Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (87 page)

I find myself incapable of reproducing Ramses’ explanation. His style of speech was extremely prolix, and he appeared deliberately to select as many words as possible beginning with the diphthong ‘th.’ Nor was it a convincing explanation. Ramses said he had been curious to examine further several objects he had seen in the back room of the shop during his unauthorized visit the day before. When directly questioned, he admitted he had overheard us discussing our intention of visiting Abd el Atti that night. ‘I meant to go wit’ you,’ he added accusingly, ‘but I could not stay awake, and you, Mama, did not waken me.’

‘I had no intention of taking you, Ramses.’

‘I suspected dat,’ said Ramses.

‘What objects were you curious about?’ his father asked.

‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘Do you realize that the day is half gone? I have never known any group of people to waste so much time over inconsequential matters.’

Emerson shot me a look that said, plain as speech, ‘And whose fault is it that we have wasted half the day?’ He did not speak aloud, however, since we try not to criticize one another before Ramses. A united front is absolutely essential for survival in that quarter. Instead he groaned, ‘I cannot shake the dust of this abominable city off my shoes too soon. I had hoped to leave by the end of the week, but …’

‘We can leave tomorrow if we get to work at once,’ I replied. ‘What remains to be done?’

There was not really a great deal. I agreed to take care of our travel arrangements and the dispatch of the supplies I had purchased. Emerson was to go to Aziyeh, the nearby village from which we recruited our skilled workers, to make the final plans for their travel to Mazghunah.

‘Take him with you,’ I said, indicating Ramses.

‘Certainly,’ said Emerson. ‘I had intended to do that. What about John?’

John had lumbered to his feet when I entered the room. He remained standing, stiff as a statue, throughout the discussion, without venturing to speak. His eyes, fixed unblinkingly on my face, held the same expression of mingled shame and hope I had often seen on the countenances of the dogs after they had misbehaved.

‘Madam,’ he began, with the most meticulous attention to his vowels, ‘I wish to say – ’

‘Too much has been said already,’ I interrupted. ‘I don’t blame you, John. You are off your native turf, so to speak. In future I will define the perimeters of your wanderings more carefully.’

‘Yes, madam. Thank you, madam.’ John beamed. ‘Am I to go with Master Ramses and the professor, madam?’

‘No. I need you. Is that all right with you, Emerson?’

Emerson, in his consummate innocence, said that it was quite all right with him.

And so, after a hasty meal, we separated to complete our assigned tasks. I was soon finished with mine. Europeans constantly complain about the dilatory habits of the East, but I fancy that is only an excuse for their own incompetence. I have never had the least difficulty getting people to do what I want them to do. It only requires a firm manner and a determination not to be distracted from the matter at hand. That is Emerson’s trouble, and, in fact, the trouble with most men. They are easily distracted. I knew, for instance, that Emerson would spend the rest of the day on a project that could have been completed in three hours, travel time included. He would loll around smoking and
fahddling
(gossiping) with Abdullah, our old foreman; Ramses would come home with his stomach stuffed with insanitary sweeties and his precocious brain stuffed with new words, most of them indelicate. I was resigned to this. The alternative would have been to take Ramses with me.

John followed me with mute and meticulous devotion while I carried out my tasks. The faintest shade of apprehension crossed his ingenuous countenance when I directed the driver of the carriage to let us out near the entrance to the Khan el Khaleel, but he held his tongue until we were almost at our destination.

‘Ow, madam,’ he began. ‘Oi promised the master – ’

‘Vowels, John,’ I said. ‘Mind your vowels.’

John fell in behind me as I passed under the archway leading from the square. ‘Yes, madam. Madam, are we going to that there – to that place?’

‘Quite right.’

‘But, madam – ’

‘If you promised Professor Emerson you would prevent me from going there, you ought to have known better. And he ought not to have extracted from you a promise you could not possibly keep.’ John let out a faint moan and I condescended to explain – something I seldom do. ‘The cat, John – Ramses’ cat. The least we can do is search for the animal. It would break the boy’s heart to leave it behind.’

A scene of utter pandemonium met our eyes when we turned into the street before the shop. The narrow way was completely blocked by bodies, including those of several donkeys. Most of the people were men, though there were a few women, all of the humblest class, and all seemed intent on some spectacle ahead. They were laughing and talking, their bodies swaying as they tried to see over the heads of those in the front rank. Children wriggled through the crowd.

A few polite Arabic phrases, and the judicious application of my useful parasol to backs, shoulders and heads soon captured the attention of those nearest me. Obligingly they parted to let me pass.

Abd el Atti’s shop was the focus of the crowd’s interest. I had expected to find it locked and shuttered, with a constable on duty. Instead the place stood wide open, with not a policeman in sight. The small front room of the shop was filled with workmen wearing the cheap blue-and-white-striped robes of their class, and raglike turbans upon their heads. As soon as I saw what was going on I understood the amusement of the spectators. One workman would rush forward with a bundle in his arms, which he would load on the nearest donkey. Another workman would remove it. The process appeared to have all the futility of Penelope’s weaving and unpicking of her tapestry, and at first I could not imagine what it all meant. Then I saw two people who stood nose to nose in the centre of the room, shouting contradictory orders. One was a man, wearing a proper European suit and a bright red tarboosh. The other was a woman clad in dusty black from head to foot. In her agitation she had let fall her veil, disclosing a face as wrinkled as a currant and as malevolent as that of a witch in a German fairy tale. Her mouth gaped, showing toothless gums, as she alternatively shouted orders at the workmen and insults at her opponent.

It appeared to be the sort of situation that demanded the assistance of a sensible person. I applied the ferrule of my parasol briskly but impartially to the people blocking my way, and proceeded to the door of the shop. The old lady was the first to catch sight of me. She stopped in mid-word – a most improper word for anyone, much less a woman, to employ – and stared at me. The workmen dropped their bundles and gaped; the crowd murmured and swayed, watching expectantly; and the man in the tarboosh turned to face me.

‘What is going on here?’ I demanded. ‘This is the shop of Abd el Atti. Who are these people who are stealing his property?’

I had spoken in Arabic, but the man, identifying my nationality by my dress, replied in accented but fluent English. ‘I am no thief, missus. I am the son of the late Abd el Atti. May I ask your honoured name?’

The last question was pronounced with a decided sneer which vanished as soon as I gave my name. The old woman let out a high-pitched cackle of laughter. ‘It is the woman of the Father of Curses,’ she exclaimed. ‘The one they call Sitt Hakim. I have heard of you, Sitt. You will not let an old woman be robbed – an honourable wife be cheated of her inheritance?’

‘You are the wife of Abd el Atti?’ I asked in disbelief. This hideous old harridan? Abd el Atti, who was wealthy enough to purchase any number of young wives, and who had a keen appreciation of beauty?

‘His chief wife,’ said the beldam. Belatedly recalling her bereaved state, she let out a sharp, unconvincing yelp of woe and stooped to scrape up a handful of dust, which she poured haphazardly over her head.

‘Your mother?’ I asked the man.

‘Allah forbid,’ was the pious reply. ‘But I am the eldest living son, missus. I am taking the merchandise to my own shop; it is a fine shop, missus, on the Muski, a modern shop. Many English come to me; if you come, I will sell you beautiful things, very cheap – ’

‘Yes, yes; but that is not the question,’ I said, absently accepting the card he handed me. ‘You cannot take these things away now. The police are investigating your father’s death. Didn’t they tell you to leave the scene of the crime undisturbed?’

‘Crime?’ A singularly cynical smile transformed the man’s face. His eyes narrowed to slits and his lips barely parted. ‘My unfortunate father has gone to make his peace with Allah. He had the wrong friends, missus. I knew that sooner or later one of them would remove him.’

‘And you don’t call that a crime?’

The man only shrugged and rolled his eyes, in the ineffable and unanswerable fatalism of the East.

‘In any case,’ I said, ‘you cannot remove anything from the shop. Replace all the objects, if you please, and lock the door.’

The old woman’s cacodemonic laughter broke out again. She began to shuffle her feet in a grotesque dance of triumph. ‘I knew the honoured sitt would not let an old woman be robbed. The wisdom of the Prophet is yours, great lady. Accept an old woman’s blessing. May you have many sons – many, many sons…’

The idea was so appalling I think I turned pale. The man mistook my reaction for fear. He said in a grating voice, ‘You cannot make me do that, missus. You are not the police.’

‘Don’t you talk that way to my lady,’ John said indignantly. ‘Madam, shall I punch him in the nose?’

A cheer, half-ironic, half-enthusiastic, broke out from those in the crowd who understood English. Evidently the son of Abd el Atti was not popular with the latter’s neighbours.

‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘What is this talk of punching people? You must not attempt to imitate all your master’s habits, John. Mr – ’ I glanced at the card I held – ‘Mr Aslimi will be reasonable, I am sure.’

Mr Aslimi had very little choice in the matter. The donkeys departed unencumbered, and although it is difficult to read the countenance of a donkey, they appeared pleased to be relieved of their burdens. The workmen left, cursing the paltriness of their pay, the crowd dispersed. I dismissed the dear old lady before she could repeat her ominous blessing. She went hopping off, cackling like a large black raven. Then I turned to Mr Aslimi. He was an unpleasant individual, but I could not help feeling some sympathy for anyone who had to deal with such a stepmother.

‘If you will cooperate, Mr Aslimi, I will do my best to plead your case with the authorities.’

‘How cooperate?’ Aslimi asked cautiously.

‘By answering my questions. How much do you know about your father’s business?’

Well, of course he swore he knew nothing about any criminal connections. I expected him to say that, but my intuition (which is scarcely ever at fault) told me he was not directly involved with the antiquities gang – probably to his regret. He also denied any acquaintance with the suspicious character I had seen with Abd el Atti. This time my intuition assured me he was lying. If he did not know the man’s identity, he had a good idea as to who it might have been.

I then asked to be allowed to search the shop. There were some fine and obviously illegal antiquities in various locked cupboards, but they were not my concern, and Aslimi’s dour expression lightened perceptibly when I passed them by without comment. I found nothing that gave me a clue to the identity of Abd el Atti’s murderer. The place had been trampled by many feet and thoroughly ransacked – and besides, I had no idea what I was looking for.

Nor was there any trace of the missing Bastet. Mr Aslimi denied having seen her. This time I felt sure he was telling the truth.

We parted with protestations of goodwill that were false on both sides. I felt sure he would not venture to reopen the shop, since I had assured him I would notify the police of his activities.

As John and I retraced our steps through the crooked, shady streets, I kept on the lookout for a lithe, tawny form, but to no avail. There was no answer to my repeated cries, except for curious glances from passers-by. I heard one say, in response to a question from his companion, ‘It is the name of one of the old gods. They are magicians of great power, she and her husband; no doubt she is pronouncing a curse on that – Aslimi.’

Reaching the Muski we took a carriage at the entrance to the bazaar. John sat uneasily on the very edge of the seat. ‘Madam,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Oi – I won’t be mentioning this to the master, if you like.’

‘There is no reason why you should bring up the subject, John. But if you are asked a direct question, naturally you will tell the truth.’

‘I will?’

‘Certainly. We were looking for the cat. Unfortunately we found no trace of her.’

But when I entered my room the first thing I saw was the familiar feline shape, curled up on the foot of my bed. As I had predicted, Bastet had found her way home.

The sun was setting the gilded spires and minarets of Cairo ablaze when the wanderers returned, in precisely the state I had expected. Ramses rushed, as usual, to embrace me. I was wearing my oldest dressing gown in anticipation of this. I was the only person, aside from his Aunt Evelyn, with whom Ramses was so physically demonstrative. Sometimes I suspected him of doing it out of malice, for he was almost always covered with some noxious substance or other. On this occasion, however, he veered off at the last moment and flung himself on the cat.

‘Where did you find her, Mama?’

I was flattered by his assumption that I was responsible, but truth compelled me to reply, ‘I did not find her, Ramses – though I did look for her. She found her own way back.’

‘That is a relief,’ said Emerson, smiling wanly. ‘Ramses was quite cut up about her. Keep her on the lead from now on, my boy.’

‘And put her down until after you have bathed,’ I added. ‘I spent an hour combing and cleaning her. You will get her dirty again.’