The Mummy Case (17 page)

"And may I take one or two of de men to help me, Papa?"

"I was about to suggest it myself, Ramses. Let me see whom I can spare—besides Selim, of course."

They went off arm in arm, leaving me to wonder what Ramses was up to this time. Even my excellent imagination failed to provide an answer.

The cemetery
was
of Roman date. Need I say more? We found small rock-cut tombs, most of which had been robbed in ancient times. Our labors were rewarded (I use the word ironically) by a motley collection of rubbish the tomb robbers had scorned— cheap pottery jars, fragments of wooden boxes, and a few beads. Emerson recorded the scraps with dangerous calm and I filed them away in the storeroom. The unrobbed tombs did contain coffins, some of wood, some molded out of cartonnage (a variety of papier-mache) and heavily varnished. We opened three of
these coffins, but Emerson was forced to refuse Ramses' request that he be allowed to unwrap the mummies, since we had no facilities for that particular enterprise. Two of the mummies had painted portraits affixed to the head wrappings. These paintings, done in colored wax on thin panels of wood, were used in late times in lieu of the sculptured masks common earlier. Petrie had found a number of them, some exceedingly handsome, when he dug at Hawara, but our examples were crude and injured by damp. I hope I need not say that I treated these wretched specimens with the meticulous care I always employ, covering them with a fresh coating of beeswax to fix the colors and storing them in boxes padded with cotton wool, in the same manner I had employed with the portrait painting Emerson had rescued from Abd el Atti's shop. They compared poorly with the latter, which was that of a woman wearing elaborate earrings and a golden fillet. Her large dark eyes and expressive lips were drawn and shaded with an almost modern realism of technique.

On Sunday, which was our day of rest, John appeared in full regalia, knee breeches and all. His buttons had been polished to dazzling brightness. Respectfully he asked my permission to attend church services.

"But neither of the churches here are yours, John," I said, blinking at the buttons.

This rational observation had no effect on John, who continued to regard me with mute appeal, so I gave in. "Very well, John."

"I will go too," said Ramses. "I want to see de young lady dat John is—"

"That will do, Ramses."

"I also wish to observe de Coptic service," continued Ramses. "It is, I have been informed, an interesting survival of certain antique—"

"Yes, I know, Ramses. That is certainly an idea. We will all go."

Emerson looked up from his notes. "You are not including me, I hope."

"Not if you don't wish to go. But as Ramses has pointed out, the Coptic service—"

"Don't be a hypocrite, Peabody. It is not scholarly fervor that moves you; you also want to see John with the young lady he is—"

"That will do, Emerson," I said. John gave me a grateful look. He was bright red from the collar of his jacket to the curls on his brow.

Services at the Coptic church had already begun when we reached the village, though you would not have supposed it to be so from the babble of voices that could be heard within. From the grove of trees where the American mission was situated the tinny tolling of the bell called worshipers to the competing service. There was a peremptory note in its persistent summons, or so it seemed to me; it reminded me of the reverend's voice, and the half-formed idea that had come to me as we proceeded crystallized into a determination not to accede, even in appearance, to his demand that I attend his church.

"I am going to the Coptic service," I said. "Ramses, will you come with me or go with John?"

Somewhat to my surprise, Ramses indicated he would go with John. I had not believed vulgar curiosity would win over scholarly instincts. However, the decision suited me quite well. I informed the pair that we would meet at the well, and saw them proceed toward the chapel.

The interior of the Coptic church of Sitt Miriam (the Virgin, in our terms) was adorned with faded paintings of that lady and various saints. There were no seats or pews; the worshipers walked about chatting freely and appearing to pay no attention to the priest, who stood at the altar reciting prayers. The congregation was not large—twenty or thirty people, perhaps. I recognized several of the rough-looking men who had appeared to form the priest's entourage sanctimoniously saluting the pictures of the saints, but the face I had half-hoped to see was not among them. However, it did not surprise me to learn that Hamid was not a regular churchgoer.

I took up my position toward the back, near but not within the enclosure where the women were segregated. My advent had not gone unnoticed. Conversations halted for a moment and then broke out louder than before. The priest's glowing black eyes fixed themselves on me. He was too experienced a performer to interrupt his praying, but his voice rose in stronger accents. It sounded like a denunciation of something—possibly me—but I could not understand the words. Clearly this part of the service was in the ancient Coptic tongue, and I doubted that the priest and the congregation understood much more of it than I did. The prayers were memorized and repeated by rote.

Before long the priest switched to Arabic and I recognized that he was reading from one of the gospels. This went on for an interminable time. Finally he turned from the
heikal,
or altar, swinging a censer from which wafted the sickening smell of incense. He began to make his way through the congregation, blessing each individual by placing a hand upon his head and threatening him with the censer. I stood alone, the other worshipers having prudently edged away, and I wondered whether I would be ignored altogether or whether some particularly insulting snub was in train. Conceive of my surprise, therefore, when, having attended to every man present, the priest made his way rapidly toward me. Placing his hand heavily upon my head, he blessed me in the name of the Trinity, the Mother of God, and assorted saints. I thanked him, and was rewarded by a ripple of black beard that I took to betoken a smile.

When the priest had returned to the
heikal
I decided I had done my duty and could retire. The interior of the small edifice was foggy with cheap incense and I feared I was about to sneeze.

The sun was high in the heavens. I drew deep satisfying breaths of the warm but salubrious air and managed to conquer the sneeze. I then took off my hat and was distressed to find
that my forebodings had been correct. Of fine yellow straw, to match my frock, the hat was draped with white lace and trimmed with a cluster of yellow roses, loops of yellow ribbon and two choux of white velvet. Clusters of artificial violets and leaves completed the modest decorations, and the entire ensemble was daintily draped with tulle. It was my favorite hat; it had been very expensive; and it had required a long search to find a hat that was not trimmed with dead birds or ostrich plumes. (I deplore the massacre of animals to feed female vanity.)

As the priest's hand pressed on my head I had heard a crunching sound. Now I saw the bows were crushed, the roses hung drunkenly from bent stems, and that the mark of a large, dirty hand was printed on the mashed tulle. The only consolation I could derive was that there was also a spot of blood on the tulle. Apparently one of my hat pins had pricked the ecclesiastical palm.

There was nothing to be done about the hat, so I replaced it on my head and looked about. The small square was deserted except for a pair of lean dogs and some chickens who had not been inspired to attend the service. As John and Ramses were nowhere to be seen, I walked toward the mission.

The church door stood open. From it came music—not the mellifluous strains of the organ or the sweet harmony of a trained choir, but motley voices bellowing out what I had to assume must be a hymn. I thought I recognized Ramses' piercing, off-key treble, but I could not make out any of the words. I sat down on the same rock Emerson had once used as a seat, and waited.

The sun rose higher and perspiration trickled down my back. The singing went on and on, the same monotonous tune repeated interminably. It was finally succeeded by the voice of Brother Ezekiel. I could hear him quite well. He prayed for the elect and for those still in the darkness of false belief (every inhabitant of the globe except the members of the Church of the Holy Jerusalem). I thought he would never stop praying.

Eventually he did, and the congregation began to emerge.

The "Brotestants" appeared to be succeeding in their efforts at conversion, for Brother Ezekiel's audience was somewhat larger than that of the priest. Most, if not all, of the converts more the dark Coptic turban. Christian missionaries had had little success in winning over Muslims, perhaps for ideological reasons and perhaps because the Egyptian government disapproved (in a number of effective and unpleasant ways) of apostates from the faith of Islam. No one cared what the Copts did; hence the higher conversion rate and the resentment of the Coptic hierarchy against missionaries. This resentment had, on several occasions, resulted in physical violence. When Emerson told me of these cases I exclaimed in disbelief, but my cynical husband only smiled contemptuously. "No one slaughters a coreligionist with quite as much enthusiasm as a Christian, my dear. Look at their history." I made no comment on this, for in fact I could think of nothing to say.

Among the worshipers wearing the blue turban was one I recognized. So Hamid was a convert! When he saw me he had the effrontery to salute me.

Eventually John came out of the church. His face was pink with pleasure—and probably with heat, for the temperature in the chapel must have been over one hundred degrees. He came running to me, babbling apologies: "It was a long service, madam."

"So I observed. Where is Ramses?"

"He was here," said John vaguely. "Madam, they have done me the honor
to
ask me to stay for dinner. May I, madam?"

I was about to reply with a decided negative when I saw the group coming toward me and forgot what I was going to say. Brother David, looking like a young saint, had given his arm to a lady—the same lady I had seen with him at Shepheard's. Her gown that morning was of bright violet silk in a broche design; the short coat had a cutaway front displaying an enormous white chiffon cravat that protruded a good twelve inches in
front of her. The matching hat had not only ribbons and flowers, but an egret plume and a dead bird mounted with wings and tail uppermost, as if in flight.

Completing the trio was Ramses, his hand in that of the lady. He was looking as pious as only Ramses can look when he is contemplating some reprehensible action, and he was smeared with dust from his once-white collar to his buttoned boots. Ramses is the only person of my acquaintance who can get dirty sitting perfectly still in a church.

The group bore down on me. They all spoke at once. Ramses greeted me, Brother David reproached me for not coming into the chapel, and the lady cried, in a voice as shrill as that of a magpie, "Ach du lieber Gott, what a pleasure it is! The famous Frau Emerson, is it you? I have often of you heard and intended on you to call and now you are here, in the flesh!"

"I fear you have the advantage of me," I replied.

"Allow me to present the Baroness Hohensteinbauergrunewald," said Brother David. "She is—"

"A great admirer of the famous Frau Emerson and her so distinguished husband," shrieked the baroness, seizing my hand and crushing it in hers. "And now the mother of the liebe Kind I find you are—it is too much of happiness! You must me visit. I insist that you are coming. My dahabeeyah is at Dahshoor; I inspect the pyramids, I entertain the distinguished archaeologists, I gather the antiquities. This evening come you and the famous Professor Doctor Emerson to dine,
nicht?"

"Nicht,"
I said. "That is, I thank you, Baroness, but I am afraid—"

"You have another engagement?" The baroness's small muddy-brown eyes twinkled. She nudged me familiarly. "No, you have not another engagement. What could you do in this desert? You will come. A dinner party I will have for the famous archaeologists. Brother David, he will come also." The young man nodded, smiling, and the baroness continued, "I stay only three days at Dahshoor. I make the Nile cruise. So you come tonight.  To the famous Professor Doctor Emerson I
show my collection of antiquities. I have mummies, scarabs, papyrus—"

"Papyrus?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, many. So now you come, eh? I will the young Ramses with me take, he wishes to see my dahabeeyah. Then at night you will come and fetch him. Good!"

I gave Ramses a searching look. He clasped his hands. "Oh, Mama, may I go wit' de lady?"

"You are too untidy—" I began.

The baroness guffawed. "So a small boy should be, nicht? I will take good care of him. I am a mama, I know a mama's heart." She rumpled his ebony curls. Ramses' face took on the fixed look that usually preceded a rude remark. He loathed having his curls rumpled. But he remained silent, and my suspicions as to his ulterior motives, whatever they might be, were strengthened.

Before I could frame further objections the baroness started, and said in what is vulgarly called a pig's whisper,
"Ach,
he comes, der Pfarrer. Too much he talks already. I escape. I come only to see Brother David, because he is so beautiful, but der Pfarrer I do not like. Come, Bubchen, we run away."

She suited the action to the words, dragging Ramses with her.

Brother Ezekiel had emerged from the chapel. Behind him was Charity, hands clasped and face obscured by the bonnet. At the sight of her John jumped as if a bee had stung him. "Madam," he groaned piteously, "may I—"

"Very well," I said.

The baroness was certainly one of the most vulgar women I had ever met, but her instincts were basically sound. I also wished to run away from Brother Ezekiel. As I beat a hasty retreat I felt as if I had tossed John to him like a bone to a lion, in order to make good my escape. At least John was a willing martyr.