The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [28]
“But that is a serious lack,” Emerson remarked. “Where are we to find an artist? If only Evelyn had not abandoned a promising career. She had a nice touch. She might have amounted to something.”
Considering that Evelyn was one of the wealthiest women in England, the devoted mother of three lovely children and the adoring wife of a man who doted on her every movement, I could not see that she had lost a great deal. However, I knew there was no sense in pointing this out to Emerson. I therefore contented myself with remarking, “She has promised to come out with us again after the children are in school.”
“Yes, but when will that be? She keeps on producing the creatures in endless succession and shows no sign of stopping. I am fond of my brother and his wife, but a continual progression of miniature Evelyns and Walters is a bit too much. The human race—”
When the human race entered the discussion I stopped listening. Emerson is capable of ranting on that subject for hours.
“If I may suggest,” von Bork said hesitantly.
I looked at him in surprise. The tentative tone was quite unlike his usual confident voice, and although his countenance remained impassive, his sunburned cheeks had turned a trifle pink.
“Yes, certainly,” said Emerson, as surprised as I.
Von Bork cleared his throat self-consciously. “There is a young lady—an English lady—in Luxor village who is an accomplished painter. In an emergency she might be persuaded…”
Emerson’s face fell. I sympathized; I shared his opinion of young lady artists of the amateur persuasion.
“It is early days yet,” I said tactfully. “When we have uncovered something worth copying, we can worry about a painter. But I thank you for the suggestion, Herr von Bork. I believe I will call you Karl. It is easier and more friendly. You do not object, I hope?”
By the time he had finished assuring me that he did not, we were docking on the west bank.
Thanks to Karl’s efficiency and Emerson’s curses, we soon sound ourselves mounted on donkeyback and ready to proceed. Leaving Abdullah to arrange for the transport of the men and the baggage, we set out across the fields, now green with crops. The pace of a donkey is leisurely in the extreme, so we were able to converse as we rode along; and as we came near to the place where the fertile black soil left by the annual inundation gives way to the red desert sands, Emerson said abruptly, “We will go by way of Gurneh.”
Karl was more relaxed now that he had performed his task of greeting and transporting us without mishap; I observed that when he was calm he was able to keep his verbs straight instead of relapsing into tortuous German sentence structure.
“It is not the direct path,” he objected. “I had thought you and Mrs. Emerson would wish to rest and refresh yourselves after—”
“I have my reasons for suggesting it,” Emerson replied.
“Aber natürlich! Whatever the Professor wishes.”
Our donkeys crossed into the desert, a line so distinct that their front feet pressed the hot sands while their back feet were still on the cultivated land. The village of Gurneh is several hundred yards beyond the cultivation, in the rocky foothills of the mountains. The huts of sun-dried brick blend into the pale-brown rock of the hillside. One might wonder why the residents, who have lived in this place for hundreds of years, do not seek a more comfortable locale. They have solid economic reasons for remaining, for they make their livelihood on that spot. Between the huts and under their very floors lie the ancient tombs whose treasures form the inhabitants’ source of income. In the hills behind the village, a convenient half-hour’s walk away, are the narrow valleys where the kings and queens of the Empire were buried.
We heard the sounds of the village before we could make out its dwellings—the voices of children, the barking of dogs, and the bleating of goats. The cupola of the old village mosque could be seen on the