People were staring and whispering. I turned my head to look at Emerson, who was escorting Nefret and Mr. Plato. As I had expected, he was bowing from side to side, and raising one hand in a gesture of regal condescension. Behind him trotted a long line of loaded porters, with Selim bringing up the rear. I couldn’t see much of Selim; I wondered if he was brandishing his sword.
We swept past the crowd of lesser beings and out of the customs shed, the throngs and even the guards at the door parting before Daoud like the waters of the Red Sea.
“Keep moving,” said Emerson, taking his place at my side and gesturing to David to fall back with Nefret.
“Carriages-carts,” I gasped, for our pace had quickened.
“Just follow Daoud.” Emerson gave me his arm. “No doubt the officials have been well bribed and thoroughly intimidated, but if we stop they may have second thoughts.”
From the quayside we climbed the hill into the old town, and I understood the need for so many porters. Carts and carriages would have had a difficult time passing along the narrow and winding streets. Evidently donkeys did pass through them, for the evidence of their presence littered the street, along with rotting fruit and other signs of habitation.
We emerged from the old town into a rather pleasant open square, with (as I was later to learn) army barracks on one side and the residence of the kaimakam (governor) on another. Our hotel was just off the square. Leaving the porters to wait outside, we entered the lobby. Everything in the place was brown-an olive-drab carpet on the floor, weak-coffee-brown paint on walls and ceiling, rusty brown upholstery on the chairs and single sofa, a few pathetic potted plants whose leaves had not a trace of green. They were, in short, brown. The walls were hung with notices announcing the hours of meals (no seating after the designated time), the availability of dragomen and porters (arrangements must be made through the manager), a pointed request for payment in British pounds or American dollars, and so on. The most conspicuous notice proclaimed proudly that this was a Temperance Hotel. Behind the registration desk stood a man wearing a morning coat and a supercilious sneer. He could only be British. The sneer faded when Emerson stamped up to the desk and addressed him in a peremptory basso.
“The rooms of Professor and Mrs. Emerson and their party.”
“You are Professor Emerson?”
“Who else would I be? Who the devil are you?”
“Er-the manager of this hotel, to be sure. My name is Boniface. Mr. Boniface.”
He held out his hand. Emerson stared at it as if he had never seen such an object before. “Come, man, don’t stand there gaping like a fish; Mrs. Emerson is not accustomed to being kept waiting. Show us to our rooms at once.”
Visibly unnerved, the manager emerged from behind the desk and led the way to our rooms. Emerson, who takes pleasure in annoying pompous persons, followed close on his heels, so that the manager was almost running when we arrived at our destination. The accommodations consisted of three sleeping chambers on the first floor. The furnishings of the room assigned to Emerson and me were a remarkable combination of European and local wares: a purple plush sofa, toilet articles of porcelain behind an ornately carved wooden screen, and a hideous brass bedstead covered with a spread of woven fabric. Gloomy sepia photographs of Jerusalem and Nazareth were interspersed with even gloomier copies of religious paintings. The one hanging over the bed was a particularly realistic rendition of the Crucifixion.
Accustomed as I was to the elegance of Shepheard’s and the Winter Palace, I spoke only the truth when I remarked, “If this is the best you can offer, I suppose it will have to do.”
Nefret’s room, next to ours, had a green plush sofa and a hand-tinted depiction of Saint Veronica wiping the face of Jesus as he knelt beneath the weight of the cross on the Via Dolorosa. Quite a lot of red paint had been employed.
We left Nefret studying this work of art with pursed lips, and inspected the third room, which contained two beds and very little else.
“The two-er-gentlemen will share?” said the manager, eyeing David askance.
“I booked four rooms,” I said. “We are expecting our son, who will share with Mr. Todros. Are you certain he is not here or that there is no message from him?”
“What name?” Boniface asked nervously.
“Emerson, of course,” said my husband. “Good Gad, Peabody, the fellow appears to be lacking in his wits.” Thrusting his face close to that of the manager, he articulated slowly and loudly, as he might have spoken to a person whose hearing was deficient. “Send. Porters. With luggage. Now.”
“Stop that, Emerson,” I said, tiring of the game. “Mr. Boniface, send our-our attendants here as well, and please look to see whether there are any messages for us. Until our son arrives, these two gentlemen will occupy the third room.”
Boniface fled, mopping his brow, and we all returned to the room assigned to Emerson and me, which was the largest. Emerson’s first act was to remove the painting of the Crucifixion and put it at the back of the wardrobe.
By the time the porters had delivered our bundles and we had unpacked our suitcases, we were all ready for a spot of luncheon. The hotel boasted a dining room, but we were in full agreement with Emerson when he refused to patronize it.
“The food will be the worst of bad British cooking-boiled beef and brown soup-and that pompous ass of a manager probably won’t admit Selim and Daoud. Nor will we be able to get a beer or a glass of wine. Confounded temperance! There must be a decent place to eat in the bazaar.”
The manager’s coattails whisked out of sight as we passed through the lobby. “I can’t understand why we haven’t heard from Ramses,” I said uneasily. “Could a message have been mislaid?”
“The pompous ass swore he hadn’t mislaid any messages,” said Emerson, taking my arm. “I am inclined to believe him.”
So was I. Emerson had reduced Mr. Boniface to such a state, he would have written a note himself if he believed it would satisfy us.
“The boy will turn up,” Emerson went on. “If he doesn’t, we’ll go after him. You know how uncertain the mails are in this part of the world. He may never have received your letters.”
The square was crowded with strollers enjoying the balmy air and the pretty flower gardens. Led by Selim, we headed for the old town where, he assured us, there were several adequate establishments-though not, of course, as good as those in Cairo and Luxor.
“I never knew you were such a snob, Selim,” Nefret said, taking his arm. As the pair strolled on, several passersby stared, frowning, and one female said in a strident American accent, “She’s holding his arm, Hiram, just as if he was a white man.”
I did not hear Hiram’s response. Letting Emerson go on ahead, I had stopped to admire a particularly attractive bed of marigolds when someone jostled me and I felt a hand press against me. Springing instinctively into defensive mode, I spun round and raised my parasol.
“What is it, Peabody?” Emerson asked, hastening to my side.
Gazing about, I was unable to determine which of the other pedestrians had touched me. No one hastened away; no one looked guiltily in my direction. Soldiers wearing Turkish uniforms, sober pilgrims in shades of black and gray, a Greek patriarch, local residents in a variety of headdresses…Surely none of them would have accosted me so rudely or attempted to pick my pocket. My walking costume had several of them, two set into the seams of my skirt and one on either side of my coat. All my valuables were in my handbag; the pockets of my coat contained only a handkerchief and a guidebook.
“I must have been mistaken,” I began. And then my exploratory fingers contradicted the statement. Nothing had been taken from my coat pockets. Something had been added. Quickly I disengaged it from the fold of my handkerchief.