Sphinx (18 page)

‘The Brambillas . . . well, I’m afraid, your wife’s estate was not worth very much. I hear Cecilia was at the funeral?’

I nodded. Encouraged, he continued.

‘An exquisite woman. We all wanted her, you know, but Paolo was the only one who was not too intimidated to propose. He was frightened of nothing - except his father Giovanni, I suppose. An eccentric man but dangerous too.’ He swung around, clutching the box file to his chest. ‘Here we have it . . . Signora Isabella’s will.’ Popnilogolos sat down behind the desk and sighed ponderously. ‘Such a tragedy - appalling. The strange thing is, your wife came to see me only a week before her death. At the time I thought it bizarre: usually clients think about making their wills when they are somewhat older, not in their twenties and bursting with health.’ He looked up at me and must have caught the look that passed over my face. I knew that Isabella had taken the prediction seriously but I was shocked at the extent to which she’d gone to prepare. He continued without further hesitation. ‘Of course, I was happy to oblige, and her foresight was fortunate. You do realise Giovanni Brambilla left his house to his granddaughter upon his death? Which - technically, at least - made Isabella her grandmother’s landlady. And now possibly yourself. Fascinating.’ He smiled; leaving me with the distinct impression that the lawyer was indulging in a little
schadenfreude
. Before I had a chance to question this surprising information we heard his secretary welcoming another visitor.

‘Speak of the devil,’ the lawyer said, with a wink, and stood to open the door.

Francesca Brambilla settled into a chair where she sat stiffly upright, clutching her crocodile-skin handbag as if it were a barricade in a storm.

‘Are you comfortable, Madame?’ the lawyer enquired.

‘As comfortable as possible, given the unnatural circumstances. It really should be my will you are reading, not my granddaughter’s,’ she snapped back.

I tried to catch her eye but she barely acknowledged my presence.

‘Indeed, life is tragically unpredictable - as we Alexandrians know too well,’ Popnilogolos responded smoothly. He turned to me. ‘Monsieur Warnock?’

‘You may proceed.’

He cleared his throat and began reading: ‘I, Isabella Francesca Maria Brambilla, bequeath all of my estate, including the Brambilla Villa, my books, research and collection of artefacts, to my husband, Oliver Patrick Warnock. To my grandmother I leave the jewellery I inherited at the time of my father’s death. Dated 7 May 1977.’

The two of us waited; I sensed we were both expecting something more conclusive - some kind of absolution, even.

‘Is that it?’ I asked finally.

The lawyer nodded, then turned to Francesca. ‘You do realise what this means, Madame Brambilla?’

Francesca’s hand shook as she grasped the ivory head of her cane. ‘This will was written seven days before her death?’

Mr Popnilogolos smiled weakly. ‘Perhaps Madame Warnock had a premonition?’

The old woman swung around to me. ‘Has this got anything to do with you?’

‘I promise you, Francesca, I had no idea that she’d made this will. Nor that Giovanni had left the house to her.’

A difficult silence settled over the room like dust. Francesca’s deep voice stirred it up as she finally spoke.

‘My husband and I had a disagreement towards the end of his life. There were aspects of his behaviour that I did not approve of. Rewriting his will was Giovanni’s way of punishing me. I don’t think he ever imagined that Isabella would die before me.’ She turned back to me. ‘Does this mean you wish me to move out of the villa? You are the new owner, apparently.’

‘So it appears.’

Watching her discomfort, it occurred to me that there was a way of taking advantage of the situation.

‘Mr Popnilogolos, would you give us a few minutes of privacy? ’ I asked.

‘Certainly.’ After a short bow, the lawyer stepped outside.

‘I’m happy to allow you to stay on in the villa on one condition, ’ I told Francesca.

She narrowed her eyes angrily. ‘Which is?’

‘You tell me the truth about what happened to Isabella’s body. Why was she buried without her heart?’

The elderly woman’s cane fell with a clatter to the parquet floor. ‘She had no heart?’

‘No heart, no internal organs.’

Francesca seemed shocked but, at the same time, not completely surprised. As I watched, another expression - one of realisation - swept across her fine wrinkled features.

I picked up the dropped cane. ‘You know something, don’t you, Francesca? What is it? You must tell me.’

‘I know nothing,’ she replied tersely. ‘I am as horrified as you.’

Clutching the arms of the chair, she rose to her feet. ‘If you wish to evict me, I would appreciate at least twenty-four hours’ notice.’

And without another word, she opened the door, pushed past the lawyer waiting outside and left.

 

I walked down towards Mohammed Ali Square, where the Bourse, Alexandria’s cotton and stock exchange, had once stood. It had existed for centuries in one form or another. E. M. Forster had written about it, even ancient Arabic writers such as Ibn Jubayr. A symbol of old colonial Egypt, the Bourse had been burnt down in the hunger riots earlier in the year. You used to be able to hear the cries of the bartering merchants every morning. Now the site had been reduced to a vacant lot that functioned as a temporary car park. Somehow it seemed emblematic of modern Egypt.

As I made my way through the narrow streets I kept thinking about Isabella’s missing organs: had it really been an ambulance waiting for her body on the jetty or something more sinister? Thinking of Isabella’s empty body made my heart clench with new grief, but it also seemed like a message, like another piece in the puzzle, seemingly unlinked and yet integral to my understanding of where to go from here. She’d said I would know what to do, had said it trustingly, unquestioningly, and I couldn’t disappoint her. Conscious of the weight of the astrarium on my shoulder, I reflected on the experts I knew and who I could trust to help me work out what to do with the device. Faakhir’s grim expression as he warned me of those who would use it to destroy the region’s political stability came back into my mind. What did he mean by this - an undermining of President Sadat’s peace initiative? There was little stability in the Middle East anyhow: Egypt had been at war with Israel only two years before and that war had been triggered by OPEC nations holding the world to ransom over oil prices in the early 1970s. It wouldn’t take much to destabilise what little progress both President Sadat and the US president Carter had achieved so far. And who knew how Israel might receive Sadat’s overtures - there was little or no trust on both sides of the border. But how could the possession of an ancient astrarium have an impact either way? Maybe there was some kind of strong historical symbolism that had suggestive power over Arabic/Israeli relations. Or was it some kind of devastasting weapon? I could have speculated for hours but in the end it almost didn’t matter whatever my conclusion might be - obviously there was someone out there who believed absolutely in the power of the device. And they were prepared to kill to get hold of it. I walked without thinking, taking little notice of what was around me. But that was a luxury I’d soon not be able to afford.

Sensing a presence, I glanced behind me. A veiled older woman scurried behind a food stall. Frowning, I ducked behind a pillar; a minute later she re-emerged to run after a small child whom she caught and scolded. I rested against the wall. Was I losing my abilities to think analytically? My rationalism? I’d lost a wife and a friend. I was carrying a priceless artefact on my back and I seemed to be walking into some kind of geopolitical battlefield in a country torn by modern ambition and ancient beliefs, all of which would unhinge the sanest of men. No, I thought firmly, the astrarium was real, Barry’s carbon-dating was indisputable and Isabella’s own belief, one in which she had invested her life, deserved respect. But it was no doubt a massive task to undertake. Had Isabella realised the implications when she’d made me promise I would embark on the venture if necessary? The pragmatist in me struggled against such an esoteric responsibility. I had work, I had the oilfield to look after, I needed to rebuild my world, and yet I’d made a promise that was now turning into the most significant of my life. I was compelled to carry through her task even at the risk of losing everything - even my life. I had no choice. I walked on, quickening my pace to get out of the back alley. Whatever my reservations, I needed to glean as much information as I could from as many people as possible. Both Hermes Hemiedes and Amelia Lynhurst had offered their help, but could I trust them? Isabella had been close to Hermes, but I didn’t have quite that relationship with him. He unnerved me somehow and I was never sure about his own agenda. Amelia seemed knowledgeable but her conflict with Isabella made me hesitate. And her reaction to Hermes at the funeral had been bizarre. Had she felt frightened or threatened by him? There were political divisions and conflicts within the archaeological world that were beyond my understanding. I’d witnessed first-hand Isabella’s frustrations over such struggles, as she herself had fallen victim to them again and again. Purely in terms of the archaeological community the astrarium was an enigma whose ramifications I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

My mind turned to Amelia Lynhurst’s thesis and the reference to the sphinx statues that had Banafrit’s features. It almost felt as if Isabella herself was some kind of sphinx, challenging me to solve a riddle the answer to which, I suspected, lay beyond the conventions of my thinking.

A loud whistle cut through my thoughts. Startled, I spun around. A policeman stood at the busy intersection of Salaymar Yussri Street and El Nabi Daniel directing the traffic.

Opposite stood the broken pillars of the Roman amphitheatre. Kom el-Dik was the only official archaeological dig in Alexandria. One day Hermes had taken Isabella and me there for lunch with the Polish archaeologists - an amicable group of survivors who tolerated the Soviet rule of their own country with ironic irreverence. I remembered the easy camaraderie between Hermes and Isabella. They spoke often and if she ever needed to sound out her archaeological theories it was Hermes to whom she usually turned. The decision was made. This was not only mine but also Isabella’s journey and it would have been her starting point. Crossing the road, I made my way to the tram stop that I knew would take me west into the old Arabic quarter.

 

The tram was nearly empty. An old man, his jellaba stained with marks of the day’s work, slept with his head lolling back; a lone schoolgirl sat next to him, painfully self-aware in the way of all adolescents; a group of intense young men huddled in a corner talking rapidly, their hands a flurry of illustration - university students, I concluded. Opposite me was a middle-aged woman, well dressed in Western clothes. She smiled, one eyebrow cocked suggestively. Ignoring her, I stared out at the passing streets, holding the astrarium safe in my rucksack on my lap.

Suddenly, with a screech of brakes, a car pulled up beside the tram. Lost in thought, I gazed down at it and froze in shock. For the second time in twenty-four hours I saw Omar, in the car’s back seat. He had already seen me. Coolly he smiled up at me, then leaned forward and, pointing up to my window, tapped the shoulder of the man in the front passenger seat. The man swung around.

He had a distinctive angular face with a heavy jaw, dark eyes set deep. His expression was one of cold menace, cruelty and a kind of terrifyingly intense hatred. For a few moments the world seemed to recede around us and I was suspended there, my gaze locked with a stranger’s. Fear and inexplicable terror gripped me. Then the lights suddenly changed and the tram lurched forward. An elderly woman who had just climbed aboard fell to the floor, pomegranates scattering from her shopping bag. Several of the students rushed to help her up, blocking my view of the car. Taking advantage of the distraction, I leaped down from the other side of the tram and ran down a side alley.