Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [161]
They sat in silence for a while, taking it all in—Cairo.
“He should be there by now,” Ramses said, rising. “Finish your coffee. I’ll telephone.”
He came back to report that Russell hadn’t yet arrived, but was expected shortly. “He’ll see me.”
“I should bloody well hope so,” said Nefret. “Let’s walk, shall we? It isn’t far—round the gardens and straight down the Sharia Mohammed Ali.”
“Are you sure?”
She slipped her arm through his. “If we see Bashir, I’ll slap his face.”
“He’s far, far away by now,” Ramses said. “He was never the stuff of which heroes are made.”
They had almost reached the Bab el Khalk and the administration building when a passing man jostled Nefret. Ramses turned on him with a sharp reprimand, and saw, between the turban and the overlarge beard, a pair of frightened eyes. Bashir caught at his arm. “Run away,” he gasped. “They are watching to see if you come here. Run—”
Ramses heard the crack of a rifle. He threw himself on Nefret, pushing her down behind a cart filled with sugarcane. Another shot sprayed green fragments across the street. Pedestrians scattered, screaming. In the middle of the pavement Bashir lay sprawled in a spreading pool of blood.
Children always know when something is amiss, no matter how normally the adults around them try to behave. Charla made a scene when she learned her parents had gone off without a word of farewell. My lecture had no effect; it was, I admit, somewhat half-hearted, since my mind was on other things. It required the combined efforts of David, Emerson, and Sennia to console her. A certain amount of bribery was also necessary—a handful of sweets, a visit to the stable, and an uproarious game of tag, with all of them participating.
David John felt their absence as keenly as did his sister, and I sometimes wished he would express his misgivings as openly as she. Temper tantrums were violent but soon over, whereas David John had a tendency to brood. After we had settled Charla I went looking for him.
He was not in his playroom with Elia or in the kitchen with Fatima. He was not with Amira. Eventually I located him in the drawing room, curled up in a chair with a book in his hand.
“One of your Christmas gifts?” I asked.
“No,” said David John. “It is not one of my Christmas gifts. I have read them all.”
Not until he held it up did I see the cover of the volume. The scene depicted a flimsily clad female clasped tightly in the arms of a male person wearing Bedouin robes. “Good Gad,” I cried. “I have told you over and over, David John, you are not to take books from the shelves here.”
“It was not on the shelf, Grandmama. I found it lying on the table, and since I had nothing else to read…”
The book was the popular romance I had lent Margaret. It had been lying on the table; I had never got round to putting it away.
I repressed an impulse to snatch it away from the child. He had not disobeyed me—not literally. “Do you find it interesting?” I asked, observing with regret that he had read a good half of the cursed thing.
“Quite,” said David John. “There are a few parts I don’t understand, though. Perhaps, Grandmama, you could explain what the lady means when she says—”
“No,” I said quickly. “I fear I cannot allow you to finish the book, David John. I ought not have left it lying about.”
“But the lady is in deep distress,” David John protested. “I want to know how the book ends.”
“It has a happy ending.” I removed the book from his hands.
“Someone comes to rescue her from the cruel sheikh?”
“Er—yes.” In this case, prevarication was absolutely necessary. Trying to explain that the sheikh was not really evil just because he had—And that the distressed lady didn’t really mind that he had…
Out of the question.
“Why don’t you write an ending to the story?” I suggested.
“Hmmm.” David John considered this, his blue eyes pensive. “I have not attempted fiction as yet. It would be a challenge.”
“A challenge indeed. I am sure you will be up to it. While you are doing that I will try