The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [11]
“Madness!” I exclaimed, as I tucked him into bed and laid out the appropriate medications. “Absolute madness, young man! You disregarded my instructions and now you see the consequences. Why didn’t you wear your belt? Where is it?”
John’s face was crimson from the base of his sturdy throat to the roots of his hair, whether from remorse or the exertion of attempting to prevent me from putting him to bed I cannot say. Pouring out a dessert spoonful of the gentle aperient I commonly employ for this ailment, I seized him by the nose and, as his mouth opened in a quest for oxygen, I poured the medicine down his throat. A dose of bismuth succeeded the aperient, and then I repeated my question. “Where is your belt, John? You must wear it every instant.”
John was incapable of speech. However, the briefest flicker of his eyes in the direction of Ramses gave the answer I expected. The boy stood at the foot of the bed, watching with a look of cool curiosity, and as I turned in his direction he answered readily, “It is my fault, Mama. I needed de flannel to make a lead for de cat Bastet.”
The animal in question was perched on the footboard, studying the mosquito netting draped high above the couch with an expression that aroused my deepest suspicions. I had noted with approval the braided rope with which Bastet had been provided. It was one item I had not thought to bring, since the cat usually followed Ramses’ steps as closely as a devoted dog; but in a strange city, under strange circumstances, it was certainly a sensible precaution. Not until that moment, however, had I recognized the rope as the remains of a flannel belt.
Addressing the most pressing problem first, I said sternly, “Bastet, you are not to climb the mosquito netting. It is too fragile to bear your weight and will collapse if you attempt the feat.” The cat glanced at me and murmured low in its throat, and I went on, now addressing my son, “Why did you not use your own flannel belt?”
“Because you would have seen it was gone,” said Ramses, with the candor that is one of his more admirable characteristics.
“Who needs the cursed belts anyway?” demanded Emerson, who had been ranging the room like a caged tiger. “I never wear one. See here, Amelia, you have wasted enough time playing physician. This is a temporary affliction; most tourists suffer from it, and John will get on better if you leave him alone. Come; we have a great deal to do, and I need your assistance.”
So adjured, I could only acquiesce. We retired to our own room, which adjoined that of the sufferer, taking Ramses (and of course the cat) with us. But when I would have turned toward the trunk that contained our books and notes, Emerson grasped my arm and drew me to the window.
Our room was on the third floor of the hotel, with a small iron-railed balcony overlooking the gardens of Ezbekieh Square. The mimosa trees were in bloom; chrysanthemums and poinsettias mingled in riotous profusion; the famous roses formed velvety masses of crimson and gold and snowy white. But for once the flowers (of which I am exceedingly fond) did not hold my gaze. My eyes sought the upper air, where roofs and domes, minarets and spires swam in a misty splendor of light.
Emerson’s broad breast swelled in a deep sigh, and a contented smile illumined his face. He drew Ramses into his other arm. I knew—I shared—the joy that filled his heart as for the first time he introduced his son to the life that was all in all to him. It was a moment fraught with emotion—or it would have been, had not Ramses, in an effort to get a better look, swarmed up onto the railing, whence he was plucked by the paternal arm as he teetered perilously.
“Don’t do that, my boy,” said Emerson. “It is not safe. Papa will hold you.”
With a visible sneer of contempt for human frailty the cat Bastet took Ramses’ place on the rail. The noises from the street below rose in pitch as travelers