seldom gets the chance to lecture me on Egyptology. However, in this case I was not just being tactful. I did not recognize the name, and when Emerson had explained, I knew why it meant nothing to me – and why my poor spouse had been so wroth.

Mazghunah is only a few kilometres south of Dahshoor, the site we had wanted. Dahshoor, Sakkara, Giza and Mazghunah itself are the ancient cemeteries of Memphis, the once-great capital of ancient Egypt, of which only a few mounds of ruins now remain. All are close to Cairo and all boast pyramid tombs; but the two ‘pyramids’ of Mazghunah exist only as limestone chips on the level desert floor. No one had bothered to investigate them because there was hardly anything left to investigate.

‘There are also late cemeteries,’ said Emerson with a sneer. ‘De Morgan made a point of that, as if it were an added inducement instead of a handicap.’

He pronounced the word ‘late’ as if it were an insult, which to Emerson it was. Emerson’s interest in Egypt began about 4000
B.C.
and stopped 2500 years later. Nothing after 1500
B.C.
had the slightest attraction for him, and the late cemeteries were dated to Roman and Ptolemaic times – trash, so far as Emerson was concerned.

Though my own spirits were low, I sought to cheer my afflicted husband. ‘There may be papyri,’ I said brightly. ‘Remember the papyri Mr Petrie found at Hawara.’

Too late I realized that the name of Mr Petrie was not designed to improve Emerson’s mood. Scowling, he attacked the fish the waiter had set in front of him, as if his fork were a spear and the fish were Mr Petrie, boiled, flayed and at his mercy.