Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [23]
It wasn’t hashish that brought the light to his eyes. It was religious fervor—and who the hell am I, Ramses thought, to tell him he’s wrong, or deny such a harmless request?
He knew the prayers. He had known them since childhood. Removing his shoes, he followed the prescribed path round the catafalque. Daoud’s sincere, deep bass voice blended with his. “Peace be on the Apostles, and praise be to God, the Lord of the beings of the entire earth.”
They started back to Selim’s house, leaving Hassan cross-legged under the cupola. Daoud was enormously pleased with his surprise. “My uncle Abdullah will be happy to be a sheikh,” he remarked. “When next he speaks to the Sitt Hakim he will no doubt tell her so.”
“I will be sure to let you know if he does,” Ramses said wryly. He couldn’t imagine how his mother was going to react to this news.
Selim had joined in the prayers but not in the discussion. He strode along in silence. Ramses was not certain how devout he was; he followed the Five Pillars of Islam, observing the fast of Ramadan and giving generously to the poor, but some of his habits had been affected by his unabashed Anglophilia. He was more indulgent to his young wives than most local men, and he had adopted a number of English customs.
Including afternoon tea, which was ready when they reached the house, and the mingling of the sexes for that meal. Ramses had hoped for a private conversation with Selim; but there was no chance of that, with the children dashing around and shrieking, and the women all talking at once. Accepting a cup of tea from Selim’s younger wife, he smiled at Nefret, who had Selim’s baby on her lap. Did she want another child? he wondered. They hadn’t talked about it. As far as he was concerned, two were quite enough. He never wanted to see Nefret go through that ordeal of blood and pain again. Being a father was such a gigantic responsibility. A dozen times a day he asked himself if he was doing it right.
The dregs of his tea spattered the floor but he managed to hold on to the cup as Davy clambered onto his lap. He held the warm little body close. Maybe he was doing something right.
Kadija was watching them from over her veil. She was the only one of the women who would not unveil in his presence. His mother had often reminded her that since David’s marriage to Lia they were all one family now, but Kadija came from a Nubian tribe where the old traditions were strong. She had finally consented to use his first name, however.
“How did you hurt your hand, Ramses?” she asked. “They are like the marks left by the claws of an animal.”
He glanced at his wrist, where the cuff of his shirt had been pulled up. The scratches were deeper than he had realized, ragged and ugly. “A little souvenir from a man named François,” he said. “Though he does have some beastly habits, including sharp nails and a willingness to use them. It’s nothing.”
He tried to pull his cuff down but was prevented by Davy, who clutched his hand and pressed damp kisses on the scratches, murmuring distressfully (or perhaps chanting incantations).
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nefret demanded, putting the baby down.
“It’s nothing,” Ramses repeated.
Kadija rose and went into the house.
“Not the famous green ointment,” Ramses protested. “It leaves indelible stains on one’s clothes. Thank you, Davy, that’s done the job. All better now.”
“I’ve never been able to isolate the effective ingredient, but the ointment certainly has antiseptic and anti-inflammatory qualities,” Nefret said. “Human fingernails