Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (93 page)

Yet I found it difficult to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. My gaze kept returning to the northern horizon, where the Dahshoor pyramids rose like mocking reminders of a forbidden paradise. Gazing upon them I knew how Eve must have felt when she looked back at the flowers and lush foliage of Eden, from which she was forever barred. (Another example of masculine duplicity, I might add. Adam was under no compulsion to eat of the fruit, and his attempt to shift the blame onto his trusting spouse was, to say the least, unmanly.)

Because of this distraction I was the first to see the approaching rider. Mounted on a spirited Arab stallion, he presented a handsome spectacle as he galloped across the waste. He drew up before me with a tug on the reins that made the horse rear, and removed his hat. The full effect of this performance was spoiled, for me, by the sight of the object de Morgan held before him on his saddle. The object was my son, sandy, sunburned, and sardonic. His look of bland innocence as he gazed down at me would have driven most mothers to mayhem.

Tenderly de Morgan lowered Ramses into my arms. I dropped him immediately and dusted off my hands. ‘Where did you find him?’ I inquired.

‘Midway between this place and my own excavations. In the middle of nowhere, to be precise. When I inquired of him where he thought he was going, he replied he had decided to pay me a visit.
C’est un enfant formidable!
Truly the son of my dear
collègue
– a splinter off the old English block of wood,
n’est pas?’

Emerson came trotting up in time to hear the final compliment. The look he gave de Morgan would have withered a more sensitive man. De Morgan only smiled and twirled his moustaches. Then he began to congratulate Emerson on the intelligence, daring, and excellent French of his son.

‘Humph, yes, no doubt,’ Emerson said. ‘Ramses, what the devil – that is to say, you must not wander off in this careless fashion.’

‘I was not wandering,’ Ramses protested. ‘I was aware at all times of my precise location. I confess I had underestimated de distance between dis place and Dahshoor. What I require, Papa, is a horse. Like dat one.’

De Morgan laughed. ‘You would find it hard to control a steed like Mazeppa,’ he said, stroking the stallion’s neck. ‘But a mount of some kind – yes, yes, that is reasonable.’

‘I beg you will not support my son in his ridiculous demands, monsieur,’ I said, giving Ramses a hard stare. ‘Ramses, where is Selim?’

‘He accompanied me, of course,’ said Ramses. ‘But M. de Morgan would not let him come on de horse wit’ us.’

De Morgan continued to plead Ramses’ case, probably because he saw how much his partisanship annoyed Emerson. ‘What harm can come to the lad, after all? He has only to follow the line of the cultivation. A little horse, madame – Professor – a pony, perhaps. The boy is welcome to visit me at any time. I do not doubt we will have more interesting – we will have interesting things to show him.’

Emerson made a sound like a bull about to charge, but controlled himself. ‘Have you found the burial chamber yet?’

‘We have only just begun our search,’ said de Morgan haughtily. ‘But since the burial chambers are generally located directly under the exact centre of the pyramid square, it is only a matter of time.’

‘Not that it will matter,’ Emerson grunted. ‘Like all the others, it will have been robbed and you will find nothing.’

‘Who knows,
mon cher?
I have a feeling – here – ’ De Morgan thumped the breast of his well-tailored jacket – ’that we will find great things this season. And you – what luck have you had?’

‘Like you, we have only begun,’ I said, before Emerson could explode. ‘Will you come to the house, monsieur, and join us in a cup of tea?’

De Morgan declined, explaining that he had a dinner engagement. ‘As you know, Dahshoor is a popular stop for tourists. The dahabeeyah of the Countess of Westmoreland is there presently, and I am dining with her tonight.’

This boast failed to wound Emerson; he was not at all impressed by titles, and considered dining out a painful chore, to be avoided whenever possible. But the Frenchman’s other digs had hit the mark, and his final speech was designed to twist the knife in the wound. He wished us luck, told us to visit his excavations at any time, and repeated his invitation to Ramses. ‘You will come and learn how to conduct an excavation,
n’est pas, mon petit?’

Ramses gazed worshipfully at the handsome figure on the great stallion. ‘T’ank you, monsieur, I would like dat.’

With a bow to me and a mocking smile at Emerson, de Morgan wheeled the horse and rode off into the sunset. It was the wrong direction entirely, and I had to agree with Emerson when he muttered, ‘These cursed Frenchmen – anything for a grand gesture!’

I
N
the end Ramses got his way. After considering the matter, I decided it would be advisable for us to have some form of transport at hand, for the site was isolated and extensive. So we hired several donkeys, on a long-term lease, so to speak, and had the men build a shed for them near the ruins of the church. My first act upon coming into possession of the donkeys was, as usual, to strip off their filthy saddlecloths and wash them. It was not an easy task, since water had to be carried from the village, and the donkeys did not at all like being washed.

I will say for Ramses that he tried to be of use. However, he was more hindrance than help, falling over the water jars, getting more liquid on his own person than on the donkeys, and narrowly avoiding losing a finger to one irritated equine whose teeth he was trying to brush. The moment the animals were ready for locomotion he demanded the use of one.

‘Certainly, my boy,’ his naive father replied.

‘Where do you mean to go?’ his more suspicious mother demanded.

‘To Dahshoor, to visit M. de Morgan,’ said Ramses.

Emerson’s face fell. He had been deeply wounded by Ramses’ admiration for the dashing Frenchman. ‘I would rather you did not call on M. de Morgan, Ramses. Not alone, at any rate. Papa will take you with him another time.’

Instead of debating the matter, Ramses clasped his hands and raised imploring eyes to his father’s troubled face. ‘Den, Papa, may I make a widdle excavation of my own? Just a widdle one, Papa?’

I cannot fully express in words the dark suspicion that filled my mind at this patent demonstration of duplicity. It had been months since Ramses had mispronounced the letter
l
. His father had been absurdly charmed by this speech defect; indeed, I am convinced that it originated with Emerson’s addressing the infant Ramses in ‘baby-talk,’ as it is called. Before I could express my misgivings, Emerson beamed fondly at the innocent face turned up to his and said, ‘My dear boy, certainly you may. What a splendid idea! It will be excellent experience for you.’

‘And may I take one or two of de men to help me, Papa?’

‘I was about to suggest it myself, Ramses. Let me see whom I can spare – besides Selim, of course.’

They went off arm in arm, leaving me to wonder what Ramses was up to this time. Even my excellent imagination failed to provide an answer.

The cemetery
was
of Roman date. Need I say more? We found small rock-cut tombs, most of which had been robbed in ancient times. Our labours were rewarded (I use the word ironically) by a motley collection of rubbish the tomb robbers had scorned – cheap pottery jars, fragments of wooden boxes, and a few beads. Emerson recorded the scraps with dangerous calm and I filed them away in the storeroom. The unrobbed tombs did contain coffins, some of wood, some moulded out of cartonnage (a variety of papier-mâché) and heavily varnished. We opened three of these coffins, but Emerson was forced to refuse Ramses’ request that he be allowed to unwrap the mummies, since we had no facilities for that particular enterprise. Two of the mummies had painted portraits affixed to the head wrappings. These paintings, done in coloured wax on thin panels of wood, were used in late times in lieu of the sculptured masks common earlier. Petrie had found a number of them, some exceedingly handsome, when he dug at Hawara, but our examples were crude and injured by damp. I hope I need not say that I treated these wretched specimens with the meticulous care I always employ, covering them with a fresh coating of beeswax to fix the colours and storing them in boxes padded with cotton wool, in the same manner I had employed with the portrait painting Emerson had rescued from Abd el Atti’s shop. They compared poorly with the latter, which was that of a woman wearing elaborate earrings and a golden fillet. Her large dark eyes and expressive lips were drawn and shaded with an almost modern realism of technique.

On Sunday, which was our day of rest, John appeared in full regalia, knee breeches and all. His buttons had been polished to dazzling brightness. Respectfully he asked my permission to attend church services.

‘But neither of the churches here are yours, John,’ I said, blinking at the buttons.

This rational observation had no effect on John, who continued to regard me with mute appeal, so I gave in. ‘Very well, John.’

‘I will go too,’ said Ramses. ‘I want to see de young lady dat John is – ’

‘That will do, Ramses.’

‘I also wish to observe de Coptic service,’ continued Ramses. ‘It is, I have been informed, an interesting survival of certain antique – ’

‘Yes, I know, Ramses. That is certainly an idea. We will all go.’

Emerson looked up from his notes. ‘You are not including me, I hope.’

‘Not if you don’t wish to go. But as Ramses has pointed out, the Coptic service – ’

‘Don’t be a hypocrite, Peabody. It is not scholarly fervour that moves you; you also want to see John with the young lady he is – ’

‘That will do, Emerson,’ I said. John gave me a grateful look. He was bright red from the collar of his jacket to the curls on his brow.

Services at the Coptic church had already begun when we reached the village, though you would not have supposed it to be so from the babble of voices that could be heard within. From the grove of trees where the American mission was situated the tinny tolling of the bell called worshippers to the competing service. There was a peremptory note in its persistent summons, or so it seemed to me; it reminded me of the reverend’s voice, and the half-formed idea that had come to me as we proceeded crystallized into a determination not to accede, even in appearance, to his demand that I attend his church.

‘I am going to the Coptic service,’ I said. ‘Ramses, will you come with me or go with John?’

Somewhat to my surprise, Ramses indicated he would go with John. I had not believed vulgar curiosity would win over scholarly instincts. However, the decision suited me quite well. I informed the pair that we would meet at the well, and saw them proceed towards the chapel.

The interior of the Coptic church of Sitt Miriam (the Virgin, in our terms) was adorned with faded paintings of that lady and various saints. There were no seats or pews; the worshippers walked about chatting freely and appearing to pay no attention to the priest, who stood at the altar reciting prayers. The congregation was not large – twenty or thirty people, perhaps. I recognized several of the rough-looking men who had appeared to form the priest’s entourage sanctimoniously saluting the pictures of the saints, but the face I had half-hoped to see was not among them. However, it did not surprise me to learn that Hamid was not a regular churchgoer.

I took up my position toward the back, near but not within the enclosure where the women were segregated. My advent had not gone unnoticed. Conversations halted for a moment and then broke out louder than before. The priest’s glowing black eyes fixed themselves on me. He was too experienced a performer to interrupt his praying, but his voice rose in stronger accents. It sounded like a denunciation of something – possibly me – but I could not understand the words. Clearly this part of the service was in the ancient Coptic tongue, and I doubted that the priest and the congregation understood much more of it than I did. The prayers were memorized and repeated by rote.

Before long the priest switched to Arabic and I recognized that he was reading from one of the gospels. This went on for an interminable time. Finally he turned from the
heikal,
or altar, swinging a censer from which wafted the sickening smell of incense. He began to make his way through the congregation, blessing each individual by placing a hand upon his head and threatening him with the censer. I stood alone, the other worshippers having prudently edged away, and I wondered whether I would be ignored altogether or whether some particularly insulting snub was in train. Conceive of my surprise, therefore, when, having attended to every
man
present, the priest made his way rapidly towards me. Placing his hand heavily upon my head, he blessed me in the name of the Trinity, the Mother of God, and assorted saints. I thanked him, and was rewarded by a ripple of black beard that I took to betoken a smile.

When the priest had returned to the
heikal
I decided I had done my duty and could retire. The interior of the small edifice was foggy with cheap incense and I feared I was about to sneeze.