Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [113]
‘Not yet.’ He stopped, raising his arm. ‘Praise be to God and Saint Jude, there’s a taxi. I do hope you have some money. I’m getting tired of hitting people.’
The driver may have been dubious about picking us up but John didn’t give him time to think about it. As the cab pulled away he looked out of the back window and said something under his breath. I deduced that Saint Jude, the patron of hopeless causes, wasn’t going to get a donation after all. Someone had seen us get into the cab.
After giving the driver directions John didn’t speak again except to demand money, in the tone a bank robber might have employed. I handed over part of Schmidt’s wad and sat nursing my sore feet. I wondered where we were going, but I didn’t have the energy to inquire. After we passed the Luxor Temple the cab turned away from the river into the streets of the town and finally came to a stop.
‘Can you walk a little farther?’ John asked, helping me out.
‘What’s the alternative?’ I stood on one foot. It only hurt half as much that way.
‘Crawling a little farther.’
But he put his arm around me and lifted me over the worst spots. The sidewalk was broken and littered. I was too busy watching where I stepped to notice my surroundings; when he turned into a doorway and knocked, I was only glad we had reached our destination. I was beginning to think the occupant wasn’t home when I heard a rattle of bolts and chains. The door opened a crack. Then it started to close again.
John inserted his foot. ‘Open, sesame,’ he said.
It was the foot, not the request, that got the point across. The door swung open and there she was. She had drawn a fold of cloth across her face, hiding all her features except beady little black eyes. But I’d have known her anywhere.
‘Hi, Granny,’ I said. ‘I’m back. Aren’t you glad to see me?’
Feisal wasn’t glad to see us either. After a prolonged and obviously profane monologue in his own lanunage he threw up his hands. ‘In here,’ he snapped, opening a door. It was Granny’s parlour, elegantly fitted out with shiny upholstered furniture and a television set and a rug covered with bright red roses. Granny let out a wavering howl of protest. I couldn’t really blame her for not wanting two dusty vagabonds in her nice clean room. However, my bloody footprints blended with the red roses.
I collapsed into the nearest chair and stretched my legs. When he saw my feet, Feisal’s face changed. ‘What happened?’
‘Quite a lot has happened,’ John said.
Granny had slipped out of the room. Now she returned with her veil pinned firmly in place. She was carrying a basin of water, which she set down on the floor beside my chair. There was a dead fly floating in the basin; I pushed the body callously aside with my toes and slid my feet into the warm water. It felt wonderful. I smiled and nodded at the old lady. She ducked her head and muttered in Arabic.
‘She is begging your pardon,’ Feisal translated. ‘She thinks you hurt yourself running away from her. She says she didn’t mean to frighten you.’
I leaned over and touched Granny on her bowed shoulder. ‘Shoukran,’ I said. ‘That’s all the Arabic I know, Feisal; tell her I owe her an apology and that I’m very grateful.’
‘She’s not the only one to whom you owe an apology,’ said John, unmoved by this touching exchange. ‘If you’d stayed here as you were supposed to – ’
‘I did apologize to you. It’s your own fault. If you would stop pushing people around and take the trouble to explain why you’re doing what you’re doing, instead of being so insufferably condescending, people might – ’
‘Enough!’ Feisal exclaimed. ‘We have not the time to waste on recriminations. You promised you’d get me out of this mess, Johnny – ’
‘Johnny?’ I repeated. ‘Isn’t that sweet. How come you never let me call you Johnny?’
‘I never allow him to do it either. It’s only a crude attempt to soften me by recalling sentimental memories of our school days.’
‘Then I’ll have to go on thinking of you as my blue eyes.’
I thought he’d miss that one,