“Thank you, Emerson,” I said. “Nefret, that will be quite enough. I understand your concern, my dear, but you did not give me a chance to explain. Really, you must conquer this habit of rushing into action without considering the consequences.”
I half-expected her to burst into another fiery denunciation. Instead her eyes fell, and the pretty flush of anger faded from her cheeks. “Yes, Aunt Amelia.”
“That is better,” I said approvingly. “Drink your coffee and I will tell you the plan.”
I proceeded to do so. Nefret listened in silence, her eyes downcast, her hands tightly folded in her lap. However, she did not miss Emerson’s attempt to tiptoe out of the room. Admittedly, Emerson is not good at tiptoeing.
“Where is he going?” she demanded fiercely.
“To get ready.” I was not at all averse to his leaving, since it enabled me to speak more candidly. “For pity’s sake, Nefret, don’t you suppose that I too yearn to accompany them? I agreed to stay here and keep you with me because I believe it is the best solution.”
Her mutinous look assured me she was unconvinced. I had another argument. It was one I was loath to employ, but honesty demanded I should. “There have been times, not many—one or two—in the past, when my presence distracted Emerson from the struggle in which he was engaged, and resulted in considerable danger to him.”
“Why, Aunt Amelia! Is it true?”
“Only once or twice.”
“I see.” Her brow cleared. “Would you care to tell me about them?”
“I see no point in doing so. It was a long time ago. I know better now. And,” I continued, before she could pursue a subject that clearly interested her a great deal, and which I was not anxious to recall, “I am giving you the benefit of my experience. Their plan is a good one, Nefret. They swore to me that they would retreat in good order if matters did not work out as they expect.”
Her slim shoulders sagged. “How long must we wait?”
I knew then I had won. “They will come straight back, I am sure. Emerson knows if he does not turn up in good time I will go looking for him. He would do anything to avoid that!”
Dearest Lia,
Do you still keep my letters? I suspect you do, though I asked you to destroy them—not only current letters, but the ones I wrote you a few years ago. You said you liked to reread them when we were apart, because it was like hearing my voice. And I said—I’m sorry for what I said, Lia darling! I was horrid to you. I was horrid to everyone! You have my permission—formal, written permission—to keep them if you wish. I would be glad if you did. Someday I may want—I hope I may want—to read them again myself. There was one in particular… I think you know which one.
I’m in a fey mood tonight, as you can probably tell. I’ve put off writing to you because there is so much I want to say that can’t be said. The thought that a stranger—or worse, a person I know—might read these letters is constantly in my mind; it’s as if someone were lurking behind the door listening to our private thoughts and confidences.
So I will confine myself to facts.
Aunt Amelia and I are alone this evening; the Professor and Ramses have gone out. With the lamps lit and the curtains drawn, this cavernous parlor looks almost cozy, especially with Aunt Amelia darning socks. Yes, you heard me: she is darning socks! She gets these housewifely attacks from time to time, heaven only knows why. Since she darns as thoroughly as she does everything, the stockings end up with huge lumps on toes or heels, and the hapless wearer thereof ends up with huge blisters. I think Ramses quietly and tactfully throws his away, but the Professor, who never pays any attention to what clothing he puts on, goes round limping and swearing.
I take it back. This room is not cozy. It never can be. A fluffy, furry animal might help, but I can’t have the puppies here; they chew the legs of the furniture and misbehave on the Oriental rugs. I even miss that wretched beast Horus! I couldn’t have brought him, since he refuses to be parted from Sennia, but I wish I had a cat of my own. Seshat spends most of her time in Ramses’s room.
Someday, when we are all together again, we will find a better house, or build one. It will be large and sprawling, with courtyards and fountains and gardens, and plenty of room, so we can all be together—but not too close together! If you would rather, we’ll get the dear old Amelia out of drydock for you and David and the infant. It will happen someday. It must.
Goodness, I sound like a little old lady, rocking and recalling the memories of her youth. Let me think what news I can write about.
You asked about the hospital. One must be patient; it will take time to convince “respectable” women—and their conservative husbands—that we will not offend their modesty or their religious principles. There has been one very hopeful development. This morning I had a caller—none other than el-Gharbi, the most powerful procurer of el Was’a. They say he controls not only prostitution but every other illegal activity in that district. I had seen him once or twice when I went to the old clinic, and an unforgettable figure he was—squatting on the mastaba bench outside one of his “Houses,” robed like a woman and jangling with gold. When he turned up today, borne in a litter and accompanied by an escort—all young and handsome, elegantly robed and heavily armed—our poor old doorkeeper almost fainted. He came rushing to find me. It seems el-Gharbi had asked for me by name. When I went out, there he was, sitting cross-legged in the litter like some grotesrque statue of ebony and ivory, veiled and adorned. I could smell the patchouli ten yads away.
When I told the family about it later, I thought the Professor was going to explode. While he sputtered and swore, I repeated that curious conversation. The girl I had operated on the night before was one of his; he had sent her to me. He had come in person because he had heard a great deal about me and he wanted to see for himself what I was like. Odd, wasn’t it? I can’t imagine why he should be interested.
Did I call him names (I know a lot of good Arabic terms for men like him) and tell him never to darken my door again? No, Lia, I did not. Once I might have done, but I’ve learned better. It is pointless to complain that the world isn’t the way it ought to be. By all accounts he is a kinder master than some. I told him I appreciated his interest and would be happy to treat any of the women who needed my services.
The Professor was not so tolerant. “What damnable effrontery!” was the least inflammatory of the remarks he made. When he wound down, it was Ramses’s turn.
Someone who didn’t know him well might have thought he was bored by the discussion. He was sitting on the ground with his back against a packing case and his knees raised and his head bent, devouring Fatima ’s food. Ramses is never a model of sartorial elegance, as you know; he’d been running his fingers through his hair, to push it out of the way, and it was all tangled over his forehead. Perspiration streaked his face and throat and bare forearms, and his shirt was sticking to his shoulders. He raised his head and opened his mouth.
“You need a haircut,” I said. “And don’t lecture me.”
“I know I do. I wasn’t going to lecture you. I was about to say, ‘Well done.’ ”
Can you imagine that, Lia—Ramses paying me a compliment? You know what a low opinion he has of my good sense and self-control. I wish…
I can’t write any more. It is very late and and my hand is cramped from holding the pen. Please excuse the atrocious writing. Aunt Amelia is folding up her mending. I love you, Lia, dear.