The Golden One (10 page)

‘Excellent,’ I exclaimed. ‘All it needs is – er – um – well, nothing really, except for some plants in the courtyard.’

‘We thought we should leave that to you, Sitt,’ said Selim.

‘Yes, quite. I enjoy my gardening.’

I meant to make a few other changes as well, but they could wait.

The others were still in the sitting room, with several other members of the family who had turned up, including Kadija, Daoud’s wife, all talking at once and doing absolutely nothing
useful. I made a few pointed remarks about unpacking, to which no one listened, dismissed Selim, and asked Nefret to join me and Fatima for the rest of the tour.

She had seen only the unfinished shell of the second house, which was situated a few hundred yards away. The intervening space would be filled in with flowering plants, shrubs, and trees as soon
as I could supervise their planting and cultivation. Just now it was desert-bare, but the structure itself looked very nice, I thought, its mud-brick walls plastered in a pretty shade of pale
ochre. My orders had been carried out; the interior was as modern and comfortable as anyone could wish, including an elegant bath chamber and a small courtyard, enclosed for privacy. As we went
from room to room I found myself chattering away with scarcely a pause for breath, pointing out the amenities and explaining at unnecessary length that any desired alterations could be accomplished
quickly and easily. Nefret listened in silence, nodding from time to time, her face unsmiling. Finally she said quietly, ‘It’s all right, Mother,’ and I got hold (figuratively
speaking) of my wagging tongue.

‘Dear me,’ I said somewhat sheepishly. ‘I sound like a tradesperson hoping to sell a house. I beg your pardon, my dear.’

‘Don’t apologize. You mean this for us, don’t you – for Ramses and me. You didn’t tell me last year that was what you intended.’

‘My intentions are not relevant, Nefret. It is entirely up to you. If you prefer to stay on the dahabeeyah, as you used to do, that is perfectly all right. But I thought . . . It is some
distance from our house, you see, and once I have the plantings in place they will provide additional privacy, and we would not dream, any of us, of intruding without an invitation, and –
’

‘Can you imagine Father waiting for an invitation?’ Nefret inquired seriously. ‘Or Sennia?’

‘I will make certain they do,’ I said.

‘It is a beautiful house. But a trifle large for two people, perhaps?’

‘D’you really think so? In my opinion – ’

‘Oh, Mother!’ Laughter transformed her face, from shining blue eyes to curving lips. She put her arm round me, and Fatima, who had listened anxiously to the exchange, broke into a
broad smile. Nefret gave her a hug too.

‘It is a beautiful house,’ she repeated. ‘Thank you – both of you – for working so hard to make it perfect.’

He did not mention this, not even to his wife. It would worry her, and the others, including his father. Emerson’s pretence of indifference didn’t fool Ramses. ‘Bastard’
was one of Emerson’s favourite epithets. It was indicative that he never used it to refer to his illegitimate brother.

However, there had been no sign of Sethos since, and no indication that he was back in the antiquities business. Ramses was relieved when his father decided to leave Cairo. If Nefret had
insisted on accompanying him on a tour of the coffeeshops he could not have denied her; she had demanded a role as equal partner in all his activities, and God knew she had earned it. He believed
he had put up a fairly good show of willing acquiescence, but the idea of seeing her facing thieves and murderers still made his hair stand on end.

Anyhow, he preferred Luxor to Cairo and the Theban cemeteries to those of ancient Memphis. Emerson had managed to get official permis- sion to excavate the ancient village at Deir el Medina and
Ramses was looking forward to a long, peaceful period of purely archaeological work. They wouldn’t find any buried treasure or long-lost tombs, which was fine with him. As for the recent
discovery that had aroused Cyrus Vandergelt’s interest, he hoped he could persuade his father to stay out of that matter. They had had enough trouble with tomb robbers the year before.

His mother’s energetic renovations had altered the house almost beyond recognition. There were new structures all around. The shaded veranda was the same, however, and the sitting room
still had its handsome antique rugs and familiar furniture. Nefret went at once to the pianoforte and ran her fingers over the keys.

‘Is it not right?’ Fatima asked anxiously. ‘I will find someone – ’

‘I can’t imagine where,’ Nefret said with a smile. ‘Actually it’s in remarkably good tune, considering.’

‘Sounds fine to me,’ declared Emerson, who was blissfully tone-deaf. He looked round with an air of great satisfaction. ‘Help me unpack these books, Nefret. First things
first.’

A brief and inconclusive argument with his wife, who wanted him to inspect the new wing, ended with her marching off with Fatima and Selim and Emerson happily wrenching the tops from cases of
books, which he proceeded to put in piles all over the floor. He hadn’t got very far before they were interrupted by visitors. News of their arrival had reached Gurneh before them.
Abdullah’s extended family numbered almost fifty people, and it seemed to Ramses that most of them had come hurrying to welcome them back. The maids served coffee and mint tea, and a cheerful
pandemonium ensued. Sennia was in her element, running from one pair of welcoming arms to another, and Emerson was talking to several people at once.

Ramses looked round for Nefret, and saw she was deep in conversation with Daoud’s wife, Kadija, a very large, very dignified woman of Nubian extraction. According to Nefret, Kadija had a
lively sense of humour, but the rest of them had to take that on faith since she never told them any of her stories. She was obviously telling one now; Nefret’s cheeks rounded with laughter.
Ramses went to join them. He was disappointed but not surprised when Kadija ducked her head and slipped away.

‘What was so funny?’ he asked.

Nefret slipped her arm through his. ‘Never mind. It loses something in the translation.’

‘But I understand Arabic.’

‘Not that sort of translation.’ She laughed up at him and he thought again, as he did several dozen times a day, how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. That lost something
in the translation, too.

‘Yusuf isn’t here,’ she said, a look of puzzlement replacing her smile. ‘That’s rather odd. As the head of the family, courtesy would demand he welcome us
back.’

‘Selim says he isn’t well.’

‘Perhaps I ought to go to him and see if there is anything I can do.’

‘I don’t think your medical skills would help, darling.’ Poor Yusuf ’s world had been overturned the past year when he had lost his two favourite children. Jamil, the
handsome, spoiled youngest son, had fled after becoming involved with a gang of professional thieves. He had not been seen since. Jumana, his sister, had found a happier ending; fiercely ambitious
and intelligent, her hopes of becoming an Egyptologist were being fostered by the Vandergelts and Ramses’s parents.

Nefret understood. ‘I didn’t realize it had hit the poor old chap so hard.’

‘Neither did I, but it isn’t surprising. Having his daughter flout his authority, refuse the fine marriage he arranged for her, and go off to become a new woman – educated,
independent, and Westernized – must have been almost as great a blow as discovering that his best-beloved son was in trouble with the law.’

‘Greater, perhaps, to a man of his traditional beliefs,’ Nefret said. ‘Is it true that he disowned her and refuses to see her?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Kadija. She tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen.’

‘Selim said the same. It’s a pity. Well, we’ll send Mother round to talk to him. If she can’t set him straight, no one can.’

‘What about Jamil?’

‘According to Selim, there’s been no sign of him. Don’t get any ideas about trying to track him down. There’s a trite old proverb about sleeping dogs.’

‘All right; don’t lose your temper.’

‘I thought you liked me to lose my temper.’

‘Only when we’re alone and I can deal with you as you deserve.’

Before he could respond to that, his mother came back and began organizing everyone. The women of the family carried Sennia and her luggage off to her new quarters. His father refused to budge;
he was having too fine a time making plans for the season’s work. He insisted that Ramses and Selim join him, but he lost Nefret to his wife. The two of them went off with Fatima.

‘So, Selim,’ said Emerson. ‘Have you got a crew together? I hope you didn’t let Vandergelt take our best men.’

‘He has hired my father’s cousin’s son Abu as his reis, but we will have a full crew, Emerson. There is not much work here now.’

Emerson did not ask about Yusuf. He was too busy making plans for work to begin the following day.

A series of high-pitched shouts from the children who were playing on the veranda heralded a new arrival.

‘I might have known you couldn’t leave us in peace for a few hours,’ Emerson grumbled; but he went quickly to meet the newcomer with an outstretched hand.

Cyrus Vandergelt’s leathery face creased into smiling wrinkles. The American was dressed with his usual elegance, in a white linen suit and polished boots. ‘Yes, you might,’ he
said with a grin. ‘No use trying to sneak into town unnoticed – just got your telegram a while ago, but I’d already heard you were here. Good to see you. Here’s somebody
else who couldn’t wait to say hello.’

He had stood back for her to precede him through the door. Once inside, she put her back against the wall and watched them, wide-eyed and unsmiling, like a wary animal. Emerson, always the
gentleman with women, took her small hand in his and gave it a hearty squeeze.

‘Jumana! Good of you to come, my dear. Er – how you’ve grown the past few months!’

Not so you could notice, Ramses thought. She was a tiny creature, barely five feet tall, with the exotic colouring and wide dark eyes of a lady in a Persian miniature, but her clothing was
defiantly English – neat little boots and a divided skirt, under a mannish shirt and tweed jacket. After spending the spring and summer with them in England, being tutored in various subjects
and absorbing information as a dry sponge soaks up water, she had returned to Egypt in November with the Vandergelts.

What was wrong with her? Usually her small face was alive with excitement and she could outtalk everyone in the family – which was no small feat. Now she replied to Emerson’s
greeting with a wordless murmur and her dark eyes moved uneasily around the room.

‘Where is Nefret?’ she asked.

‘She and Mrs Emerson have gone off to look at the new house,’ Emerson said.

‘I will go too. Please? Excuse me?’

She hurried out of the room without waiting for a reply. She’s got something on her mind, all right, Ramses thought. Well, whatever it was, it was not his problem. His mother thought she
could solve everything; let her deal with it.

She came bustling in a few minutes later and went straight to Cyrus, holding out her hands. ‘Jumana told me you were here. Didn’t Katherine and Bertie come with you?’

‘Bertie wanted to, but Katherine had some chore or other for him,’ Cyrus answered.

Ramses wasn’t surprised to hear it. Katherine disapproved of her son’s fascination with the pretty Egyptian girl.

‘She was hoping you’d come to us for dinner tonight,’ Cyrus went on.

‘Bah,’ said Emerson. Cyrus burst out laughing and stroked his goatee.

‘I know, old pal, you don’t have time for social engagements. This’ll just be us, nothing formal, come as you are.’

Emerson’s jaws parted, but his wife got in first. ‘Certainly, Cyrus, we accept with pleasure. Ramses, Nefret wants you to join her. She is at the new house.’

‘Oh? Oh, right.’

A sensation his mother would have described as a ‘hideous premonition’ came over him. Why hadn’t he realized? Of course – she had built the house for Nefret and him. It
was just like her to do it without consulting them. And there was no way on earth they could refuse without sounding churlish and ungrateful and selfish. Nefret was too fond of his mother to tell
her no to her face. She would want him to do it!

He expected to find his wife on the doorstep, vibrating with indignation. She wasn’t there. He had to track her down, looking into room after room as he searched. The place was quite
attractive, really – large, low-ceilinged rooms, with the carved mashrabiya screens he liked so much covering the windows, tiled floors, bookshelves on many of the walls. Otherwise the house
was almost empty except for a few tables and chairs and couches. She’d had sense enough to leave the choice of furnishings and decorations to them. Not at all bad, on the whole. If it had
been up to him . . .

If it had been up to him, he would rather live in a hole in the rock than tell his mother he didn’t like it.

He found Nefret sitting on the shady porch that looked out on a small courtyard. Jumana was with her, their heads close together.