Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (90 page)

It was my turn to repress a smile. Emerson chose to ignore the second question. ‘I am that Emerson. I come here to dig, and I will hire men from the village. But if they do not want to work for me, I will go elsewhere.’

The villagers had begun edging out into the open as the conversation proceeded. A low murmur arose from them when they heard the offer to work. All the fellahin, Muslim and Copt alike, are pitifully poor. The chance to earn what they considered munificent wages was not an offer to be missed.

‘Wait,’ the priest said, as Emerson turned away. ‘If that is why you have come, we will talk.’

So at last we were invited into the ‘manse,’ as Emerson called it. It was like all the other Egyptian houses we had seen, except that it was a trifle larger and slightly cleaner. The long divan that was the chief piece of furniture in the main room was covered with cheap, faded chintz, and the only ornament was a crucifix with a horribly lifelike image of Christ, smeared with red paint in lieu of blood.

At the priest’s suggestion we were joined by a timid little walnut-coloured gentleman who was introduced as the
sheikh el beled
– the mayor of the village. It was obvious that he was a mere figurehead, for he only squeaked acquiescence to everything the priest said until, the matter of employment having been settled, Emerson mentioned that we wanted to occupy the abandoned monastery. Then the mayor turned as pale as a man of his complexion can turn and blurted, ‘But, effendi, that is not possible.’

‘We will not profane the church,’ Emerson assured him. ‘We only want to use the rooms that were once storerooms and cells.’

‘But, great Lord, no one goes there,’ the mayor insisted. ‘It is accursed – a place of evil, haunted by afreets and devils.’

‘Accursed?’ Emerson repeated incredulously. ‘The home of the holy monks?’

The mayor rolled his eyes. ‘Long ago all the holy men were foully murdered, O Father of Curses. Their spirits still haunt their house, hungry for revenge.’

‘We do not fear devils or vengeful ghosts,’ Emerson said courageously. ‘If that is your only objection, effendi, we will take possession immediately.’

The mayor shook his head but did not protest further. The priest had listened with a sardonic smile. Now he said, ‘The house is yours, Father of Curses. May the restless spirits of the holy men requite you as you deserve.’

Abdullah followed us along the village street, radiating disapproval as only Abdullah can. It felt like a chilly breeze on the back of my neck.

‘We are going the wrong way,’ I said to Emerson. ‘We entered the village at the other end.’

‘I want to see the rest of the place,’ was the reply. ‘There is something strange going on here, Amelia. I am surprised your vaunted intuition did not catch the undercurrents.’

‘They would have been hard to miss,’ I replied haughtily. ‘The priest is patently hostile to outsiders. I hope he won’t undermine our authority.’

‘Oh, I pay no attention to such persons.’ Emerson stepped over a mangy dog sprawled in the middle of the path. It growled at him and he said absently, ‘Good dog, then; nice fellow,’ before continuing, ‘It is not concern but curiosity that makes me wonder why the reverend gentleman should demonstrate such antagonism. I always have trouble with religious persons; they are so confoundedly superstitious, curse them. Yet the priest was rude to us even before he learned who we were. I wonder …’

His voice trailed off and he stood staring.

Half hidden by a splendid group of stately palms and partially removed from the rest of the village stood several houses. In contrast to the other hovels in that wretched place, these were in impeccable repair and freshly whitewashed. Even the dust before the doors looked as if it had been swept. Three of the houses were the usual small two- and three-room affairs. The fourth was somewhat larger and had undergone reconstruction. A stubby steeple graced the flat roof, and above the door was a sign in gilt letters on black. It read, ‘Chapel of the Holy Jerusalem.’

As we stood in silent wonderment, the door of one of the smaller houses opened. An explosion of small boys burst out into the open, shouting and laughing with the joy of youths escaping from studies. As soon as they caught sight of us they darted at us, shouting for baksheesh. One minuscule cherub caught at my trousers and stared up at me with eyes like melting chocolate. ‘Baksheesh, Sitt,’ he lisped. ‘Ana Christian – ana
Brotestant!’

‘Good Gad,’ I said weakly.

Emerson put a hand to his head. ‘No,’ he cried passionately. ‘No. It is a delusion – it cannot be real. After all the other cruel blows of fate I have endured … Missionaries! Missionaries, Amelia!’

‘Courage,’ I implored, as the swarthy infant continued to tug at my trousers. ‘Courage, Emerson. It could be worse.’

Other children emerged from the door of the school – little girls, too timid to emulate the joie de vivre of their male counterparts. They were followed by another, taller form. For a moment he stood in the doorway blinking into the sunlight, and the rays of the noon-high orb set his silver-gilt hair to blazing like a halo. Then he saw us. A smile of ineffable sweetness spread over his handsome face and he raised a hand in greeting or in blessing.

Emerson collapsed onto a block of stone, like a man in the last throes of a fatal disease. ‘It is worse,’ he said in a sepulchral voice.

‘Boys, boys.’ The beautiful young man strode towards us, waving his arms. He spoke in Arabic, perfectly pronounced but slow and simple. ‘Stop it, boys. Go home now. Go to your mothers. Do not ask for baksheesh, it is not pleasing to God.’

The youthful villains dispersed and their mentor turned his attention to us. At close range he was absolutely dazzling. His hair gleamed, his white teeth shone, and his face beamed with goodwill. Emerson continued to stare dazedly at him, so I felt it incumbent upon myself to address the amenities.

‘I fear we must apologize for intruding on private property, sir. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Amelia Peabody Emerson – Mrs Radcliffe Emerson – and this …’

‘This block of wood’ might have been an appropriate description, for all the response Emerson made, but the beautiful young man did not allow me to proceed. ‘You need no introduction, Mrs Emerson; you and your distinguished husband are well known to all visitors in Cairo. It is an honour to welcome you. I was informed only yesterday that you would be coming.’

The monolithic indifference or catatonia of Emerson was shattered. ‘Who informed you, pray?’ he demanded.

‘Why, it was M. de Morgan,’ said the young man innocently. ‘The director of the Antiquities Department. As you may know, he is working at Dahshoor, not far from – ’

‘I know the location of Dahshoor, young man,’ snapped Emerson. ‘But I don’t know you. Who the devil are you?’

‘Emerson!’ I exclaimed. ‘Such language to a man of the cloth!’

‘Pray don’t apologize,’ said the young gentleman. ‘It is my fault, for not mentioning my name earlier. I am David Cabot – of the Boston Cabots.’

This formula seemed to have some significance to him, but it meant nothing to me – nor, I hardly need add, to Emerson, who continued to glare at young Mr Cabot, of the Boston Cabots.

‘But I am forgetting my manners,’ the latter went on. ‘I am keeping you standing in the sun. Will you enter and meet my family?’

Knowing him to be unmarried, I assumed he was referring to his parents, but when I inquired he laughed and shook his head. ‘I refer to my spiritual family, Mrs Emerson. My father in the Lord, the Reverend Ezekiel Jones, is the head of our little mission. His sister also labours in the vineyards of the Lord. It is almost time for our midday repast; will you honour our humble abode?’

I politely declined the invitation, explaining that the other members of our expedition were waiting for us, and we took our leave. Before we were quite out of earshot, Emerson said loudly, ‘You were confoundedly polite, Amelia.’

‘You make it sound like a crime! I felt it necessary to be overly cordial to compensate for your rudeness.’

‘Rude? I, rude?’

‘Very.’

‘Well, I call it rude to walk into a man’s house and order him to leave off worshipping his chosen god. What effrontery! Mr Cabot and his “father in the Lord” had better not try their tricks on
ME
.’

‘I hardly think even Mr Cabot would try to convert
YOU
,’ I said, taking his arm. ‘Hurry, Emerson, we have been too long away. Goodness knows what mischief Ramses has got into by now.’

But for once Ramses was innocent of wrongdoing. We found him squatting in the sand near the monastery, digging. Already a small pile of potsherds had rewarded his efforts. At the sight of his dedicated labours Emerson’s expression lightened, and I hoped the irritation produced by the presence of the missionaries had been alleviated.

Shortly thereafter the arrival of a contingent of men from the village assured us that the priest did mean to cooperate with our endeavours. This first levy consisted of craftsmen – masons and brickmakers, carpenters and plasterers. Emerson beamed when he saw his augmented audience; he may and does deny it, but he loves putting on a theatrical performance. His exorcism that day was one of his best, despite the fact that he turned his ankle while capering around the house chanting poetry and prayers. The audience applauded enthusiastically and declared themselves relieved of all apprehension concerning evil spirits. Before long the place was swarming with activity, and I had high hopes that by nightfall we would have a roof over our heads and a cleared floor on which to place our camp cots, tables and chairs.

The men from Aziyeh did not fraternize with the villagers. Their professional skills and the parochialism of the peasant mentality, which regards a man from a village two miles off as a foreigner – not to mention the religious differences – made them view the ‘heretics’ with haughty contempt. I knew there would be no trouble, however, for Abdullah was an excellent foreman and his men were guided by him. No less than four of them were his sons. They ranged in age from Feisal, a grizzled man with grown children of his own, to young Selim, a handsome lad of fourteen. He was obviously the apple of his father’s eye and the adored Benjamin of the family. Indeed, his infectious boyish laughter and pleasant ways made him a favourite with all of us. In Egyptian terms he was already a man, and would soon take a wife, but since he was closer in age to Ramses than any of the others, the two soon struck up a friendship.

After I had watched the lad for a while and assured myself that my initial impression of his character was correct, I decided to appoint him as Ramses’ official guide, servant and guard. John’s unsuitability for the role was becoming only too apparent. He was always trying to prevent Ramses from doing harmless things – such as digging, which was, after all, our reason for being there – and allowing him to do other things, such as drinking unboiled water, that were not at all harmless. Besides, John was proving useful in other ways. He had picked up Arabic with surprising quickness and mingled readily with the men, displaying none of the insular prejudices that afflict many English persons, including some who ought to know better. As I swept sand from the large room, once the refectory of the monastery, that we had selected for our parlour, I could hear John chatting away in his ungrammatical but effective Arabic, and the other men laughing good-naturedly at his mistakes.

Late in the afternoon, when I emerged from the house to inspect the repairs on the roof, I saw a small procession advancing towards me. Leading it were two gentlemen mounted on donkeyback. The tall, graceful figure of Mr Cabot was immediately recognizable. Beside him was another man wearing the same dark clerical garb and a straw boater. It was not until the caravan had come closer that I realized the third person was female.

My heart went out to the poor creature. She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved gown of dark calico, with skirts so full they almost hid the donkey. Only its head and tail protruded, with bizarre effect. One of the old-fashioned shovel bonnets – a style I had not seen in years – completely hid her face, and so enveloping was her attire it was impossible to tell whether she was dark or fair, young or old.

Mr Cabot was the first to dismount. ‘We are here,’ he exclaimed.

‘So I see,’ I replied, thanking heaven I had sent Emerson and Ramses out to survey the site.

‘I have the honour,’ Mr Cabot continued, ‘to present my revered mentor, the Reverend Ezekiel Jones.’

There was nothing in the appearance of this person to justify the reverence and pride in Mr Cabot’s voice. He was of middle height, with the heavy shoulders and thick body of a workingman, and his coarse features would have been better hidden by a beard. His forehead was crossed by lowering dark brows as thick as my finger. His movements were awkward; he climbed awkwardly off his mount and awkwardly removed his hat. When he spoke I had some inkling as to why he commanded the admiration of his young acolyte. His voice was a mellow baritone, marred by an unfortunate American accent, but resonant and musical as a cello.

‘How do, ma’am. We figured as how you could use some help. This here’s my sister, Charity.’

The woman had dismounted. Her brother grasped her by the shoulder and shoved her at me, like a merchant hawking his wares. ‘She’s a hard worker and a handmaiden of the Lord,’ he went on. ‘You tell her what you want done.’

A thrill of indignation passed through me. I offered the girl my hand. ‘How do you do, Miss Jones.’

‘We don’t use worldly titles,’ her brother said. ‘Brother David here tends to forget that. Oh, it’s all right, my friend, I know it’s respect that prompts you – ’

‘It is indeed, sir,’ said ‘Brother David’ earnestly.

‘But I don’t deserve respect, Brother. I’m just a miserable sinner like the rest of you. A few steps further up the road that leads to salvation, maybe, but a miserable sinner just the same.’

The self-satisfied smile with which he proclaimed his humility made me want to shake him, but the young man gazed at him with melting admiration. ‘Sister Charity’ stood with her hands folded at her waist and her head bowed. She looked like a silhouette cut out of black paper, lifeless and featureless.