The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [90]
“Ah,” I said distantly.
“Allow me to explain.”
“Pray do.”
“I didn’t know who he was, you see,” Russell said. “I walked into a café in Alexandria one afternoon and found a group of young fellows—Egyptians, as I believed them all to be—listening to an orator who was holding forth on the iniquities of the British occupation, as he called it—”
“Isn’t it?” I inquired.
“Er—well. This was not long after the business at Denshawai, and we were all a bit on edge; I thought the discussion was getting somewhat heated and so I told them to go about their business. Your son refused—quite politely, and in impeccable Arabic, but quite decidedly. Like most of the others, he was wearing European clothes, but he wore them like an Egyptian, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do know.”
“I wasn’t accustomed to being talked back to by Egyptians, especially young firebrands like those. He appeared to be the leader—he was the one doing all the talking, anyhow—so I identified myself and told him to make himself scarce or I’d arrest him. He then gave me one of the most irritating smiles I have ever seen and identified himself, in English as impeccable as his Arabic had been! By that time the others had melted away except for one chap whom Ramses introduced as David Todros. The young devil—excuse me, ma’am—then invited me in the coolest manner to take drinks with them.”
“That sounds like Ramses,” I admitted. “He never mentioned the incident to me, Mr. Russell. Ramses is inclined to keep his own counsel.”
“So I understand. I had heard of him—everyone in Egypt knows your family, Mrs. Emerson—and I was amused by his sangfroid, so I accepted the invitation. We had quite a long talk. I don’t suppose he’s ever considered taking up police work? I could certainly use a chap who looks like an Egyptian and speaks Arabic like a native.”
Clearly Mr. Russell did not know of Ramses’s escapades as Ali the Rat and other equally disgusting personalities. Devoutly I prayed he never would. I replied that my son was destined for a career in Egyptology and, the music ending, Mr. Russell gave me his arm in order to lead me off the floor.
“A word of warning, if I may,” he said, in a low voice and in quite a different tone. “You may have wondered why I remembered the name of your son’s friend. It is a name that appears in the files of the Cairo police, Mrs. Emerson. If young Todros is still a friend—”
“He is now related to me by marriage, Mr. Russell. He espoused my niece in November.”
“What? Married?”
I gave him back stare for stare. After a moment he smiled wryly. “All the more reason to heed my warning, then. Try to keep the boy out of trouble. K won’t stand for nationalist unrest.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“Thank you for the dance, ma’am. If Ramses should ever change his mind about Egyptology, send him to me.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Ramses shared his father’s dislike of formal dinners and balls. In a way these events were harder for him than for Emerson, who didn’t give a damn about anything except Egyptology and refused to pretend that he did; who preferred the company of his Egyptian friends to that of officials, officers, and “the best people,” and made no bones about that either. Ramses had not attained that level of sublime rudeness; he doubted he ever would, not so long as his mother was anywhere around. He made a point of dropping by the Turf Club and the hotel bars from time to time, rather in the manner of an explorer investigating the bizarre customs of the Masai or the tribes of West Africa. He couldn’t stand it for very long at a time. They set his teeth on edge, these arrogant outsiders, they were so convinced of their superiority to all other nations and races and persons of other social classes.
The ballroom filled rapidly. Ramses kept moving; he had become expert at eluding the determined matrons who bore down on unattached men, towing a recently arrived female. Many of the young women had failed to find a husband at home and were on their