The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [31]
“Enough about Percy,” I said firmly. “I do not intend to associate with him and I am heartily sick of discussing him. We have arrived; Emerson, kindly assume your coat and your cravat and your hat. You too, Ramses. Nefret, put Horus on his lead.”
Since it was necessary for Nefret to sit between Ramses and the cat, like a mama separating quarrelsome children, Ramses had the corner seat, with Nefret next to him and Horus sprawled insolently across the remaining space. Horus put up a fuss about the lead; he was as spoiled as a fat pasha and had no intention of walking if he could bully someone into carrying him. No one offered, however, not even Emerson.
Waiting to greet us were a number of our loyal men, members of Abdullah’s extended family, who had worked for us for many years. Some resided in Luxor, some in the village of Atiyah, south of Cairo. Their cries of welcome were directed at us all, but the returning wanderers were the center of attention this time. I could see that Selim and Daoud were anxious to get home, where the whole village would be waiting to hear the tales of their adventures, so we bade them a temporary farewell and got ourselves and our baggage into cabs.
Traffic worsened every year; now motorcars disputed the right of way with carts and horse-drawn cabs and camels and donkeys, not to mention the pedestrians who had to risk life and limb crossing the major thoroughfares. It took almost half an hour to drive from the railroad station to the dock, but not even my impatient spouse complained of the delay. It was so good to be back—to breathe the hot dry air, to see roses and bougainvillea blooming in December, to hear again the familiar din of Cairo—the mournful chorus of “La lahu illa-Allah” that heralded a funeral procession, the shouts of sellers of licorice water and lemonade. And to see, when the brief journey ended, the familiar shape of my beloved dahabeeyah on which I had spent so many blissful hours.
Emerson had purchased the boat and named it after me. I could not bear to give it up, though it had become inconveniently small for our extended family and our ever-increasing library (not to mention Nefret’s ever-increasing wardrobe).
Now back on her native heath, properly veiled and attired and ready to resume her duties as housekeeper, Fatima had worked herself into a state of anxious self-reproach. She should not have gone to England. She should have stayed in Cairo to make certain the dahabeeyah was in readiness for our arrival. No one knew how to do it but she. Her niece Karima had no sense. Her nephew, Karima’s husband, was lazy and worthless and—worst of all—a man. The floors would be dirty, the beds unmade, the food inedible …
In my opinion Karima had performed a good deal better than dear old Abdullah had done when he was in charge of the housekeeping arrangements, but as we passed from room to room, Fatima subjected her to a running commentary of criticism. Announcing that she would have to do it all over again, Fatima fluttered off to her room to change from her good clothing and I dismissed Karima with thanks and compliments. She was very glad to go.
We become spoiled and jaded as we mature, I suppose. The bathing arrangements, which had so impressed me on my first inspection of the Philae (as she was called then), now seemed infuriatingly inad equate. I was the last to avail myself of them, and thus the last to join the others in the saloon. Located in the bow of the ship, this large chamber had long windows, with a wide divan under them. Ramses and Emerson had begun unpacking the boxes of books we had brought with us, but had stopped midway as men always do, leaving books on the floor, on the chairs, and on the tables. Nefret reclined on the divan with Horus across her feet; he was growling and rending papers that appeared to be the remains of letters and envelopes. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Ramses was perusing a ponderous tome in German, and Emerson was rummaging in the cupboards under