Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [49]
Ramses blew out a perfect smoke ring, eyeing me thoughtfully. David laughed. “There’s no use trying to hide anything from her, Ramses. Why should we, anyhow? It’s only an odd coincidence. A pity about Hassan, but I expect he died happy.”
“Died!” I exclaimed. “Hassan, Munifa’s husband? When? How?”
“Didn’t Abdullah tell you about him?” Ramses inquired. “Hassan was the one responsible for Abdullah’s new status; he proclaimed himself servant of the sheikh, and took charge of Abdullah’s tomb. The idea was quick to catch on. People began going there to bring offerings and pray for favors. Hassan was happy, or so he seemed, when I saw him last. He was found dead two days ago, by an early-rising pilgrim.”
“We buried him that night,” Selim said. “It was his heart, Sitt.”
“How do you know? Did a doctor examine him?”
“What need? There was no mark upon him and his face was peaceful. He was not a young man, Sitt Hakim.”
“I am sorry.” I spoke the truth. Hassan had been with us for years, a loyal workman and a merry companion. “I expect you will want to visit Abdullah’s tomb one day soon, David. You will be pleased, I am sure, at how well your plans were carried out. I will go with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, Aunt Amelia. Lia and I have spoken of it.”
“You might take Dolly, too.”
David’s fine dark eyes widened. “D’you really think we ought? A bit morbid for a little chap like him, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. To hear of his great-grandfather’s courage and noble character will be an inspiration. I promised—”
I stopped myself, somewhat abruptly, and rose. “I must be about my duties. Don’t get up, boys.”
They did anyhow. I had of course trained all of them in proper manners, but I suspected Ramses was looming on purpose and looking down his nose at me. I smiled, and patted him on the shoulder. “You will always be boys to me,” I informed him.
As I went about my varied tasks, my mind kept returning to Hassan’s death. One could not even call it a coincidence; when he died, as he was bound to do one day, the odds were that the event would occur at Abdullah’s tomb, since that was where Hassan spent most of his time. What puzzled me was why he should have chosen to spend his declining years in holy works. Until the death of his wife he had practiced hedonism insofar as the bounds of his religion allowed—and occasionally beyond them.
Ah well, I thought, religious fervor is inexplicable except to the one who feels it, and a good many individuals seek the comfort of religion in old age. Hassan would probably have agreed wholeheartedly with Saint Augustine, who asked God to forgive him for his sins—but not until after he was finished committing them.
One might have supposed that Abdullah would have mentioned Hassan’s death. He had made rather a point of our visiting the tomb, but he had not said why. That was just like Abdullah, though—he delighted in hints and provocative statements. He always claimed he was restricted by the undefined rules of whatever afterlife he presently enjoyed, but I couldn’t help suspecting some of his reticence was designed to tease me.
We were to have tea at four, since Fatima was determined to provide such a lavish repast as had never been seen in that house. She had half a dozen haggard young women helping her in the kitchen; when I put my nose in, she told me to go away. One does not argue with Fatima when she is in one of her rare bullying moods, so I went.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
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Seated on the settee with his wife on one side and his mother on the other, Ramses felt like Ulysses trying to steer a course midway between Scylla and Charybdis. Not that either of the ladies he loved resembled those mythical monsters, but they both had decided opinions on the subject of child-raising, and those opinions did not always agree. When they disagreed, they appealed to him.
The spacious veranda was crowded with so many of them there—the adults lined up along the walls and on the ledge, the children playing