The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [18]
We had booked rooms at Shepheard’s, of course. Our old friend Mr. Baehler was now the owner, so we had no difficulty on that score, though Shepheard’s is becoming so popular that rooms are hard to obtain. That year everyone was celebrating the victory in the Sudan. On September 2, Kitchener’s troops had occupied Omdurman and Khartoum, ending the rebellion and cleansing the British flag of the stain of dishonor that had blemished it since the gallant Gordon fell to the hordes of the mad Mahdi. (If my reader is not familiar with this event, I refer him or her to any standard history.)
Emerson’s amiable mood disintegrated as soon as we entered the hotel. Shepheard’s is always crowded during the winter season and this year the crush was greater than usual. Sun-bronzed young officers, newly arrived from the battle zone, flaunted their bandages and gold braid before the admiring eyes of the ladies who fluttered around them. One face, adorned with a particularly impressive set of military mustaches, looked familiar, but before I could approach the officer—who was surrounded by a crowd of civilians, questioning him about Khartoum—Emerson took me by the arm and dragged me away. Not until we had reached our rooms— the ones we always had, overlooking Ezbekieh Gardens—did he speak.
“The place is more confoundedly overcrowded and fashionable every year,” he grumbled, tossing his hat onto the floor and sending his coat to follow it. “This is the last time, Amelia. I mean it. Next year we will accept the invitation of Sheikh Mohammed to stay with him.”
“Certainly, my dear,” I replied, as I did every year. “Shall we go down for tea, or shall I tell the safragi to bring it to us here?”
“I don’t want any confounded tea,” said Emerson.
We had our tea on the little balcony overlooking the gardens. Greatly as I yearned to join the crowd below, which, I did not doubt, contained many friends and acquaintances, and catch up on the news, I did not deem it wise to persuade Emerson back into his coat and hat. I had had a hard enough time getting the latter object of apparel onto his head long enough to enter the hotel.
The white-robed servant glided in and out, noiseless on bare feet, and we took our places at the table. Below us the gardens were bright with roses and hibiscus; carriages and foot passengers passed to and fro along the broad avenue in the never-ending panorama of Egyptian life, as I once termed it. A handsome carriage drew up before the steps of the hotel; from it descended a stately figure in full dress uniform.
Emerson leaned over the edge of the balcony. “Hi, there,” he shouted. “Essalâmu ‘aleikum, habib!”
“Emerson,” I exclaimed. “That is General Kitchener!”
“Is it? I was not addressing him.” He gestured vigorously; to my chagrin his wave was answered by a picturesque but extremely ragged individual carrying a tray of cheap souvenirs. Several other equally picturesque persons in the crowd of would-be sellers of flowers, fruit, trinkets and souvenirs, attracted by the gesture, looked up and joined in the general shout of welcome. “He has returned, the Father of Curses! Allah yimessîkum bil-kheir, effendi! Marhaba, O Sitt Hakim!”
“Hmph,” I said, somewhat flattered at being included in this accolade—for Sitt Hakim, “Lady Doctor,” is my own affectionate nickname among Egyptians. “Do sit down, Emerson, and stop shouting. People are staring.”
“It was my intention that they should,” Emerson declared. “I want to talk with old Ahmet later; he always knows what is going on.”
He was persuaded to resume his seat. As the sun sank lower, the horizon was suffused by the exquisite glow of the dying day, and Emerson’s countenance became pensive. “Do you remember, Peabody, the first time Ramses stood on this very balcony with us? We watched the sunset over Cairo together …”
“As we shall no doubt do again,” I said rather sharply. “Now, Emerson, don’t think of Ramses. Tell me the