Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (94 page)

The sun was high in the heavens. I drew deep satisfying breaths of the warm but salubrious air and managed to conquer the sneeze. I then took off my hat and was distressed to find that my forebodings had been correct. Of fine yellow straw, to match my frock, the hat was draped with white lace and trimmed with a cluster of yellow roses, loops of yellow ribbon and two
choux
of white velvet. Clusters of artificial violets and leaves completed the modest decorations, and the entire ensemble was daintily draped with tulle. It was my favourite hat; it had been very expensive; and it had required a long search to find a hat that was not trimmed with dead birds or ostrich plumes. (I deplore the massacre of animals to feed female vanity.)

As the priest’s hand pressed on my head I had heard a crunching sound. Now I saw the bows were crushed, the roses hung drunkenly from bent stems, and that the mark of a large, dirty hand was printed on the mashed tulle. The only consolation I could derive was that there was also a spot of blood on the tulle. Apparently one of my hat pins had pricked the ecclesiastical palm.

There was nothing to be done about the hat, so I replaced it on my head and looked about. The small square was deserted except for a pair of lean dogs and some chickens who had not been inspired to attend the service. As John and Ramses were nowhere to be seen, I walked towards the mission.

The church door stood open. From it came music – not the mellifluous strains of the organ or the sweet harmony of a trained choir, but motley voices bellowing out what I had to assume must be a hymn. I thought I recognized Ramses’ piercing, offkey treble, but I could not make out any of the words. I sat down on the same rock Emerson had once used as a seat, and waited.

The sun rose higher and perspiration trickled down my back. The singing went on and on, the same monotonous tune repeated interminably. It was finally succeeded by the voice of Brother Ezekiel. I could hear him quite well. He prayed for the elect and for those still in the darkness of false belief (every inhabitant of the globe except the members of the Church of the Holy Jerusalem). I thought he would never stop praying. Eventually he did, and the congregation began to emerge.

The ‘Brotestants’ appeared to be succeeding in their efforts at conversion, for Brother Ezekiel’s audience was somewhat larger than that of the priest. Most, if not all, of the converts wore the dark Coptic turban. Christian missionaries had had little success in winning over Muslims, perhaps for ideological reasons and perhaps because the Egyptian government disapproved (in a number of effective and unpleasant ways) of apostates from the faith of Islam. No one cared what the Copts did; hence the higher conversion rate and the resentment of the Coptic hierarchy against missionaries. This resentment had, on several occasions, resulted in physical violence. When Emerson told me of these cases I exclaimed in disbelief, but my cynical husband only smiled contemptuously. ‘No one slaughters a co-religionist with quite as much enthusiasm as a Christian, my dear. Look at their history.’ I made no comment on this, for in fact I could think of nothing to say.

Among the worshippers wearing the blue turban was one I recognized. So Hamid was a convert! When he saw me he had the effrontery to salute me.

Eventually John came out of the church. His face was pink with pleasure – and probably with heat, for the temperature in the chapel must have been over one hundred degrees. He came running to me, babbling apologies: ‘It was a long service, madam.’

‘So I observed. Where is Ramses?’

‘He was here,’ said John vaguely. ‘Madam, they have done me the honour to ask me to stay for dinner. May I, madam?’

I was about to reply with a decided negative when I saw the group coming towards me and forgot what I was going to say. Brother David, looking like a young saint, had given his arm to a lady – the same lady I had seen with him at Shepheard’s. Her gown that morning was of bright violet silk in a broché design; the short coat had a cutaway front displaying an enormous white chiffon cravat that protruded a good twelve inches in front of her. The matching hat had not only ribbons and flowers, but an egret plume and a dead bird mounted with wings and tail uppermost, as if in flight.

Completing the trio was Ramses, his hand in that of the lady. He was looking as pious as only Ramses can look when he is contemplating some reprehensible action, and he was smeared with dust from his once-white collar to his buttoned boots. Ramses is the only person of my acquaintance who can get dirty sitting perfectly still in a church.

The group bore down on me. They all spoke at once. Ramses greeted me, Brother David reproached me for not coming into the chapel, and the lady cried, in a voice as shrill as that of a magpie,
‘Ach du lieber Gott,
what a pleasure it is! The famous Frau Emerson, is it you? I have often of you heard and intended on you to call and now you are here, in the flesh!’

‘I fear you have the advantage of me,’ I replied.

‘Allow me to present the Baroness Hohensteinbauergrunewald,’ said Brother David. ‘She is – ’

‘A great admirer of the famous Frau Emerson and her so-distinguished husband,’ shrieked the baroness, seizing my hand and crushing it in hers. ‘And now the mother of the
liebe Kind
I find you are – it is too much of happiness! You must me visit. I insist that you are coming. My dahabeeyah is at Dahshoor; I inspect the pyramids, I entertain the distinguished archaeologists, I gather the antiquities. This evening come you and the famous Professor Doctor Emerson to dine,
nicht?’

‘Nicht,’
I said. ‘That is, I thank you, Baroness, but I am afraid – ’

‘You have another engagement?’ The baroness’s small muddy-brown eyes twinkled. She nudged me familiarly. ‘No, you have not another engagement. What could you do in this desert? You will come. A dinner party I will have for the famous archaeologists. Brother David, he will come also.’ The young man nodded, smiling, and the baroness continued, ‘I stay only three days at Dahshoor. I make the Nile cruise. So you come tonight. To the famous Professor Doctor Emerson I show my collection of antiquities. I have mummies, scarabs, papyrus – ’

‘Papyrus?’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes, many. So now you come, eh? I will the young Ramses with me take, he wishes to see my dahabeeyah. Then at night you will come and fetch him. Good!’

I gave Ramses a searching look. He clasped his hands. ‘Oh, Mama, may I go wit’ de lady?’

‘You are too untidy – ’ I began.

The baroness guffawed. ‘So a small boy should be,
nicht?
I will take good care of him. I am a mama, I know a mama’s heart.’ She rumpled his ebony curls. Ramses’ face took on the fixed look that usually preceded a rude remark. He loathed having his curls rumpled. But he remained silent, and my suspicions as to his ulterior motives, whatever they might be, were strengthened.

Before I could frame further objections the baroness started, and said in what is vulgarly called a pig’s whisper,
‘Ach,
he comes,
der Pfarrer.
Too much he talks already. I escape. I come only to see Brother David, because he is so beautiful, but
der Pfarrer
I do not like. Come,
Bübchen,
we run away.’

She suited the action to the words, dragging Ramses with her.

Brother Ezekiel had emerged from the chapel. Behind him was Charity, hands clasped and face obscured by the bonnet. At the sight of her John jumped as if a bee had stung him. ‘Madam,’ he groaned piteously, ‘may I – ’

‘Very well,’ I said.

The baroness was certainly one of the most vulgar women I had ever met, but her instincts were basically sound. I also wished to run away from Brother Ezekiel. As I beat a hasty retreat I felt as if I had tossed John to him like a bone to a lion, in order to make good my escape. At least John was a willing martyr.

So the baroness had papyri. In my opinion that fact justified a visit. Emerson would not be pleased, though. I had lost John to the missionaries and Ramses to the baroness, and I had committed my husband to a social call of the sort he particularly abominated. However, there was one mitigating circumstance. We would be alone in the house that afternoon, and I had no doubt I could persuade Emerson to do his duty.

Emerson was duly persuaded. He refused to wear proper evening dress, and I did not insist, for I had discovered that my red velvet gown was not suited to riding donkey-back. I put on my best Turkish trousers and we set off, accompanied by Selim and Daoud.

Bastet had been even more annoyed than Emerson to learn I had not brought Ramses back with me. We had shut her in one of the empty storerooms to prevent her from attending church with us; when I let her out she addressed me in raucous complaint and bolted out of the house. She had not returned by the time we left, nor had John.

‘Something must be done about this nonsense, Amelia,’ Emerson declared, as we jogged northward. ‘I won’t have John turning into a Brother of Jerusalem. I thought he had more intelligence. I am disappointed in him.’

‘He has not been converted by Brother Ezekiel, you booby,’ I said affectionately. ‘He is in love, and as you ought to know, intelligence is no defence against that perilous condition.’

Instead of responding to this tender remark, Emerson only grunted.

It was another of those perfect desert evenings. A cool breeze swept away the heat of the day. The western sky was awash with crimson and gold, while the heavens above our heads had the clear translucence of a deep-blue china bowl. Golden in the rays of the setting sun, the slopes of the great pyramids of Dahshoor rose like stairways to heaven. Yet the sombre tower of the Black Pyramid dominated the scene. Because of its position it appeared as high or higher than the nearby southern stone pyramid.

We passed close by its base on our way to the riverbank. The ground was littered with chips of white limestone, the remains of the casing blocks that had once covered the brick core. The previous season de Morgan had uncovered the ruins of the enclosure wall and the funerary chapel next to the pyramid. A few fallen columns and fragments of bas-relief were all that remained above the surface of the ground. So much for futile human vanity; in a few years the relentless sand would swallow up the signs of de Morgan’s work as it had covered the structures designed to ensure the immortality of the pharaoh. The site was deserted. De Morgan was staying at Menyat Dahshoor, the nearest village.

We rode on, following the lengthening shadow of the pyramid towards the river. Several dahabeeyahs rocked gently at anchor, but it was easy to distinguish that of the baroness, since the German flag flew at the bow. A freshly painted plaque displayed the vessel’s name:
Cleopatra.
It was precisely the sort of trite, obvious name I would have expected the baroness to select.

A gentle nostalgia suffused me when I set foot on the deck. There is no more delightful means of travel than these houseboats; the Nile steamers of Mr Cook, which have almost replaced them, cannot compare in comfort and charm.

The main salon was in the front of the boat, with a row of wide windows following the curve of the bow. The baroness’s dragoman threw open the door and announced us, and we stepped into a chamber swimming with sunset light and furnished with garish elegance. A wide divan covered with cushions filled one end of the room, and upon it, in more than oriental splendour, reclined the baroness. Golden chains twined the dusky masses of her unbound hair, and golden bracelets chimed when she raised a hand in greeting. Her snowy robes were of the finest chiffon; a heavy necklace or collar, of carnelian and turquoise set in gold, covered her breast. I assumed that the absurd costume was meant to conjure up the fabulous queen after whom the boat was named, but I could not help being reminded of the late and not much lamented Madame Berengeria, who had also affected ancient Egyptian costume, labouring as she did under the impression that she was the reincarnation of several long-dead queens. Poor Berengeria would have turned green with envy at the magnificence of the baroness’s garb, for her bracelets were of pure gold and the collar around her neck appeared to be a genuine antiquity.

From Emerson, behind me, came sounds of imminent strangulation. I turned to find that his apoplectic gaze was fixed, not on the lady’s ample charms, but upon another object. It was a handsome mummy case, gleaming with varnish, that stood carelessly propped against the grand piano like some outre parlour ornament. A table was covered with an equally casual display of antiquities – scarabs, ushebtis, vessels of pottery and stone. On another table were several papyrus scrolls.

The baroness began to writhe. After a moment I realized her movements were not those of a peculiar, recumbent dance, but merely an attempt to rise from the couch, which was low and soft. Succeeding in this, she swept forwards to welcome us. Since Emerson made no move to take the hand she held under his nose, she snatched his. The vigorous shaking she gave it seemed to wake him from his stupor. His eyes focused in a malignant glare upon her conspicuous bosom, and he inquired, ‘Madam, do you realize the object you have slung across your chest is a priceless antiquity?’

The baroness rolled her eyes and covered the collar with ringed hands.
‘Ach,
the monster! Would you tear it from my helpless body?’

‘Not at all,’ Emerson replied. ‘Rough handling might damage the collar.’

The baroness burst into a roar of laughter. ‘It is the truth, what they say about Emerson the most distinguished. They have of you me warned, that you would scold – ’

‘For heaven’s sake, madam, speak German,’ Emerson interrupted, his scowl deepening.

The lady continued in that language. ‘Yes, yes, everyone speaks of Professor Emerson; they have told me you would scold me for my poor little antiquities. M. de Morgan is not so unkind as you.’

She proceeded to introduce the other guests. If she had deliberately selected a group designed to vex Emerson, she could hardly have done better – de Morgan, Kalenischeff (in faultless evening dress, complete with ribbon and monocle), Brother David, and three of what Emerson called ‘confounded tourists,’ from the other dahabeeyahs. The only memorable remark made by any of the tourists the entire evening came from one of the English ladies, who remarked in a languid drawl, ‘But the ruins are so dilapidated! Why doesn’t someone repair them?’