Children of the Storm (9 page)

“Good God, it’s Rashad,” Ramses exclaimed. “The last I heard he was in prison.”

The speaker caught sight of him at the same moment and broke off in mid-sentence. His blazing eyes moved from Ramses to Emerson, both of whom were conspicuous because of their height. I took a firmer grip on my parasol.

Rashad bared his teeth and pointed a quivering forefinger at Ramses, but before he could speak, one of the bystanders cried, “It is the Father of Curses and his son, and the Sitt Hakim his wife, and the Light of Egypt. Welcome! Have you come to speak for us and for our cause?”

“Certainly,” Emerson shouted over the chorus of greeting.

“Not now, Emerson!” I took a firm grip of his arm.

“Well, perhaps not,” Emerson conceded. He raised his voice to the pitch that has, together with his command of bad language, given him his Egyptian nickname. “Disperse, my friends, and take Rashad with you. The police are coming.”

A troop of mounted men clattered toward the scene, led, as was customary, by a British officer. As Rashad ran off, he twisted his head round to look at us over his shoulder. His lips moved. It was as well we could not hear the words, for his scowling face suggested he did not share the friendly attitude of his followers. By the time the squad of police arrived, they were all gone.

Perhaps it would be in order for me to remind my less well-informed Readers (a small minority, but nonetheless worthy of consideration) of the historical background in order to explain why a British officer was in command of Egyptian troops, and why Cairo seethed with the spirit of revolt. Though it was formally a province of the Ottoman Empire, Egypt had effectively been under British control since the middle of the nineteenth century. In 1914 it was declared a British protectorate, under military occupation, when the Turks were threatening the Suez Canal and it was feared that Egyptians would support their fellow Muslims against an occupying power they had always resented. These fears had not materialized, except for a single abortive attempt at an insurrection in Cairo. Maternal pride compels me to add that it was aborted by Ramses, who had taken on the role of a radical nationalist leader named Wardani in order to intercept the weapons sent by Turkey to Wardani’s group. Had it not been for his efforts, and the equally perilous part played by David, the Canal might well have fallen to the enemy.

But as I was saying . . . What Egypt wanted was independence, from Britain, Turkey, or any other nation. Once the war ended, the demands of Egyptian Nationalists intensified.

Britain’s response had not been well-thought-out. One bad mistake had been the exiling of Nationalist leader Zaghlul Pasha. A tall, impressive-looking man, he was a splendid orator and much beloved by the Egyptian people. When the news of his summary deportation became known, rioting and demonstrations broke out all over Egypt. Though we were of course deeply distressed by the violence, the uprising in Upper Egypt earlier that year had not affected us personally. Our Egyptian friends were too sensible to engage in such a futile, uncivilized procedure, and naturally no one would have dared inconvenience the Father of Curses and his family.

The rebellion was put down by force. Zaghlul Pasha was released and went off to Paris, where the Peace Conference of the Allies was meeting to decide the fate of conquered and occupied territories. Zaghlul’s demands were ignored. The British government insisted that the protectorate must be maintained. As a result, disaffection continued to smolder, isolated acts of violence against foreigners still occurred, and orators like Rashad stirred the populace up. Britain had agreed to send out a high-level commission of inquiry under Lord Milner, the colonial secretary, but few people believed that its report would bring about the changes Egypt demanded.

“There’s another complication,” Ramses said, as we mounted the stairs to the terrace.

“No, why should there be?” demanded Emerson. “Kamil el Wardani may hold a grudge against you and David, but he is out of the picture, Zaghlul Pasha is the accepted leader of the independence movement. Has Rashad changed allegiance?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I declared. “We have enough to worry about without becoming revolutionaries, and we must at all costs prevent David from becoming involved with that lot again. Emerson, I strictly forbid you to climb on soapboxes and orate.”

“They don’t use soapboxes,” Emerson said mildly.

I looked from his smiling, self-satisfied countenance to the hooded eyes of my son, and a strong foreboding—of a sort to which I am only too accustomed—came over me. Sympathy for the rights of the Egyptian people was one thing, and we had always been of that mind. Rioting and instigating riots was something else again.

Our rooms on the third floor of Shepheard’s were a home away from home; for more years than I care to admit we had dwelled there at least once each season. The suite had two bedrooms, one on either side of a well-appointed sitting room, and two baths. Before she and Ramses were wed, Nefret had occupied the second bedchamber, with Ramses in an adjoining (but I assure you, Reader, not connected) room.

Emerson went at once to the balcony of the sitting room, and stood gazing sentimentally out across the roofs and minarets of Cairo. He invited me to join him. I was itching to unpack but I could not refuse; how many times had we stood on that same balcony, on that precise spot, in fact, reveling in our return to the land we loved, and anticipating a busy season of excavation. How long ago it seemed, and yet how recent!

Having allowed Emerson (and myself) a few moments of nostalgia, I brought his mind back to the present.

“If the boat is on time, our loved ones will be here tomorrow evening, Emerson. That gives us only a little over twenty-four hours in which to complete our investigations.”

“What investigations?” Emerson demanded. “If you are thinking of pursuing your favorite sport of badgering the antiquities dealers, dismiss the idea. It would be a waste of time. Martinelli will not dispose of his loot through the usual channels.”

“So you can read his mind, can you?”

“Curse it, Peabody—”

“What is the harm of a visit to the suk? I must do a bit of shopping, in the course of which a few innocent inquiries may produce useful information.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson.

When the children joined us for luncheon, Nefret readily agreed to my suggestion, though, like Emerson, she was of the opinion that we were not likely to learn anything about the stolen jewelry. “I need to buy things for the twins,” she said. “They are growing like weeds and they are very hard on their clothes.”

Ramses and his father exchanged conspiratorial glances. They were trying to come up with excuses for not accompanying us. I didn’t want them along anyhow; Emerson always stood by shuffling his feet and grumbling under his breath, and Ramses always wore an expression of exaggerated patience which was even more trying.

“You needn’t come,” I said. “Nefret and I will shop for the twins and for other boring necessities such as sheets and pillowcases, which you seem to believe appear out of thin air. Shall we go, Nefret? Emerson, I expect you and Ramses to behave yourselves. No hobnobbing with thieves and spies, no orating.”

“The same to you,” Emerson grunted.

“Take your parasol,” Ramses added.

I did, of course. My parasols have become the stuff of legend in Egypt. They were no longer fashionable but I always carried one since I had found them to be invaluable, serving as sunshade or walking stick, and sometimes as a defensive weapon. A good hard whack over the head or across the shins will bring down most assailants, and mine were specially made, with a heavy steel shaft and—in one case—a concealed sword. Thanks to Daoud’s preposterous stories, superstitious persons had become convinced that the parasols had additional magical powers. In some quarters the mere sight of that deadly object was enough to bring a miscreant to his knees. Since I had no reason to fear danger, the one I carried that day was not one of the heavy black instruments, but a delicate saffron in color to match my frock.

Nefret and I had a successful shopping trip. I do not enjoy buying bed linens any more than certain other people do, but when a task is necessary I complete it efficiently and thoroughly. Purchasing little garments for the twins provided greater pleasure, though Nefret firmly vetoed most of the frilly frocks and miniature coats and trousers I would have selected. She was undoubtedly correct; even Fatima had balked at ironing the dozens of frocks Charla got through in the course of a week.

After taking tea at Groppi’s, we returned to the hotel to find that the merchandise we had ordered had been sent on. The suffragi had placed all the parcels in the sitting room, and we were going through them to make certain all was in order when Ramses returned.

“Did you get everything you wanted?” he asked, taking a chair.

“Yes, my dear, thank you for your interest,” I replied. “Where is your father?”

“Isn’t he back yet?”

“No, he is not. I thought you two were going somewhere together.”

“Were we supposed to?”

“Stop that,” I ordered. Shopping does leave one weary (which is one of the reasons why men make women do it) and Ramses’s habit of answering questions with additional questions was, I did not doubt, designed to tease.

“Yes, Mother. Father went off on some errand of his own; he declined my offer to accompany him, nor did he mention what it was.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “And what did you do?”

Ramses’s amused smile faded. There was no way he could avoid a direct answer this time. “I called on Rashad.”

Nefret dropped the little shoe she was inspecting. “Not alone!” she exclaimed.

“Except for several hundred tourists, vendors, merchants, and miscellaneous citizens of Cairo,” said Ramses. “I thought he might have the same rooms he occupied several years ago, when I crawled through his window from the back of a camel. Such proved to be the case. He wasn’t at home, though.”

“Why did you want to see him?” I asked.

Ramses leaned back and lit a cigarette. “I wanted to know why he has come back to Cairo and where his former leader has got to. If Wardani is planning some new stunt, he may try to recruit David again.”

“But surely he knows that David betrayed him once before,” I said uneasily. “He wouldn’t be likely to trust him again, would he?”

“One never knows,” Ramses replied. “Wardani is a pragmatist. If he believed David could be useful, he might be willing to overlook past indiscretions.”

“We cannot permit that,” I said. “However, I see no point in anticipating trouble. Have you had tea, my dear? Nefret and I took tea at Groppi’s, but I will send the suffragi to bring it if you would like.”

“Thank you, I’ll wait for Father.”

We had to wait some time. Emerson finally turned up, in an unusual state of dishevelment even for him. He had not had a hat to begin with—he lost them so often that I no longer insisted on his wearing one—and his hair was standing on end. His tie was undone, his coat open, and his shirt streaked with some dark oily substance.

“Good heavens, what have you been up to?” I inquired. “That looks like oil. Did you fall?”

“What?” Emerson glanced down at his chest. “Oil? Fall? No. Yes. Another shirt ruined, eh, my dear?”

He laughed, loudly and unconvincingly.

“Would you like tea, Emerson?” I asked.

“No, no, let’s go and dine in the suk, eh?”

I had planned to dine at Shepheard’s in the expectation of encountering acquaintances and catching up on the news, but I did not mind making this small concession to marital accord. Emerson dislikes elegant hotels, formal attire, and most of my acquaintances. So we assumed garments suitable for the littered alleyways and grimy buildings of the Khan el Khalili, and I changed parasols.

“Not your sword parasol!” Emerson protested. “Don’t tell me you are having one of your premonitions, Peabody, for I won’t stand for it.”

“Nothing of the sort, my dear. Just a general precaution.”

A return to the Khan el Khalili was a trip into the past. The few small changes had not altered the general character of the place—an Aladdin’s cave of shining brass lamps and mother-of-pearl inlaid tables, carpets like woven gardens of flowers, fine leather sandals and silver bangles. Greetings showered us and Emerson’s countenance brightened, even when Nefret or I delayed to examine a jewel or a length of gold-woven brocade from Damascus. He even went so far as to permit me to call on several of the antiquities dealers, including our old acquaintance Aslimi. Aslimi was not glad to see us, but then he never was. Emerson made him extremely nervous. I beheld no unusual degree of nervousness or sign of guilt, however. Nor was there any response from him or the other dealers to the only question we dared ask: “Anything of interest?”

“I hope you are satisfied, Peabody,” said Emerson, as we strolled on.

“I am not at all satisfied, Emerson. If Martinelli did not dispose of his loot in Luxor or with any of the Cairo dealers, what did he do with it?”

“Sold it to a private buyer, of course,” Emerson said impatiently. “Now may we dine? Where?”

“It had better be Bassam’s,” Nefret said. “If we go elsewhere and he learns of it—which he will—he will be cut to the quick.”

Emerson snorted at her tender consideration for Bassam’s feelings, but since it was his favorite restaurant he made no objection. Bassam came running to greet us, his bare forearms shining with perspiration, for he was cook as well as proprietor. He was not at all surprised to see us. He had heard of our arrival, and of our presence in the Khan; where else would we dine but with him?

“So,” said Emerson, studying Bassam’s apron—the closest thing to a menu the establishment provided. “Since you expected us, you have no doubt prepared one of those delicacies you keep promising—ostrich, or antelope.”

He hadn’t. The offers were only generalized and extravagant gestures of goodwill, which he knew would never be accepted.

Bassam liked to advertise our presence, so our table was, as usual, near the open doorway. This was mildly annoying, since passersby paused to greet us and an occasional beggar summoned up courage enough to risk Bassam’s wrath by asking for baksheesh. He ran most of them off that evening, but after the meal, while we were enjoying Bassam’s excellent coffee, a ragged man took advantage of his temporary absence to sidle up to Ramses, his hands moving eloquently in appeal. Ramses handed over a few coins—and got in return a folded paper. After performing this maneuver, which had been done with deft, sleight-of-hand skill, the beggar retreated out the door.