The Ape Who Guards the Balance (12 page)

“Stop feeling guilty,” Ramses said. “They’ll blame me in any case, they always do. Let’s not say anything until after we’ve left Cairo. Father will raise bloody hell with Maspero for failing to shut down the black market in antiquities, and Mother will snatch up her parasol and go looking for Yussuf Mahmud.”

“You haven’t been looking for him, have you?” Nefret asked.

“Not as Ali the Rat, no. We agreed it would be advisable for that engaging character to lie low for a time.”

Nefret pulled away from David and turned on Ramses. “Not as Ali? As who, then? Confound it, Ramses, you gave me your word.”

“I’ve not broken it. But you know perfectly well our only chance of finding out where the papyrus came from is to start with Yussuf Mahmud.”

“Stop goading her, Ramses,” David said. He took Nefret’s arm. “Honestly, you two are enough to drive a sensible person wild. Shouting at one another in a public place!”

“I wasn’t shouting,” Nefret said sullenly. She let him lead her on. “Ramses would try the patience of a saint. And I’m no saint. What have you been up to?”

“Trying to buy antiquities,” David said. “Ramses as a very rich, very stupid tourist and I as his faithful dragoman.”

“Tourist,” Nefret repeated. Again she stopped and whirled round, so suddenly that Ramses had to rock back on his heels to avoid running into her. She shook her finger under his nose. “Not the silly-looking Englishman with straw-colored hair who ogled me through his monocle and said—”

“ ‘By Jove, but that’s a dashed handsome gel,’ ” Ramses agreed, in the silly-looking Englishman’s affected drawl.

Nefret shook her head, but could not help smiling. “What did you find out?”

“That a tourist with plenty of money and no scruples can find all the antiquities he wants. We’ve not been offered anything of the same quality as the papyrus, though, despite the fact that I sneered at everything I was shown and kept on demanding something better. Yussuf Mahmud never showed his face. He is usually one of the first to prey on gullible tourists.”

“They murdered him,” Nefret breathed.

“Or he has gone into hiding,” said Ramses. “Do shut up, Nefret, there is Mother. She can hear a word like ‘murder’ a mile away.”

:

T
hough the arrangements were all that could be desired, I did not enjoy our annual dinner party as much as usual. So many old friends were gone, into the shadows of eternity or less permanent exile. Howard Carter was not there, nor Cyrus Vandergelt and his wife; the knowledge that we would meet all three in Luxor did not entirely compensate for their absence. As for M. Maspero, I had of course invited him, but was secretly relieved when he pleaded a previous engagement. Though I knew resentment was unreasonable, I could not help feeling that emotion, and listening to the others wax enthusiastic about their pyramids and mastabas and rich cemetery sites, while we contemplated another tedious season among the lesser tombs of the Valley, only increased my vexation with the Director.

Mr. Reisner very kindly invited me to visit Giza, where he held the concession for the Second and Third Pyramids, but I declined, with the excuse that we were to sail on the next day but one. In fact, I saw no point in tantalizing myself by looking at other people’s pyramids when I had none of my own. Emerson, who had overheard the offer, gave me a self-conscious look, but he did not refer to the subject then or later. His demonstrations of affection were particularly engaging that night. I responded with the enthusiasm Emerson’s demonstrations always evoke, but a small seed of annoyance prickled my mind. It is so like a man to suppose that kisses and caresses will distract a woman from more serious matters.

The day after our dinner party Nefret joined us for luncheon at one of the new restaurants. She had been to the dahabeeyah that morning to get some of her things.

“Was that Ramses?” I asked, turning to peer at a familiar form that was retreating at a speed that suggested the individual in question did not wish to be detained. “Why is he not joining us?”

“He went with me,” Nefret said. “But he had an appointment, so could not stay.”

“With some young woman, I suppose,” I said disapprovingly. “There is always
some
young woman, though I cannot imagine why they follow after him. It isn’t Miss Verinder, I hope. She has not a brain in her head.”

“Miss Verinder is no longer in the running,” Nefret said. “I have taken care of her.” Seeing my expression, she went on quickly, “Have you seen this, Aunt Amelia?”

The object she proffered was a newspaper, though not a particularly impressive example of that form. The type was smudged, the paper was thin enough to crumple at a touch, and there were only a few pages. I do not read Arabic as easily as I speak it, but I had no difficulty in translating the name of the newspaper.

“
The Young Woman.
Where did you get this?”

“From Fatima.” Nefret stripped off her gloves and accepted the menu the waiter handed her. “I always take time to talk with her and help her with her English.”

“I know, my dear,” I said affectionately. “It is good of you.”

Nefret shook her head so vigorously the flowers on her hat wobbled. “I don’t do it out of kindness, Aunt Amelia, but out of a strong sense of guilt. When I see how Fatima’s face lights up when she pronounces a new word—when I think of the thousands of other women whose aspirations are as high and who have not even
her
opportunities—I despise myself for not doing more.”

Emerson patted the little hand that rested on the table. It was clenched into a fist, as if anticipating battle. “You feel what all decent individuals feel when they contemplate the unfairness of the universe,” he said gruffly. “You are one of the few who cares enough to act on your feelings.”

“That is right,” I said. “If you cannot light a lamp, light a little candle! Thousands of little candles can illumine a—er—a large space!”

Emerson, regretting his descent into sentimentality, shot me a critical look. “I do wish you would not spout those banal aphorisms, Peabody. What is this paper?”

“A journal written for and by women,” Nefret explained. “Isn’t it exciting? I had no idea such things were done in Egypt.”

“There have been quite a number of them,” I said.

Nefret’s face fell. People who relate what they believe to be new and startling information like to have such information received with exclamations of astonishment and admiration. It is a natural human tendency, and I regretted having spoiled the effect.

“It is not surprising that you should not know of them,” I explained. “Few people do. Most, unfortunately, were short-lived. This one is new to me, though the same name—
al-Fatah
—was employed by a journal published some years ago.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson, who had been perusing the first page. “The rhetoric is not precisely revolutionary, is it? ‘The veil is not a disease that holds us back. Rather, it is the cause of our happiness.’ Bah.”

“One does not reach the mountaintop in a single bound, Emerson. A series of small steps can . . . er, well, you catch my meaning.”

“Quite,” said Emerson shortly.

I deemed it advisable to change the direction of the discussion. “How did Fatima come by this, Nefret?”

“It was given to her and the other students at her reading class,” Nefret explained. “Did you know she has been attending classes every night, Aunt Amelia, after she finishes her duties?”

“No,” I admitted. “I am ashamed to say I did not know. I ought to have inquired. Where are the classes, at one of the missions?”

“They are conducted by a Madame Hashim, a Syrian lady; she is a wealthy widow who does this out of pure benevolence and a desire to improve the lot of women.”

“I would like to meet her.”

“Would you?” Nefret asked eagerly. “Fatima did not want to ask, she is in such awe of you, but I know she would be pleased if we would attend one of the classes.”

“I fear there will not be time before we leave. This is our last night in Cairo, you know, and I have asked the Rutherfords to dine with us here. I will try to call on the lady next time I am in the city, for as you know I am extremely supportive of such enterprises. Literacy is the first step toward emancipation, and I have heard of other ladies who conduct such small private classes, without encouragement or government support. They are lighting the—”

“You are lecturing again, Peabody,” said my husband.

“Would you mind if I went with Fatima this evening, then?” Nefret asked. “I would like to encourage her, and find out how the classes are conducted.”

“I suppose it would be all right. Emerson, what do you think?”

“Certainly,” said Emerson. “In fact, I will indicate my support for the cause of emancipation by accompanying her.”

I knew perfectly well what Emerson was up to. He loathes formal dinner parties and the Rutherfords. The ensuing discussion involved quite a lot of shouting (by Emerson) and I insisted we retire to our sitting room, where Nefret settled the matter by perching on the arm of Emerson’s chair and putting her arm around his neck.

“Professor darling, it is sweet of you to offer, but your presence would only make everyone uncomfortable. The classes are for women only; the students would be struck dumb with awe of the Father of Curses, and Madame would have to veil herself.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson.

“You might send a messenger to Madame, telling her you are coming, Nefret,” I said. “That is only courteous.”

          
(vi)
    
From Letter Collection B

I had told Ramses and David where I was going. It was unnecessary in this case, but I make a point of conforming to our agreement so
they
won’t have any excuse to squirm out of it. Ramses is getting to be as nervous as a little old maiden aunt; he tried to persuade me to abandon the scheme, and when I laughed at him he said he and David would go with me. Really, men can be very exasperating! Between Ramses and the Professor I thought we would never get away.

The Professor is a dear, though. He sent a cab to fetch Fatima from the dahabeeyah and take us on to her class. The poor little woman was absolutely overcome; when she joined us in the sitting room she could hardly speak coherently as she attempted to thank him.

The Professor went rather red in the face. He grunted at her the way he does when he is embarrassed or trying to hide his feelings. “Hmph. If I had known you were coming into the city to attend these classes I would have made arrangements for transportation. You ought to know better than to wander round by yourself.”

Someone who didn’t know him would have thought he was angry. Fatima knows him. Her eyes shone like stars over the black of her veil.

“Yes, Father of Curses,” she murmured. “I hear and will obey.”

He escorted us down to the street and put us in the cab and threatened the driver with a number of unpleasant things if he drove too fast or ran into another vehicle or got lost. There was no danger of his losing his way, for Fatima was able to give precise directions.

The house was on Sharia Kasr el Eini—a pretty little mansion with a small garden shaded by pepper trees and palms. A servant dressed in galabeeyah and tarboosh opened the door for us and bowed us into a room on the right.

It was a small room, unoccupied and rather shabbily furnished. We waited for what seemed like a long time before the door opened and Madame entered, with fulsome apologies for having kept us waiting.

She must have been very beautiful when she was young. Like many Syrians she was fair-skinned, with soft brown eyes and delicately shaped brows. She wore a black silk robe and a habara, or head covering, of the same fabric; but modish strap sandals showed under the ankle-length robe and her white chiffon veil had been lowered so that it framed her face like the wimple of a medieval nun. (I may take to wearing one myself when I reach middle age; it looks very romantic, and hides little difficulties like sagging chins and wrinkled necks.)

She greeted me in French. “C’est un honneur, mademoiselle. But I had hoped that the so distinguished Madame Emerson would be with you.”

I explained, in my rather stumbling French, that the distinguished Madame Emerson had had a previous engagement, but that she sent her compliments and hoped for a meeting in the future.

“I share that hope,” Madame said politely. “It is a small thing I do here; the support of Madame Emerson would be invaluable to our cause.” Opening another door, she preceded us into an adjoining room, where several women were seated on the floor. There were only eight of them, including Fatima; they ranged in age from girls of ten or twelve to a wrinkled old lady.

I took the chair Madame indicated and listened with considerable interest while the class proceeded. The textbook was the Koran. The women took turns reading, and I was pleased to find that Fatima was one of the most fluent. Some of the others spoke so low they could scarcely be heard; I suppose the presence of a visitor made them nervous. The elderly woman found the business heavy going, but she persisted, irritably refusing the attempts of the others to help her; and when she got through her verse she gave me a toothless, triumphant grin. I smiled back at her, and I am not ashamed to admit there were tears in my eyes.

The class lasted only forty minutes. After the students had filed out, I tried to express my admiration. My French ran out, as it does when I am moved; I thanked her for letting me come, and bade her good evening.

“You must not go so soon,” Madame exclaimed. “You will have a glass of tea and we will talk.”

She clapped her hands. The servant who entered was a man. Since Madame did not veil herself, I wondered if the poor fellow had been—how would Aunt Amelia put it?—rendered incapable of a particular physical function. Such things are now forbidden by law, but they were common enough in the past. He looked to be no older than forty, and there was more muscle than fat on his tall frame.

Madame turned to him and was about to speak when I heard a thunderous knocking at the door of the house. There was no mistaking that knock—or so I thought.