The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [97]
Emerson flatly refused to enter the chapel. We left him sitting on his favorite block of stone, back ramrod-straight, hands on knees in the very pose of an Egyptian pharaoh enthroned.
The service was less prolonged than I expected, possibly because Brother Ezekiel’s command of Arabic was not extensive, and possibly because his new-founded doubts as to Hamid’s character curtailed the fervor of his eulogy. A few lugubrious hymns were sung—John and Ramses joined in, to disastrous effect—and then half a dozen stalwart converts shouldered the rough wooden coffin and the company straggled out after them.
A considerable crowd had assembled outside the chapel. At first I thought they had come to watch, or even protest, the ceremonies of the intruders. Then I saw that all were laughing or smiling, and I realized that they were gathered around my husband, who was chatting with all the graciousness of his ancient model holding court. Emerson has, I regret to say, an extensive store of Arabic jokes, many of them extremely vulgar, which he keeps for masculine company. Catching sight of me, he broke off in the middle of a word and rose to his feet.
Trailed by the spectators, we followed the coffin through the grove of palm trees to the edge of the cultivation. I assumed Brother Ezekiel had marked the spot for a cemetery, but there was no symbol of that purpose except for the grimly significant hole in the ground. No fence enclosed the area, no religious symbol marked it. It was a desolate and forbidding final resting place; only too appropriate, I feared, for the wretched man whose bones were to lie there.
His Bible open in his hands, Brother Ezekiel stood at the head of the grave with David beside him and Charity the customary two paces to the rear. John began edging toward her. I poked him with my parasol and shook my head, frowning. Ordinarily I am sympathetic to romantic feelings, but this was not the time or the place.
The somber message of Isaiah sounded even more dismal in Ezekiel’s guttural Arabic. “All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it.”
Ezekiel did not proceed to the comfort of the following verses, with their assurance of immortality in the grace of God. Instead he closed the Book with a slam and began to speak extemporaneously.
I was anxious to be on our way, so I paid little attention to his words until I felt the muscles of Emerson’s arm stiffen under my hand. Then I realized that Ezekiel’s eulogy had turned into a tirade, stumbling but passionate—a bitter denunciation of the Coptic Church, its beliefs and its local representative.
A murmur of anger arose, like the first wind of a storm through dry grasses. David turned to look with surprise and alarm at his associate. Emerson cleared his throat loudly. “I would like to say a few words,” he called out.
His voice stilled the mutter of the crowd and Brother Ezekiel broke off. Before he could draw breath, Emerson launched into a flowery speech. He was not hypocrite enough to praise Hamid, of whom he said only that he had worked for us, so that we felt the need to acknowledge his passing. He went on to quote the Koran and the Bible on the sin of murder, and proclaimed his intention of bringing the killer to justice. Then he dismissed the audience with the blessing of God, Allah, Jehovah, Christ and Mohammed—which pretty well covered all possibilities.
The listeners slowly dispersed, with the exception of the few who had been designated as grave diggers. They began shoveling sand into the pit and Emerson confronted the angry preacher. “Are you out of your mind?” he demanded. “Are you trying to start a small war here?”
“I spoke the truth as I saw it,” Ezekiel said.
Emerson dismissed him with a look of scorn. “Try to contain your friend’s candor,” he said to David,