The Mummy or Ramses the Damned (44 page)

“Oh, no, you mustn’t stop,” he said. “Go on singing.”

Go on singing, go on singing. Waiting just a moment was the secret, then the meaning came surprisingly clear.

Ramses had taught her that. In the beginning, each tongue sounds impenetrable. You speak it; you listen; and gradually it comes clear.

Ramses; Ramses, whose statue stood among the iron chariots! She turned, craning her neck to see through the window—why, the window was covered over with a giant piece of very clear glass. She could see the dirt on it. However did they make such a thing? “Modern times,” as Lord Rutherford said. Well, if they could make those monstrous chariots, they could make such glass.

“You’ve a lovely voice, positively lovely. Are you by any chance going to the opera? Everyone in Cairo is going, or so it seems.”

“The ball will last till dawn,” said the woman opposite to her female companion.

“Well, I think it’s super. We’re just too far from civilization to complain.”

He laughed. He had overheard the women too.

“The ball’s supposed to be the event of the season here. They
hold it at Shepheard’s.” He drank a swallow of his coffee. That was the signal she’d been waiting for. She downed her entire cup.

He smiled. He poured her another from the little pot.

“Thank you,” she said, carefully mimicking the record.

“Oh, but didn’t you want sugar?”

“I think I prefer cream, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” He poured a dollop of milk in her cup. Was that cream? Yes, Lord Rutherford had given her the last of it that the slave woman had in the house.

“Are you going to the ball at Shepheard’s? We’re staying at Shepheard’s, my uncle and I. My uncle’s in trade here.”

He stopped again. What was he staring at? Her eyes? Her hair? He was very pretty; she loved the fresh new skin of his face and throat. Lord Rutherford was a fine-looking man, for certain; but this one had the beauty of youth.

She reached across the table and felt his chest through the linen of his clothing, through the silk that covered her fingers. Don’t let him feel the bone. How surprised he looked. Her fingertips touched his nipple and she pinched it ever so slightly with her fourth finger and thumb. Why, he blushed like a vestal virgin. The blood was roaring in his face. She smiled.

He glanced around, at the two women opposite. But they went right on talking. “Simply super!”

“I bought this gown, you know, spent a fortune on it. I said, well, if I’m going to be here, and everyone’s going …”

“The opera.” She laughed. “Going to the opera.”

“Yes,” he said, but he was still amazed at what she’d done. She emptied the pot into her cup and drank it. Then she picked up the little pitcher of milk and drank that too. She picked up the sugar and poured it into her mouth. Ah, she did not like that. She set it down, and then slipped her hand under the small table and squeezed his leg. He was ready for her! Ah, poor young boy, poor wide-eyed young boy.

She remembered that time when she and Antony had brought those young soldiers in the tent, and stripped them, before making a choice. That had been a lovely game. Until Ramses found out about it. Was there anything he hadn’t accused her of in the end? But this one was powerfully amorous! He wanted her.

She rose from the table. She beckoned and went towards the doors.

Noise outside. The chariots. She did not care. If they didn’t
frighten all these people, surely they were something explainable. What she had to do now was find a place. He was right behind her, talking to her.

“Come,” she said in English. “Come with me.”

An alleyway; she led him back, stepping over the puddles. Shadowy here, and quieter. She turned around and slipped her arms under his. He bent to kiss her.

“Well, not here, right here!” he asked nervously. “Miss, I don’t think …”

“I say here,” she whispered, kissing him and thrusting her hand into his clothes. Hot his skin, what she wanted. Hot and sweet smelling. And so ready he was, the young fawn. She lifted the skirts of the pink dress.

It was over too quickly; she shuddered as she held on to him, her body clamped to him, her arms wrapped around his neck. She heard him moan as he spilled into her. He was still for a moment, too still. The shudders were still passing through her; but she could not coax him anymore. He released her and leaned back against the wall, staring, as if he was ill.

“Wait, please, give me a moment,” he said when she started to kiss him again.

She studied him for a few seconds. Very easy. Snap. Then she reached up, took a firm hold of his head with both her hands, and twisted it until his neck broke.

He stared off, the way the woman had stared off, and the way the man had also. Nothing in his eyes. Nothing. Then he slipped down the wall, his legs wide apart.

She studied him. There was that nagging sense of a mystery again, something to do with her. Something to do with what she’d just done.

She remembered that dim figure standing over her. Had it been a dream? “Rise, Cleopatra. I, Ramses, call you!”

Ah, no! Merely trying to remember caused a searing pain in her head. But the pain was not physical. Pain of the soul it was. She could hear women crying, women she had known. Women weeping. Saying her name to her. Cleopatra. Then someone covered her face with a sheer black cloth. Was the snake still alive? Strange it seemed to her that the snake should outlive her. She felt again the sting of the fangs in her breast.

She gave a dull little groan as she stood there, leaning against the wall, looking down at the dead boy. When had all that happened? Where? Who had she been?

Don’t remember. “Modern times” await.

She bent over, and slipped the money out of the boy’s coat. Lots and lots of money in a little leather book. She slipped it deep into her pocket. Other things here as well. A card with English writing and a tiny portrait of the boy, how remarkable. Very beautiful work. And then two small bits of stiff paper with AIDA written on them. And OPERA. They bore the same tiny drawing she had seen in the “magazine” of an Egyptian woman’s head.

Surely these were worth taking as well. She threw away the dead man’s picture. Slipping the little opera papers into her pocket also, she sang “Celeste Aïda” again softly to herself as she stepped over the dead boy and walked out again into the noisy street.

Be not afraid. Do as they do. If they walk near the metal pathways, you must do this too.

But no sooner had she started off again than there came one of those shrill blasts from the iron chariots. She covered her ears, crying in spite of herself, and when she looked up another fine man was standing in her path.

“Can I help you, little lady? You’re not lost down here, are you? You mustn’t go about down here by the railway station with that money showing in your pocket like that.”

“Railway station …”

“Don’t you have a handbag?”

“No,” she said innocently. She allowed him to take her arm. “You help me?” she said, remembering the phrase Lord Rutherford had used a hundred times to her. “I can trust you?”

“Oh, of course!” he said. And he meant it. Another young one. With smooth, lovely skin!

Two Arabs left the rear of Shepheard’s, one slightly taller than the other, both striding very fast.

“Remember,” Samir said under his breath, “take very big steps. You are a man. Men do not take small steps, and swing your arms naturally.”

“I should have learned this trick a long time ago,” Julie answered.

The Great Mosque swarmed with the faithful as well as tourists who had come to see this wonder, and come to see the sight of devout Moslems in worship on their knees. Julie and Samir
moved lazily through the crush of tourists. Within minutes they had spotted the tall Arab with the dark glasses, in his flowing white robes.

Samir placed a key in Ramses’ hand. He whispered the address and the directions. Ramses should follow him. It would not be a long walk.

He and Julie moved on, with Ramses a few paces behind.

Ah, she liked this one, who called himself an American and spoke in such a strange voice. They rode along together in the horse-drawn “taxi” carriage, among the “motor cars.” And she was no longer afraid.

Before they’d left the “railway station” she’d realized that the big iron chariots pulled people about. Just a common means of transportation. How strange.

This one was not as elegant as Lord Rutherford, by any means, but he spoke more slowly and it was becoming quite simple for her to understand, especially as he pointed to things as he spoke. She knew now what was a Ford automobile, and a Stutz Bearcat, and also a little roadster. This man sold such things in America. He was a merchant of Ford automobiles in America. Even poor people could buy these driving machines.

She clutched the canvas bag he’d bought her, which held the money and the bits of paper with OPERA written on them.

“And this here is where the tourists live,” he said to her, “more or less. I mean, this is the British sector.…”

“English,” she said.

“Yes, but all the Europeans and Americans pretty much come here, too. And that building there—that’s where all the best people stay, the British and the Americans, that’s Shepheard’s,
the
hotel, if you know what I mean.”

“Shepheard’s—
the
hotel?” She gave a little laugh.

“That’s where the opera ball’s going to be tomorrow night. That’s where I’m staying. I don’t much like opera”—he made a little face—“never did much care for it. But here in Cairo, well, this is an important thing, you see.”

“Important thing, you see.”

“Real important. So I figured pretty much I’d go, you see, and to the ball afterwards, though I had to rent a tailcoat and all that.” He had a lovely light in his eyes as he looked down at her. He was enjoying himself immensely.

And she was enjoying herself as well.

“And
Aïda
being all about ancient Egypt.”

“Yes, Radames singing.”

“Yes! So you know it. Bet you like opera, bet you appreciate it.” Suddenly he made a little frown. “Are you okay, little lady? Maybe you’d find the old city more romantic. You want something to drink? How about a little ride in my car. It’s parked right behind Shepheard’s.”

“Motor car?”

“Oh, you’re quite safe with me, little lady, I’m a real safe driver. Tell you what. Have you been out to the pyramids?”

Pee-ra-mids.

“No,” she said. “Drive in your car, super!”

He laughed. He shouted a command to the taxi and the driver pulled the horse to the left. They rode around
the
hotel, Shepheard’s, a handsome building with pretty gardens.

When he reached up to help her down from the carriage, he almost touched the tender opening in her side. She shivered. But it had not happened. Yet it had reminded her that the wound was there. How could one live with such awful sores? That was the mystery. Whatever happened now, she must return at dusk to see Lord Rutherford again. Lord Rutherford had gone to speak with the man who could explain these things—the man with the blue eyes.

They arrived together at the hideout. Julie agreed to wait as Samir and Ramses entered, inspected the three little rooms and their neglected garden; then they motioned for her to come in, and Ramses bolted the door.

There was a small wooden table with a candle in the middle, stuck in an old wine bottle. Samir lighted the candle. Ramses drew up two of the straight-backed chairs. Julie brought the other.

This was comfortable enough. The afternoon sun came through the old garden and through the back door, and the place was hot, but not unbearable, as it had been locked up for a long time. A damp musky odor of spices and hemp hung in the air.

Julie took off the Arab headdress, and shook out her hair. She had not pinned it up because of the headdress, and now she loosened the ribbon that kept it tied at the back of her neck.

“I don’t believe you killed that woman,” she said immediately, looking up at Ramses as he sat across from her.

Like a sheikh he looked in the desert robes, his face partially in shadow, the candle glinting in his eyes.

Samir sat down quietly to her left.

“I didn’t kill the woman,” Ramses said to her. “But I am responsible for the woman’s death. And I need your help, both of you. I need someone’s help. And I need your forgiveness. The time has come for me to tell you everything.”

“Sire, I have a message for you,” Samir said, “which I must give you at once.”

“What message?” Julie asked. Why hadn’t Samir told her of this?

“Is it from the gods, Samir? Are they calling me to account? I have no time for less important messages. I must tell you what has happened, what I’ve done.”

“It’s from the Earl of Rutherford, sire. He accosted me at the hotel. He looked like a madman; he said that I must tell you that he has
her
.”

Ramses was obviously stunned. He glared at Samir almost murderously.

Julie could not bear this.

Samir removed something from under his robe and gave it to Ramses. It was a glass vial, such as those she’d seen among the alabaster jars in the collection.

Ramses looked at this, but he didn’t move to touch it. Samir went to speak again, but Ramses gestured for quiet. His face was so heavily disfigured with emotion that he scarce looked like himself.

“Tell me what this means!” Julie said, unable to stop herself.

“He followed me to the museum,” Ramses whispered. He stared at the empty vial.

“But what are you talking about? What happened at the museum?”

“Sire, he says that the sun has helped her. That the medicine in the vial helped her, but that she needs more of it. She is damaged, inside and out. She has killed three times. She is mad. He keeps her safe in hiding, he wants a meeting with you. He has given me the time and place.”

For a moment, Ramses said nothing. Then he rose from the table and headed towards the door.

“No, stop!” Julie cried out, rushing towards him.

Samir was also on his feet.

“Sire, if you try to find him sooner, you may be apprehended.
The hotel is surrounded. Wait till he leaves and goes to this place for the meeting. It is the only safe thing to do!”