Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [107]
“I have been trying to think of people who might bear a grudge against us,” I explained.
“Why should she bear a grudge? You treated her more kindly than she deserved.” Selim stroked his beard. “She is no longer in Luxor, Sitt. I think someone told me she had gone to live with the sisters in Assiut.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Layla a nun?”
Selim grinned. “I do not believe she would dare turn Christian, not even Layla. But she was a woman of extremes, Sitt.”
“That would certainly be going from one extreme to the other.”
“People sometimes do,” said Selim with a worldly-wise air. “Shall I investigate, Sitt?”
“Never mind. It was a far-fetched idea. Thank you for your help, Selim.”
“I have not been able to give enough help, Sitt. Sitt . . . I have a question.” He shuffled his feet and looked down, like a shy schoolboy. “Will you ask Emerson if he will allow me to drive the motorcar to the fantasia?”
“All the way up the hill to your house? It can’t be done, Selim.”
“It can, Sitt!” He raised shining eyes. “Did I not drive the other motorcar through the Wadi el Arish, and up the hills and across the desert? The fantasia will be at the house of Daoud, which, as you know, is on a lower slope, and there is a track, a good track, not so very steep except in a few places, and a good wide space in front of the house to turn the motorcar, where everyone can see. Some of the women and the children have not seen it, nor seen me drive it.”
“I will talk to Emerson,” I promised, patting him on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Sitt! Thank you!”
I watched with a fond smile as he walked away, with a spring in his step. He wanted to show off in front of his wives and kinfolk. Who were we to deny our loyal friend such a harmless pleasure?
When I put it that way to Emerson he was forced to agree. After observing that the infernal machine appeared to be operating properly, I had allowed him to drive it down to the river and back a few times. He enjoyed himself a great deal, and while he was busy playing with the car I was able to get on with my other duties.
I had promised to take tea with Katherine that afternoon and see how the work on the collection was progressing. After assuming proper attire I went to the room we had designated as Walter’s study, where I found him and Ramses sorting through ostraca. They were so happily absorbed I had to cough several times before they became aware of my presence.
“Sorry, Mother,” said Ramses, getting to his feet. “Have you been there long?”
“No, my dear.” I waved him back into his chair. “An interesting text, is it?”
“Fascinating! Listen to this. ‘The house of Amennakhte, son of Bukentef, his mother being Tarekhanu; his wife Tentpaoper, daughter of Khaemhedjet, her mother being Tentkhenuemheb . . . ‘ It’s the same fellow whose house we cleared earlier this year! I’m sure I saw another fragment of this same text somewhere . . .” He saw my glazed expression and laughed. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a kind of census, don’t you see? And it gives a genealogy for one family—several generations, if I can find the rest of it.”
It warmed my heart to see his sober face light up with laughter. “Splendid!” I exclaimed heartily. “And you, Walter—have you given up on the papyrus?”
“No, not at all,” Walter said, adjusting his eyeglasses. “I was just helping Ramses look for more fragments of his genealogy. It requires a certain experience to recognize the same handwriting.”
His long thin fingers continued to sort through the fragments, moving as rapidly as a woman’s might have done while matching patches for a quilt. It was an impressive demonstration of his expertise, for the pieces were of all sizes and shapes and the writing on them ranged from the neat scribal hieratic script to the scribbles of the later, more cursive, demotic—which had always reminded me of a row of hen tracks.
“That is good of you, Walter,” I said. “How far have you got with the horoscope?”
“Here is my copy, if you would like to look at it.” Walter indicated the pages.
“My dear Walter, you might as well offer me a manuscript