The Last Camel Died at Noon (7 page)

And so on, at considerable length.

Though as a rule I attempted to defend Mr Budge against Emerson's more unreasonable complaints, I was a trifle out of sorts with him myself. A dispatch sent through military channels boasted of his making the arduous journey from Cairo to Kerma in only ten and one half days. I knew too well what the effect of this claim would be on my irascible spouse. Emerson would insist on bettering Budge's record.

The first stage, from Cairo to Assouan, was one we had made many times, and I anticipated no particular difficulty there. So it proved; but Assouan, which had been a sleepy little village, was now transformed into a vast depot for military supplies. Though we received every courtesy from Captain Pedley, he was tactless enough to tell Emerson he ought not allow his wife to travel into such a desolate and dangerous region. 'Allow!' Emerson repeated. '"Allow," did you say?'

Though scarcely less annoyed, I thought it best to change the subject. One must recognise the limitations of the military mind, as I later pointed out to Emerson. After a certain age -somewhere in the early twenties, I believe - it is virtually impossible to insert any new idea whatever into it.

Since travel by boat through the tumultuous, rocky rapids of the First Cataract is hazardous, we had to leave the steamer at Assouan and take the railroad to Shellal, at the south end of the cataract. There we were fortunate enough to find passage on a paddle wheeler. The captain turned out to be an old acquaintance of Emerson's. A good many of the inhabitants of Nubia turned out to be old acquaintances of Emerson's. At every wretched little village where the steamer took on wood for the boiler, voices would hail him 'Essalamu 'aleikum, Emerson Effendi! Marhaba, Oh Father of Curses!"' It was flattering, but somewhat embarrassing, especially when the greetings came (as they did upon one occasion) from the painted lips of a female individual inadequately draped in a costume that left little doubt as to her choice of profession.

Our quarters on the steamer, though far from the standards of cleanliness upon which I normally insist, were commodious enough. Despite the inconveniences (and the awkwardness I have referred to earlier), I greatly enjoyed the trip. The territory south of Assouan was new to me. The rugged grandeur of the scenery and the ruins lining the banks proved a constant source of entertainment. I took copious notes, of course, but since I plan to publish an account elsewhere, I will spare the Reader details. One sight must be mentioned, however; no one could pass by the majestic temple of Abu Simbel without a word of homage and appreciation.

Thanks to my careful planning and the amiable cooperation of Emerson's friend the captain, we came abreast of this astonishing structure at dawn, on one of the two days each year when the rays of the sun lifting over the eastern mountains strike straight through the entrance into the farthest recesses of the sanctuary and rest like a heavenly flame upon the altar. The effect was awe-inspiring, and even after the sun had soared higher and the arrow-shaft of golden light had faded, the view held us motionless at the rail of the boat. Four giant statues of Ramses II guard the entrance, greeting with inhuman dignity the daily advent of the god to whom the temple was dedicated, as they have done morning after morning for almost three thousand years.

Ramses stood beside us at the rail, and his normally impassive countenance showed signs of suppressed emotion as he gazed upon the mightiest work of the monarch whose namesake he was. (In fact, he had been named for his uncle Walter; his father had proposed the nickname for him when he was an infant, claiming that the child's imperious manner and single-minded selfishness suggested that most egotistical of pharaohs. The name had stuck, for reasons which should be apparent to all Readers of my chronicles.)

But what, you may ask, was Ramses doing at the rail of the steamer? He should have been in school.

He was not in school because the Academy for Young Gentlemen in Cairo had been unable to admit him. That is the word the headmaster used - 'unable.' He claimed they had no room for another boarder. This may have been so. I had no means of proving it was not. I cannot conceive of any other reason why my son should not have been admitted to a school for young gentlemen.

I do not speak ironically, though anyone who has read certain of my comments concerning my son may suspect I do. The fact is, Ramses had improved considerably in the past few years. (Either that, or I was becoming accustomed to him. It is said that one can become accustomed to anything.)

He was at this time ten years old, having celebrated his birthday late that summer. Over the past few months he had shot up quite suddenly, as boys do, and I had begun to think he might one day have his father's height, though probably not the latter's splendid physique. His features were still too large for his thin face, but just lately I had discovered a dent or dimple in his chin, like the one that lent Emerson's handsome countenance such charm. Ramses disliked references to this feature as much as his father resented my mentioning his dimple (which he preferred to call a cleft, if he had to refer to it). I am bound to admit that the boy's jet-black curls and olive complexion bore a closer resemblance to a young Arab - of the finest type - than an Anglo-Saxon; but that he was a gentleman, by birth at least, no one could deny. A distinct improvement in his manners had occurred, due in large part to my untiring efforts, though the natural effects of maturation also played a part. Most small boys are barbarians. It is a wonder any of them live to grow up.

Ramses had lived, to the age of ten at least, and his suicidal tendencies seemed to have decreased. I could therefore contemplate his accompanying us with resignation if not enthusiasm, especially since I had little choice in the matter. Emerson refused to join me in bringing pressure to bear on the headmaster of the Academy for Young Gentlemen; he had always wanted to take Ramses with us to the Sudan.

I put my hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Well, Ramses, I hope you appreciate the kindness of your parents in providing you with such an opportunity. Impressive, is it not?'

Ramses's prominent nose quivered critically. 'Ostentatious and grandiose. Compared with the temple of Deir el-Bahri -'

'What a dreadful little snob you are,' I exclaimed. 'I do hope the antiquities of Napata will measure up to your exacting standards.'

'He is quite right, though,' said Emerson. 'There is no architectural subtlety or mystery in a temple like that - only size. The temples of Gebel Barkal, on the other hand -'

'Temples, Emerson? You promised me pyramids.'

Emerson's eyes remained fixed on the facade of the temple, now fully illumined by the risen sun and presenting a picture of great majesty. 'Er - to be sure, Peabody. But we are limited in our choice of sites, not only by the cursed military authorities but by... by... by a certain individual whose name I have sworn not to pronounce.

It was I who had requested he abstain from referring to Mr Budge if he could not do so without swearing. (He could not.) Unfortunately I could not prevent others from referring to Budge. He had preceded us, and everyone we met mentioned him, hoping, I suppose, to please us by claiming an acquaintance in common.

Ramses distracted Emerson by climbing up on the rail, thus prompting a stern lecture on the dangers of falling overboard. I rewarded my son with an approving smile; there had never been any danger of his falling, he could climb like a monkey. With such distractions and a few animated arguments about archaeological matters, the time passed pleasantly enough until we disembarked at Wadi Haifa.

Haifa, as it is now commonly termed, was once a small cluster of mud huts; but in 1885, after the withdrawal of our forces from Khartoum, it was established as the southern frontier of Egypt. It had now become a bustling depot of supplies and arms for the forces farther south. Following the advice of the young military officer whom I consulted, I purchased quantities of tinned food, tents, netting, and other equipment. Emerson and Ramses had wandered off on some expedition of their own. On this occasion I did not complain of their dereliction, for Emerson does not get on well with military persons, and Captain Buckman was a type of young Englishman who particularly annoyed him - prominent teeth, no chin to speak of, and a habit of tossing his head when he laughed in a high-pitched whinny. He was a great help to me, though, and full of admiration for Mr Budge, whom he had met in September. 'Quite a regular chap, not like your usual archaeologist, if you take my meaning, ma'am.'

I took his meaning. I also took my leave, with appropriate thanks, and went in search of my errant family. As I had come to expect, Emerson had a number of 'old acquaintances' in Haifa; it was at the home of one of them, Sheikh Mahmud al-Araba, that we were to meet. The house was palatial by Nubian standards, built of mud brick around a high-walled central courtyard. I had braced myself for an argument with the doorkeeper, for these persons often tried to take me to the harim instead of into the presence of the master of the house, but on this occasion the old man had evidently been warned; he greeted me with salaams and repeated cries of marhaba (welcome) before escorting me into the salon. Here I found the sheikh, a white-bearded but hearty man, and my husband seated side by side on the mastaba-bench along one wall. They were smoking narghiles (water pipes) and watching the performance of a young female who squirmed around the room to the undulating beat of an orchestra consisting of two drummers and a piper. Her face was veiled; the same could not be said of the rest of her.

Emerson sprang to his feet. Teabody! I had not expected you so soon.'

'So I see,' I replied, returning the dignified greetings of the sheikh and taking the seat he indicated. The orchestra continued to wail, the girl continued to squirm, and Emerson's high cheekbones took on the colour of a ripe plum. Even the best of men exhibit certain inconsistencies in their attitude towards women. Emerson treated me as an equal (I would have accepted nothing less) in matters of the intellect, but it was impossible for him to conquer completely his absurd ideas about the delicate sensibilities of the female sex. The Arabs, for all their deplorable treatment of their own women, showed far more common sense in their treatment of me. Having decided that I ranked as a peculiar variety of female-man, they entertained me as they would any masculine friend.

When the performance ended I applauded politely, somewhat to the surprise of the young woman. After expressing my appreciation to the sheikh, I inquired, 'Where is Ramses? We must be on our way, Emerson; I left instructions for the supplies to be delivered to the quay, but without your personal supervision -'

'Yes, quite,' said Emerson. 'You had better fetch Ramses, then, he is being entertained by the ladies. Or vice versa.'

'Oh, dear,' I said, hastily rising. 'Yes. I had better fetch him -

and,' I added in Arabic, 'I would like to pay my compliments to the ladies of your house.'

And, I added to myself, I would also have a word with the young woman who had - I suppose she would have called it 'danced' - for us. I would have felt myself a traitor to my sex if I had missed any opportunity to lecture the poor oppressed creatures of the harim on their rights and privileges - though heaven knows, we Englishwomen were far from having attained the rights due us.

An attendant led me through the courtyard, where a fountain trickled feebly under the shade of a few sickly palm trees, and into the part of the house reserved for the women. It was dark and hot as a steam bath, for even the windows opening onto the courtyard were covered with pierced shutters, lest some bold masculine eye behold the forbidden beauties within. The sheikh had three of the four wives permitted him by Moslem law, and a number of female servants - concubines, to put it bluntly. All of them were assembled in a single room, and I heard them, giggling and exclaiming in high-pitched voices, long before I saw them. I expected the worst - Ramses's Arabic is extremely fluent and colloquial - but then I realised that his was not among the voices I heard. At least he was not entertaining them by telling vulgar jokes or singing rude songs.

When I entered the room, the ladies fell silent, and a little flutter of alarm ran through the group. When they saw who it was they relaxed, and one - the chief wife, by her attire and her air of command - came forward to greet me. I was used to being swarmed over by the women of the harims; poor things, they had little enough to amuse them, and a Western woman was a novelty indeed. On this occasion, however, after glancing at me they turned their attention back to something - or, as I suspected, someone - hidden from me by their bodies.

The heat, the gloom, the stench of the strong perfumes used by the women (and the aroma of unwashed bodies those perfumes strove to overcome) were familiar to me; but I seemed to smell some other, underlying odour - something sickly sweet and subtly pervasive. It may have been that strange scent that made me forget courtesy; it may have been the uncertainty as to what was happening to my son. I pushed the women aside so I could see.

A rug or matting, woven in patterns of blue and red-orange, green and umber, had been spread across the floor. On it sat my son, cross-legged, with his cupped hands held out in a peculiarly rigid position. He did not turn his head. Facing him was the strangest figure I had ever seen - and I have seen a great many strange individuals. At first glance it appeared to be a folded or crumpled mass of dark fabric, with some underlying structure of bone or wood jutting out at odd angles. My reasoning brain identified it as a squatting human figure; my mother's heart felt a thrill of fear bordering on horror when my eyes failed to find a human countenance atop the angular mass. Then the upper portion of the object moved; a face appeared, covered with a heavy veil; and a deep murmurous voice intoned, 'Silence. Silence. The spell is cast. Do not wake the sleeper.'

The elder wife came to my side. She put a timid hand on my arm and murmured, 'He is a magician of great power, Sitt Hakim - like yourself. An old man, a holy man - he does the boy honour. You will not tell my lord? There is no harm in it, but -'