The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [39]
The rich, malodorously mingled scents of the market assaulted my nostrils. It is said that the olfactory sense is the quickest to adapt; certainly I had found that within a day or so after arriving in Egypt, I no longer noticed the distinctive odors of the country, which many Europeans find distasteful. I cannot claim that I breathed them in with the same pleasure I would have found in the aroma of a rose or a lilac, but they brought back delightful memories and were thereby rendered tolerable. Today, however, the stench made me feel a trifle ill, compounded as it was of rotting vegetation, dried camel dung, and sweating unwashed human bodies. I rather regretted having eaten quite so much.
I traversed the sûk from end to end without seeing any sign of my husband and son. Retracing my steps, I settled myself on a bench in front of one of the more prosperous establishments and prepared to purchase foodstuffs. The Greek shopkeepers do not engage in the long exchange of courtesies that precedes any purchase in the sûks of Cairo, but I expected I would have to do some bargaining, and so it proved. Rice, dates, tinned vegetables, and some water jars—of the coarse, porous type that permits cooling by evaporation—had been acquired when the shopkeeper broke off his discussion and began a series of extravagant bows. Turning, I saw the familiar form of my husband approaching.
He was bareheaded, as usual, and his waving dark locks shone with bronze highlights. His smiling face, the strong brown throat bared by the open collar of his shirt, the muscular forearms, also bared, had their usual softening effect; after all, I thought, perhaps he had not deceived me. The story I had heard had been third-hand; it might have been distorted, especially by Budge, who was always eager to think the worst of Emerson.
I did not see Ramses, but I assumed he was there, his slighter form hidden by the crowd, for Emerson would not have looked so pleased if he had managed to lose the boy. However, it would have been hard to overlook the individual who followed my husband at a respectful distance. The folds of his mantle shadowed his features, but his height and lithe movements made his identity unmistakable.
“My dear Peabody!” said Emerson.
“Good afternoon, Emerson,” I replied. “And where is… Oh, there you are, Ramses. Don’t try to hide behind your father; you are even dirtier than I expected you would be, but I can’t do anything about that now. What is that brown stain all down your shirtfront?”
Ramses chose to ignore the direct question in favor of the accusation. “I was not hiding, Mama. I was talking with Mr. Kemit here. He has taught me a number of useful phrases in his language, including—”
“You may tell me later, Ramses.” The brown stain appeared to be the residue of some kind of food or drink— something sticky, to judge by the number of flies that clung to it. I transferred my attention to Ramses’s tutor, who replied with one of his curious gestures of greeting. “So your name is Kemit, is it?”
“He has agreed to work for us,” Emerson said happily. “And bring two others of his tribe. Isn’t that splendid?”
“Very. And where do your people live, Mr.—er, Kemit?”
“It is a tragic story,” said Ramses, squatting with a supple ease no English lad should have demonstrated. “His village was one of many destroyed by the Dervishes. They cut down the date palms, killed the men and boys and dishonored—”
“Ramses!”
“I see that as always you have made good use of your time, Peabody,” Emerson said quickly. “Are we ready to go back to Nuri?”
“No. I want to buy some trinkets—beads, mirrors, and the like—as gifts for the men to take their wives. You know I always try