The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [45]
I attempted to distract my mind with scholarly work, but even I, well disciplined though I am, was unable to settle down to anything. In past years I had made something of a reputation with my translations of little Egyptian fairy tales, but when I looked over the material at hand I could not find anything that caught my interest. I had already done the most entertaining of them: The Tales of the Doomed Prince and the Two Brothers, the Adventures of Sinuhe, the Shipwrecked Sailor. When I voiced my difficulty to Emerson he suggested I turn my attention to historical documents.
“Breasted has published the first volume of his texts,” he added. “You could correct his translations.”
Emerson was making one of his little jokes. Mr. Breasted of Chicago was a linguist whom even Walter respected, and Volume One of his Ancient Records of Egypt had appeared that spring to universal acclamation. I smiled politely.
“I have no intention of treading on Mr. Breasted’s toes, Emerson.”
“Tread on Budge’s toes, then. His translation of the Book of the Dead is riddled with errors.”
“Ramses appears to be working on that,” I said. I had seen the photographs on Ramses’s desk and wondered when and where he had acquired them.
“That must be another version, not the one Budge mangled. His is in the British Museum, as you ought to know—one of Budge’s contemptible violations of the laws against purchasing antiquities from dealers. Why the authorities at the Museum continue to countenance that villain . . .”
I left the room. Emerson’s opinions of Mr. Budge were only too familiar to me.
What with one aggravation or another, I was even more pleased than usual to round the curve in the river and see before me the monumental ruins of the temples of Luxor and Karnak and the buildings of the modern village of Luxor. The village was rapidly becoming a town, with new hotels and government buildings rising everywhere. Tourist steamers lined the bank. There were a few dahabeeyahs among them; certain wealthy visitors, especially those who returned to Egypt every season, preferred the comfort of a private boat.
Our friend Cyrus Vandergelt was one of them. His boat, the Valley of the Kings, was moored on the West Bank, across from Luxor. He was good enough to share his private dock with us, and as the Amelia glided in under the skillful hands of Reis Hassan, I saw the usual reception party awaiting us. Abdullah was there, stately as a high priest in the snowy robes he preferred, and Selim, his beloved youngest son, and Daoud and Ibrahim and Mohammed—the men who had worked for us so long and who had become friends as well as valued employees.
Over the years Abdullah’s once-formal manner toward me had gradually softened; now he took my outstretched hand in both of his and pressed it warmly.
“You look well, Abdullah,” I said. It was true, and I was relieved to see it, for he had suffered a mild heart attack the previous year. Precisely how old he was I did not know, but his beard had been grizzled when I first met him, and that had been over twenty years ago. We had given up trying to persuade him to retire with a well-deserved pension; it would have broken his heart to leave us and the work he loved as much as we did.
Abdullah straightened his shoulders. “I am well, Sitt. And you—you do not change. You will always be young.”
“Why, Abdullah,” I said, laughing. “I believe that is the first compliment you have ever paid me.”
I passed him over to the respectful embrace of his grandson David, and went to Ramses, who was embracing his horse. The beautiful Arabian stallion had been a gift from our old friend Sheikh Mohammed, with whom Ramses and David had