The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [27]
“It would have been rude to refuse,” said Ramses. “The ladies had set their hearts on it.”
Emerson burst out laughing. “You are becoming quite a gallant, my boy. But you must learn that it is not always wise, or safe, to indulge the ladies.”
“Upon my word, you take this very lightly, Emerson,” I exclaimed.
“I imagine it was curiosity, rather than gallantry, that induced Ramses to try this experiment,” Emerson replied, still chuckling. “It is his most conspicuous character trait, and you will never change it; just be thankful that this adventure, unlike so many earlier ones, turned out to be harmless.”
“I hope you are right,” I muttered.
“Nothing worse than dirty hands,” Emerson went on, inspecting the palms Ramses held out. They were darkly stained and still damp. I snatched out a handkerchief and began wiping them; the stuff came off more readily than I had expected, but I caught a whiff of that same odd scent I had smelled before. I threw the handkerchief away. (A toothless street beggar pounced on it.)
As we walked on, Emerson, who suffers from a certain degree of curiosity himself, questioned Ramses about his experience. Ramses said it had been most interesting. He claimed to have been fully conscious throughout, and to have heard everything that was said. However, his responses to the questions of the seer were made without his own volition, like hearing another person speak. “It was mostly about having babies,” he explained seriously. “Male babies. He promised all the ladies many sons. They seemed pleased.”
“Ha,” I said.
The next stage of our journey was made by rail, along the line laid with such remarkable rapidity from Haifa to Kerma, thus avoiding the rocks of the Second and Third Cataracts. This part of the trip tried even my strength. We had been given the best accommodations available—a battered, ramshackle railroad coach affectionately known as “Yellow Maria,” which had been built for Ismail Pasha. It had come down in the world since then; most of the window glass was missing, and on the sharp curves and steep gradients of the roadbed it swayed and rattled so violently that one expected it to bounce off the track. The engines were old and in poor repair. Blowing sand and overheating necessitated frequent stops for repairs. By the time we reached our destination Ramses was a pale shade of pea-green and my muscles were so stiff I could hardly move.
Emerson, however, was in fine fettle. Men have it so much easier than women; they can strip down to a point that is impossible for a modest female, even one so unconventional as I. I have always been an advocate of rational dress for women; I was one of the first to imitate the scandalous example of Mrs. Bloomer, and the full, knee-length trousers I was accustomed to wear on the dig anticipated by several years the bicycling costumes daring English ladies eventually adopted. Fashions in sport and in costume had changed, but I retained my trousers, which I had had made in a variety of cheerful colors that would not show the effects of sand and dust as did navy blue and black. With the addition of a neat cotton shirtwaist (long-sleeved and collared, of course), a pair of stout boots, a matching jacket, and a wide-brimmed boater, this made up a costume as becoming and modest as it was practical.
During the dreadful train ride I had ventured to unfasten the top two buttons of my shirt and turn up my cuffs. Emerson had of course abandoned his coat and cravat as soon as we left Cairo. Now his shirt gaped open to the waist, and his sleeves had been rolled above his elbows. He wore no hat. After assisting me to alight from the carriage he took a deep breath of the steaming, stifling, sand-laden air and exclaimed, “The last stage! We will soon be there, my darling Peabody. Isn’t this splendid?”
I had not the strength to do more than glare at him.
However, I am nothing if not resilient, and a few hours later I was able to share his enthusiasm. A troop of Sudani soldiers