The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [81]
A few traditionalists clung to the old customs. The Reverend Mr. Sayce’s boat was still a familiar sight along the river, and Cyrus also preferred the comfort of a dahabeeyah when traveling and when visiting sites where suitable accommodations were lacking. In fact, there was not a clean, much less comfortable, hotel to be found between Cairo and Luxor. Visitors who wished to stay at Amarna overnight had to camp out or request the hospitality of the local magistrate. This individual’s house was only a little larger and hardly less filthy than those of the fellahin, so I was extremely pleased when Cyrus announced he had ordered his reis to bring his dahabeeyah to Luxor so that we might travel on it to Amarna.
I had seen The Valley of the Kings, as his boat was named, before; so you may conceive of my surprise when I beheld a new and astonishing sailing vessel awaiting us at the dock the day we left Luxor. Twice the length of the other boat, gleaming with fresh paint, it bore the name Nef ertiti in elaborate gilt lettering on the prow.
“I figured it was time the old Valley was retired,” Cyrus said negligently, after I had expressed my admiration. “Hope the decor meets with your approval, my dear; I had one suite fixed up to suit a lady’s taste, in the hope that one day you might do me the honor of sailing with me.”
I concealed a smile, for I doubted I was the only lady Cyrus had hoped to entertain. He was, as he had once said, “a connoisseur, in the most respectable sense, of female loveliness.” Certainly no female could have been other than delighted at the facilities this rough-hewn but gallant American had provided; from the lace-trimmed curtains at the wide windows to the daintily appointed dressing room adjoining the bath, everything was of the finest quality and most exquisite taste.
The other guest rooms—for the boat had eight—were equally splendid. After a silent, contemptuous survey of the accommodations, Emerson selected the smallest of the chambers.
He had not accepted this means of transport without a considerable fuss. The arguments of Dr. Wallingford, who insisted that a few more days’ recuperation would be advisable, had their effect; so did the arguments of Cyrus, who had presented himself to Emerson as the financier of that season’s work.
It was in matters such as these that my afflicted husband’s loss of memory served to our advantage. He knew there were gaps in his memory; the (to him) overnight whitening of Abdullah’s grizzled beard would have been proof enough had there been no other evidence. He dealt with this difficulty, as I might have expected Emerson to do, by coolly ignoring it. However, he was thus forced to accept certain statements as true because he could not assert they were false. It was quite the usual thing for wealthy individuals to finance archaeological expeditions. Emerson disapproved of the practice—and said so, rather emphatically—but being unaware of his own financial situation, he was forced in this case to agree.
Did I hope that the tranquil voyage, the moonlight rippling along the water, would bring back fond memories of our first such journey together—the journey that had culminated in that romantic moment when Emerson had asked me to be his? No, I did not. And it is just as well I didn’t, for my dream would have been doomed to disappointment. In vain did I flaunt my crimson flounces and my low-cut gowns (for I thought it would not hurt to try). Emerson fled from them like a man pursued by pariah dogs. The only time he condescended to notice my existence was when I wore trousers and talked of archaeology.
I wore my new working costume at luncheon the day after we left Luxor (the crimson gown having