The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [58]
“But neither of the churches here are yours, John,” I said, blinking at the buttons.
This rational observation had no effect on John, who continued to regard me with mute appeal, so I gave in. “Very well, John.”
“I will go too,” said Ramses. “I want to see de young lady dat John is—”
“That will do, Ramses.”
“I also wish to observe de Coptic service,” continued Ramses. “It is, I have been informed, an interesting survival of certain antique—”
“Yes, I know, Ramses. That is certainly an idea. We will all go.”
Emerson looked up from his notes. “You are not including me, I hope.”
“Not if you don’t wish to go. But as Ramses has pointed out, the Coptic service—”
“Don’t be a hypocrite, Peabody. It is not scholarly fervor that moves you; you also want to see John with the young lady he is—”
“That will do, Emerson,” I said. John gave me a grateful look. He was bright red from the collar of his jacket to the curls on his brow.
Services at the Coptic church had already begun when we reached the village, though you would not have supposed it to be so from the babble of voices that could be heard within. From the grove of trees where the American mission was situated the tinny tolling of the bell called worshipers to the competing service. There was a peremptory note in its persistent summons, or so it seemed to me; it reminded me of the reverend’s voice, and the half-formed idea that had come to me as we proceeded crystallized into a determination not to accede, even in appearance, to his demand that I attend his church.
“I am going to the Coptic service,” I said. “Ramses, will you come with me or go with John?”
Somewhat to my surprise, Ramses indicated he would go with John. I had not believed vulgar curiosity would win over scholarly instincts. However, the decision suited me quite well. I informed the pair that we would meet at the well, and saw them proceed toward the chapel.
The interior of the Coptic church of Sitt Miriam (the Virgin, in our terms) was adorned with faded paintings of that lady and various saints. There were no seats or pews; the worshipers walked about chatting freely and appearing to pay no attention to the priest, who stood at the altar reciting prayers. The congregation was not large—twenty or thirty people, perhaps. I recognized several of the rough-looking men who had appeared to form the priest’s entourage sanctimoniously saluting the pictures of the saints, but the face I had half-hoped to see was not among them. However, it did not surprise me to learn that Hamid was not a regular churchgoer.
I took up my position toward the back, near but not within the enclosure where the women were segregated. My advent had not gone unnoticed. Conversations halted for a moment and then broke out louder than before. The priest’s glowing black eyes fixed themselves on me. He was too experienced a performer to interrupt his praying, but his voice rose in stronger accents. It sounded like a denunciation of something—possibly me—but I could not understand the words. Clearly this part of the service was in the ancient Coptic tongue, and I doubted that the priest and the congregation understood much more of it than I did. The prayers were memorized and repeated by rote.
Before long the priest switched to Arabic and I recognized that he was reading from one of the gospels. This went on for an interminable time. Finally he turned from the heikal, or altar, swinging a censer from which wafted the sickening smell of incense. He began to make his way through the congregation, blessing each individual by placing a hand upon his head and threatening him with the censer. I stood alone, the other worshipers having prudently edged away, and I wondered whether I would be ignored altogether or whether some particularly insulting snub was in train. Conceive of my surprise, therefore, when, having attended to every man present, the priest made his way rapidly toward me. Placing his hand heavily