Just Bright. I realized I’d never seen one without the other. Where was Sweet? Could Bright be forced into conversation, lacking his interpreter?
Perry was rambling on about various boring things, all of which he claimed he could do better than anybody else. ‘Not that I couldn’t handle the job, you understand. Anyone can be an
administrator, but field archaeology and lecturing require special – ’
‘Right,’ I said, wondering vaguely what I had agreed with. ‘Shouldn’t you rest now? You must take care of yourself.’
As soon as he’d gone I made a beeline for Bright. No need for subtlety here; my first question was one anyone might have asked. ‘Where’s your buddy? Not sick, I
hope.’
Bright considered the question. After a moment he nodded gravely. ‘Sick.’
‘I’m so sorry. Has the doctor seen him?’
Bright nodded and smiled.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
Bright shook his head and shrugged.
‘Are you all right?’
Bright nodded and smiled.
I had a feeling that if I kept asking questions the process would keep repeating itself. Nod and smile, shake head and shrug, nod and smile . . . The man wasn’t mute, he had spoken. One
word, in a soft hesitant voice, the voice of someone who has a painful speech defect, a lisp or a stutter, who has to choose his words with care.
Or someone who is trying to conceal the fact that he can’t speak the language that is supposed to be his native tongue.
He had to risk it once more; he couldn’t just walk away without a word. His ‘Excuse me,’ was accompanied by another smile and another nod. I watched him cross the deck, nodding
and smiling at people, until he had vanished inside.
I supposed he’d got tired of sitting with his sick friend and came out for a breath of air and a change of scene. Careless of him to risk it, though. The last two words had been
articulated with a precision no native speaker of the language would employ. I had assumed he wasn’t really a manufacturer from Milwaukee, but I would have expected a professional undercover
agent to be smart enough to assume a credible persona.
Yes, I definitely had to talk to somebody who knew what was going on. I sure as hell didn’t.
When I went back to Schmidt I found him entertaining again. John was actually taking notes. ‘Hillbilly,’ he repeated, writing it down.
‘Das ist recht. It means – ’
‘I’m vaguely familiar with the term. Then the western element – ’
‘Yes, the cowboys. A pessimistic group of individuals.’ Schmidt illustrated the theme. ‘Do not bury me on the lonesome prairie. There the coyotes (a variety of jackals, with
loud voices) howl . . .’
‘‘‘And the wind blows free.” Yes, I’ve got that. It does have a lugubrious quality, doesn’t it?’
‘But the most romantic are the prison and the railroad songs.’
I said, before I could stop myself, ‘Romantic?’
‘All those dying pillows,’ John murmured.
Schmidt continued the lecture, with vocal illustrations. How Mary stood it I could not imagine. She had to be tone-deaf as well as infatuated. Finally I took pity on her and tried to change the
subject.
‘Where is everybody? It’s a beautiful day, you’d think there would be more people on deck.’
‘On their dying pillows, no doubt,’ John said. ‘The pharaoh’s curse has struck. The rest of us will probably be in the same stage before we reach Luxor.’
‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.
‘Hadn’t you heard?’ He turned slightly, facing me. ‘The refrigeration apparatus has broken down. Perfect conditions for ptomaine.’
I didn’t bother to ask how he knew. Once such rumours start they spread quickly, especially in a small closed society like ours. By the time the group reassembled for
drinks and the evening lecture, Hamid felt it necessary to make a public announcement.
It was true, as we had heard, that the refrigeration had failed and that efforts to repair it had been unsuccessful. However, there was not the slightest danger of food poisoning. As those of us
who had experienced prolonged power failures knew, the freezers would remain cold for hours and we would be in Luxor by morning. Any food served that evening (and the chef, said Hamid, with one of
his largest smiles, was preparing a veritable feast) would be perfectly safe.
When he finished there was some grumbling, most of it from our habitual complainers. Alice, who had replaced Hamid on the podium, added a few sentences of reassurance before beginning her
lecture.
She was a much better speaker than Perry, enlivening the facts with personal reminiscences and funny stories. Cued by Schmidt’s rumbling chuckles, I laughed in all the right places, but I
have to admit I didn’t pay proper attention. Just when I thought I had come to a sensible sane decision, something happened to make me question it. Could I have been mistaken about Sweet and
Bright? The answer to that was depressingly obvious. The corollary was equally depressing. They were the only ones to whom I had spoken about John. Several little reels of tape were jostling around
in my bag at this very moment. I hadn’t left them in the safe. I kept telling myself there was nothing incriminatory on those tapes, only a series of rude remarks from John and feeble
rejoinders from me, but I knew I was kidding myself. And I knew why.
And I knew it was high time I stopped behaving like a fool. John claimed he was opposed to violence, but either he had changed his views or he was mixed up with people who didn’t share
them. Ali had been murdered; I was as certain of that as if I had seen it done. I wasn’t at all happy about the failure of the refrigeration either. Machinery is always breaking down –
at least my machines are always breaking down – and this damage seemed, on the surface, quite harmless. But our schedule had already been altered once and this might necessitate an even more
drastic change, if the coolers couldn’t be repaired.
The lights went on, and I hastily rearranged my features into an expression of smiling interest. Alice started taking questions. As I might have expected, the first one was about the curse of
Tutankhamon.
Pure coincidence, said Alice. Lord Carnarvon had cut himself shaving and blood poisoning had set in, followed by pneumonia. The others who had worked on the tomb with him had lived to ripe old
ages. She reeled off names and dates with the assurance of someone who has been asked the question dozens of times before. Morbidly, I wondered whether tourists fifty years from now would be
discussing the hideous doom that had fallen upon the passengers of the
Queen of the Nile
, and the sad fate of Victoria Bliss, cut off in her prime by an unfortunate coincidence.
Everybody went to bed early that night. We were supposed to disembark at six forty-five for our visit to the Valley of the Kings.
III
The group that gathered in the lobby next morning was greatly diminished – only a dozen passengers, plus Alice and Feisal. Oh, and Perry. Sweet and Bright were not
among them. John and Mary
were
among them. So was Suzi, somewhat to my surprise; I’d have expected her to spend the whole day primping for the grand reception that evening. Subtle
questioning on my part elicited the information that the missing persons were all alive and undamaged; some were suffering from the conventional complaints, others had decided not to take the long
tiring trek.
I had been tempted to skip the tour too. A hasty glance at the itinerary had reminded me that several of the tombs we were to visit were described as ‘deep.’ I had acquired a violent
aversion to tombs in general, never mind ‘deep’ tombs. But when I called Schmidt, hoping against hope he would be suffering from tummy trouble, he informed me he was on his way to
breakfast and demanded I hurry up. So I hurried. Schmidt was determined to go ashore and I couldn’t let him go alone.
Before I left my room I collected the reels of tape and locked them in my safe.
The itinerary had reminded me of something else I had forgotten – the lay of the land. The modern city of Luxor is on the east bank of the Nile. The Valley of the Kings and the other
ancient cemeteries are on the west bank. The boat had landed us on the west bank. It would then cross the river and moor, along with the other tourist steamers, and we would take the ferry across
to rejoin the others in time for lunch. That meant I’d have to wait till afternoon before calling Karl or attempting to locate police headquarters.
The rising sun, behind us as we left the boat, turned the western cliffs an exquisite shade of deep rose. The air was cool and would have been fresh had it not been for a couple of dozen tour
buses belching out pollution.
Feisal shepherded us towards one of them. As we stood in line waiting to climb on, I managed to draw Alice aside.
‘I’ve decided to resign,’ I muttered.
‘I’m about to.’
I asked how.
‘Someone will contact me this afternoon. Luxor Temple. I’m going to stamp my little foot and demand – ’ She broke off. The others had boarded the bus and Feisal was
gesturing at us.
Schmidt had saved me a seat. He insisted I take the one next to the window so I could see the sights, which he described in a loud voice as we drove on. The man’s memory was absolutely
astonishing. By his own admission he hadn’t been in Egypt for ten years, but he hadn’t forgotten a thing.
The drive took about fifteen minutes, through the cultivated fields and across the barren desert. We were headed straight for the cliffs. Then a cleft opened up; the road curved and passed
through, into the desolate valley where for centuries the kings of the empire had been buried. Schmidt rumbled on, spouting statistics and historical data.
Louisa, brooding among her veils, was sitting across the aisle. She interrupted Schmidt’s lecture to say, ‘What of the tomb of the great queen Nefertari?’
‘No, no, that is not on today’s tour,’ Schmidt explained tolerantly. ‘It is in the Valley of the Queens, so called. Now this,’ he went on, without drawing breath,
‘this has changed since my last visit. The new parking place is some distance from the tombs, which is a very good thing since the buses caused much damage. This tram on which we will ride
the rest of the way is electric . . .’
I wondered what the place looked like when tourism was at its height. It was bad enough now – a dozen buses, hundreds of people. As we got off the tram and trudged along a dusty path
following Feisal, Schmidt said, in the loud mumble he thinks is a whisper, ‘How is with you, Vicky? Will it be too difficult, descending into the depths of – ’
‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have come if I couldn’t handle it.’
My sharp tone didn’t offend him. Nodding sympathetically, he took my arm. ‘I will be next to you at all times. There will be bright lights, many people.’
The first tomb was the easiest; it was also the one I didn’t want to miss. Tutankhamon’s tomb had been closed to tourists in the past. Like most of the others in the Valley, its wall
paintings were deteriorating.
In itself the small tomb was relatively unimpressive. Unlike the long complex structures designed for royal burials, this one had only a flight of stairs and a single corridor, with a few rooms
at its end. The accepted theory was that Tutankhamon had died suddenly at the age of eighteen, before he had had time to prepare his tomb, so it had been necessary to take over a tomb previously
constructed for a non-royal person.
‘Murder,’ said Feisal in a sepulchral voice, as we gathered around him. ‘Was that how the young king died? The fracture of his skull might have been the result of a fatal
accident, but he had many enemies and no heirs.’
The great stone box of the sarcophagus stood in the middle of the room. Tut’s mummy still lay there, decently hidden; it had been in ruinous condition. His golden coffins were now in the
Cairo Museum. Involuntarily I looked at John, who was contemplating the sarcophagus with a look of pensive interest. Surely not even he would try . . . One of the damned coffins was of solid
22-carat gold, weighing almost three hundred pounds. You’d need a block and tackle just to lift the thing. But there were hundreds of other objects, all easily portable, that would be worth
his time and trouble. The four small rooms of the tomb had been stuffed with objects of artistic and historic value.
They were empty now, except for the sarcophagus and the poor, battered bones of the boy himself. Eighteen years old, childless, possibly murdered . . . Schmidt pulled out his handkerchief and
blew his nose. He’s disgustingly sentimental.
We retraced our steps – twenty-five paces, I’d counted them – along the passage and up the stairs – sixteen of them, I’d counted them too. But it hadn’t
bothered me. Not with lights all along the way and Schmidt snuffling sentimentally beside me. After we had emerged into daylight the custodian swung the doors shut and locked them, to the audible
annoyance of several loose tourists hanging around in the hope of getting in. The tomb must be officially closed. In this, as in other ways, our group had been favoured.
Schmidt started fussing at me again when we reached the next of the tombs on our list, that of Amenhotep II. It was one of the ones the guidebook had described as ‘deep,’ and Schmidt
kept insisting I ought not attempt it. He was talking loudly, as usual, and if there was anyone in the group who hadn’t known about my phobia, they knew now.
‘Don’t be silly, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Down, down, down we went, and if you think I wasn’t counting you are dead wrong. The stairs led down, all the corridors sloped down, and just when I thought we had reached the bottom there
was another flight of stairs – leading down, in case you are wondering – and another downward-sloping passage. The square pillars in the last room were painted and inscribed.
That’s about all I remember. I was too busy keeping an expession of insouciant calm on my face.
Other sources of discomfort aside, it was hot and close and very dusty down in the depths. By the time we started back up, Schmidt’s face was bright red and I didn’t like the way he
was panting. Slowing my steps to match his, stopping frequently to rest, I forgot my own qualms in concern for him. I knew he’d never admit weakness and I could have kicked Feisal when he
said solicitously, ‘Perhaps, Herr Doktor, you had better go to the rest house and have a cool drink instead of attempting the next tomb. That of Horemheb is the deepest in the Valley; the air
is not good and the heat – ’