The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [25]
Emerson sprang to his feet. “Peabody! I had not expected you so soon.”
“So I see,” I replied, returning the dignified greetings of the sheikh and taking the seat he indicated. The orchestra continued to wail, the girl continued to squirm, and Emerson’s high cheekbones took on the color of a ripe plum. Even the best of men exhibit certain inconsistencies in their attitude toward women. Emerson treated me as an equal (I would have accepted nothing less) in matters of the intellect, but it was impossible for him to conquer completely his absurd ideas about the delicate sensibilities of the female sex. The Arabs, for all their deplorable treatment of their own women, showed far more common sense in their treatment of ME. Having decided that I ranked as a peculiar variety of female-man, they entertained me as they would any masculine friend.
When the performance ended I applauded politely, somewhat to the surprise of the young woman. After expressing my appreciation to the sheikh, I inquired, “Where is Ramses? We must be on our way, Emerson; I left instructions for the supplies to be delivered to the quay, but without your personal supervision—”
“Yes, quite,” said Emerson. “You had better fetch Ramses, then; he is being entertained by the ladies. Or vice versa.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, hastily rising. “Yes. I had better fetch him—and,” I added in Arabic, “I would like to pay my compliments to the ladies of your house.”
And, I added to myself, I would also have a word with the young woman who had—I suppose she would have called it “danced”—for us. I would have felt myself a traitor to my sex if I had missed any opportunity to lecture the poor oppressed creatures of the harîm on their rights and privileges— though heaven knows, we Englishwomen were far from having attained the rights due us.
An attendant led me through the courtyard, where a fountain trickled feebly under the shade of a few sickly palm trees, and into the part of the house reserved for the women. It was dark and hot as a steam bath, for even the windows opening onto the courtyard were covered with pierced shutters, lest some bold masculine eye behold the forbidden beauties within. The sheikh had three of the four wives permitted him by Moslem law, and a number of female servants—concubines, to put it bluntly. All of them were assembled in a single room, and I heard them, giggling and exclaiming in high-pitched voices, long before I saw them. I expected the worst—Ramses’s Arabic is extremely fluent and colloquial— but then I realized that his was not among the voices I heard. At least he was not entertaining them by telling vulgar jokes or singing rude songs.
When I entered the room, the ladies fell silent, and a little flutter of alarm ran through the group. When they saw who it was they relaxed, and one—the chief wife, by her attire and her air of command—came forward to greet me. I was used to being swarmed over by the women of the harîms; poor things, they had little enough to amuse them, and a Western woman was a novelty indeed. On this occasion, however, after glancing at me they turned their attention back to something—or, as I suspected, someone—hidden from me by their bodies.
The heat, the gloom, the stench of the strong perfumes used by the women (and the aroma of unwashed bodies those perfumes strove to overcome) were familiar to me; but I seemed to smell some other, underlying odor—something sickly sweet and subtly pervasive. It may have been that strange scent that made me forget courtesy; it may have been the uncertainty