He Shall Thunder in the Sky (35 page)

     I was forced to admit that I might. I was also forced to admit that Ramses’s analysis of Nefret’s character was not entirely inaccurate. Initially it had struck me as being unjust and prejudiced; but I had had time to think about it, and incident after confirmatory incident came back to me. Some of her early escapades might be excused as the result of youthful overconfidence, such as the time she had deliberately allowed herself to be captured by one of our most vindictive opponents, in the hope of rescuing her brother; but maturity had not changed her very much. She had been a full-grown woman when she entered a Luxor bordello and tried to persuade the girls to leave. Then there was the time she had blackmailed Ramses into letting her go with him and David into one of the vilest parts of Cairo in order to retrieve a stolen antiquity — and the time she had single-handedly attacked a thief armed with a knife . . . The list went on and on. Emerson’s description of Ramses might equally have been applied to Nefret; she was as brave as a lion and as cunning as a cat, and as stubborn as a camel, and when her passions were aroused she was as quick to strike as a snake. Even her hasty, ill-advised marriage . . .

     “Very well,” I said. “I still think you are being a trifle unjust to Nefret; she’s got you and David out of a few nasty situations, you know.”

     “I know what I owe her,” Ramses said quietly.

     “However,” I continued, “I agree to your proposal — not because I believe
she
cannot be trusted to behave sensibly but because I know
you
and your father cannot.”

     Ramses’s tight lips relaxed. “Fair enough.”

     “Hmph,” said Emerson.

     We scattered to our various tasks.

     It was after midday when Nefret turned up. I had been sifting a particularly unproductive lot of rubble for several hours, and was not unwilling to be interrupted. I rose to my feet and stretched. She had changed to her working clothes and I could tell by her brisk stride that she was in a happier state of mind than she had been that morning. She was carrying a covered basket, which she lowered to the ground beside me.

     “Not more food?” I exclaimed. “We brought a luncheon basket.”

     “You know Fatima,” Nefret said. “She thinks none of us eat enough. While I was bathing and changing she made kunafeh especially for Ramses; she says he is all bones and skin, and needs to be fattened. Where is he? If he balks, we will stuff it down his throat, the way they do with geese.”

     “And did even in ancient times,” I said, smiling. “Go and call him and Emerson to luncheon, then. They are inside the chapel.”

     Fatima had also sent a dish of stewed apricots and a sliced watermelon, which had been nicely cooled by evaporation during the trip. We all tucked in with good appetite, including Ramses. The kunafeh was one of his favorite dishes, wheat-flour vermicelli fried in clarified butter and sweetened with honey. Nefret teased him by repeating Fatima’s criticism, and he responded with a rather vulgar Arabic quotation about female pulchritude, which clearly did not apply to her, and Emerson smiled fondly at both of them.

     “Matters went well today?” he inquired.

     Nefret nodded. “I thought last night I would lose her, but she’s much better this morning.” She spat a watermelon seed neatly into her hand and went on, “You’ll never guess who called on me today.”

     “Since we won’t, you may as well tell us,” said Ramses.

     The next seed just missed his ear. His black eyes narrowed, and he reached for a slice of melon.

     “I strictly forbid you to do that, Ramses,” I exclaimed. “You and Nefret are too old for those games now.”

     “Let them enjoy themselves, Peabody,” Emerson said indulgently. “So, Nefret, who was your visitor?”

     Her answer wiped the amiable smile from Emerson’s face.

     “That degenerate, slimy, contemptible, disgusting, perverted, loathsome —”

     “He was very polite,” Nefret interrupted. “Or should I have said ‘she’?”

     “The fact that el-Gharbi prefers to wear women’s clothing does not change his sex — uh — gender,” Ramses said. He looked as inscrutable as ever, but I had seen his involuntary start of surprise. “What was he doing at the hospital?”

     “Inquiring after one of ‘his’ girls.” Nefret’s voice put quotation marks round the pronoun. “The same one I operated on last night. He said he had sent her to us, and that the man who hurt her had been . . . dealt with.”

     Emerson had got his breath back. “That crawling, serpentine trafficker in human flesh, that filthy —”

     “Yes, Professor darling, I know the words too. And his taste in jewelry and perfume is quite dreadful!” Observing, from Emerson’s apoplectic countenance, that he was in no mood for humor, she threw her arm round his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I love your indignation, Professor dear. But I’ve seen worse and dealt with worse since I started the clinic. El-Gharbi’s goodwill can help me to help those women. That is the important thing.”

     “Quite right,” I said approvingly.

     “Bah,” said Emerson.

     Ramses said, “Well done, Nefret.”

     The watermelon seed hit him square on the chin.

     My mind was not entirely on my rubbish that afternoon. I was racking my brain trying to think of a way of preventing Nefret from accompanying Emerson and Ramses. A number of schemes ran through my mind, only to be dismissed as impracticable. The inspiration that finally dawned was so remarkable I wondered why it had not occurred to me before.

     We dined earlier than was our custom, since I wanted to make sure Ramses ate a proper meal before leaving. It would take him an hour to reach Maadi by the roundabout routes he had chosen in order to get into position unobserved and unsuspected. When the rest of us retired to the drawing room for after-dinner coffee, he slipped away, but of course Nefret noticed his absence almost immediately and demanded to know where he was.

     “He has gone,” I replied, for I had determined to tell her the truth instead of inventing a story she would not have believed anyhow.

     Nefret jumped up from her chair. “Gone? Already? Hell and damnation! You promised —”

     “My dear, you will overturn the coffee tray. Sit down and pour, if you please. Thank you, Fatima, we need nothing more.”

     Nefret did not sit down, but she waited until Fatima had left the room before she exploded. “How could you, Aunt Amelia? Professor, you let him go alone?”

     The bravest of men — I refer, of course, to my spouse — quailed before that furious blue gaze. “Er . . .” he said. “Hmph. Tell her, Amelia.”

     Nefret pronounced a word of whose meaning I was entirely ignorant, and bolted for the door. I do not know where she thought she was going; perhaps she believed she could intercept Ramses, or (which is more likely) perhaps she was not thinking at all. She did not get far. Emerson moved with the pantherlike speed that had given rise to one of Daoud’s more memorable sayings: “The Father of Curses roars like a lion and walks like a cat and strikes like a falcon.” He picked Nefret up as if she weighed nothing at all and carried her back to her chair.

     “Thank you, Emerson,” I said. “Nefret, that will be quite enough. I understand your concern, my dear, but you did not give me a chance to explain. Really, you must conquer this habit of rushing into action without considering the consequences.”

     I half-expected her to burst into another fiery denunciation. Instead her eyes fell, and the pretty flush of anger faded from her cheeks. “Yes, Aunt Amelia.”

     “That is better,” I said approvingly. “Drink your coffee and I will tell you the plan.”

     I proceeded to do so. Nefret listened in silence, her eyes downcast, her hands tightly folded in her lap. However, she did not miss Emerson’s attempt to tiptoe out of the room. Admittedly, Emerson is not good at tiptoeing.

     “Where is he going?” she demanded fiercely.

     “To get ready.” I was not at all averse to his leaving, since it enabled me to speak more candidly. “For pity’s sake, Nefret, don’t you suppose that I too yearn to accompany them? I agreed to stay here and keep you with me because I believe it is the best solution.”

     Her mutinous look assured me she was unconvinced. I had another argument. It was one I was loath to employ, but honesty demanded I should. “There have been times, not many — one or two — in the past, when my presence distracted Emerson from the struggle in which he was engaged, and resulted in considerable danger to him.”

     “Why, Aunt Amelia! Is it true?”

     “Only once or twice.”

     “I see.” Her brow cleared. “Would you care to tell me about them?”

     “I see no point in doing so. It was a long time ago. I know better now. And,” I continued, before she could pursue a subject that clearly interested her a great deal, and which I was not anxious to recall, “I am giving you the benefit of my experience. Their plan is a good one, Nefret. They swore to me that they would retreat in good order if matters did not work out as they expect.”

     Her slim shoulders sagged. “How long must we wait?”

     I knew then I had won. “They will come straight back, I am sure. Emerson knows if he does not turn up in good time I will go looking for him. He would do anything to avoid that!”

From Letter Collection B

Dearest Lia,

Do you still keep my letters? I suspect you do, though I asked you to destroy them — not only current letters, but the ones I wrote you a few years ago. You said you liked to reread them when we were apart, because it was like hearing my voice. And I said — I’m sorry for what I said, Lia darling! I was horrid to you. I was horrid to everyone! You have my permission — formal, written permission — to keep them if you wish. I would be glad if you did. Someday I may want — I hope I may want — to read them again myself. There was one in particular . . . I think you know which one.

I’m in a fey mood tonight, as you can probably tell. I’ve put off writing to you because there is so much I want to say that can’t be said. The thought that a stranger — or worse, a person I know — might read these letters is constantly in my mind; it’s as if someone were lurking behind the door listening to our private thoughts and confidences.

So I will confine myself to facts.

Aunt Amelia and I are alone this evening; the Professor and Ramses have gone out. With the lamps lit and the curtains drawn, this cavernous parlor looks almost cozy, especially with Aunt Amelia darning socks. Yes, you heard me: she is darning socks! She gets these housewifely attacks from time to time, heaven only knows why. Since she darns as thoroughly as she does everything, the stockings end up with huge lumps on toes or heels, and the hapless wearer thereof ends up with huge blisters. I think Ramses quietly and tactfully throws his away, but the Professor, who never pays any attention to what clothing he puts on, goes round limping and swearing.

I take it back. This room is not cozy. It never can be. A fluffy, furry animal might help, but I can’t have the puppies here; they chew the legs of the furniture and misbehave on the Oriental rugs. I even miss that wretched beast Horus! I couldn’t have brought him, since he refuses to be parted from Sennia, but I wish I had a cat of my own. Seshat spends most of her time in Ramses’s room.

Someday, when we are all together again, we will find a better house, or build one. It will be large and sprawling, with courtyards and fountains and gardens, and plenty of room, so we can all be together — but not too close together! If you would rather, we’ll get the dear old Amelia out of drydock for you and David and the infant. It will happen someday. It must.

Goodness, I sound like a little old lady, rocking and recalling the memories of her youth. Let me think what news I can write about.

You asked about the hospital. One must be patient; it will take time to convince “respectable” women — and their conservative husbands — that we will not offend their modesty or their religious principles. There has been one very hopeful development. This morning I had a caller — none other than el-Gharbi, the most powerful procurer of el Was’a. They say he controls not only prostitution but every other illegal activity in that district. I had seen him once or twice when I went to the old clinic, and an unforgettable figure he was — squatting on the mastaba bench outside one of his “Houses,” robed like a woman and jangling with gold. When he turned up today, borne in a litter and accompanied by an escort — all young and handsome, elegantly robed and heavily armed — our poor old doorkeeper almost fainted. He came rushing to find me. It seems el-Gharbi had asked for me by name. When I went out, there he was, sitting cross-legged in the litter like some grotesrque statue of ebony and ivory, veiled and adorned. I could smell the patchouli ten yads away.

When I told the family about it later, I thought the Professor was going to explode. While he sputtered and swore, I repeated that curious conversation. The girl I had operated on the night before was one of his; he had sent her to me. He had come in person because he had heard a great deal about me and he wanted to see for himself what I was like. Odd, wasn’t it? I can’t imagine why he should be interested.

Did I call him names (I know a lot of good Arabic terms for men like him) and tell him never to darken my door again? No, Lia, I did not. Once I might have done, but I’ve learned better. It is pointless to complain that the world isn’t the way it ought to be. By all accounts he is a kinder master than some. I told him I appreciated his interest and would be happy to treat any of the women who needed my services.

The Professor was not so tolerant. “What damnable effrontery!” was the least inflammatory of the remarks he made. When he wound down, it was Ramses’s turn.