The Mummy or Ramses the Damned (52 page)

“Trust in me that I shall find a painless way,” he whispered.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t look at him.

“And know this, for what it’s worth. Know it now because later it may bring confusion. Your cousin Henry is dead. Cleopatra killed him.”

“What!”

“It was to Henry’s abode in the old Cairo that Elliott took her. He did follow me to the museum. And when the soldiers took me away, Elliott gave shelter to the creature I’d resurrected. He took her there, and there she killed both Henry and the woman, Malenka.”

She shook her head, and once again her hands went up to her ears. All the things she knew of Henry, of her father’s death, of
his attempt on her life, somehow could not help her now; they could not touch her. She heard only the horror.

“Trust in me when I say that I shall find a painless way. For that I must do before more innocent blood is shed. I cannot turn my back until it’s finished.”

“My son left no message?” Elliott had not forsaken the leather chair, or the gin, and had no intention of doing so. But he knew he had to call Alex before he got any drunker. And so he’d sent for the telephone. “But he wouldn’t go out without telling me. All right. Samir Ibrahaim, where is he? Can you ring his room for me?”

“He’s in Miss Stratford’s suite, sir. Two-oh-three. He requests that any messages be sent there. Shall I ring? It is eleven of the clock, sir.”

“No, I’ll go up, thank you.”

She leaned over the marble lavatory. She slapped the cold water on her face. She didn’t want to look into the mirror. Then slowly she wiped her eyes with the towel. When she turned around, she saw him standing in the sitting room. She could hear Samir’s low, comforting voice.

“Of course I will help you, sire, but where do we begin?”

There was a sharp rap on the hall door.

Ramses stepped back into the bedroom. Samir went to answer. It was Elliott. Their eyes met for only a moment, and then she looked away, unable to judge him and unable to face him. She thought only, He has had a hand in this. He knows it all; he knows more than I know. And suddenly her revulsion for the whole nightmare was insupportable.

She went into the sitting room, and took the chair in the far corner.

“I shall come right to the point,” Elliott said, looking directly at Ramses. “I have a plan and I need your cooperation. But before I begin, let me remind you that it isn’t safe here for you.”

“They find me, I escape again,” Ramses said with a shrug. “What is this plan?”

“A plan to get Julie and my son out of here,” Elliott said. “But what happened after I left? You want to tell me?”

“She is as you described her. Mad, incalculably strong, and
dangerous. Only she is whole now. No longer disfigured. And her eyes are the colour of the blue sky, just as mine are.”

“Ah.”

Elliott fell silent, as if he’d felt a sharp pain inside and had to hold his breath to let it pass. Julie realized suddenly he was drunk, really drunk. It was perhaps the first time she’d seen him this way. He was dignified, restrained, but drunk. He reached out for Samir’s glass, still half-full of brandy, and drank it almost absently.

Quietly Samir went to the small rattan drinks cupboard in the corner and got a bottle for him.

“You saved my life,” Elliott said to Ramses. “I thank you for that.”

Ramses shrugged. But the tone of all this struck Julie as curious. It was intimate, as though these two men knew each other quite well. There was no animosity.

“What is this plan?” Ramses said.

“You must cooperate. You must tell lies. You must do that effectively. And the end result will be that you are cleared of the crimes of which you’re suspected, and Julie and Alex will be free to leave here. Samir also will no longer be under suspicion. Then other matters can be attended to.…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Elliott,” Julie said wearily. “But Alex must be allowed to go home as soon as possible.”

Samir poured another drink of brandy for Elliott, and Elliott took it mechanically and drank it. “Any gin, Samir? I prefer gin for getting drunk,” he said.

“Come to the point, my lord,” said Ramses. “I must be taking my leave. The last Queen of Egypt roams this city alone, with a penchant for killing; I must find her.”

“This will take a strong stomach,” Elliott said, “but there’s a way that all of this can be pinned on Henry. He laid the ground himself. But Ramsey, you have to lie as I told you.…”

The quiet of the night. Alex Savarell lay naked and asleep on the snow-white sheets of the soft feather bed, the thin wool blanket covering him only to the waist, his face smooth and waxen in the moonlight.

In the sweet stillness, she had undone her many parcels quietly, examining the fine robes, gowns, slippers. She had laid out the little rectangular stolen opera papers which said “Admit One” on the dressing table.

The moon shone on the rich silks. It sparkled in the rope of pearls, coiled like a snake on the table. And beyond the sheer finespun curtains on the window, it shone upon the Nile flowing into the soft tangle of rounded roofs and towers that was Cairo.

Cleopatra stood at the window, her back to the soft bed and the godlike young man who lay there. Divinely he had pleasured her; divinely she had pleasured him. His innocence and simple male power were treasures to her; her mystery and skill had overwhelmed him. Never had he placed himself in the hands of a woman thus, he had said. Never had he given vent to all his whims with such abandon.

And now he slept the sleep that children sleep, safe in the bed, as she stood at the window.…

 … As dreams came to her, pretending to be memories. It occurred to her that she had not known the night since she’d been awakened. She had not known the cool mystery of the night, when thoughts tend naturally to deepen. And what came to her now were images of other nights, of real palaces, resplendent with marble floors and pillars, and tables laden with fruit and roasted meat and wine in silver pitchers. Of Ramses speaking to her, as they lay together in the dark.

“I love you, as I’ve loved no other woman. To live without you … it would not be life.”

“My King, my only King,” she had said. “What are the others, but toys on a child’s battlefield? Little wooden emperors moved by chance from place to place.”

It dimmed; it moved away from her. She lost it as she had lost the other memories. And what was real was the voice of Alex stirring in his sleep.

“Your Highness, where are you?”

Misery like a spell had descended upon her, and he could not pierce the veil. It was too heavy; too dark. She sang to herself, that song, that sweet song from the music box, “Celeste Aïda.” And then when she turned and saw his face in the moonlight, his eyes closed, his hand open on the sheet, she felt a deep and soulful longing. She hummed the song, her lips closed as she approached the bed and looked down at him.

Tenderly she stroked his hair. Tenderly her fingertips touched his eyelids. Ah, sleeping god, my sweet Endymion. Her hand moved down, lazily, and touched his throat, touched the tender bones she had broken in the others.

Frail and mortal thing for all your strength, your finely muscled
arms, your smooth flat chest, powerful hands that pleasure me.

She didn’t want him to know death! She didn’t want him to suffer. A great protectiveness rose in her. She lifted the white blanket and snuggled down into the warm bed beside him. She would never harm this one, never, that she knew. And suddenly death itself seemed a frightful and unjust thing.

But why am I immortal when he is not? Ye gods. For one second it seemed a great portal opened on a vast place of light and all answers were revealed; her past, who she was, what had happened, all those things were clear. But it was dark and quiet in this room. There was no such illumination.

“My love, my pretty young love,” she said, kissing him again. At once he stirred; responded. He opened his arms to her.

“Your Highness.”

She felt the hardness again between his legs; she wanted it to fill her again, to bruise her. She smiled to herself. If one cannot be immortal, one should at least be young, she thought ruefully.

Ramses had listened silently for a long time before he spoke.

“So what you are saying is that we must tell this elaborate tale to the authorities, that I argued with him, followed him inside, saw him take the mummy from the case, and then the soldiers apprehended me.”

“You lied for Egypt when you were King, did you not? You lied to your people when you told them you were the living god.”

“But, Elliott,” Julie broke in. “What if these crimes continue?”

“And they very well might,” said Ramses impatiently, “if I don’t get out of here and find her.”

“There is no proof that Henry’s dead,” Elliott said, “and no one is going to find any. It’s perfectly plausible that Henry’s roaming around Cairo. And what is plausible is what they’ll accept. Pitfield leapt at this nonsense. So will they. And they can hunt for Henry as you hunt for her. But Alex and Julie will be safely out of it by then.”

“No, I told you,” Julie said, “I’ll persuade Alex to go.…”

“Julie, I can come to you later in London,” Ramses said. “Lord Rutherford’s a clever man. He would have made a good King, or a King’s wily adviser.”

Elliott gave a bitter smile and drank down his third glass of straight gin.

“I shall make this poetry of lies as convincing as I can. What else must we discuss?” Ramses said.

“It’s settled. Ten
A.M.
you must call me. By then I’ll have a guarantee of immunity for you from the governor himself. Then you must come to the governor’s palace and make your statement. And we do not leave without the passports.”

“Very well,” Ramses said. “I leave you now. Wish me good fortune.”

“But where will you begin to search?” Julie asked. “And when will you sleep?”

“You forget, my beauty. I don’t need to sleep. I’ll search for her until we meet here again before ten o’clock. Lord Rutherford, if this fails to work …”

“It will work. And we shall go to the opera tomorrow night precisely as planned and to the ball afterwards.”

“That’s absurd!” Julie said.

“No, my child. Do it for me. It’s the last demand I shall ever make on you. I want the social fabric restored. I want my son to be seen with his father, and his friends; with Ramsey, whose name shall be cleared. I want us all to be seen together. I want no shadows over Alex’s future. And whatever the future holds for you, don’t shut the gate on the life you once lived. It’s worth the price of one night’s pomp and ceremony to keep that gate open.”

“Ah, Lord Rutherford, how you always amuse me and satisfy me,” Ramses said. “In another world and another life, I used to say such inane things myself to those around me. It’s palaces and titles which do such things to us. But I’ve remained here long enough. Samir, come with me if you will. Otherwise I’m going alone now.”

“I’m with you, sire,” Samir said. He rose and made a ceremonial little bow to Elliott. “Until tomorrow, my lord.”

Ramses went out first; then Samir. For a moment Julie couldn’t move; then she rose out of the chair and went running out of the door after Ramses. She caught him in the dark stairwell at the rear of the wing, and once again, they held each other.

“Please love me, Julie Stratford,” he whispered. “I am not always such a fool, I swear it.” He held her face in his hands.
“You’ll go to London where you are safe, and you shall see me when this horror is finished.”

She went to protest.

“I do not lie to you. I love you too much for that. I have told you everything.”

She watched him slip down the stairs. He put the headdress on again and became the sheikh before he went out into the darkness, one hand raised in a graceful farewell.

She didn’t want to return to her rooms. She didn’t want to see Elliott.

She knew now why he had made this journey; she had sensed it all along, but now she knew for certain. Following Ramses to the museum, that he had ever gone to such an extreme, astonished her.

On second thought, why should it astonish her? After all, he had believed; he had been the only one, other than Samir, perhaps, who believed. And so the mystery and the promise had lured him.

As she walked back to her rooms, she prayed he understood the full evil that had unfolded. And when she thought of any creature—no matter how evil or dangerous or cruel—being shut up in the dark, unable to wake, she shuddered and began to cry again.

He was there still, drinking the last of the gin as he sat in the overstuffed chair, so self-contained and elegant even in his drunkenness, hands curved around the cane.

He did not look up when she came in. He did not gather his strength to leave. She shut the door and faced him.

Her words came swiftly, without thought. But she made no accusations. She told him only all that Ramses had said. She told the tale of the food that could not be eaten, and the cattle that could not be slaughtered, the tale of the insatiable hunger and craving of the flesh; she told the tale of loneliness, of isolation; it all came in a rush, as she paced back and forth, not looking at him, not meeting his eyes.

And finally it was done and the room was still.

“When we were young,” he said, “your father and I, we spent many months in Egypt. We pored over our books; we studied the ancient tombs; we translated the texts; we roamed the sands by day and by night. Ancient Egypt; it became our muse, our religion. We dreamed of some secret knowledge here
that would transport us from all the things that seemed to lead to boredom and finally hopelessness.

“Did the pyramids really contain some secret yet undiscovered? Did the Egyptians know a magic language to which the gods themselves listen? What undiscovered tombs lay within these hills? What philosophy remained to be revealed? What alchemy?

“Or did this culture produce a mere semblance of high learning; a semblance of true mystery? We wondered now and then if they had been not wise, and mystical, but a simple, literal, brutal people.

“We never knew. I don’t know now. I see now it was the quest that was the passion! The quest, you understand?”