Lion in the Valley (10 page)

Modest
though my hopes were, I felt a distinct sense of depression when we reached our
destination. It was
on the outskirts of the village, on the
west side, nearest the desert. A mudbrick wall enclosed a courtyard of beaten
earth. Within the compound were several structures, some no more than one-room
huts or sheds. One was a house, to use that word loosely. It was built of the
ubiquitous unbaked brick coated with mud plaster, and was only one story high;
on the flat roof were some miscellaneous shapes that might have been rotted
screens. Some hasty efforts at repairing the crumbling walls had been made, and
that recently; the rough plaster patches were still damp.

Abdullah
had drawn ahead of me. When I dismounted he was deep in conversation with
Emerson, and he pretended not to see me until I tapped him on the shoulder.

"Ah,
sitt, you are here," he exclaimed, as if he had expected I would be lost
on the way. ' 'It is a fine house, you see. I have had all the rooms
swept."

I
did not reproach him. He had done his best, according to his lights; Emerson
would have done no better.

I
had come prepared. Rolling up my sleeves, literally, I put everyone to work.
Water was fetched from the well—its proximity was, I admit, a point in favor of
the location—and some of the men began mixing more plaster, while others
sprinkled the interior of the house with disinfectant. (Keating's powder, I
have discovered, is one of the most effective.) The house had four small rooms.
After one look at the high, narrow windows and floors of dirt, I decided
Emerson and I would sleep on the roof. The debris I had observed there was the
remains of plaited screens; once they were replaced, the flat surface would
serve as an extra chamber, as was often the case. I assigned two of the rooms
in the house to Ramses and Mr. Nemo. The latter's supercilious
smile
vanished when I handed him a broom.

By
evening the place was fit for human habitation. A quick visit to the village
market had procured the screens for the roof and a few other necessities. As
the day wore on, we had a constant stream of visitors offering
"presents" of food—eggs, milk, bread, chickens—for which we were, of
course, expected to pay. At dusk I ordered the stout wooden gates closed.
Naturally we were objects of curiosity to the village people, but we could not
have them wandering in and out, especially if we were fortunate enough to
discover valuable antiquities.

Thanks
to our location on the west of the village, we had a splendid view of the
pyramids from our doorstep, and when we settled down to our evening meal, we
saw them silhouetted against one of the glorious sunsets for which the region
is famous. We dined out-of-doors; though the smell of donkey was somewhat
pervasive, it was preferable to the even more pervasive odor of Keating's
powder that clung to the interior of the house.

Nemo
had accepted my invitation to dine with us, not so much because he enjoyed our
company as because the men had indicated they did not enjoy his. He refused a
chair; squatting on the ground with his dirty robes wadded under him, he ate
with his fingers and then wiped the grease off on his skirts. I felt sure he
did it to annoy me, so I said nothing.

Conversation
lagged at first. Emerson was preoccupied with the next day's work, Nemo was
determined not to be affable, and even I was a trifle weary. But Ramses was
never too tired to talk, and the monologue was his favorite form of discourse.
First he brought us up to date on the activities of the men. We heard all about
Selim's wedding and Abdul's divorce and Yusuf's twins and the three-headed goat
that had been born
in a neighboring village. (Such wonders
are always to be found in a
neighboring
village, and are known only
through
reliable
reports from people whom no one happens to know
personally.)

Moving
from the specific to the general, Ramses went on to summarize Abdullah's report
on the summer at Dahshoor. Though I do not as a rule encourage Ramses to talk,
I did not interrupt him on this occasion, since the exigencies of domesticity
had prevented me from hearing this news firsthand. We had expected there might
be trouble at the site of the excavations. During the previous season a gang of
professional thieves, under the direction of that desperate and enigmatic
person I have mentioned, had attempted to loot the tombs around the pyramids.
We had foiled their dastardly deed, but I feared they might be tempted to try
again during our absence, and there were the village amateurs to contend
with—if any tomb robber in Egypt can be said to be an amateur. The fellahin
have been at it for generations, clear back to the time of the pharaohs, and
many of them are more skilled at finding hidden tombs than are professional
archaeologists. Wretchedly poor, and lacking any national pride after centuries
of Turkish rule, they see no reason why they should not profit from the riches
of their ancestors.

However,
according to Abdullah, there had been no sign of illicit digging. He and his
sons had taken it in turn to guard the site, traveling back and forth from
their village south of Cairo.

As
Ramses meandered endlessly on, I noticed that Nemo was listening with an
interest the personal lives of the men had failed to inspire. I broke into
Ramses' discourse.

"You
appear intrigued, Mr. Nemo. You are not familiar with the prevalence of tomb
robbing in Egypt?"

"One
can hardly remain ignorant of the practice if one lives for any time in
Cairo," was the bland reply. "Every antiquities dealer in the city
sells such merchandise."

"Have
you never been tempted to join in the trade?"

Nemo
smiled insolently. "Digging requires effort, Mrs. Emerson. I am opposed to
physical effort. Forgery, now . . . There is a chap in the Sharia 'Kamel who
manufactures fake antiquities, and I have sold my share of imitation scarabs to
tourists who don't know better."

The
word "scarab" had roused Emerson from his meditations. Instead of
expressing outrage at this callous speech, he chuckled. "Don't try salting
this site, Nemo. You would not deceive me."

"I
have better sense than that, Professor."

"I
hope so. Er—speaking of the site, I think I might just take a stroll and
refresh my memory of—er—the site. Care to join me, Peabody?"

I
was sorely tempted for several reasons, not the least of which was Emerson's
meaningful smile. Before long the silvery globe of the moon would hang low
above the Libyan hills, and as our national poet Shakespeare so nicely puts it,
"such a night as this" was made for affectionate exchanges. However,
I knew I ought not to yield. Ramses would want to go with us, and I had no
excuse for refusing such a request, since it was still early; but if Ramses
went with us, there would be no point in our going. (If the Reader follows me,
which I am sure he or she does, assuming he or she has the slightest trace of
romantic sensibility.) Naturally I could not explain my reasoning aloud, so I
sought refuge in a (quite valid) excuse.

"How
can you suggest such a thing, Emerson, when we still have hours of work ahead
of us? There are
boxes to be unpacked, your notes to set in
order, my medicine chest to arrange—"

"Curse
it," said Emerson. "Oh, very well, I don't suppose you need me—"

"I
could certainly use—"

"In
that case, I will just run along. Ramses?"

"Thank
you, Papa. I was in hopes you would proffer the invitation and in fact I had
determined I would ask permission to accompany you if you did not see
fit—"

"I
did see fit," said Emerson. "Come, then."

Nemo
got to his feet. "You needn't come," Emerson said amiably. "I
can watch after Ramses."

"I
would much rather—" Nemo began.

"I
require your assistance," I said.

"But,
Professor—"

"No,
no, young man, I don't need you and Mrs. Emerson does. Duty before pleasure,
you know, duty before pleasure."

Nemo
sank down again, glowering. I waited until Emerson and Ramses had left before I
spoke. "I believe I would like a whiskey," I said musingly.
"Will you join me, Mr. Nemo?"

Nemo
gaped at me. "I beg your pardon, madam?"

"You
will find the bottle and the glasses on the table in the parlor. If you will be
so good as to fetch them..."

He
did as I asked, and watched curiously as I filled the glasses. "To Her
Majesty," I said, raising my glass. "God bless her."

"Uh—er—quite,"
said Mr. Nemo, raising his.

The
appetite of an opium eater is usually poor. He had eaten very little, and the
alcoholic beverage took effect quite rapidly. As I had hoped, the familiar
ritual, well loved by all loyal Englishmen (and women) also had a soothing
effect. Nemo took a chair instead of
squatting. "This is the first whiskey
I have had for— for many months," he said, half to himself.

"I
am a great believer in the medicinal effects of good whiskey," I
explained. "Particularly in the treatment of fatigue and minor nervous
disorders. Naturally I would never condone an excessive dependence on it, but
no reasonable person could possibly object to a civilized and moderate
application. As compared, for instance, to opium—"

Nemo
slumped forward, his head bowed. "I knew it," he muttered.
"Please spare me the lecture, Mrs. Emerson. You are wasting your time and
mine."

"We
have yet to discuss the terms of your employment, Mr. Nemo. You can hardly
suppose I would allow you to consume drugs of any kind while on duty. Watching
over Ramses requires every ounce of alertness and energy a man can summon
up."

The
young man's tousled head sank lower. "I have neither quality left."

"Nonsense.
You were alert enough the other evening; you can summon energy enough when it
is needed. I am not asking you to abandon your disgusting habit altogether, Mr.
Nemo, only to refrain from it at such times when you are responsible for
Ramses. Is that too much to ask?"

Nemo
did not reply, but I thought I detected a stiffening of his form. I went on
persuasively, "I will give you one day a week to yourself. That is
excessively generous, but generosity is a favorite virtue of mine. Sink
yourself in a degrading stupor on that day, if you must, but remain alert the
rest of the time. I will be happy to dispense a reasonable quantity of whiskey
whenever—''

I
broke off, for his bent shoulders were heaving convulsively and sounds like
muffled sobs escaped from his
lips. I had touched some tender chord; I
had roused some forgotten spark of manhood! He had not fallen so low as I had
feared. He might yet be redeemed, not only from his loathsome habit but from
the despicable toils of the Master Criminal. What a triumph that would be!

Nemo
sat up straight and raised his head. The rays of the setting sun cast his
features in sharp outline and glittered off the tears that streaked his cheeks.
"Mrs. Emerson ..." But he could not master his emotion; his voice
failed, and his chest heaved with sighs he could not restrain.

"I
understand, Mr. Nemo. Say no more. Or rather, say only that you will try."

He
nodded speechlessly.

"Would
you care for another whiskey?" I asked, reaching for the bottle.

The
kindly gesture was too much for the young man. With a broken cry he rose and
fled into the house.

I
had another small whiskey. I felt I deserved it. The interview had gone much
better than I had expected. In judging the young man I had forgotten to take
into account the well-known habits of master criminals. Their evil webs snare
rich and poor, guilty and innocent in their tangled strands (as I had once put
it, rather neatly, in my opinion). In the case of young Mr. Nemo, some
relatively harmless escapade might have rendered him vulnerable to blackmail
and enabled the M.C. (if I may be permitted to use that more convenient
abbreviation) to entwine him in his toils. Perhaps he (Mr. Nemo) yearned to
free himself and return to decent society.

Lost
in such delightful thoughts, I sat musing until the sudden night of Egypt
eclipsed the dying sun and the moonlight crept crepuscularly across the
courtyard. Lamplight and the sound of laughing voices issued from the hut in
which our men had taken up their abode.

Reluctantly
I rose to return to the duties I had mentioned.

I
had selected the larger of the two front rooms to serve as our sitting room and
office. Our camp chairs and little stove had been set up, and a few oriental
rugs on the floor added a colorful note; but there were still half a dozen
boxes to be unpacked. I set to work arranging my medical supplies, for I knew
the first light of dawn would bring the usual pathetic sufferers to our door.
Doctors, much less hospitals, were almost unknown outside of the large cities,
and the villagers naively assumed all Europeans were physicians. In my case, at
any rate, their hopes were not disappointed.

Ramses
and Emerson finally came in, both wanting to tell me about the site. I cut
their raptures short, for there was really no sense to be got out of them, and
sent Ramses to bed. The cat Bastet seemed disinclined to join him, but when
Ramses lifted her off the packing case she was sniffing and carried her away,
she did not resist.