Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [30]
“Good heavens, what have you been up to?” I inquired. “That looks like oil. Did you fall?”
“What?” Emerson glanced down at his chest. “Oil? Fall? No. Yes. Another shirt ruined, eh, my dear?”
He laughed, loudly and unconvincingly.
“Would you like tea, Emerson?” I asked.
“No, no, let’s go and dine in the suk, eh?”
I had planned to dine at Shepheard’s in the expectation of encountering acquaintances and catching up on the news, but I did not mind making this small concession to marital accord. Emerson dislikes elegant hotels, formal attire, and most of my acquaintances. So we assumed garments suitable for the littered alleyways and grimy buildings of the Khan el Khalili, and I changed parasols.
“Not your sword parasol!” Emerson protested. “Don’t tell me you are having one of your premonitions, Peabody, for I won’t stand for it.”
“Nothing of the sort, my dear. Just a general precaution.”
A return to the Khan el Khalili was a trip into the past. The few small changes had not altered the general character of the place—an Aladdin’s cave of shining brass lamps and mother-of-pearl inlaid tables, carpets like woven gardens of flowers, fine leather sandals and silver bangles. Greetings showered us and Emerson’s countenance brightened, even when Nefret or I delayed to examine a jewel or a length of gold-woven brocade from Damascus. He even went so far as to permit me to call on several of the antiquities dealers, including our old acquaintance Aslimi. Aslimi was not glad to see us, but then he never was. Emerson made him extremely nervous. I beheld no unusual degree of nervousness or sign of guilt, however. Nor was there any response from him or the other dealers to the only question we dared ask: “Anything of interest?”
“I hope you are satisfied, Peabody,” said Emerson, as we strolled on.
“I am not at all satisfied, Emerson. If Martinelli did not dispose of his loot in Luxor or with any of the Cairo dealers, what did he do with it?”
“Sold it to a private buyer, of course,” Emerson said impatiently. “Now may we dine? Where?”
“It had better be Bassam’s,” Nefret said. “If we go elsewhere and he learns of it—which he will—he will be cut to the quick.”
Emerson snorted at her tender consideration for Bassam’s feelings, but since it was his favorite restaurant he made no objection. Bassam came running to greet us, his bare forearms shining with perspiration, for he was cook as well as proprietor. He was not at all surprised to see us. He had heard of our arrival, and of our presence in the Khan; where else would we dine but with him?
“So,” said Emerson, studying Bassam’s apron—the closest thing to a menu the establishment provided. “Since you expected us, you have no doubt prepared one of those delicacies you keep promising—ostrich, or antelope.”
He hadn’t. The offers were only generalized and extravagant gestures of goodwill, which he knew would never be accepted.
Bassam liked to advertise our presence, so our table was, as usual, near the open doorway. This was mildly annoying, since passersby paused to greet us and an occasional beggar summoned up courage enough to risk Bassam’s wrath by asking for baksheesh. He ran most of them off that evening, but after the meal, while we were enjoying Bassam’s excellent coffee, a ragged man took advantage of his temporary absence to sidle up to Ramses, his hands moving eloquently in appeal. Ramses handed over a few coins—and got in return a folded paper. After performing this maneuver, which had been done with deft, sleight-of-hand skill, the beggar retreated out the door.
“How curious,” I exclaimed. “What does it say, Ramses?”
Ramses’s expressive brows tilted as he read. “It is from Rashad. He wants me to meet him.”
“No,” Nefret exclaimed.
“Under no circumstances,” I said.
“My dears,” said Emerson. “Please.”
It was a mild-enough remonstrance, coming from Emerson, but his tone silenced me and Nefret. Emerson went on, “Well, Ramses?”
“He says . . .” Ramses looked again at the curving Arabic