Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [6]
The driver jumped from his seat and handed the reins to the groom who had been mounted behind. The former was tall and thin, lithe as a panther in riding costume and polished boots. His black hair looked as if it had received a coating of the same boot polish; his narrow black mustache might have been drawn in India ink. A monocle in his right eye caught the sunlight in a blinding flash.
Emerson exclaimed aloud, “By the Lord Harry, it is that villain Kalenischeff!”
Emerson’s accents are not noted for their softness. All heads turned toward us, including that of Kalenischeff. His cynical smile stiffened, but he recovered himself almost at once and turned to assist the other passenger from the carriage.
Jewels shone at her throat and on her slender wrists. Her frock of gray-green silk was of the latest Paris mode, with balloon sleeves bigger around than her narrow waist. A huge cravat of white chiffon was pinned by a diamond-and-emerald brooch. Her parasol matched her frock. Under it I caught a glimpse of a lovely, laughing face with cheeks and lips more brilliant than Nature had designed.
The dashing couple swept up the stairs and into the hotel.
“Well!” I said. “I wonder who—”
“Never mind,” said Emerson, taking me firmly by the arm.
We had our usual rooms on the third floor, overlooking the Ezbekieh Gardens. After we had unpacked and changed our attire, we went down to take tea on the terrace. Emerson grumbled less than usual at the performance of what he terms “an absurd social ritual,” for we were all thirsty after the long, dusty ride.
Tea on the terrace of Shepheard’s is certainly one of the popular tourist activities, but even old hands like ourselves never tire of watching the vivacious procession of Egyptian life that passes along Ibrahim Pasha Street. The environs of the hotel teem with crowds of beggars, vendors, donkey boys and carriage drivers, all vying for the custom of the guests. Once we had seated ourselves and given the waiter our order, I took a list from my pocket and read it to Ramses. It was a list of things he was forbidden to do. It began, as I recall, with “Do not talk to the donkey boys,” and ended, “Do not repeat any of the words you learned from the donkey boys last year.” Ramses’ Arabic was fluent and unfortunately quite colloquial.
We saw a number of acquaintances pass in and out of the hotel, but none came to speak to us, and there were none with whom we cared to speak; not an Egyptologist in the lot, as Emerson put it. I was about to suggest that we retire to our rooms when another oath from my outspoken husband warned me of the approach of someone who had inspired his disapproval. Turning, I beheld Kalenischeff.
He wore his fixed smile like a mask. “Good afternoon, madame—Professor—Master Ramses. Welcome back to Cairo. May I . . . ?”
“No,” said Emerson, snatching the chair from Kalenischeff’s grasp. “How dare you address Mrs. Emerson? Your very presence is an insult to any respectable woman.”
“Now, Emerson.” I raised my parasol to indicate another chair. Kalenischeff flinched; he was remembering, no doubt, another occasion on which I had been forced to jab the point into his anatomy in order to prevent a rude encroachment upon my nether limbs. I went on, “Let us hear what he has to say.”
“I won’t take much of your time.” Kalenischeff decided not to sit down after all. He lowered his voice. “I would like to come to an agreement with you. A bargain—”
“What?” Emerson shouted. “A bargain? I don’t enter into agreements with murdering, thieving—”
“Hush, Emerson,” I implored. The people at the adjoining tables had abandoned all pretense of good manners and were eavesdropping as hard as they could. “Hear him out.”
Kalenischeff’s smile stayed glued in place, but drops of perspiration stood out on his brow. “I know your opinion of me,” he hissed. “No bargain, then, only a promise from me. I am about to leave Cairo—to leave Egypt, in fact. Only give me a few days to wind up