The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [80]
At Emerson’s suggestion we made use of our forced inactivity to study the local dialect. I had hoped our knowledge of Egyptian would assist us, but except for certain titles and proper names, and a few common words, the language of the Holy Mountain was a different tongue entirely. Nevertheless we made excellent progress, not only because of certain mental attributes modesty prevents me from naming, but because Ramses had already picked up a good deal from Tarek-alias-Kemit even before we arrived. Needless to say he took full advantage of his position of instructor to his elders, and on several occasions I was sorely tempted to send him to his room.
One night I decided to try my burgeoning linguistic skill on my attendant. I let her finish her tasks and relax with face unveiled before I spoke. “Greetings, maiden. I thank you for your good heart.”
She almost fell off the stool. I could not help laughing; recovering herself, she glared at me like any young person whose dignity has been damaged. In stumbling Meroitic I attempted to apologize.
She let out a flood of speech which I could not follow; then, visibly pleased at my lack of comprehension, she said slowly, “You speak our tongue poorly.”
“Let us speak English, then,” I said in that language—making mental note of the adverbial form, whose meaning was quite clear.
She hesitated, biting her lip, and then said in Meroitic, “I do not understand.”
“I think you do, a little. Do not all the high-born people of your land learn English? I can see that you are of the highborn.”
The compliment lowered her guard. “I speak… a small. Not many words.”
“Ah, I knew it. You speak very well. What is your name?”
Again she hesitated, looking at me askance from under her long lashes. Finally she said, “I am Amenitere, First Handmaiden to the Goddess.”
“How did you learn English?” I asked. “Was it from the white man who came here?”
Her face went blank and she shook her head. None of my attempts to rephrase the question or render it in my stumbling version of her language brought an answer.
I learned a few things from her, however. She had never unveiled or spoken while Ramses or Emerson was present, but this was not, as I initially supposed, because of their sex. Only “the goddess” and her fellow handmaidens were supposed to see her face. She was unable or unwilling to explain why she made an exception in my case; I came to the conclusion that she found me so very unusual that she was not quite certain how to treat me.
We got to the point where we could chat in a friendly fashion about cosmetics and food and particularly about that subject dear to feminine hearts, clothing. My travel-stained garments had been carefully laundered and returned to me; she never tired of fingering the fabric, exploring the pockets, and laughing at the cut and style. She would have laughed even louder, I daresay, if she had known about corsets.
Since I only had the one set of garments, I was forced to assume native attire. It was extremely comfortable but rather lacking in variety, for all the women’s clothing were nothing more than variations on a simple unshaped robe of linen or cotton. The most elegant of them—to judge by the fineness of the weave—were pure white, but some were brightly embroidered or woven with colored threads. Possessing neither buttons nor clasps, they were open all the way down the front, and were meant to be kept closed by means of girdles or belts. Having not much confidence in such doubtful expedients, I made a strategic use of pins and wore my combinations under the skimpier garments.
Emerson was as deficient in