The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [175]
He had so enjoyed conspiring with me against Emerson—and with Emerson against me. I remembered the smug smile on his face when he said, “You all came to me. You all said, ‘Do not tell the others’ ”; his theatrical grumble, “Another dead body. Every year, another dead body!” The way he had tried to wink at me . . .
It is the small things, not the great ones, that hurt most. The dam burst and I flung myself face-down on the bed in a flood of tears. I did not hear the door open. I was unaware of another presence until a hand came to rest on my shoulder. It was not Emerson. It was Nefret, her face wet and her lips trembling. We wept together then, our arms round one another. Emerson’s arms had comforted me on many occasions, but this was what I needed now—another woman to grieve as I was grieving, unashamed of tears.
She held me until my sobs had died to snuffles, and I had soaked my handkerchief and hers. I wiped the remaining tears away with my fingers.
“I am glad it was you,” I said. “Emerson never has a handkerchief.”
“Are you glad, though?” She knew my little joke was my way of regaining my composure, but her eyes were anxious. “I didn’t know whether I should come in. I waited outside the door for a long time. I didn’t know whether you would want me.”
“You are my dearest daughter, and I wanted you.”
That made her cry again, so I cried a little too, and then I had to rummage through my drawers for another handkerchief. I bathed my red eyes and smoothed my hair and we went together to the sitting room. Ramses and Emerson were there, and David, who put food on a plate and brought it to me. We talked of inconsequential things, since the important things were still too painful.
“It is a pity about the school,” Nefret said. “I suppose it will be closed now.”
“Mrs. Vandergelt might take it over,” Ramses suggested.
“An excellent idea,” I said. “Do they know . . . Have Cyrus and Katherine been informed of what has occurred?”
It was David who replied. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he was quite composed; and I thought he had gained a new maturity and self-confidence. “I wrote to tell them. They sent a message back—they want to be there this evening.”
“Good.” I put the untouched food aside and rose. “David, will you come with me? There is something I want to say to you.”
From Letter Collection B
. . . so you see, Lia darling, it is going to be all right! Aunt Amelia is writing to your parents, and I don’t doubt for a moment that they will do exactly as she tells them.
Don’t grieve for Abdullah. If he could have chosen the manner of his death, this is what he would have wanted. Be thankful that you knew him, if only for a short time, and rejoice as we do that he was spared illness and a long slow dying.
You would have found the funeral moving, I think, despite its strangeness. The cortege was led by six poor men, many of them blind (only too easy to find, unhappily, in this country where opthalmia is so common) chanting the credo: “There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet; God bless and save him!” Abdullah’s sons and nephews and grandsons followed, and after them came three young boys carrying a copy of the Koran and chanting in sweet high voices a prayer or poem about the Judgment. The words are very beautiful. I remember only a few verses: “I extol the perfection of Him who created all that has form. How bountiful is He! How merciful is He! How great is He! Though a servant rebels against Him, he protects.”
The Professor and Ramses were among those honored by being permitted to carry the bier, on which the body lay, uncoffined, and wrapped in fine cloths. Fatima and Kadija and the other women of the family were next. The rest of us followed them. The Vandergelts were there, of course, and Mr. Carter and Mr. Ayrton and even M. Maspero! I thought it was rather sweet of Maspero. Fortunately the Professor was too busy trying to keep a stiff upper lip to start an argument