The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“They would have been hard to miss,” I replied haughtily. “The priest is patently hostile to outsiders. I hope he won’t undermine our authority.”
“Oh, I pay no attention to such persons.” Emerson stepped over a mangy dog sprawled in the middle of the path. It growled at him and he said absently, “Good dog, then; nice fellow,” before continuing, “it is not concern but curiosity that makes me wonder why the reverend gentleman should demonstrate such antagonism. I always have trouble with religious persons; they are so confoundedly superstitious, curse them. Yet the priest was rude to use even before he learned who we were. I wonder…”
His voice trailed off and he stood staring.
Half hidden by a splendid group of stately palms and partially removed from the rest of the village stood several houses. In contrast to the other hovels in that wretched place, these were in impeccable repair and freshly whitewashed. Even the dust before the doors looked as if it had been swept. Three of the houses were the usual small two-and three-room affairs. The fourth was somewhat larger and had undergone reconstruction. A stubby steeple graced the flat roof, and above the door was a sign in gilt letters on black. It read, “Chapel of the Holy Jerusalem.”
As we stood in silent wonderment, the door of one of the smaller houses opened. An explosion of small boys burst out into the open, shouting and laughing with the joy of youths escaping from studies. As soon as they caught sight of us they darted at us, shouting for baksheesh. One minuscule cherub caught at my trousers and stared up at me with eyes like melting chocolate. “Baksheesh, Sitt,” he lisped. “Ana Christian—ana Brotestant!”
“Good Gad,” I said weakly.
Emerson put a hand to his head. “No,” he cried passionately. “No. It is a delusion—it cannot be real. After all the other cruel blows of fate I have endured…Missionaries! Missionaries, Amelia!”
“Courage,” I implored, as the swarthy infant continued to tug at my trousers. “Courage, Emerson. It could be worse.”
Other children emerged from the door of the school—little girls, too timid to emulate the joie de vivre of their male counterparts. They were followed by another, taller form. For a moment he stood in the doorway blinking into the sunlight, and the rays of the noon-high orb set his silver-gilt hair to blazing like a halo. Then he saw us. A smile of ineffable sweetness spread over his handsome face and he raised a hand in greeting or in blessing.
Emerson collapsed onto a block of stone, like a man in the last throes of a fatal disease. “It is worse,” he said in a sepulchral voice.
iv
“Boys, boys.” The beautiful young man strode toward us, waving his arms. He spoke in Arabic, perfectly pronounced but slow and simple. “Stop it, boys. Go home now. Go to your mothers. Do not ask for baksheesh, it is not pleasing to God.”
The youthful villains dispersed and their mentor turned his attention to us. At close range he was absolutely dazzling. His hair gleamed, his white teeth shone, and his face beamed with goodwill. Emerson continued to stare dazedly at him, so I felt it incumbent upon myself to address the amenities.
“I fear we must apologize for intruding on private property, sir. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Amelia Peabody Emerson—Mrs. Radcliffe Emerson—and this…”
“This block of wood” might have been an appropriate description, for all the response Emerson made, but the beautiful young man did not allow me to proceed. “You need no introduction, Mrs. Emerson; you and your distinguished husband are well known to all visitors in Cairo. It is an honor to welcome you. I was informed only yesterday that you would be coming.”
The monolithic indifference or catatonia of Emerson was shattered. “Who informed you, pray?” he demanded.
“Why, it was M. de Morgan,” said the young man innocently. “The director of the Antiquities Department. As you may know, he is working at Dahshoor, not