He Shall Thunder in the Sky (22 page)

Yes, Lia dear, including me. I ran into him at an evening party a few days ago and he favored me with his undivided attentions; told me all about his château in Provence, and his vineyard, and his devoted family retainers. He’s been married three times, but is now, he assured me as he ogled, a lonely, wealthy widower.

I asked about his wives, hoping that would put him off, but he made use of the inquiry to pay me extravagant compliments.

“They were all beautiful, and naturellement of the highest birth. Though none, mademoiselle, was as lovely as you.” He was so moved the glass fell from his eye. He caught it quite deftly and went on pensively, “I have never married a lady of your coloring. Celeste was a brunette, Aline had black hair — her mother, vous comprenez, was a Spanish noblewoman, and Marie was blonde — a silvery blonde, with blue eyes, but ah! ma chère mademoiselle, your eyes are larger and deeper and bluer and . . .”

He was beginning to run out of adjectives, so I interrupted. “And all three died? How tragic for you, monsieur.”

“Le bon Dieu took them from me.” He bowed his head, giving me an excellent view of a suspiciously shiny black head of hair. “Celeste was thrown from her horse, Aline succumbed to a wasting fever, and poor Marie . . . but I cannot speak of her, it was too painful.”

That gives you a taste of the Count, I hope. I don’t believe in his wives or his château or his protestations of admiration, but he is very entertaining, and he does know something about Egyptology.

The Major isn’t entertaining, but he is a nice old fellow. Old, my dear — at least fifty! He’s taken a fancy to me, I think, but his interest is purely paternal. He is the uncle of the child I told you about, and I was curious to meet him.

Sylvia’s other “bit of news” is really the limit. I have not been “seeing” Percy, as she puts it. Oh, certainly, I’ve seen him; one can hardly avoid doing so, since he is now on the General’s staff and quite popular with his brother officers and the ladies. I have even spoken with him once or twice. I would appreciate it if you would not pass on that bit of gossip to the family. It would only cause trouble. And don’t lecture me, please. I know what I’m doing.

:

O
ur holiday celebrations were happier than I had expected, possibly because I had not expected very much. But there was cause for rejoicing in that we had pulled off our deception without being detected, and that Ramses was making a good recovery. I believe I may claim that my medical skills were at least partially responsible, though his own strong constitution may have helped.

     At Emerson’s request, he had spent most of the day before Christmas writing up his report on Zawaiet. It was based on the notes David and I had taken and on a certain amount of what I would term logical extrapolation. The rest of us put in a half day’s work at our mastaba; to have done otherwise would have been a suspicious deviation from the norm. When we gathered round the tree on Christmas Eve, only the concerned eye of a parent would have noticed any difference in Ramses’s appearance; his lean face was a little thinner and the movements of his left arm were carefully controlled, but his color was good and his appetite at dinner had been excellent.

     The inadequacies of the little acacia tree had been disguised by Nefret’s decorations; candles glowed softly and charming ornaments of baked clay and tin filled in the empty spaces. David had made those ornaments; for years now they had been part of our holiday tradition. The sight of them dampened my spirits for a moment; I hated to think of him passing the holiday alone in that wretched hovel in Maadi, only a few miles away. At least I had pressed upon him a parcel of food and a nice warm knitted scarf, made by my own hands. My friend Helen McIntosh had shown me how to do it, and I found, as she had claimed, that it actually assisted in ratiocination, since the process soon became mechanical and did not require one’s attention. I had made the scarf for Ramses, but he assured me he did not at all mind relinquishing it to his friend.

     After all the gifts had been unwrapped, and I had put on the elegant tea gown that had been Nefret’s present, and Ramses had pretended to be delighted by the dozen white handkerchiefs I had given him, Emerson rose from his chair.

     “One more,” he said, beaming at me. “Close your eyes, Peabody, and hold out your hands.”

     He had not attempted to wrap the thing; it would have made a cumbersome parcel. As soon as it came to rest on my outstretched palms I knew what it was.

     “Why, Emerson, how nice!” I exclaimed. “Another parasol. I can always use an extra, and this one —”

     “Is more than it appears,” said my husband. “Watch closely.”

     Seizing the handle, he gave it a twist and a pull. This time my exclamation of pleasure was louder and more enthusiastic.

     “A sword umbrella! Oh, Emerson, I have always wanted one! How does it work?”

     He demonstrated again, and I rose to my feet, kicking the elegant lace flounces of my gown aside. “En garde!” I cried, brandishing the weapon.

     Nefret laughed. “Professor, that was sweet of you.”

     “Hmmm,” said Ramses. “Mother, watch out for the candles.”

     “I may need a few lessons,” I admitted. “Ramses, would you show me —”

     “What, now?” His eyebrows tilted till they formed a perfect obtuse angle.

     “I cannot wait to begin!” I cried, bending my knees and thrusting.

     Emerson hastily moved aside — an unnecessary precaution, since the blade had not come within a foot of him. “I am glad you like it, Peabody, but you had better learn how to use it before you go lunging at people.”

     Ramses was trying not to laugh. “I beg your pardon, Mother,” he gasped. “It’s just that I’ve never fenced with an opponent armed with an umbrella, whose head barely reaches my chin.”

     “I see no reason why that should be a difficulty. Do you, Nefret?”

     She was watching Ramses, who had dropped into a chair, helpless with laughter. She started when I addressed her.

     “What? Well, Aunt Amelia, I’m sure you can persuade him. Not with that umbrella, though; it looks frightfully sharp.”

     “Quite,” said Emerson, who looked as if he was having second thoughts. “You’ll need proper foils, with blunted tips. And masks, and plastrons and —”

     That set Ramses off again. I could not understand why he was so amused, but I was pleased to have cheered him up. As David had said, it was necessary to find what enjoyment we could in an otherwise dismal situation.

     After Ramses had calmed down, he condescended to show me how to salute my opponent and place my feet and arms. He stood well behind me, even though I had, of course, sheathed the blade, and for some reason he found it necessary to read me a little lecture.

     “Now, Mother, promise me that if you encounter someone armed with a saber or sword, you won’t whip that thing out and rush at him.”

     “Quite,” said Emerson emphatically. “He’d have you impaled like a butterfly before you got within reach. That is the trouble with deadly weapons; they make people — some people! — overly confident.”

     “What should I do, then?” I inquired, lunging.

     “Run,” said Ramses, helping me up from the floor.

     After we had parted for the night and Emerson and I were alone in our room I thanked him again, with gestures as well as words. “I don’t know any other man who would have given his wife such a lovely gift, Emerson.”

     “I don’t know any other woman who would have been so thrilled about a sword,” said Emerson.

     Afterwards, Emerson immediately dropped off to sleep. I could not follow suit. I was remembering my son’s face, alight with laughter, and wishing I could see that look more often. I thought again of David and the peril he faced because of love and loyalty. I consigned Thomas Russell to the nethermost pits of Hades for putting my boys in such danger — and then, since it was the season of peace and goodwill, I forgave the scoundrel. He was only doing his job.

     Abdullah was also in my thoughts. I dreamed of him from time to time; they were strange dreams, unlike the usual vague vaporings of the unconscious mind, for they were distinct and consistent. In them I saw my old friend as a man still in his prime, his face unlined, his black hair and beard untouched by gray. The setting of the dreams was always the same: the clifftop behind Deir el Bahri at Luxor, where we had so often stopped to rest for a moment after climbing the steep path to the top of the plateau. In one such vision he had warned me of storms ahead — had told me I would need all my courage to pass through them, but in the end . . . “The clouds will blow away,” he had said. “And the falcon will fly through the portal of the dawn.” He frequently employed such irritating parables, and refused to explain them even when I pressed him. There was no doubt about the stormclouds he had mentioned; even now they hung heavy over half the world. The rest of it sounded hopeful, but when I was in a discouraged state of mind I needed more than elegant literary metaphors to cheer me. I could have used his reassurance now. But I did not dream of Abdullah that night.

     Dawn light was bright in the sky when I woke. There was a great deal to be done, since we were expecting the Vandergelts for dinner and holding an open house afterwards. However, I could not resist trying out my new parasol, and I was lunging and parrying with considerable skill (having seen Mr. James O’Neill in the film of
The Count of Monte Cristo
) when a comment from Emerson made me stumble and almost lose my balance. After a short discussion and a longer digression of another nature, he consented to give me a few lessons if Ramses would not. He had studied fencing some years before, but had not kept it up, having found that his bare hands were almost as effective in subduing an attacker.

     “I’m not certain Ramses can bring himself to do it,” he remarked. “A gentleman does not find it easy to attack a lady, especially if the lady is his mother. He is in considerable awe of you, my dear.”

     “He certainly didn’t sound as if he were in awe of me last night,” I remarked, buttoning my combinations.

     Still recumbent, his hands behind his head, Emerson watched me with sleepy appreciation. “It was good to see him laugh so heartily.”

     “Yes. Emerson —”

     “I know what you are thinking, my dear, but dismiss those worries for today at least.” He got out of bed and went to the washbasin. “Fatima has put rose petals in the water again,” he grumbled, trying to sieve them out with his fingers. “As I was saying, the situation is temporarily under control. Russell has been informed of what transpired and will keep the warehouse under surveillance.”

     “I still think we ought to have invited him to our open house. We might have found an opportunity for a little chat.”

     Emerson deposited a handful of dripping petals onto the table and reached for his shaving tackle. “No, my dear. The fewer contacts between him and Ramses, the better.”

     We had only the family for dinner that year, including Cyrus and Katherine, who were as close as family. They had brought gifts for us, so we had another round of opening presents. It was difficult to find appropriate gifts for Cyrus and Katherine, since they were wealthier than we and lacked for nothing, but I had found a few trinkets that seemed to please them, and Cyrus exclaimed with pleasure over the little painting of the gazelle Nefret had given him.

     “Looks like Eighteenth Dynasty,” he declared. “Where did you find it, if I may ask?”

     “One of the damned antiquities dealers, no doubt,” Emerson grumbled. “Like the cursed heart scarab she gave me. Not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” he added quickly.

     Nefret only laughed. She had heard Emerson’s views on buying from dealers too often to be discomposed by them. “It was from Aslimi, as a matter of fact. He had several nice things.”

     “I don’t suppose you bothered to ask the rascal where he obtained them,” Emerson muttered.

     “I would have done if he had been there, though I doubt he’d have confessed.”

     Ramses, who had been examining the painted scrap appreciatively, looked up. “He wasn’t there?”

     “He’s ill. The Professor would probably say it serves him right.” Nefret chuckled. “The new manager is much handsomer than Aslimi, and not nearly as skilled at bargaining.”

     She made quite an entertaining little tale of our visit. Cyrus declared his intention of visiting the inept manager as soon as possible, and Katherine demanded a description of the beautiful young man. The only one who contributed nothing to the conversation was Ramses.

     The table made a brave show, sparkling with crystal and aglow with candles, but as I looked upon the sadly diminished group I seemed to see the ghostly forms of those who had formerly been with us: the austere features of Junker, whose formal demeanor concealed the warmest heart in the world; the beaming face of Karl von Bork, mustaches bristling; Rex Engelbach and Guy Brunton, who had exchanged their trowels for rifles; and those who were dearest of all — Evelyn and Walter, David and Lia. Fortunately Cyrus had brought several bottles of his favorite champagne, and after we had toasted absent friends and a quick conclusion to the hostilities and everything else Cyrus could think of, our spirits rose. Even Anna smiled on us all. She was looking quite attractive that day, in a rose-pink muslin frock whose ruffles flattered her boyish frame, and I saw, with surprise, that she had put color on her lips and cheeks.

     She had been at the hospital every day since Nefret had challenged her that night at the opera, and according to Nefret she had performed a good deal better than anyone had expected.

     “I haven’t made it easy for her,” Nefret admitted. “She hasn’t any nursing skills, of course, so she’s doing all the filthy jobs — emptying bedpans and changing sheets and picking maggots out of wounds. The first day she threw up three times and I didn’t expect to see her again, but she was there bright and early next morning. I’m beginning to admire the girl, Aunt Amelia. I’ve given her a few little hints about her appearance, and she has taken them more graciously than I expected.”