“What, Bertie?”
“Oh – that I could find something really first-rate for Cyrus. Not that I’m likely to,” he added diffidently. “I really am keen, Mrs. Emerson, but I’ll never be as good as Ramses. Or you, ma’am.”
“One never knows,” I said. “Many great discoveries are serendipitous. There is no reason why you should not succeed as well as another.”
After finishing our tea we returned to Deir el Medina to consult Selim and Daoud. Daoud had no opinion on the subject; anything Emerson chose to do was acceptable to him. Selim folded his arms and looked severely at Emerson.
“We have made a good beginning here, Emerson.”
“Cyrus and Bertie can carry on,” Emerson replied blithely. “The boy is turning into a pretty fair excavator.”
Selim glanced at Jumana, who was helping Ramses collect the ostraca that had been found that morning. “Will you leave her here with Vandergelt Effendi?”
Emerson grinned. “Does she annoy you?”
“She talks very loudly all the time. And I do not trust her.”
“You are becoming as cynical as your father,” I said. “I feel certain Jumana will tell us if Jamil attempts to reach her. Your inquiries in Gurneh have not produced any new information, have they?”
“No,” Selim admitted.
“Then if you have no further objections, Selim, we will proceed with our plan,” Emerson said. “You and Daoud with us at Medinet Habu, of course, and Jumana as well.”
“Vandergelt Effendi will want to look for tombs here,” Selim said dourly.
“No doubt.” Emerson chuckled. “What’s the harm in that?”
Cyrus’s soiree was like all his parties – elegant and genteel. Since he was the most hospitable of men, he always invited everyone he could get hold of, so the company was mixed: friends who lived year-round in Luxor, tourists, a few professional associates – too few, alas, in these terrible times – and members of the military. I had got to the point where the very sight of a uniform depressed me, and I prayed that the day would soon come when the men who wore them could take them off and go back to their normal lives.
Those that survived.
I took a sip of the champagne Cyrus handed me and told myself to cheer up! No cloud shadowed Cyrus’s lined countenance, and indeed he was one of the most fortunate of men. Wealthy and respected, happily married, absorbed in work he loved, he had required only one thing to fill his cup, and Bertie had given him that – the devoted affection of a son, and a companion in his work.
“What’s on your mind, Amelia?” Cyrus asked. “You look kinda gloomy. Has that young villain Jamil turned up again?”
“No, we have heard nothing of him. I am sorry if I gave the impression I am not thoroughly enjoying myself, and I am ready to do my duty in entertaining your guests. Is there anyone you would like to be soothed, amused, or stirred up?”
Cyrus chuckled. “Especially the last. Anything you like, Amelia; but if you want to pick on someone, have a go at Joe Albion. He was a business rival of mine some years back, and he’s got one of the best private collections of antiquities in the world. I wouldn’t like to guess how he acquired some of them.”
“I didn’t know he was an acquaintance of yours,” I said, recognizing the rotund shape and round red face of Mr. Albion. “He and his family were on the boat coming over, and we ran into them the other day near Deir el Bahri. What an odd family they are, to be sure. Mr. Albion asked us to introduce him to some tomb robbers.”
Cyrus let out an emphatic American ejaculation. “Gol-durn it! Sounds like Joe, all right.”
“I thought he was joking. He is such a jolly little man.”
“Jolly Joe.” Cyrus grinned, but he began tugging at his goatee – a sure sign of perturbation. “Don’t let that fool you, Amelia. He’s got a reputation for going straight for the jugular.”
“His wife appears quite devoted to him.”
“It is an odd marriage,” Cyrus admitted. “She’s from one of the best families in Boston and Joe is common as dirt. Nobody could figure out why she married him; but she’s living like a queen now – and the boy was raised like a prince.”
I had no particular interest in talking with any of the Albions, so I moved about from one group to another, paying particular attention to those who were strangers or seemed ill at ease. It was my duty, but I cannot say I enjoyed it; most of the gentlemen would talk of nothing but the war. Emerson had been correct; the Germans had announced they would begin unrestricted submarine warfare, on all vessels of Allied and neutral nations. This put the tourists present in a somewhat awkward position. One of them, a tall, distinguished American named Lubancic, took the matter philosophically.
“They can’t keep it up for long. This is going to get the American government riled up, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see us get into this business pretty soon. Anyhow,” he added with a smile, “ Egypt ’s not such a bad place to be stuck for the duration. There’s plenty to see and do, and prices are cheap, with the tourist trade down. Do you suppose there’s any chance of my doing a little digging, Mrs. Emerson? Plenty of local men for hire, I believe.”
It was a common enough question; few visitors understood the regulations that governed excavation and many of them naively believed that all they had to do was dig to find a rich tomb. I was sorry to disillusion Mr. Lubancic, for he seemed a very pleasant fellow, but I felt obliged to explain.
“One must have permission from the Department of Antiquities, and all excavations must be supervised by a trained archaeologist. At this particular time there aren’t many such persons available.”
“The Brits and French have got something else on their minds besides archaeology,” said another gentleman. “The war on this front seems to be going well, though. The Senussi are in retreat and the Turks have been driven out of the Sinai.”
“But the British advance has stalled outside Gaza,” Mr. Lubancic objected.
“It’s only a matter of time before we take Gaza,” said a military officer, stroking his large mustache. “Johnny Turk isn’t much of a threat.”
His insignia identified him as a member of the staff, and his portly frame and flushed face suggested that he had fought the war from behind a desk in Cairo. Another, younger, officer gave him a look of thinly veiled contempt. “Johnny Turk was a considerable threat at Rafah, and Gaza won’t be easy to take. The city is ringed round with trenches and they’ve got fortifications along the ridges all the way from Gaza to Beersheba.”
The conversation turned to a discussion of strategy and I excused myself. The remote city of Gaza held no interest for me.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Cyrus’s soiree was like all his other parties – elegant, genteel, and full of boring people. Ramses always found Cyrus congenial company when there were no strangers present; he couldn’t understand why a man would willingly endure, much less invite, such a motley mob. There was no one he wanted to talk to. His family had deserted him; his mother was chatting with Katherine, Nefret was “mingling,” and his father, whose social graces were the despair of his wife, had ignored everyone else and gone straight to Bertie. From his animated gestures and Bertie’s deferential pose, Ramses felt certain Emerson was telling him what they had done at Deir el Medina, and what he should do from here on in.
Jumana was with them, looking very pretty in a pale yellow frock that set off her brown skin and sleek black hair. Ramses wondered how she felt about gatherings like this one. Even her superb self-confidence must be slightly daunted by so many strangers, many of whom, uncertain about her precise status, ignored or snubbed her. They wouldn’t dare be rude to another of Cyrus’s guests, but she was obviously Egyptian and they were not accustomed to mingling socially with “natives.”