Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [55]
As he spoke the last word, a memory popped into my mind. In the hotel in Cairo another imaginative miscreant had penetrated my room, dressed as an ancient Egyptian. I started to speak and then changed my mind; there surely could be no connection between the two events.
“I am off to the village,” Emerson said. “I have dealt with these people before; I think I can persuade the mayor. Walter?”
The distance to the village was several miles. I am sure I need not say that I made part of the expedition. Evelyn remained behind, feeling herself unequal to the exertion; with Abdullah and Michael in camp, she was amply protected. Emerson, who had opposed my coming with his customary temper tantrum, was annoyed that I kept up with him easily. Of course I could not have done so if he had been at his normal strength, and I was increasingly concerned for him as he plodded through the sand.
The brooding silence of the village was most disturbing. I thought at first we would not be admitted to the slightly more pretentious hovel that housed the mayor of the village, but Emerson’s repeated blows on the rickety door finally produced a response. The door opened a mere crack; the sharply pointed nose and wrinkle-wrapped eyes of the old sheikh peered out. Emerson gave the door a shove. He caught the old gentleman as he staggered back and politely set him on his feet. We were in the house.
I wished immediately that I was out. The stench of the place was indescribable. Chickens, goats, and people crowded the dark little room; their eyes shone like stars in the shadows. We were not invited to sit down, and indeed there was no surface in the place on which I would have cared to sit. Obviously the chickens roosted on the long divan that was the room’s most conspicuous piece of furniture.
Emerson, arms folded and chin jutting, carried on the discussion in Arabic. I could not understand what was being said, but it was easy to follow the course of the conversation. The mayor, a wrinkled little old man whose pointed nose almost met his bony chin, mumbled his responses. He was not insolent or defiant; this attitude would have been easier to combat than his obvious terror.
Gradually the other human inhabitants of the place slipped away; only the goats and the chickens remained. One friendly goat was particularly intrigued with the sleeve of my dress. I pushed him away absentmindedly, trying to keep track of what was transpiring between the speakers, and slowly the truth dawned on me. The mayor could hardly bear to be in the same room with us. He kept retreating until his back was up against the wall.
Then someone slipped through the narrow aperture that gave entry into the back room—the only other chamber this mayoral palace contained. I recognized Mohammed. With his appearance the conversation took a new turn. His father turned to him with pathetic pleasure, and Mohammed took over his role in the argument. He was insolent; his very tone was an offense. Emerson’s fists clenched and his lips set tightly as he listened. Then Mohammed glanced at me and broke into English.
“The Mummy hate stranger,” he said, grinning. “Stranger go. But not women. Mummy like English women—”
Emerson was on him in a single bound. The poor old father squealed in alarm; but it was Walter who plucked his infuriated brother from Mohammed’s throat. The man collapsed, moaning, when Emerson’s fingers were detached, but even in the bad light I saw the look he gave his assailant; and a chill ran through me.
“Come away,” Walter said in a low voice, holding his brother’s rigid arm. “Come away, there is nothing more we can do here.”
We did not linger in the village, but traversed its single narrow street as quickly as we could. When we reached the clean emptiness of the desert, Emerson stopped. His face was shining with perspiration; under his tan he was a sickly gray in color.
“I think I owe you both an apology,” he said thickly. “That was stupid of me; I have ruined any chance