He Shall Thunder in the Sky (12 page)

     “Let us not proceed precipitately,” I said to Nefret, neatly blocking her attempt to get round the table and past me.

     “Someone may be hurt!”

     “If you go rushing into that melee, it will be you. Stay with me.”

     Taking her arm in one hand and my parasol in the other, I pushed through the agitated ladies who huddled together at the top of the stairs. The street was a scene of utter chaos. Vehicular and four-footed traffic had halted; some vehicles were trying to turn and retreat, others attempted to press forward. People were running in all directions, away from and toward the spot. The fleeing forms were almost all Egyptians; I fended a wild-eyed flower vendor off with a shrewd thrust of my parasol, and drew Nefret out of the path of a portly turbaned individual who spat at us as he trotted past.

     By the time we reached the scene the crowd had dispersed. Ramses and Emerson remained, along with several officers, including Percy. The Egyptians had vanished, except for two prisoners who struggled in the grip of their captors, and a third man who lay crumpled on the ground. Standing over him was a tall, rangy fellow wearing the uniform of an Australian regiment.

     “Excuse me,” Nefret said. The Australian moved automatically out of her way, but when she knelt beside the fallen man he reached for her, exclaiming, “Ma’am — miss — here, miss, you can’t do that!”

     Ramses put out a casual hand, and the young man’s arm flew up into the air.

     “Keep your hands off the lady,” Percy ordered. “She is a qualified physician, and a member of one of this city’s most distinguished families.”

     “Oh? Oh.” The young man rubbed his arm. Colonials are not so easily intimidated, however; looking from Ramses to Percy, he said, “If she’s a friend of yours,
you
get her away from here. This is no place for a lady.” He transferred his critical stare to me. “Any lady. Is this one a friend of yours too?”

     Percy squared his shoulders. “I would claim that honor if I dared. You may go, Sergeant; you are not needed.”

     Reminded thus of their relative ranks, the young man snapped off a crisp salute and backed away.

     “What’s the damage, Nefret?” Emerson inquired, studiously ignoring Percy.

     “Broken arm, ribs, possible concussion.” She looked up. The brim of her flower-trimmed hat framed her prettily flushed face. The flush was due to anger, as she proceeded to demonstrate. “How many of you
gentlemen
kicked him after he was down?”

     “It was necessary to subdue the fellow,” Percy said quietly. “He was about to throw a second grenade onto the terrace of Shepheard’s.”

     “Dear me,” I said. “What happened to it?”

     Too late, I remembered I had sworn never to speak to Percy again. With a smile that showed me
he
had not forgotten, he removed his hand carefully from his pocket.

     “Here. Don’t worry, Aunt Amelia, I got it away from him before he had removed the pin.”

     Nefret refused to leave her patient until an ambulance arrived. He was still unconscious when they put him into it. By that time the police were on the scene and the soldiers had dispersed. Percy had been the first to leave, without speaking to any of us again.

     Emerson helped Nefret to her feet. Her pretty frock was in a deplorable state; Cairo streets are covered with a number of noxious substances, of which dust is the least offensive. Ramses inspected her critically and suggested we take her straight home.

     “Shall I drive, Father?”

     Emerson said no, of course, so the young people got in the tonneau and I took my place beside my husband. At my request he drove more slowly than usual, so that we could converse.

     “Did Percy really snatch a live grenade from the hand of a terrorist?” I inquired.

     “Don’t know,” said Emerson, pounding on the horn. A bicylist wobbled frantically out of our way and Emerson went on, “When I arrived, a pleasant little skirmish was already in process. Ramses — who was slightly in advance of me — and Percy were fending off the presumed anarchist and a mob of his supporters armed with sticks and bricks. Most of them dropped their weapons and scampered off when our reinforcement arrived, although, . . .” Emerson coughed modestly.

     “The scampering began as soon as they recognized you,” I suggested. “Well, my dear, that is not surprising. What is surprising is that the leader had grenades, and the others only sticks and stones.”

     “I don’t believe the others were involved,” Emerson said. “They pitched in out of sympathy when they saw an Egyptian attacked by soldiers. It was a singularly amateurish attempt; the first grenade only blew a hole in the pavement and wounded a donkey.” He turned his head and shouted, “Did you recognize the fellow, Ramses?”

     “No, sir. Sir — that cab —”

     Emerson yanked at the brake. “Nor did I. He looked like a harmless tradesman. A more important question is where he obtained modern weapons.”

     “The police will undoubtedly wring the answer from him,” I said grimly.

     “Don’t be melodramatic, Peabody. This isn’t the Egypt we once knew; even in the provinces the kurbash has been outlawed and torture forbidden.”

     Emerson swerved wildly around a camel. Camels do not yield the right of way to anyone, even Emerson. I clutched at my hat and uttered a mild remonstrance.

     “It was the fault of the camel,” said Emerson. “All right back there, Nefret?”

     “Yes, Professor.”

     It was the only sentence either of the children had uttered, nor did they speak during the rest of the drive. Emerson said only one thing more. “All the same, Peabody, someone had better find out how that fellow laid his hands on those grenades. Where there are two, there may be more.”

From Manuscript H

     I must be getting old, Ramses thought. It’s becoming more difficult to remember, from one encounter to the next, precisely who I’m supposed to be.

     A glance in the long mirror next to the divan where he sat reassured him: gray hair, lined face, fez, a flashy stickpin, and hands loaded with rings. There were a lot of mirrors in the room, not to mention beaded hangings, soft cushions, and furniture so heavily gilded it glowed even in the dim light. In the distance, muffled by the heavy velvet hangings over windows and doors, he heard women’s voices raised in laughter, and the thump of music. The air was close and hot and heavy with a musky perfume.

     Invisible hands drew the hangings aside and a figure entered. It was draped in filmy white fabric that fluttered as it waddled toward him. Ramses remained seated. The precise etiquette would have been difficult to determine, but whatever else el-Gharbi might be, he was not a woman. He was, however, in absolute control of the brothels in el Was’a.

     The huge figure settled itself onto the divan next to Ramses, who wrinkled his nose involuntarily as a wave of patchouli wafted round him. El-Gharbi didn’t miss much. His round black face broadened in amusement.

     “My perfume offends you? It is very rare and expensive.”

     “Tastes differ,” said Ramses, in his own voice. El-Gharbi knew who he was. The disguise was only a precaution, in case he was seen entering the place.

     He waited with the patience he had acquired through long experience in Egypt while the formal litanies of greeting were exchanged. May God grant you a good evening; how is your health? God bless you; and finally a courteous and conventional, My house is your house.

     “Beiti beitak, Brother of Demons. I never thought I would have the honor of entertaining you here.”

     “You know I didn’t come here for entertainment,” Ramses said. “If I had the power to do so I’d put you out of business.”

     Gargantuan laughter shook the divan. “I admire an honest man. Your sentiments, and those of the other members of your family, are well known to me. But my dear young friend, putting me out of business would only worsen the conditions to which you object. I am a humane employer.”

     Ramses couldn’t deny it. Why were moral questions so often cloudy, with no clear-cut right and wrong? The right thing, the only right thing, would be the complete elimination of the filthy trade; but given the fact that it existed and probably always would, the unfortunates, male and female, who plied it were better off with el-Gharbi than they had been with some of his perverted predecessors. “Better than some,” Ramses admitted grudgingly.

     “Such as my former rival Kalaan.” The big man pursed his reddened lips and shook his head. “A disgusting sadist. I owe his removal to you, and I acknowledge the debt. That is why you came, wasn’t it, to ask a favor? I presume it concerns your cousin. We haven’t seen as much of him lately, though he does drop by now and then.”

     “His habits are no concern of mine,” Ramses said. “I came about another matter. You have heard, I suppose, about the incident outside Shepheard’s this afternoon?”

     “Incident! A pretty word! All Cairo knows of it. You aren’t suggesting I had a hand in that? My business is love, not war.”

     “Another pretty word for an ugly business. Where did he get the grenades? Who were his confederates?”

     “Since he died before he could speak, we will never know the answer. The other men denied complicity; it is believed they will soon be released.”

     “Died? When? He was alive when they took him to hospital.”

     “Less than an hour ago. Have I told you something you did not know?”

     “You haven’t told me what I want to know.”

     El-Gharbi sat like a grotesque statue, his eyes hooded. “He did not get the weapons from me. Certain . . . merchandise sometimes passes through my hands. I sell it in other markets. A man does not scatter poison in his own garden. I tell you this much because, to be honest, my dear, I don’t want you coming round and stirring up trouble. Not that it isn’t a pleasure just to look at you,” he added, simpering.

     Ramses laughed. “Most kind. Where did he get them, then?”

     “Well, dear boy, we all know there are German and Turkish agents in Cairo. However, I do not believe they would make use of a nobody like that fellow. So, that leaves only one likely source. It is not necessary to mention his name. I do not know his present whereabouts. He does not approve of me.” El-Gharbi folded his fat, ringed hands and sighed soulfully.

     “He wouldn’t, no. Can I believe you?”

     “In the matter of War — of his present whereabouts, yes. Frankly, I hope you catch him. Patriotism is a nuisance; it stirs up trouble. I don’t want trouble. It interferes with business.”

     “I do believe that. Well . . .” Ramses uncrossed his legs, preparatory to rising.

     “Wait. Don’t you want to know about your cousin?”

     “What makes you suppose I would ask about him?”

     “Two reasons. Either you wish revenge for his part in that . . . unfortunate affair a few years ago, or you have forgiven him for it and hope to save him from my vile influence.” With a rich, oily chuckle, he offered the box of cigarettes. “It is said in the city that he is trying to get back in the good graces of you and your family.”

     Ramses selected a cigarette and took his time lighting it while he considered this remarkable speech. He felt as if he were engaged in a verbal chess game with someone whose skill was far beyond his own. How much did el-Gharbi know about that “unfortunate affair”? The girl Percy had abused and got with child had not been one of his stable, but the identity of Sennia’s father was probably known to every prostitute and procurer in the Red Blind District. The rest of the story, and Percy’s part in it, was not common knowledge. And yet el-Gharbi had spoken of revenge . . .

     Ramses looked up to meet a pair of hard brown eyes, the lashes darkened, the lids outlined with kohl. “Don’t be deceived,” the procurer said, his lips barely moving. “When he is drunk on brandy, he boasts of what he did. Are you aware that your first meeting with the child was no accident? That it was he who arranged it — who taught her to call you Father — who paid Kalaan to bring her and her mother to your house in order to shame you before your parents and the woman you loved? Ah. I see you are aware of that. But do you know that he had told a certain honorable gentleman who also loved the lady of what he planned to do? It was because of your cousin that the gentleman was waiting for her when she fled the house that day; he comforted her, confirmed the lies that had been told about you, and persuaded her to marry him with the promise that he would make
no demands
on her and would set her free if and when she wished. He had made her believe he was ill and might not live many months. An unconvincing story, to be sure, but I am told she is impetuous by nature.”

     “We will not speak of her.”

     El-Gharbi clapped his ringed hands over his painted mouth, like a child who has talked out of turn. His eyes were bright with malicious amusement. “So finally I have told you something you did not know. Why does he hate you so much?”

     Ramses shook his head. El-Gharbi’s latest disclosure had left him stunned; he was afraid to speak for fear he would say more than he ought.

     “Very well,” the procurer said. “You walk among naked daggers, Brother of Demons. Be on your guard. Your cousin has even fewer scruples than I.”

     He clapped his hands. The draperies covering the door were drawn aside by a servant. The interview was over. Ramses got to his feet. “Thank you for the warning. I can’t help wondering . . .”

     “Why I take the trouble to warn you? Because I hope you will spare
me
trouble. And because you are honest and young and very beautiful.”

     Ramses raised shaggy gray eyebrows and the grotesque figure shook with silent laughter. “These eyes of mine see below the surface, Brother of Demons. Now go with Musa; he will show you to a less public entrance than the one you used. I trust your discretion as you must trust mine. Allah yisallimak. You will need his protection, I think.”

     Ramses followed the silent servant along the dimly lit passages. His brain felt numbed as he struggled to assimilate the information el-Gharbi had flung at him like a series of missiles. For years he had agonized over that hasty marriage of Nefret’s, dismissing his suspicions of Percy’s involvement as wishful thinking and wounded vanity, and, worse than vanity, the fear that she had given herself to him that night out of pity, after he had finally betrayed his love and his need of her. Nefret did nothing by halves; affection and compassion and the wholehearted generosity that were so much part of her would have produced a convincing imitation of ardor, even to a man who had not wanted her as desperately as he had done.