The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [41]
“Couldn’t you have selected a more salubrious location?” he asked.
“You know better than that. They wouldn’t have come to me. I had to go to them.”
The house was one of the tall narrow blank-fronted houses of medieval Cairo. There was no sign or nameplate, and after Nefret had rung the bell they were subjected to an intense scrutiny through a narrow slit in the door before chains rattled and bolts squeaked. These sounds were accompanied by a high-pitched ululating cry which most Europeans would have taken for a distress signal. Ramses knew what it was; he was not surprised when the door flew open and Nefret was surrounded by a group of women, all shrieking with joy and all trying to hug her at once.
One of them, a middle-aged woman wearing a physician’s white coat over her long tob, advanced toward Ramses with a firm stride and an outstretched hand. Her abundant black hair was heavily streaked with gray and she spoke Arabic with a strong Syrian accent.
“Marhaba, Emerson Effendi. You honor our house.”
“Just call him Brother of Demons,” said Nefret, laughing. “Ramses, this is Dr. Sophia.”
He had not met her, but he had heard Nefret and his mother speak of her with admiration and respect. She deserved both; Syrian Christians were slightly more liberal in their views than most Middle Easterners, but Sophia Hanem’s medical degree from Zurich had been acquired after long years of struggle with her family and her government. Nefret had been fortunate to find her to take charge of the clinic.
Ramses was left to cool his heels in the office while Nefret went with the doctor on her rounds. It was a bright, sunny room, lit by wide windows opening onto an interior courtyard, its scrubbed tile floor and whitewashed walls a striking contrast to the filth of the exterior. A girl who could not have been more than thirteen brought him tea; he could not help wondering whether she was one of the pathetic children the clinic had succeeded in freeing from degradation and virtual slavery. Some of the girls were even younger. It was quite some time before Nefret returned, and she did not linger over her farewells. The doctor was not offended at her brusque manner; she smiled rather sadly at Ramses and shook her head. He nodded, to show he understood.
His mother had warned him. “She is always in a wretched mood after she has visited the place. Don’t be put out if she snaps at you. She isn’t angry at you, but at—”
“At the miserable sights she has seen and at her inability to put them right. Never mind, Mother, I’m quite accustomed to being snapped at by Nefret.”
The door closed behind them. Nefret let him take her hand and draw her arm through his. He didn’t know what to say to her. In her present mood an expression of his admiration and sympathy might be taken amiss. He had just about decided to risk it, when she stiffened and stared—not at him, but at two men wearing European clothing and matching tarbooshes. Both were smoking cigars. Catching Nefret’s eye, the taller of the two came to a sudden stop, spoke briefly to his companion, and strode toward them. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. An officer, even in mufti, had that effect on the citizens of el Was’a.
“Good heavens, Miss Nefret, what are you doing here?” Percy tossed his cigar away and removed his fez. “Let me escort you to safety.”
“I am perfectly safe,” Nefret said. “And I know precisely what I am doing. May I ask, Lieutenant, for what purpose you have come here? The brothels in the Wagh-el-Birka are more to English tastes.”
No lady was supposed to know that word, much less be familiar with the relative amenities of the Cairene establishments. Percy turned beet-red and glared at Ramses, who was choking with horrified amusement.
“I say! See here, Ramses, this is your fault. Bringing her here—teaching her about—about—”
“I really wouldn’t take that approach if I were you,” Ramses said earnestly.
It was too late. Nefret was almost as red in the face as Percy.
“Ramses hasn’t taught me a damned