Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [118]
There was a brief, waiting silence. Then the adan was repeated, but more loudly, and in a different voice. The first had been tenor, this was a gruff baritone. It broke off after a few words, to be followed immediately by yet a third voice, distinguished by a perceptible lisp. It sounded as if the priest of Dronkeh were entertaining, or interviewing, all the local muezzins.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea before Emerson’s impetuous rush. Without waiting to knock, he flung the door open.
The last rays of the dying sun cut like a flaming sword through the gloom within. They fell full upon the form of Walter “Ramses” Peabody Emerson, seated cross-legged on the divan, his head thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as from his parted lips came the wailing rise and fall of the call to prayer.
The priest, who had been sitting in the shadow, started up. Ramses—being Ramses—finished all four of the initial statements of the ritual (“God is most great, et cetera”) before remarking, “Good evening, Mama. Good evening, Papa. Did you have a productive day in Cairo?”
Emerson accepted Father Todorus’ offer of a cup of cognac. I declined. I required all my wits to deal with Ramses.
“May I ask,” I inquired, taking a seat beside him, “what you are doing?”
I hated to ask, for I felt sure he would tell me, at tedious length; but I was so bewildered by the uncanny performance I was not quite myself. It was obvious that not only the last, but all the other muezzin calls had come from the scrawny throat of my son. Emerson continued to sip his cognac, his bulging eyes fixed on Ramses’ Adam’s apple.
Ramses cleared his throat. “When you and Papa discussed the unfortunate captivity of Father Todorus here, I found myself in complete agreement with your conclusion that he had been imprisoned somewhere within the environs of Cairo. Your further conclusion, that it would not be possible to narrow this down, was one with which I was reluctantly forced to disagree. For in my opinion—”
“Ramses.”
“Yes, Mama?”
“I would be indebted to you if you would endeavor to restrict your use of that phrase.”
“What phrase, Mama?”
“ ‘In my opinion.’ ”
The cognac had restored Emerson’s powers of speech. He said hoarsely, “I am inclined to agree with your mama, Ramses, but let us leave that for the moment. Please proceed with your explanation.”
“Yes, Papa. For in my . . . That is, I felt that although Father Todorus had been unable to see out of the windows, he had probably been able to hear out of them. Indeed, one of your own statements corroborated that assumption. Now while the agglomerate of sounds that might be called the ‘voice of the city’ is generally indistinctive—I refer to such sounds as the braying of donkeys, the calls of water sellers and vendors, the whining pleas of beggars, the—”
“I observe with concern, Ramses, that you seem to be developing a literary, not to say poetic, turn of phrase. Writing verses and keeping a journal are excellent methods of expurgating these tendencies. Incorporating them into an explanatory narrative is not.”
“Ah,” said Ramses thoughtfully.
“Please continue, Ramses,” said his father. “And, my dearest son—be brief!”
“Yes, Papa. There is one variety of auditory phenomena that is, in contrast to those I have mentioned (and others I was not allowed to mention), distinctive and differentiated. I refer, of course, to the calls of the muezzins of the mosques of Cairo. It occurred to me that Father Todorus, who had probably heard these calls ad nauseam, so to speak, day after day, might be able to distinguish between them and perhaps even recall their relative loudness and softness. I came, therefore, to attempt the experiment. By reproducing—”
“Oh, good Gad!” I cried out. “Ramses—have you been sitting here for over three hours repeating the adan in different voices and different tones? Emerson—as you know, I seldom succumb to weakness, but I must confess