The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [109]
‘Good morning,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I am glad to see you keeping busy, David. Practising your craft, are you?’
‘Good morning, Sitt Hakim,’ was the unsmiling response. ‘I hope you are well today? I trust you slept soundly.’
The words were pronounced with meticulous care, and the formality of them would have made me smile if I had not feared that would offend the boy. ‘Thank you, I slept very soundly and I am very well. I hope you are the same. May I see what you are doing?’
He put his tools carefully into a basket and without comment handed the sculpture to me.
The piece was unfinished; the headdress was only roughed in. He had concentrated on the face. It was obviously a portrait of Nefret, for the likeness was unmistakable, but it was also just as unmistakably, a portrait of someone else. An almost indefinable alteration of certain features strengthened the resemblance I had observed on one other occasion, and the headdress was a crown – the vulture crown worn by Egyptian queens.
David’s eye was that of an artist. Was this only an innocent form of flattery, giving his new friend the attributes of the young queen – or had he seen even more clearly than I the coincidental and fleeting resemblance between Nefret and Tetisheri? Harmless, in either case, but it made me uneasy. Shelmadine had rambled on about reincarnation, and it seemed probable that Gertrude was also a believer in that abstruse doctrine. I certainly did not want notions like that entering Nefret’s head.
The resemblance and the disquieting thoughts it aroused made my response slow in coming. ‘It is wonderful, David. Remarkable.’
The boy’s thin shoulders relaxed. ‘You are not angry that I do this?’
‘On the contrary.’ I sat down on the ground next to him. ‘The exercise of a talent such as yours is a duty and a God-given right; only a vandal would attempt to restrain . . .’ I broke off, seeing his puzzled expression. ‘I am not angry. I am very pleased. Only – why did you give her the vulture crown?’
He understood that, but he continued to look puzzled. Finally he said, ‘I do not know. It was . . .’ He waved one thin, expressive hand. ‘It was the right way.’
An artist with a better command of English and a better opinion of himself would have put it more elegantly. I knew what he meant, however.
‘I do not waste the time.’ From another basket he removed a notebook and pencil. ‘I learn. Do you want I read to you?’
He proceeded to do so, opening the notebook to a page on which I recognized Nefret’s neat printing. There were only a few sentences, employing the simplest words, but she had woven them into a little story about a boy who lived in Egypt where the sun was bright and the river was wide.
‘Very good,’ I said. I was beginning to sympathize with the poor mother hen whose one ungainly offspring showed signs of turning into something she had not expected and did not know how to deal with. What would the boy do next – logarithms?
I got to my feet. ‘I must go back to work, David. I am pleased with you. But don’t neglect – do you know that word? – the portrait of Nefret for your studies. It is quite . . . remarkable.’
‘I will make it well, Sitt Hakim. It is for you.’
As I walked away I heard him repeating ‘re-mark-able,’ over and over, trying to imitate my inflection.
I decided to wait until the portrait head was finished before I showed it to Emerson. Surely he would be as touched as I had been, and as impressed by the lad’s talent. However, Emerson’s prejudices were deep-seated. It would require a great deal to convince him David was loyal.
How great we were soon to find out.
It was almost noon before the steps were finally