Mummy Dearest (6 page)

“Decades,” the man said, bobbling his head with such enthusiasm that I was afraid it might topple off and roll out to the balcony. His face was as wrinkled and weathered as Abdullah’s, and his sport coat was frayed. His smile was much warmer than that of his companion, who now was glaring out the window at some unseen impediment to her academic promotion. “I first came out here more than forty years ago,” Wallace continued. “We were all so young back then, and determined to make discoveries that would undermine the quintessence of the Egyptological doctrine of that time. Oskar was a graduate student. My wife and I introduced him to Magritta, and I stood as his best man when they married. We couldn’t afford to stay in a hotel like this, so we lived in what amounted to a boardinghouse on the West Bank. No hot water, and often no electricity. Not that I can afford to stay here these days. MacLeod College barely
gives us adequate funding to pay the workers.” His shoulders heaved as he let out a morose sigh. “Poor Oskar, I do miss him.” He pulled a soiled handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Our first concession was—”

“I’m sure it was,” Lord Bledrock said. “Come along, Claire. I must introduce you to the others.”

Dr. King caught his arm. “I would like to continue the discussion we had earlier in the week. I need your decision as soon as possible.”

“You will have my decision when I’ve had time to consider all the factors,” he said, removing her hand as if it might leave an unsightly smudge on his sleeve. “You must excuse us. Others are waiting to meet Mrs. Malloy.”

I was once again propelled into action. This time we stopped in front of a sofa, where two blue-haired ladies were eying me like greedy pigeons. They were both small and wiry, like underfed children, although such children hardly wore glittery rings and pearls. One wore lavender, the other lilac. Their consanguinity was obvious.

Lord Bledrock’s mustache trembled with disapproval at the number of empty martini glasses on the coffee table in front of them, but he merely said, “Miss Cordelia, Miss Portia, this is Claire Malloy. She’s the American sleuth.”

They both twittered. One of them (and I had no idea which) said, “And you’ve come all this way to solve a mystery! How fascinating. I personally think it was Rose McHaver, in the ballroom, with the candlestick—unless, of course, it was Alexander, in the conservatory, with the rope. What do you think, Mrs. Malloy?”

The other tilted her head to stare at me. “We must first test her detective prowess, Cordelia. We must ask the perfect question.”

I was, as Caron would say, clueless. I was hoping Lord Bledrock would rescue me, but he was proving himself to be worthless. We made quite a pair.

“Oh, I have it!” said Miss Portia, gleefully clapping her hands. “Mrs. Malloy, how do you titillate an ocelot?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You oscillate his tit a lot!” Miss Cordelia shrieked. She collapsed against her sister as they both laughed uncontrollably. “You… oscillate his… tit a lot!”

I looked over my shoulder. Peter was still standing near Alexander, but I could tell from his ill-controlled expression that he was as amused as the duo on the sofa. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “I do believe I’d like a martini, Lord Bledrock. Nice meeting you, Miss Cordelia, Miss Portia.”

They flapped their hands at me, still cackling with laughter between gasps.

I fled across the room and grabbed Peter’s lapel. “Can we please leave?”

“Now, Claire,” Alexander said, “you must ignore them, as we all do. The old girls are pickled to the gills. You have now heard the entirety of their repertoire of off-color jokes.”

Peter gently removed my hand, kissed it, and gave me a martini. “A few more minutes, and then we’ll go. Alexander has been telling me about the active concessions in the Valley of the Kings. I thought we might take the girls and go over there tomorrow. There’s a bridge not too far from here. Bakr will drive us, so we won’t have to risk one of the ferries dumping us in the Nile. I’ve heard rumors of crocodiles.”

“I say,” Alexander cut in, “would you mind if I tagged along?”

I had a vision of being packed into a van with all the people I’d met thus far. Rose McHaver would be barking at Miriam, while the two blue-haired women retold their joke numerous times, Wallace recited his personal history, and Lord Bledrock pontificated. Dr. King would be thumping the dashboard with her fist and futilely attempting to call the meeting to order. Before I could come up with a tactful remark, Peter said, “We’d be pleased. Shall we meet in the lobby after breakfast?”

Alexander read my mind better than my husband. “Only me, Mrs. Malloy. The others are attending a luncheon at Lady Emerson’s villa, followed by a long afternoon of
bridge and gin. I was going to spend the day reading and catching up on my correspondence. I’d much prefer to see if anyone’s found a mummy.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” I said, albeit ungraciously.

“I know a delightful little restaurant near the Ramesseum. It has a shady patio, and the food isn’t too dreadful.”

I saw Lord Bledrock heading toward us with the determination of a missile. To my relief, he paused as the door opened.

“Howdy,” boomed a familiar voice. “Is this the shindig? I sure am tickled pink to be invited.”

“Save me,” I whispered to Peter. “I feel a headache coming on. Can we please leave
now?”

Sittermann’s white suit was slightly grimy, but his face was infused with joviality. He caught Lord Bledrock’s hand and shook it with undue enthusiasm. “How’s it going, old boy? What you got to drink? I sure could stand something stiffer than beer that tastes like horse piss. I can almost feel the hair on my chest sagging like a bull’s balls on a busy day. How about a shot of whiskey with a splash of branch water?”

Even Peter, who was usually unflappable, shuddered.

Peter and I had dinner at the swanky restaurant in the hotel, then went up to our suite. We’d changed into more comfortable attire and were sitting on the balcony when Caron and Inez arrived. My daughter had several bulging bags; Inez had limited herself to one. They dumped their trophies in their bedroom, then joined us.

“How was your day?” I asked.

“It was great,” Caron said. “I could really get into having a chauffeur. Every time we got somewhere, he jumped out of the car and opened our doors. Inez tried to give him a tip when he brought us back here, but he wouldn’t take it. Maybe he thinks he’ll get a real one before we leave.”

“I offered him ten pounds,” Inez said, offended.

“Like he’s going to fall over dead for two dollars? That works out to about twenty cents an hour.”

“It was a polite gesture,” I said. “Did you enjoy your guided tour of Karnak?”

Caron grinned. “We were afraid we’d get stuck with a boring old geezer, but we had a really neat guide. Her name is Salima. She told us about all the seriously wicked stuff that went on in the rooms at the back. And she’s a master shopper. I felt like an amateur. She bargained with all the shop owners, but whatever she said must have been funny because they fell all over her.”

“It was so cool,” Inez added. “We were invited to sit
down and have mint tea right there in the stores. It was like we were nobility, or at least movie stars. All these tourists were staring at us through the window.”

“She invited us to go to her house on Saturday,” said Caron. “It’s on the other side of the Nile, but she says she’ll meet us in the lobby and take us over and back on a ferry.”

I glanced at Peter. “Is this woman on Mahmoud’s payroll?”

“I’ll find out.” He went into our bedroom and closed the door.

Inez regarded me soberly. “It would be very educational to learn how a middle-class family lives. Salima said it’s not a big deal, just a birthday party for her younger brother. A lot of aunts and uncles and cousins will be there.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” I said, then attempted to divert them with our plans to go to the West Bank the following day.

“Can Salima be our guide the next time you’re trying to be ever so subtle about getting rid of us?” asked Caron, who is not easily diverted unless her physical comfort is at stake. “She knows everything about all these old temples and tombs. She went to Cambridge to study Egyptology. Her specialty is mummified animals.”

“Animals?” I tried to envision a sarcophagus large enough to accommodate a camel, a cow, or even a donkey. A crocodile would be less challenging, if it wasn’t too long. Hippopotami were out of the question.

Inez nodded. “When the pharaoh or one of his favorite wives died, they’d mummify some pets to put in the tomb. I don’t guess PETA was around back then.”

“Salima’s going to take us to the Mummification Museum here,” Caron said. “She knows all about how they cut open the corpse to remove the internal organs and pulled the brains out through the nose with a—”

Peter returned, sparing me from the graphic details. “I spoke to Mahmoud,” he said. “Salima el-Musafira’s father is a professor at the university in Cairo, is noted for his books on hieroglyphs, and lectures at universities in Europe. Her
mother is a doctor. The family is well respected. They have a house in Gurna across the Nile and an apartment in Cairo. Salima has published in Egyptology journals, and currently has a small grant from the university to document preservation efforts in some of the excavations in the area. She supplements her income by giving tours. She’s fluent in a dozen languages, and the embassies often engage her when there are dignitaries in town. Mahmoud was telling me how charming she is when Aisha started making caustic remarks in the background.”

“See?” Caron said, as if rebutting an argument not yet on the table. “I told you she was okay. Can we go to the birthday party on Saturday?”

I reminded myself that the girls were seventeen, well beyond the age of requiring a babysitter. On the other hand, we were in a country where they did not speak the language and were unfamiliar with the cultural traditions. “I don’t know. We’ll have to talk about it.”

Peter did not help. “You and I have been invited to go on a sunset cruise and have dinner on a
dahabiyya
that evening. Local bigwigs, attachés from the American and British embassies, and a few others. The girls were going to be stuck in the hotel. Mahmoud assured me that Salima is reliable.”

“How old is she?” I asked.

Caron and Inez exchanged furtive looks. Caron at last shrugged and said, “I didn’t ask to see her driver’s license, Mother. I suppose she’s in her early twenties, but she grew up here and she knows how to use the ferries and—”

I held up my hand in defeat. “All right, then, as long as we agree what time you’ll be back. You’ll need to dress conservatively, and find out if you’re expected to bring a birthday present.”

The girls retreated to their bedroom before I could continue. In two years they would be away at college, I thought, and free to make all of their own decisions. I wouldn’t be there to demand that Caron tell me where she was going and with whom, and when she would be home. At the same time,
this did not seem to be the place to start loosening the apron strings (as if I’d ever worn, much less owned, one).

Peter pulled his chair closer to mine. “They’ll be fine.”

“Maybe Bakr could go with them,” I whimpered.

“They won’t need a bodyguard.” He gazed at the sky, trying not to meet my suddenly wary stare. “A chauffeur, I meant to say. It’s just a family party, an opportunity to learn how other cultures celebrate.”

I did my best to remain gloomy and unconvinced, but before too long I was distracted by Peter’s delightfully ticklish assault on my neck and we retired for the night.

We received more than our fair share of stares when we went to the patio for the breakfast buffet. Peter was wearing slacks and a cotton shirt, and Caron and I both wore shorts and short-sleeved tops. Inez, in contrast, had been swept into the mystique of archeology—and not with a whisk broom. She had emerged from their bedroom in full khaki, with knee-length shorts, a belted field jacket with well-stocked pockets, a pair of binoculars and a camera hanging on straps around her neck, and a broad-brimmed cloth hat with a dangling chin strap. Her sturdy shoes and thick socks would serve her well if she found the need to climb a mountain or descend into a rough-hewn pit. A water bottle, compass, flashlight, and first-aid kit were clipped to her belt. I had no doubt she had a week’s worth of rations and a Swiss Army knife somewhere on her body.

None of us had the courage to comment as we chose a table and sat down. The employees in their red fezzes watched us, their expressions admirably restrained. Caron’s face was pink, but I suspected it wasn’t due to their outing the previous day. Peter’s lips were clamped together as if he’d used superglue when he brushed his teeth, and he expressed a sudden need to detour to the newsstand and buy a paper. His shoulders were quivering as he hurried toward the lobby.

Alexander arrived while we were eating. He dragged
over a chair from a nearby table, sat down with a pained sigh, and ordered coffee from a waiter. After a guarded glance at Inez, he said, “You’re lucky to have made your escape when you did last night. That abysmal man—I’ve forgotten his name—would not shut up. He’s building a theme park out by the pyramids in Giza. Tut-O-Rama, or some grotesque thing. I was literally driven to drink. Shannon King was glowering like the embers in a
sheesa.
Lord and Lady Fitzwillie showed up with Lady Emerson, who has vehement views on the sanctity of the historical sites and expressed them at length. My father was blustering, and Wallace looked as though he was on the verge of a stroke. The argument became so heated that I was certain Ahmed would come knocking discreetly on the door.”

“We had dinner reservations,” I said mendaciously, then introduced him to the girls. They gaped at him in response, although I wasn’t sure if they were awed by his father’s title, his accent, or his undeniably handsome demeanor. His studiously casual attire had not come off the racks but off the pages of glossy men’s fashion magazines. Even my impeccably dressed husband looked a bit shabby in comparison. “Please finish your breakfast,” I said to the girls, hoping to break their transfixed stares. “Bakr is meeting us outside in fifteen minutes.”