Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [157]
Before we had gone far along the narrow lane we saw a man hurrying toward us, his hands outstretched, his face wearing a happy smile, as if he were coming to greet old friends. He was young and well-set-up, though running a trifle to fat.
“God’s blessing be upon you, Brother of Demons!” he cried and threw his arms round Ramses. “Welcome. How good it is to greet you again!”
“Greetings to you, Musa,” said Ramses, freeing himself with a rather peremptory shove. “This is—”
“Ah, but who would not know the Sitt Hakim!” The fellow flopped down onto the ground and kissed my dusty boots. “It is an honor. My lord has heard of your coming, he eagerly awaits you.”
He dismissed our youthful entourage with a few words, and to my surprise they dispersed without argument. The house to which he led us was built of stone—probably pilfered from ancient monuments—and surrounded by trees and a nice little garden. In the mandarah, the principal reception room, a pleasant chamber furnished with low tables and a cushioned divan, el-Gharbi was waiting.
I had heard of him many times, but this was the first time I had set eyes on him. Instead of the women’s robes and jewels he had once affected, he wore a simple caftan of blue silk and a matching turban, but his round black face was carefully painted. Kohl outlined his eyes, and lips and cheeks were reddened with henna. A sweet, pervasive aura of perfume wafted round him.
“Don’t get up,” I said, watching in some alarm as he writhed and wriggled.
I had spoken English. He understood, but he replied in Arabic. “The Sitt Hakim is gracious. Alas, I am old and even fatter than I once was.” He clapped his hands, and Musa trotted off. “Be seated, please,” the procurer went on. “We will drink tea together. You honor me by your presence, you and your illustrious son. Beautiful as ever, I see.”
He leered amiably, not at me, but at Ramses, who replied equably, “And you are flourishing as ever. The village seems prosperous.”
El-Gharbi rolled his eyes and looked pious. “I cannot see children go hungry and the old and sick left to die. I have helped—yes, I have helped a little. One must make one’s peace with God before the end, and atone for one’s sins.”
Neither of us was rude enough to say that he had quite a list for which to atone, but he must have known what we were both thinking. His black eyes twinkled and his large body shook with silent laughter. “Is it not written, ‘Whoever performs good works and believes, man or woman, shall enter into Paradise’?”
The quotation was correct, and his was not the only faith that implies there is salvation for a repentant sinner. At least the Koran demanded good works instead of a desperate, last-second mumble of belief.
Musa returned with several servants carrying trays. They were all men, all young, and all quite handsome. Tea was handed round and fresh-baked bread offered, while el-Gharbi carried on a polite conversation. “And your lovely wife is well? May God protect her. And the Father of Curses? Ah, how kind he was to me. The motorcar I—er—procured for him several years ago was satisfactory, I presume? And the forged papers? I was so happy to do those small services for him. May God protect him!”
The whole performance had a certain element of parody, but it would not have been courteous to interrupt. Finally he gave me my opening by asking us to stay and dine that evening. “Musa will show you the village. You will admire it, I think.”
“You are most kind, but I fear we cannot stay,” I said. “We must be back in Luxor tonight. I came only to ask you a question.”
“One question? All this way for a single question?” He put his fat hands on his knees and nodded benignly. “I live only to serve you,