Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [43]
“It will be a waste of time,” Ramses warned. David hadn’t really answered his question. David wouldn’t lie, not to his friend, but he was holding something back, and until he was ready to talk freely, it would be pointless and disloyal to press him.
“One never knows. Let’s start with the—what was it?—the Sabil Khalaoun and try to retrace your steps.”
The coffeeshop was open and the tiny plaza was filled with people. Three streets, or alleyways, led into it. “Which one?” David asked, acknowledging the salutation of an old acquaintance sitting by the sabil.
They covered the area as methodically as the crooked streets and byways allowed. The tall old houses of Cairo turned the alleys into man-made canyons, dim with shadows, roofed by screened balconies. Women leaned out of windows, calling to passing sellers of food; donkeys jostled them and people brushed past on various errands. The bustling, busy streets were so different from the dark silence of his stumbling flight that they might have been in another city.
Finally David said in exasperation, “Can’t you remember a single landmark—a mosque, a shop?”
“I saw plenty of landmarks, including a pyramid and the sails of a felucca,” Ramses snapped. “Opium does that. I had just enough wits left to know I was imagining them, but I was too damned busy trying to keep ahead of the fellow who was chasing me to distinguish between reality and hallucination. And no, I didn’t mention them to the family. That would have confirmed their belief that the rest of it was also the product of my lurid imagination.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No . . . Hell, David, I’m no longer certain how much of it was real.”
“One thing is certain,” David said practically. “You were missing for hours and you weren’t at the place to which the note directed you. That spells abduction to me.” He ducked his head under a tray of bread, carried at shoulder height by a strolling vendor. “Well, it was worth a try. Let’s pay a visit to the suk.”
“If you plan to question the antika dealers about Cyrus’s jewelry, the parents have already done that, without result. They’re a good deal better at intimidation than either of us.”
“But we are much more charming.” David grinned and slapped him on the shoulder.
They went on in single file, under balconies draped with laundry, until they reached the square before the mosque of Hosein.
“What’s become of el-Gharbi?” David asked, without preamble.
“Who?” Ramses asked in surprise.
“That perfumed Nubian pimp who controlled the Red Blind district until the British stuck him in the prison camp at—”
“I know who he is,” Ramses interrupted. “Who could forget el-Gharbi? What made you think of him?”
“He had a hand in everything illegal that went on in Cairo, and he shared information with you on several occasions.”
El-Gharbi was indeed unforgettable: perfumed and jeweled and dressed in a woman’s white robes. One couldn’t like or admire a man who ran his kind of business, but he had been a kinder master than some. “Yes, he was useful, in his own fashion,” Ramses said. “Unfortunately he’s no longer in control here. Father got him out of the prison camp, in return for certain favors—it was always tit for tat with el-Gharbi—and he was exiled to his village in Upper Egypt. I suppose he’s still there, if he is alive.”
“Too bad.”
They made the rounds of the more prominent dealers. David explained that he wanted a bracelet for his wife, and ended up with several silver bangles, all of recent Bedouin workmanship. They were shown strings of faded faience “mummy beads,” any of which, the merchant explained, could be made into bracelets. He had recognized them and didn’t really suppose they would buy the wretched things, but it was worth a try. The Inglizi, even these, were unpredictable.
“I could have told you they wouldn’t offer us Cyrus’s bracelets,” Ramses said. “They know who we are.”
“I suppose we haven’t time to try our jolly old tourist disguises,” David said. He sounded regretful. Ramses laughed,