The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [59]
When the priest had returned to the heikal I decided I had done my duty and could retire. The interior of the small edifice was foggy with cheap incense and I feared I was about to sneeze.
The sun was high in the heavens. I drew deep satisfying breaths of the warm but salubrious air and managed to conquer the sneeze. I then took off my hat and was distressed to find that my forebodings had been correct. Of fine yellow straw, to match my frock, the hat was draped with white lace and trimmed with a cluster of yellow roses, loops of yellow ribbon and two choux of white velvet. Clusters of artificial violets and leaves completed the modest decorations, and the entire ensemble was daintily draped with tulle. It was my favorite hat; it had been very expensive; and it had required a long search to find a hat that was not trimmed with dead birds or ostrich plumes. (I deplore the massacre of animals to feed female vanity.)
As the priest’s hand pressed on my head I had heard a crunching sound. Now I saw the bows were crushed, the roses hung drunkenly from bent stems, and that the mark of a large, dirty hand was printed on the mashed tulle. The only consolation I could derive was that there was also a spot of blood on the tulle. Apparently one of my hat pins had pricked the ecclesiastical palm.
There was nothing to be done about the hat, so I replaced it on my head and looked about. The small square was deserted except for a pair of lean dogs and some chickens who had not been inspired to attend the service. As John and Ramses were nowhere to be seen, I walked toward the mission.
The church door stood open. From it came music—not the mellifluous strains of the organ or the sweet harmony of a trained choir, but motley voices bellowing out what I had to assume must be a hymn. I thought I recognized Ramses’ piercing, offkey treble, but I could not make out any of the words. I sat down on the same rock Emerson had once used as a seat, and waited.
The sun rose higher and perspiration trickled down my back. The singing went on and on, the same monotonous tune repeated interminably. It was finally succeeded by the voice of Brother Ezekiel. I could hear him quite well. He prayed for the elect and for those still in the darkness of false belief (every inhabitant of the globe except the members of the Church of the Holy Jerusalem). I thought he would never stop praying. Eventually he did, and the congregation began to emerge.
The “Brotestants” appeared to be succeeding in their efforts at conversion, for Brother Ezekiel’s audience was somewhat larger than that of the priest. Most, if not all, of the converts wore the dark Coptic turban. Christian missionaries had had little success in winning over Muslims, perhaps for ideological reasons and perhaps because the Egyptian government disapproved (in a number of effective and unpleasant ways) of apostates from the faith of Islam. No one cared what the Copts did; hence the higher conversion rate and the resentment of the Coptic hierarchy against missionaries. This resentment had, on several occasions, resulted in physical violence. When Emerson told me of these cases I exclaimed in disbelief, but my cynical husband only smiled contemptuously. “No one slaughters a coreligionist with quite as much enthusiasm as a Christian, my dear. Look at their history.” I made no comment on this, for in fact I could think of nothing to say.
Among the worshipers wearing the blue turban was one I recognized. So Hamid was a convert! When he saw me he had the effrontery to salute me.
Eventually John came out of the church. His face was pink with pleasure—and probably with heat, for the temperature in the chapel must have been over one hundred degrees. He came running to me, babbling apologies: “It was a long service, madam.”
“So I observed. Where is Ramses?”
“He was here,” said John vaguely. “Madam, they have done me the