The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [108]
“I have failed,” said a sepulchral voice from under the folds of fabric. “I will go back to Aziyeh and sit in the sun with the other senile old men.”
“Get up, you melodramatic old fool,” growled Emerson. “How have you failed? I did not hire you as a nursemaid.”
This is Emerson’s idea of affectionate reassurance. He went on without waiting for a reply. The others were in sight now, led by Cyrus, so I allowed him to proceed without me. Slowly Abdullah rose to his full height. He does relish drama, as do most Egyptians, but I saw that his dignified face was drawn with shock and remorse. “Sitt Hakim,” he began.
“Enough of that, my friend. Allah himself could not stop Emerson when he is determined to do something stupid. He owes you his life. I know that, and so does he; it is just that he has a rather unconventional way of expressing the gratitude and affection he feels for you.”
Abdullah’s face brightened. Finding the sonorous and dignified vocabulary of classical Arabic inadequate for my feelings, I added in English, “We will just have to watch him more closely, that is all. Curse the man, there are times when he is more trouble than Ramses!”
Fortunately Emerson was feeling rather feeble, so it only required ten minutes of concentrated shouting to persuade him to return to the dahabeeyah—though not until after he had lectured René and Charles about how to proceed with the excavation and insisted Abdullah stay with them to supervise. He would not lean on Cyrus or on me, but when Bertha approached him—any emotion she might have felt effectively concealed by her veil—he accepted the arm she offered.
In silent efficiency she assisted me in my medical endeavours until I began stitching the wound. Fortified by brandy and bullheadedness, Emerson uttered not a sound during this process, which I did not enjoy a great deal either. When I finished I saw the girl crouched in a corner with her back to me.
“Strange how squeamish some people are about needles,” I said musingly, cutting lengths of sticking plaster.
“Yes, isn’t it,” said Cyrus, turning around. “Why don’t you let me finish that, Amelia? It can’t have been a pleasant experience for you—”
“Ha,” said Emerson, still supine.
“It will only take a moment,” I replied. “You see how impossible it would have been to apply sticking plaster over all those whiskers, though.”
Emerson immediately declared his intention of returning to work. After some rather noisy discussion he finally agreed to rest for the remainder of the day on condition we left him strictly alone. I closed his door, as he had requested, and then at last I allowed a sigh to escape my lips.
“My poor girl,” Cyrus said gently. “How courageously you performed your painful duty.”
“Oh, I am quite accustomed to stitching Emerson back together. But Cyrus—it was such a near thing! We cannot go on this way, fending off one attack after another. A good offense is the best defense. We must take the aggressive!”
Cyrus tugged at his goatee. “I was afraid you were going to say that. You’re as bad as he is, Amelia. This is the second time you’ve snuck away and driven me to the brink of heart failure. I’m doing my level best to protect you—”
“I am aware of that, Cyrus, and appreciative of your concern, though if you will allow me to say so, the role of a poor little woman in need of male protection does not suit me.”
It was Cyrus’s turn to sigh. “Okay. Just do me the favor of letting me in on your schemes, will you? What do you propose to do now?”
“I am going to the village.”
“Then I am going with you.”
We had a nice little chat with the mayor. He threw up his hands in horror when I told him what had occurred; invoking every saint in the Moslem calendar, starting with the Prophet himself, he