The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [41]
The day after our dinner party Nefret joined us for luncheon at one of the new restaurants. She had been to the dahabeeyah that morning to get some of her things.
“Was that Ramses?” I asked, turning to peer at a familiar form that was retreating at a speed that suggested the individual in question did not wish to be detained. “Why is he not joining us?”
“He went with me,” Nefret said. “But he had an appointment, so could not stay.”
“With some young woman, I suppose,” I said disapprovingly. “There is always some young woman, though I cannot imagine why they follow after him. It isn’t Miss Verinder, I hope. She has not a brain in her head.”
“Miss Verinder is no longer in the running,” Nefret said. “I have taken care of her.” Seeing my expression, she went on quickly, “Have you seen this, Aunt Amelia?”
The object she proffered was a newspaper, though not a particularly impressive example of that form. The type was smudged, the paper was thin enough to crumple at a touch, and there were only a few pages. I do not read Arabic as easily as I speak it, but I had no difficulty in translating the name of the newspaper.
“The Young Woman. Where did you get this?”
“From Fatima.” Nefret stripped off her gloves and accepted the menu the waiter handed her. “I always take time to talk with her and help her with her English.”
“I know, my dear,” I said affectionately. “It is good of you.”
Nefret shook her head so vigorously the flowers on her hat wobbled. “I don’t do it out of kindness, Aunt Amelia, but out of a strong sense of guilt. When I see how Fatima’s face lights up when she pronounces a new word—when I think of the thousands of other women whose aspirations are as high and who have not even her opportunities—I despise myself for not doing more.”
Emerson patted the little hand that rested on the table. It was clenched into a fist, as if anticipating battle. “You feel what all decent individuals feel when they contemplate the unfairness of the universe,” he said gruffly. “You are one of the few who cares enough to act on your feelings.”
“That is right,” I said. “If you cannot light a lamp, light a little candle! Thousands of little candles can illumine a—er—a large space!”
Emerson, regretting his descent into sentimentality, shot me a critical look. “I do wish you would not spout those banal aphorisms, Peabody. What is this paper?”
“A journal written for and by women,” Nefret explained. “Isn’t it exciting? I had no idea such things were done in Egypt.”
“There have been quite a number of them,” I said.
Nefret’s face fell. People who relate what they believe to be new and startling information like to have such information received with exclamations of astonishment and admiration. It is a natural human tendency, and I regretted having spoiled the effect.
“It is not surprising that you should not know of them,” I explained. “Few people do. Most, unfortunately, were short-lived. This one is new to me, though the same name—al-Fatah—was employed by a journal published some years ago.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, who had been perusing the first page. “The rhetoric is not precisely revolutionary, is it? ‘The veil is not a disease that holds us back. Rather, it is the cause of our happiness.’ Bah.”
“One does not reach the mountaintop in a single bound, Emerson. A series of small steps can . . . er, well, you catch my meaning.”
“Quite,” said Emerson shortly.
I deemed it advisable to change the direction of the discussion. “How did Fatima come by this, Nefret?”
“It was given to her and the other students at her reading class,” Nefret explained. “Did