Chapter3
“Music,” Ramses remarked, “is one of the most effective tools of the warmonger.”
This sententious observation was overheard by all at the railing of Shepheard’s terrace, where we stood watching the military band marching past on its way to the bandstand in the Ezbekieh Gardens . Today the musicians had halted in front of the hotel, marking time and (one would suppose) catching their breaths before launching into the next selection. The brilliant crimson-and-white uniforms made a gaudy show, and sunlight struck dazzlingly off the polished brass of trumpets and trombones and tubas.
I caught the eye of Nefret, who was on Ramses’s other side. Her lips parted, but like myself she was not quick enough to head him off. Leaning on the rail, Ramses continued, in the same carrying voice, “Stirring marches confuse rational thought by appealing directly to the emotions. Plato was quite correct to forbid certain types of music in his ideal society. The Lydian mode—”
A blast of drums and brasses drowned him out as the band burst into “Rule, Britannia.” The loyal watchers attempted to join in, with only moderate success; as the Reader may know, the verse has a series of rapid arpeggios that are very difficult to render clearly. What the singers lacked in musicality they made up for in enthusiasm; faces glowed with patriotic fervor, eyes shone, and as soprano tremolo and baritone rumble mingled in the stirring words of the chorus: “Britons never, never, never will be slaves!” I felt my own pulse quicken.
The onlookers formed a cross-section of Anglo-Egyptian society, the ladies in filmy afternoon frocks and huge hats, the gentlemen in uniform or well-cut lounge suits. Down below, waiting for the street to be cleared so they could go about their affairs, were spectators of quite a different sort. Some wore fezzes and European-style suits, others long robes and turbans; but their faces bore similar expressions—sullen, resentful, watching. A conspicuous exception was an individual directly across the street; his well-bred countenance was tanned to a handsome brown and he was half a head taller than those around him. He was not wearing a fez, a turban, or a hat. I waved at him, but he was talking animatedly to a man who stood next to him and did not see me.
“There is your father at last,” I said to Ramses. “Whom is he conversing with?”
The band had moved on, and it was now possible to make oneself heard without shouting. Ramses turned, his elbow on the rail. “Where? Oh. That’s Philippides, the head of the political CID.”
I studied the fellow’s plump, smiling face with new interest. I had not met him, but I had heard a number of unpleasant stories about him. His superior, Harvey Pasha, had made him responsible for rounding up enemy aliens, and it was said he had acquired a small fortune from people he threatened with deportation. The guilty parties paid him to overlook their transgressions and the innocent parties paid him to be left in peace. He terrorized a good part of Cairo , and his shrewish wife terrorized him.
“Why on earth would your father spend time with a man like that?” I demanded.
“I’ve no idea,” said Ramses. “Unless he hopes Philippides will use his influence on David’s behalf. Shall we go back to our table? Father will join us when he chooses, I suppose.”
In point of fact, I was surprised Emerson had condescended to join us at all. He disliked taking tea at Shepheard’s, claiming that the only people who went there were frivolous society persons and tedious tourists. In this he was correct. However, in justice to myself, I must explain that my reasons for this particular outing were not frivolous.
Spying on Nefret without appearing to do so had driven me to expedients that were cursed difficult to arrange, much less explain. I could not insist on accompanying her wherever she went, or demand verification of her movements; and on the one occasion when I attempted to follow her disguised in a robe and veil I had borrowed from Fatima, the inconvenient garb handicapped me to such an extent that Nefret reached the station and hopped onto a departing tram while I was attempting to disentangle my veil from a thornbush.
Considering alternatives, I concluded that the best plan would be to fill our calendar with engagements that involved the entire family. The approach of the Yuletide season, with its attendant festivities, made this procedure feasible, and today’s excursion was one of that sort.
My other motive was one I was reluctant to admit even to myself. After all, what had we to do with spies? Rounding the rascals up was the responsibility of the police and the military. Yet the seed of suspicion Nefret had sowed in my mind had found sustenance there; whenever I stamped upon it with the boot of reason, it sent up another green shoot. If Sethos was in Cairo , we were the only ones who stood a chance of tracking him down—the only ones who were familiar with his methods, who had met him face-to… well, to several of his many faces.
Now I wondered if the same notion had occurred to Emerson. Jealousy, unwarranted but intense, as well as professional dislike, burned within him; nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to bring the Master Criminal to justice. Was he at this very moment on the trail of Sethos? Why else would he stoop to amiable converse with a man like Philippides?
I fully intended to ask him, but I did not suppose he would admit the truth. Good Gad, I thought, if I am forced to spy on Emerson as well as on Nefret, I will find myself fully occupied.
When he joined us a few minutes later, his noble brow was furrowed and his white teeth were bared in what was probably not a smile. Instead of greeting us properly, he flung himself into a chair and demanded, “What have you done now, Ramses?”
“Done?” Ramses repeated, raising his eyebrows. “I?”
“I have just been informed,” said Emerson, beckoning the waiter, “by that consummate ass Pettigrew, that you were making seditious remarks while the band played patriotic airs.”
“I was talking about Plato,” said Ramses.
“Good Gad,” said his father, in some bewilderment. “Why?”
Ramses explained—at greater length, in my opinion, than was strictly necessary. Having warmed to his theme, he developed it further. “We will soon be seeing a resurgence of sentimental ballads that present a romanticized version of death and battle. The soldier boy dreaming of his dear old mother, the sweetheart smiling bravely as she sends her lover off to war—”
“Stop it,” Nefret snapped.
“I am sorry,” said Ramses, “if you find my remarks offensive.”
“Deliberately provocative, rather. People are listening.”
“If they take umbrage at a philosophical discussion—”
“Both of you, stop it,” I exclaimed.
Spots of pink marked Nefret’s smooth cheeks, and Ramses’s lips were pressed tightly together. I was forced to agree with Nefret. Ramses had almost given up his old habit of pontificating at length on subjects designed to annoy the hearer (usually his mother); this relapse was, I thought, deliberate.
The terrace of Shepheard’s hotel had been a popular rendezvous for decades. It was even more crowded than usual that afternoon. All the first-class hotels were filled to bursting. The War Office had taken over part of the Savoy ; Imperial and British troops were pouring into the city. Yet, except for the greater number of uniforms, Shepheard’s looked much the same as it had always done—white cloths and fine china on the tables, waiters running back and forth with trays of food and drink, elegantly dressed ladies and stout gentlemen in snowy linen. Thus far the war had done very little to change the habits of the Anglo-Egyptian community; its members amused themselves in much the same fashion as they would have done in England : the women paying social calls and gossiping, the men patronizing their clubs—and gossiping. Another form of amusement, between persons of opposite genders, was perhaps the inevitable consequence of boredom and limited social contacts. I believe I need say no more.