It took some little time to unload our “traps,” as Emerson called them, and get them from the station to the riverbank and onto the boats which would take us across. I managed to arrange matters so that Sennia was in one boat, with Basima and Gargery in close attendance – it required at least two people to hang on to her and keep her from falling overboard – and Emerson and I in another. On this occasion I wanted to be alone with my dear husband.
“Ah,” I exclaimed. “How good it is to be back in Luxor.”
“You always say that,” Emerson grunted.
“I always feel it. And so do you, Emerson. Breathe in the clear clean air,” I urged. “Observe the play of sunlight on the rippling water. Enjoy once again the vista before us – the ramparts of the Theban mountains enclosing the sepulchres of the long-dead monarchs of -”
“I suggest you write a travel book, Peabody, and get it out of your system.” But his arm went round my waist and his broad breast expanded as he drew a long satisfied breath.
After all, there is no place like Thebes. I did not say this, since it would only have provoked another rude comment from Emerson, but I knew he shared my sentiments. The modern city of Luxor is on the east bank, together with the magnificent temples of Karnak and Luxor. On the west bank is the enormous city of the dead – the sepulchres of the long-dead monarchs of imperial Egypt (as I had been about to say when Emerson interrupted me), their funerary temples, and the tombs of nobles and commoners, in a setting unparalleled for its austere beauty. The stretch of land bordering the river, fertilized by the annual inundation and watered by irrigation, was green with growing crops. Beyond it lay the desert, extending to the foot of the Libyan mountains – a high, barren plateau cut by innumerable canyons or wadis. For many years we had lived and worked in western Thebes, and the house we had built was waiting for us. I moved closer to Emerson and his arm tightened around me. He was looking straight ahead, his clean-cut features softened by a smile, his black hair wildly windblown.
“Where is your hat, Emerson?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” said Emerson.
He never does know. By the time I had located it and persuaded him to put it on, we were landing.
Fatima had not received our telegram. Not that it mattered; she had been eagerly awaiting us for days, and the house was in its usual impeccable order. I must say that our relations with Fatima and the other members of Abdullah’s family who worked for us was somewhat unusual; they were friends as well as servants, and that latter word carried no loss of dignity or implication of inferiority. Indeed, I believe Fatima thought of us as sadly lacking in common sense and of herself as in charge of the entire lot of us.
My first act, after we had exchanged affectionate greetings with Fatima, was to inspect our new quarters. The previous winter a remarkable archaeological discovery had necessitated our spending some months in Luxor. Our old house was then occupied by Yusuf, the head of the Luxor branch of Abdullah’s family, but he had amiably agreed to move himself and his wives and children to an abode in Gurneh village. It had not taken me long to realize that the house was no longer commodious enough for all of us to live in comfort and amity. I had therefore ordered several subsidiary structures to be added. In spite of Emerson’s indifference and total lack of cooperation, I had seen the work well under way before our departure, but I had been obliged to leave the final details to Fatima and Selim.
I invited Fatima to accompany me on my tour of inspection. Selim, who had been awaiting us, came along, not because he wanted to, but because I insisted. Like his father, he was never quite sure how I would respond to his efforts along domestic lines. Abdullah had been inclined to wax sarcastic about what he considered my unreasonable demands for cleanliness. “The men are sweeping the desert, Sitt,” he had once remarked. “How far from the house must they go?”
Dear Abdullah. I missed him still. At least he had tried, which was more than Emerson ever did.
In fact, I found very little to disapprove, and Selim’s wary expression turned to a smile as I piled compliment upon compliment. The new wing, which I intended for Sennia and her entourage – Basima, Gargery, and the cat – had a number of rooms surrounding a small courtyard, with a shaded arcade along one side and a charming little fountain in the center. The new furniture I had ordered had been delivered, and while we were there, one of the maids hurried in with an armful of linens and began to make up the beds.
“Excellent,” I exclaimed. “All it needs is – er – um – well, nothing really, except for some plants in the courtyard.”
“We thought we should leave that to you, Sitt,” said Selim.
“Yes, quite. I enjoy my gardening.”
I meant to make a few other changes as well, but they could wait.
The others were still in the sitting room, with several other members of the family who had turned up, including Kadija, Daoud’s wife, all talking at once and doing absolutely nothing useful. I made a few pointed remarks about unpacking, to which no one listened, dismissed Selim, and asked Nefret to join me and Fatima for the rest of the tour.
She had seen only the unfinished shell of the second house, which was situated a few hundred yards away. The intervening space would be filled in with flowering plants, shrubs, and trees as soon as I could supervise their planting and cultivation. Just now it was desert-bare, but the structure itself looked very nice, I thought, its mud-brick walls plastered in a pretty shade of pale ocher. My orders had been carried out; the interior was as modern and comfortable as anyone could wish, including an elegant bath chamber and a small courtyard, enclosed for privacy. As we went from room to room I found myself chattering away with scarcely a pause for breath, pointing out the amenities and explaining at unnecessary length that any desired alterations could be accomplished quickly and easily. Nefret listened in silence, nodding from time to time, her face unsmiling. Finally she said quietly, “It’s all right, Mother,” and I got hold (figuratively speaking) of my wagging tongue.
“Dear me,” I said somewhat sheepishly. “I sound like a tradesperson hoping to sell a house. I beg your pardon, my dear.”
“Don’t apologize. You mean this for us, don’t you – for Ramses and me. You didn’t tell me last year that was what you intended.”
“My intentions are not relevant, Nefret. It is entirely up to you. If you prefer to stay on the dahabeeyah, as you used to do, that is perfectly all right. But I thought… It is some distance from our house, you see, and once I have the plantings in place they will provide additional privacy, and we would not dream, any of us, of intruding without an invitation, and -”
“Can you imagine Father waiting for an invitation?” Nefret inquired seriously. “Or Sennia?”
“I will make certain they do,” I said.
“It is a beautiful house. But a trifle large for two people, perhaps?”
“D’you really think so? In my opinion -”
“Oh, Mother!” Laughter transformed her face, from shining blue eyes to curving lips. She put her arm round me, and Fatima, who had listened anxiously to the exchange, broke into a broad smile. Nefret gave her a hug too.
“It is a beautiful house,” she repeated. “Thank you – both of you – for working so hard to make it perfect.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
The appearance of Sethos at the Cairo railroad station had worried Ramses more than he admitted. He would have been the first to agree that his feelings for his uncle were ambivalent. You couldn’t help admiring the man’s courage and cleverness; you couldn’t help resenting the fact that he was always one or two steps ahead of you. Affection – yes, there was that, on both sides, he thought – a belated understanding of the tragedies that had turned Sethos to a life of crime, appreciation of the risks he had taken for them and for the country that had denied him his birthright… Ramses felt certain he was still taking those risks. Had he turned up to greet them because he was about to embark on another job, one from which he might not return? It was a far-fetched notion, perhaps, but Ramses had once been a player in “the Great Game,” and he was only too familiar with that fatalistic state of mind.