Children of the Storm (18 page)

The description struck a chord of unpleasant familiarity. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, Selim?” I demanded.

Selim shrugged. “Such tales are common, they spread quickly among superstitious persons. The men prowled here after nightfall, looking for something to steal; they saw a moonbeam or a shadow and wished to make themselves important by telling lies . . .”

His eyes moved from my frowning face to that of Emerson, and widened in sudden comprehension. “Are you thinking of the woman in Cairo? Surely it is only a coincidence. This was a vision, a dream, a lie.”

“My grandfather might have said that the old gods still linger in their holy places, for those who have eyes to see,” David said. “It would make a good subject for one of my popular romantic paintings: the temple ruins by night, dim shapes in the darkness, and between the pylons, shining in her own light, the veiled and crowned goddess . . .”

“Well, it is cursed unlikely that one of the old gods would pop up in a Cairo tenement,” I said. “You are right, Selim, it is only a coincidence.”

“Are you going to tell Ramses about Hathor?” Nefret asked.

I said in surprise, “If the subject arises. Why not?”

“Because he will want to see for himself. What if—”

“Nonsense,” I said firmly. “You are too sensible to talk of ‘what ifs.’ Has everyone finished eating?”

“Back to work,” Emerson exclaimed, jumping up. “That little episode cost us over an hour.”

“Goodness, yes,” I said, looking at my watch. “You had better run along, David.”

“Run along where?” Emerson demanded indignantly. “I need him to—”

“I promised Cyrus he could have David during the afternoons. We will see you at the house at teatime, David.”

Emerson’s jaw set. “And you, Emerson, ought to change your clothing,” I went on. “You are even more unkempt than usual.”

“I am not modeling proper archaeological attire for the admiration of the cursed tourists,” Emerson declared.

David left, and Nefret very kindly offered to give me a hand with my sifting, for the rubbish heap had piled up. She seemed somewhat pensive. After a long silence she spoke.

“That fellow François does not seem a suitable attendant for a boy like Justin. Should we speak to his grandmother?”

“Emerson would call both of us interfering busybodies.”

“That has never deterred you from interfering.”

“Certainly not. I am the judge of my own conscience and my own behavior. That idea had occurred to me,” I admitted, picking a small piece of broken pottery out of the sieve and setting it aside. “But interference might do more harm than good. Old people are set in their ways and dislike criticism. And, to be fair, we don’t know what is wrong with the boy. He is a strange mixture of innocence and savoir faire, of reasoned discourse followed by unexpected non sequiturs.”

Nefret sat back on her heels and wiped her perspiring forehead with her sleeve. “Some of his symptoms are characteristic of grand mal seizures. Most epileptics are of normal, even superior, intelligence, however. He seems childish for his age. Of course I am no authority on mental disorders. I’ve always wanted to study the subject.”

“In addition to surgery and gynecology? My dear girl, you have enough to do—your husband and children, the hospital—to say nothing of Emerson dragging you out to the dig every day.”

I had meant it as sympathetic commendation, but she did not return my smile. “I’ve done almost nothing at the hospital for two years, Mother. It’s in good hands, but sometimes I miss it. As for the clinic I meant to open here in Luxor . . . Well, you know what’s happened to that.”

“You have your instruments and ample space for consulting and operating rooms,” I said. “Now that the children are older, there is no reason why you cannot proceed with your plan for a clinic.”

“I’ve become very rusty, Mother. Like some of my instruments! All I’ve done is assist at a few difficult births and set a bone or two.”

“All the more reason to hone your skills again. I had no idea you felt that way, Nefret. You ought to have confided in me. I will take steps immediately to have the rooms made ready.”

Her brow cleared and she let out one of her musical chuckles. “Mother, you are incomparable. I didn’t mean to complain. Please don’t trouble yourself. You have enough to do managing the rest of the family!”

“Compared with managing Emerson, it will be a pleasure,” I assured her.

I CANNOT IMAGINE HOW I missed the signs. Excuses do not become me, so I will not mention that I had been extremely busy making the arrangements for Nefret’s clinic. I had had such a scheme in mind when I had the house built, so the space had been provided—three smallish but adequate rooms, set off from the rest of the house, with a separate entrance. They had lain dusty and unoccupied for two years, so every surface had to be scrubbed, whitewashed, and disinfected before the necessary furnishings could be installed. We were able to obtain basic supplies from the chemists in Luxor, and I suggested the names of several girls whom I considered possible candidates for the position of nursing assistant.

Nefret had already settled on someone. “Kadija’s granddaughter Nisrin came round as soon as she heard about the clinic. She has always been interested in nursing and Kadija has taught her a great deal.”

“Ah, yes, I remember her. A pleasant but rather—er—plain young woman.”

“She’s only fourteen, and already betrothed,” Nefret said, with the bite in her voice that marked her disapproval of the Egyptian custom of early marriages.

“You mean to ‘rescue’ another one, do you?”

“If she does as well as I expect and wants to continue—yes. It’s her father who is set on the marriage, but if Daoud and Kadija back me up, he’ll have to give in.”

Since Daoud was putty in Nefret’s hands and Kadija was one of her greatest friends and admirers, I did not doubt they would back her up. I interviewed the girl myself. Nisrin had, for some reason, always been rather shy of me, but I managed to overcome her diffidence and concluded that she would do.

What with one thing and another . . . Suffice it to say that I did miss the ominous signs, so that the disaster came upon me with the violence of a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky.

Later, I realized that Emerson had been behaving oddly for several days. I attributed his fits of preoccupation to concern about his confounded stratigraphy, which was proving to be more complicated than he had expected. His unusual interest in the post could have been explained by his concern for his half-brother; there had been as yet no reply to our telegrams. Selim, who, as I later discovered, had been in on the plot all along, was wise enough to keep out of my way. Not until I went looking for him one afternoon did I realize I had not set eyes on him all day. I went immediately to Emerson.

“Where is Selim? I want to ask him about—”

“Yes, yes,” said Emerson, in a strange, high-pitched voice. “I know where he is.”

“Emerson, what is the matter with you?”

Emerson’s bronzed countenance widened into a broad, terrifying grin. “I have a surprise for you, Peabody.”

“Tell me,” I implored in a voice that resisted my attempts to keep it steady. “Do not leave me in suspense. What—”

“No, no, I will show you. I will show everyone!” He took out his watch, glanced at it, and then raised his voice to the shout that could be heard throughout the West Bank. “We are closing down for the day! Everybody come with me!”

And not another word would he say. It was early afternoon; the cessation of work at such an hour was unheard of. Bewildered, and, in my case, exceedingly apprehensive, we mounted our steeds and set out for the house. I asked Ramses, I asked Nefret, I asked Lia; one and all claimed to be as ignorant as I.

Emerson, who had outstripped the rest of us, was on the veranda, pacing up and down. “Perfect timing,” he announced. “Here they come.”

Looking out, I beheld an extraordinary caravan heading toward the house. A string of carts drawn by donkeys and mules, two camels carrying heavy loads, and several dozen men, chanting and cavorting, were led by Selim, mounted on horseback.

The carts drew up in front of the house. They contained several huge packing cases. The men set about unloading them and the donkeys. Emerson rushed out. “Is it all here, Selim?”

“We will soon see, Emerson.” Selim brandished a crowbar. Emerson snatched it from him and began prying at the largest of the wooden cases.

The hideous truth began to dawn. “Oh, good Gad,” I said in a hollow voice. “It cannot be.”

Under Emerson’s vigorous assault the top of the case lifted and the sides fell, disclosing a metal framework. At first glance it bore little resemblance to the object I had expected and feared to see, for many of the parts were missing. I knew what they were, and where they were—in the other packing cases, which the men, under Selim’s direction, were prying apart. One by one they appeared—the metallic shapes of the bonnet and fenders, four large wheels, and a number of other objects I could not identify.

We had owned several motorcars. My primary objection to the cursed things was that Emerson insisted on driving them himself. When we were at our English home, in Kent, the local population soon learned to clear off the roads when Emerson was on them; in the crowded streets of Cairo, motoring with Emerson took a good deal of getting used to. They were fairly common in the city by now, and during the war the military had built roads in other areas, but when we moved to Luxor for an indefinite stay I had managed to persuade my husband to sell the vehicle, pointing out that its utility in the Luxor area was limited.

Emerson had quite an audience by then—ourselves, including Walter, our workmen, the porters, and half the population of Gurneh. Some squatted on the ground to watch, others pushed and shoved to get a better view; there was a positive whirlpool of fluttering robes.

When I finally found my voice I had to raise it to a scream in order to be heard over the hubbub. Emerson, kneeling beside the mechanism, pretended not to hear, but on the third emphatic repetition of his name he decided he might as well face the music. Rising, he approached me, extending a hand stained black with grease.

“Come and have a look, my dear,” he said. “Everything seems to be in working order, but of course we cannot be certain until we get it back together. Ramses, would you care to lend a hand? You and I and Selim—and David . . . Where is he? I sent someone to the Castle to fetch him.”

“He’ll be along shortly, I expect,” Ramses said, with an apprehensive glance at me. “Father, wouldn’t it be advisable to clear away the remains of the packing materials first? Someone is going to step on a nail or run a splinter into his foot.”

“Excellent idea,” exclaimed Emerson.

“You are going to put it back together here—on the spot?” I cried in poignant accents. “Smack in front of the house? Why did you take it apart in the first place? That’s what you were doing that day in Cairo! Why, Emerson? Why?”

“It seemed the quickest way of getting it here undamaged,” Emerson explained disingenuously. He wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a long black streak. “It was supposed to be on yesterday’s train, but apparently they could not find the space. Selim most efficiently supervised the unloading and got the cases onto the ferry, and found these obliging fellows—”

“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it! What possible use can you have for a motorcar here? There are no proper roads!”

“Good Gad, Peabody, we motored clear across the Sinai and through the wadis in a vehicle like this one. The roads are much improved since the war.” He then proceeded to contradict himself by adding, “The Light Car Patrols, which did such a splendid job against the Senussi, are being disbanded, and nobody in the military gives a curse about maintaining the desert roads. That is how I was able to get my hands on this vehicle. It is an improved model of the Ford Light Car—”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

Emerson can only be intimidated up to a point. He drew himself up, glared at me, and rubbed the cleft in his chin, leaving additional black streaks. “I suppose a fellow can purchase a motorcar if he likes.”

I knew I had lost the argument. It had been lost, in fact, the moment the confounded thing arrived. Moreover, every male person in the vicinity was clearly on Emerson’s side; Ramses had abandoned me and was helping Selim sort bolts and nuts and other undefined bits, and Walter had removed his coat and was rolling up his sleeves. Additional reinforcements were about to arrive. One of the approaching horses was David’s mare Asfur. There were two other riders—Cyrus and Bertie, I presumed. Evelyn and Katherine had resisted the lure of the motorcar.

Nefret put her arm round me. “Come in and have a cup of tea, Mother.”

“We may as well,” Lia said. “They’ll be playing with the car for the rest of the day.”

Fatima had not ventured to come out; clutching the bars, she stared at the vehicle as if it were a large, dangerous animal. At my request she rushed off to brew tea and we three females sat down to watch the proceedings.

“Thank goodness Gargery isn’t here,” I said. “He’d want to pitch in too. I hope they can get the confounded thing together and drive it into the stable before the children join us for tea.”

“It doesn’t seem likely,” remarked Lia. David had not even greeted her. Except for Cyrus, who was watching from a safe distance, the men had stripped to the waist and were waving their arms and arguing. The porters dashed about gathering up the debris; every scrap of wood, every nail would be of use to them.

“They will waste a good deal of time arguing about what to do and who is to do it,” I remarked. “A woman’s clear head is what is needed, but we may as well leave them to go about it in their own disorganized way. Ah, thank you, Fatima. Join us, if you like; it should be amusing.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

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For once, Emerson’s consuming passion for excavation yielded to an even greater passion. A man of iron discipline, he went out to the dig every morning—dragging most of them with him—but he could hardly wait to get back to his new toy. Emerson’s reasons for dismembering it made a certain amount of sense—manhandling an entire motorcar onto and off of a flatcar had certain built-in risks, given the makeshift methods the Egyptians employed—but Ramses suspected his father had done it partly because he wanted the fun of taking it apart and putting it back together. He didn’t even object to the audience that collected every afternoon. Few Luxor men had ever seen a motorcar. They sat round in a circle, round-eyed and breathless, watching every move Emerson and Selim made. After the first afternoon Ramses and David became part of the audience, since they weren’t allowed to do anything. Naturally, a number of essential bolts and nuts had gone missing. Selim managed to find replacements. You could find almost anything in Egypt, or, if necessary, find someone to make it. Selim was an expert mechanic, but the process took a lot longer than it ought to have done, with Emerson “helping.”