He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [119]
I take it back. This room is not cozy. It never can be. A fluffy, furry animal might help, but I can’t have the puppies here; they chew the legs of the furniture and misbehave on the Oriental rugs. I even miss that wretched beast Horus! I couldn’t have brought him, since he refuses to be parted from Sennia, but I wish I had a cat of my own. Seshat spends most of her time in Ramses’s room.
Someday, when we are all together again, we will find a better house, or build one. It will be large and sprawling, with courtyards and fountains and gardens, and plenty of room, so we can all be together—but not too close together! If you would rather, we’ll get the dear old Amelia out of drydock for you and David and the infant. It will happen someday. It must.
Goodness, I sound like a little old lady, rocking and recalling the memories of her youth. Let me think what news I can write about.
You asked about the hospital. One must be patient; it will take time to convince “respectable” women—and their conservative husbands—that we will not offend their modesty or their religious principles. There has been one very hopeful development. This morning I had a caller—none other than el-Gharbi, the most powerful procurer of el Was’a. They say he controls not only prostitution but every other illegal activity in that district. I had seen him once or twice when I went to the old clinic, and an unforgettable figure he was—squatting on the mastaba bench outside one of his “Houses,” robed like a woman and jangling with gold. When he turned up today, borne in a litter and accompanied by an escort—all young and handsome, elegantly robed and heavily armed—our poor old doorkeeper almost fainted. He came rushing to find me. It seems el-Gharbi had asked for me by name. When I went out, there he was, sitting cross-legged in the litter like some grotesque statue of ebony and ivory, veiled and adorned. I could smell the patchouli ten yards away.
When I told the family about it later, I thought the Professor was going to explode. While he sputtered and swore, I repeated that curious conversation. The girl I had operated on the night before was one of his; he had sent her to me. He had come in person because he had heard a great deal about me and he wanted to see for himself what I was like. Odd, wasn’t it? I can’t imagine why he should be interested.
Did I call him names (I know a lot of good Arabic terms for men like him) and tell him never to darken my door again? No, Lia, I did not. Once I might have done, but I’ve learned better. It is pointless to complain that the world isn’t the way it ought to be. By all accounts he is a kinder master than some. I told him I appreciated his interest and would be happy to treat any of the women who needed my services.
The Professor was not so tolerant. “What damnable effrontery!” was the least inflammatory of the remarks he made. When he wound down, it was Ramses’s turn.
Someone who didn’t know him well might have thought he was bored by the discussion. He was sitting on the ground with his back against a packing case and his knees raised and his head bent, devouring Fatima’s food. Ramses is never a model of sartorial elegance, as you know; he’d been running his fingers through his hair, to push it out of the way, and it was all tangled over his forehead. Perspiration streaked his face and throat and bare forearms, and his shirt was sticking to his shoulders. He raised his head and opened his mouth.
“You need a haircut,” I said. “And don’t lecture me.”
“I know I do. I wasn’t going to lecture you. I was about to say, ‘Well done.’ ”
Can you imagine that, Lia—Ramses paying me a compliment? You know what a low opinion he has of my good sense and self-control. I wish . . .
I can’t write any more. It is very late and and my hand is cramped from holding the pen. Please excuse the atrocious writing. Aunt Amelia is folding up her