The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [158]
I instructed Mahmud to remove the dishes and bring the food to the saloon. Walter had calmed down a bit by then; he apologized to me and agreed we must carry on in the manner Emerson had suggested. No one had much of an appetite. We forced the food down, however, since it was necessary to keep up appearances.
It has often been said – and I firmly believe it – that Heaven does not try us beyond our strength. Scarcely an hour had passed (though I measured it, Reader, in units interminably long) since Emerson’s departure and I was wondering how I could bear the endless hours that must yet pass, when Heaven came to my rescue. So tightly strung were my nerves that the voices outside the saloon made me drop my glass and leap to my feet. I knew those voices. One was Mahmud’s, raised in shrill protest. The other . . .
I ran to the door and flung it open. Mahmud held the squirming, struggling boy by the arm. ‘You cannot enter, not like that. Go wash your filthy person and I will tell the Sitt –’
The boy raised a wild face towards mine. His black eyes were dilated, his black curls streaked with dust, his galabeeyah torn.
‘Let him go,’ I said. ‘David – where is Ramses?’
Before Mahmud could obey or David could reply, the cat Bastet emerged from the shadows of the deck, considered the situation, and leaped onto Mahmud’s back. Mahmud screamed and let go David’s arm. Bastet jumped down and sauntered past me towards the dining table.
I drew the boy into the room and closed the door. At first I could not make him sit down or speak coherently. He kept pulling at me, demanding that I come with him.
It was Evelyn who intervened, gently detaching my hands from David and his from me. ‘Stop shaking him, Amelia. David, sit here by me. I am so glad you are safe.’
‘But he is not? He is not here?’ His taut body relaxed as she put her arm around him, and he let out a long gasping breath.
‘Tell us what happened,’ Evelyn said. ‘Tell us what you know. Speak Arabic, it will be quicker and easier.’
Only she, I believe, could have got a sensible account out of the boy. He spoke in simple, declarative sentences, watching her anxiously as if it were vital that she understand. She appeared to follow him without difficult. Perhaps those long conversations between them had improved her Arabic as well as his English. They had unquestionably established a bond of something warmer and more complex than friendship.
It was as I had thought: Ramses had decided to take it upon himself to track down Riccetti. David had not even tried to dissuade him; he had a wholly disproportionate respect for Ramses’ abilities. ‘And is he not my brother? Where he goes, I go.’
They had ‘borrowed’ a boat and rowed across the river. ‘She,’ said David, indicating Bastet, ‘she came too.’
‘Has she been with you all this time?’ Walter asked, eyeing without favour the cat, who was calmly browsing among the leftover food.
‘Let him tell it in the proper order, Walter,’ said Evelyn. ‘Go on, David.’
I had to admit Ramses had gone about the business more intelligently than I would have expected. Knowing that an ordinary barefoot fellah would never be allowed in one of the large hotels, he had got himself up quite smartly in what might have been mistaken for a kind of livery – sandals, clean white robe and red fez. Purporting to have been given a parcel to be delivered to Signor Riccetti, he had gone the rounds of the hotels, without, I hardly need add, success. He had also taken the precaution of telling David to follow him at a discreet distance – with the cat.
‘All in Luxor know her,’ David explained. ‘She cannot be seen with him. He ordered her to stay with me.’
I looked at Bastet. She raised her head from my plate