Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (43 page)

After all, much as I commend frankness in such matters there are areas in which an individual is entitled to privacy. I find myself forced to resort to a typographical euphemism.

By midnight the sleet had stopped falling, and a brisk east wind shook the icy branches of the trees outside our window. They creaked and cracked like spirits of darkness, protesting attack. My cheek rested against my husband’s breast; I could hear the steady rhythmic beat of his heart.

‘When do we leave?’ I enquired softly.

Emerson yawned. ‘There is a boat on Saturday.’

‘Good night, Emerson.’

‘Good night, my darling Peabody.’

R
EADER
, do you believe in magic – in the flying carpets of the old Eastern romances? Of course you don’t; but suspend your disbelief for a moment and allow the magic of the printed word to transport you across thousands of miles of space and many hours of time to a scene so different from wet, cold, dismal England that it might be on another planet. Picture yourself sitting with me on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel in Cairo. The sky is a brilliant porcelain blue. The sun casts its benevolent rays impartially on rich merchants and ragged beggars, on turbaned imams and tailored European tourists – on all the infinitely varied persons who compose the bustling crowds that traverse the broad thoroughfare before us. A bridal procession passes, preceded by musicians raising cacophonous celebration with flutes and drums. The bride is hidden from curious eyes by a rose silk canopy carried by four of her male relations. Poor girl, she goes from one owner to another, like a bale of merchandise; but at that moment even my indignant contemplation of that most iniquitous of Turkish customs is mellowed by my joy in being where I am. I am filled with the deepest satisfaction. In a few moments Emerson will join me and we will set out for the Museum.

Only one ripple mars the smooth surface of my content. Is it concern for my little son, so far from his mother’s tender care? No, dear reader, it is not. The thought that several thousands of miles separate me from Ramses inspires a sense of profound peace such as I have not known for years. I wonder that it never before occurred to me to take a holiday from Ramses.

I knew he would receive from his doting aunt care as tender and devoted as he could expect at home. Walter, who had followed Ramses’ developing interest in archeology with profound amusement, had promised to give him lessons in hieroglyphs. I did feel a trifle guilty about Evelyn’s children, who were, as Emerson put it, ‘in for a long, hard winter.’ But after all, the experience would probably be good for their characters.

It had, of course, proved impossible to leave as soon as Emerson optimistically expected. For one thing, the holidays were almost upon us, and it would have been impossible to leave Ramses only a few days before Christmas. So we spent the festal season with Walter and Evelyn, and by the time we took our departure, on Boxing Day, even Emerson’s grief at parting from his son was mitigated by the effects of a week of juvenile excitement and overindulgence. All the children except Ramses had been sick at least once, and Ramses had set the Christmas tree on fire, frightened the nursery maid into fits by displaying his collection of engravings of mummies (some in an advanced state of decrepitude), and…But it would require an entire volume to describe all Ramses’ activities. On the morning of our departure his infantile features presented a horrific appearance, for he had been badly scratched by little Amelia’s kitten while trying to show the animal how to stir the plum pudding with its paw. As the kitchen echoed to the outraged shrieks of the cook and the growls of the cat, he had explained that, since every other member of the household was entitled to stir the pudding for luck in the coming year, he had felt it only fair that the pets should share in the ceremony.

With such memories, is it any wonder that I contemplated a few months away from Ramses with placid satisfaction?

We took the fastest possible route: train to Marseilles, steamer to Alexandria, and train to Cairo. By the time we reached our destination my husband had shed ten years, and as we made our way through the chaos of the Cairo train station he was the old Emerson, shouting orders and expletives in fluent Arabic. His bull-like voice made heads turn and eyes open wide, and we were soon surrounded by old acquaintances, grinning and calling out greetings. White and green turbans bobbed up and down like animated cabbages, and brown hands reached out to grasp our hands. The most touching welcome came from a wizened old beggar, who flung himself on the ground and wrapped his arms around Emerson’s dirty boot, crying, ‘Oh, Father of Curses, you have returned! Now I can die in peace!’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson, trying not to smile. Gently disengaging his foot, he dropped a handful of coins onto the old man’s turban.

I had cabled Shepheard’s to book rooms as soon as we decided to accept Lady Baskerville’s offer, for the hotel is always crowded during the winter season. A magnificent new structure had replaced the rambling old building we had stayed in so often. Italianite in style, it was an imposing edifice with its own generating plant – the first hotel in the East to have electric lights. Emerson grumbled at all the unnecessary luxury. I myself have no objection to comfort so long as it does not interfere with more important activities.

We found messages awaiting us from friends who had heard of Emerson’s appointment. There was also a note from Lady Baskerville, who had preceded us by a few days, welcoming us back to Egypt and urging us to proceed as soon as possible to Luxor. Conspicuous by its absence was any word from the Director of Antiquities. I was not surprised. Monsieur Grebaut and Emerson had never admired one another. It would be necessary for us to see him, and Grebaut was making certain we would have to sue humbly for an audience, like any ordinary tourists.

Emerson’s comments were profane. When he had calmed down a little, I remarked, ‘All the same, we had better call on him at once. He can, if he wishes, make difficulties for us.’

This sensible suggestion brought on another spell of ranting, in the course of which Emerson predicted Grebaut’s future residence in a warm and uncomfortable corner of the universe, and declared that he himself would rather join the rascal in that place than make the slightest concession to rude officiousness. I therefore abandoned the subject for the time being and agreed to Emerson’s proposal that we go first to Aziyeh, a village near Cairo from which he had in the past recruited his workmen. If we could take with us to Luxor a skeleton crew of men who were not infected with the local superstitions, we could begin work at once and hope to recruit other workers after success had proved their fears to be vain.

This concession put Emerson in a better mood, so that I was able to persuade him to dine downstairs instead of going to a native eating place in the bazaar. Emerson prefers such places, and so do I; but as I pointed out, we had been a long time away and our resistance to the local diseases had probably decreased. We dared not risk illness, for the slightest malaise would be interpreted as further evidence of the pharaoh’s curse.

Emerson was forced to agree with my reasoning. Grumbling and swearing, he got into his boiled shirt and black evening suit. I tied his tie for him and stood back to observe him with pardonable pride. I knew better than to tell him he looked handsome, but indeed he did; his sturdy, upright frame and square shoulders, his thick black hair and his blue eyes blazing with temper formed a splendid picture of an English gentleman.

I had another reason for wishing to dine at the hotel. Shepheard’s is the social centre for the European colony, and I hoped to meet acquaintances who could bring us up to date on the news of the Luxor expedition.

Nor was I disappointed. When we entered the gilded dining hall the first person I saw was Mr Wilbour, whom the Arabs call Abd er Dign because of his magnificent beard. White as the finest cotton, it sweeps down to the centre of his waistcoat and frames a face both benevolent and highly intelligent. Wilbour had wintered in Egypt for many years. Rude gossip whispered of a political peccadillo in his native New York City, which made it expedient for him to avoid his homeland; but we knew him as an enthusiastic student of Egyptology and a patron of young archaeologists. Seeing us, he came at once to greet us and ask us to join his party, which included several other old friends.

I took care to seat myself between Emerson and the Reverend Mr Sayce; there had been an acrimonious exchange of letters the previous winter on the subject of certain cuneiform tablets. The precaution proved useless. Leaning across me, his elbow planted firmly on the table, Emerson called loudly, ‘You know, Sayce, that the people at Berlin have confirmed my date for the tablets from Amarna? I told you you were off by eight hundred years.’

The Reverend’s gentle countenance hardened; and Wilbour quickly intervened. ‘There was a rather amusing story about that, Emerson; did you hear how Budge managed to trick Grebaut out of those tablets?’

Emerson disliked Mr Budge of the British Museum almost as much as he did Grebaut, but that evening, with the Director’s discourtesy fresh in his mind, he was pleased to hear of anything to Grebaut’s discredit. Distracted from his attack on the Reverend, he replied that we had heard rumours of the event but would be glad of a first-hand account.

‘It was really a most reprehensible affair in every way,’ Wilbour said, shaking his head. ‘Grebaut had already warned Budge that he would be arrested if he continued to purchase and export antiquities illegally. Quite unperturbed, Budge went straight to Luxor and bought not only eighty of the famous tablets but a number of other fine objects. The police promptly moved in, but Grebaut had neglected to provide them with a warrant, so they could only surround the house and wait for our popular Director of Antiquities to arrive with the requisite authority. In the meantime they saw no harm in accepting a fine meal of rice and lamb from the manager of the Luxor Hotel – next to which establishment Budge’s house happened to be located. While the honest gendarmes gorged themselves, the hotel gardeners dug a tunnel into the basement of Budge’s house and removed the antiquities. By a strange coincidence Grebaut’s boat had run aground twenty miles north of Luxor, and he was still there when Budge set out for Cairo with his purchases, leaving the police to guard his empty house.’

‘Shocking,’ I said.

‘Budge is a scoundrel,’ Emerson said. ‘And Grebaut is an idiot.’

‘Have you seen our dear Director yet?’ Sayce enquired.

Emerson made rumbling noises. Sayce smiled. ‘I quite agree with you. All the same, you will have to see him. The situation is bad enough without incurring Grebaut’s enmity. Are you not afraid of the curse of the pharaohs?’

‘Bah,’ said Emerson.

‘Quite! All the same, my dear chap, you won’t find it easy to hire workers.’

‘We have our methods,’ I said, kicking Emerson in the shin to prevent him from explaining those methods. Not that there was anything underhanded in what we planned; no, indeed. I would never be a party to stealing skilled workmen from other archaeologists. If our men from Aziyeh preferred to come with us, that was their choice. I simply saw no point in discussing the possibility before we had made our arrangements. I think Mr Wilbour suspected something, however; there was an amused gleam in his eyes as he looked at me, but he said nothing, only stroked his beard in a contemplative fashion.

‘So what is happening in Luxor?’ I asked. ‘I take it the curse is still alive and well?’

‘Good heavens, yes,’ Mr Insinger, the Dutch archaeologist, answered. ‘Marvels and portents abound. Hassan ibn Daoud’s pet goat gave birth to a two-headed kid, and ancient Egyptian ghosts haunt the Gurneh hills.’

He laughed as he spoke, but Mr Sayce shook his head sadly.

‘Such are the superstitions of paganism. Poor ignorant people!’

Emerson could not let such a statement pass. ‘I can show you equal ignorance in any modern English village,’ he snapped. ‘And you can hardly call the creed of Mohammed paganism, Sayce; it worships the same God and the same prophets you do.’