The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [17]
Turning with a serpentine swiftness surprising in a man of his bulk, Abd el Atti cut the other short with a peremptory gesture. His brown face shone greasily with perspiration. “It is the Sitt Hakim,” he said. “Wife to Emerson. You honor my house, Sitt.”
Since I knew who I was, and Abd el Atti knew who I was, I could only assume that the identifying statement was aimed at the other man. It was not an introduction, for upon hearing it the creature vanished, so suddenly and smoothly that the curtain scarcely swayed. A warning, then? I had no doubt of it. When he greeted me, Abd el Atti had spoken ordinary Arabic. The whispered remarks I had overheard had been in another kind of speech.
Abd el Atti bowed, or tried to; he did not bend easily. “Be welcome, honored lady. And this young nobleman—who can he be but the son of the great Emerson! How handsome he is, and how great the intelligence that shines in his eyes.”
This was a deadly insult, for one does not praise a child for fear of attracting the envy of malicious demons. I knew Abd el Atti must be badly rattled to make such a mistake.
Ramses said not a word, only bowed in response. The cat—I observed with a touch of uneasiness—was nowhere to be seen.
“But come,” Abd el Atti went on, “sit on the mastaba; we will drink coffee; you will tell me how I may serve you.”
I let him nudge me out of the shop. He squatted beside me on the mastaba and clapped his hands to summon a servant. Under his salmon robe he wore a long vest of striped Syrian silk, bound with a sash stiff with pearls and gold thread. He paid no attention to Ramses, who remained inside the shop. Hands clasped ostentatiously behind his back in compliance with my instructions, Ramses appeared to be studying the merchandise on display. I decided to let him remain where he was. Even if he broke something, it would not matter; most of the objects were forgeries.
Abd el Atti and I drank coffee and exchanged insincere compliments for a while. Then he said, apropos of nothing in particular, “I hope the speech of that vile beggar did not offend you. He was trying to sell me some antiquities. However, I suspected they were stolen, and as you and my great good friend Emerson know, I do not deal with dishonest people.”
I nodded agreeably. I knew he was lying and he knew I knew; we were playing the time-honored game of mercantile duplicity, in which both parties profess the most noble sentiments while each plans to cheat the other as thoroughly as possible.
Abd el Atti smiled. His countenance was trained in imperturbability, but I knew the old wretch well; his remark was not an apology, but an implicit question. He was desperately anxious to learn whether I had understood those whispered words.
Many trades and professions, especially criminal trades, develop private languages in order that the members may speak among themselves without being understood by outsiders. The thieves’ cant of seventeenth-century London is one example of such an argot, as it is called. Abd el Atti and his companion had employed the siim issaagha, the argot of the gold- and silver-sellers of Cairo. It is based on ancient Hebrew, a language I had studied with my late father. In fact, they had spoken so rapidly and so softly, I had only comprehended a few words.
Abd el Atti had said, “The Master will eat our hearts if…” Then the other man had warned him to watch what he said, since a stranger had entered.
I had no intention of admitting that I was familiar with the siim issaagha. Let the old man wonder and worry.
He was worried. Instead of fahddling (gossiping) for the prescribed length of time, he abruptly got down to business, asking what I wanted.
“It is for