“That might make sense in Vienna, but not in the real world.”
“It makes quite a bit of sense. You say that every time you have tried to push her away she has renewed her pursuit of you. It may be the pushing away that attracts her. If you pursue her, she will see you like every other man and lose interest.”
“Hmmm.”
“Think of it,” Heinrich said, warming to his subject. “Her brother has surrounded her with feckless socialites and blockheaded officers who drag her to an endless succession of dances and dinner parties. It bores her. She hates to be pursued. She sees that as a sign of weakness in a man. She wants a strong man, one with the will to stand alone. If you act like all the others, she’ll soon tire of you.”
“You think so?”
“You’ve tried everything else.”
“I don’t know …”
“Give it a try.”
“Well, if you think it might work …”
Heinrich nodded encouragement.
Augustus thought for a moment, shrugged his shoulders, and got up.
“Well, I suppose it’s worth a shot.”
He returned to the party to find Cordelia watching the doorway through which he had to enter. As soon as he did, her face lit up in a smile.
God save me, he silently moaned.
He sat beside her again and rejoined the conversation. It was so banal that he didn’t have to even concentrate on it. At an opportune moment when the others had broken off to talk with each other, he turned to Cordelia and, summoning his courage, began to speak.
“There is, um, a tea dance at Shepheard’s this Saturday. I was thinking that you might, um, want to attend.”
Cordelia stared at him. Surprise quickly gave way to joy. Augustus’ heart sank.
“Why, I’d be delighted!”
Oh dear.
“Oh, you would?”
“Of course! Fancy having a tea dance so early in the year, but it is Egypt after all. Summer all year round,” she said and laughed.
“Except when it’s hell,” Augustus muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. I, um, Saturday isn’t inconvenient, is it? You don’t have other plans?”
Cordelia beamed a smile at him.
“None at all.”
“Oh. Well, that’s that. Oh! I must go back upstairs. I forgot to close the windows. Baboons, you know.”
He beat a hasty retreat, almost knocking over the tea service as he did so. He practically bounded up the stairs back to Heinrich.
“She said yes! Now look at the trouble you landed me in, you and your accursed Viennese alienist!”
Heinrich laughed so hard he dropped his excavation report. Augustus jabbed a finger at him.
“Wait. You had planned this all along!”
“Reverse psychology, my friend,” the German said between peals of laughter. “It works on men as well as women!”
26
Moustafa arrived at work at the usual hour despite the bullet wound and various bruises. What hurt the most was the nagging lecture Nur had given him.
“Beaten up twice in one week! And for what? Just to please this Englishman?”
“He pays well and allows me access to books.”
“And what good will those books and that pay be for me and the children if you wind up dead one of these days?”
Moustafa had no answer to that. He felt grateful he had not told her about Marcus Simaika’s job offer. Her nagging would have been endless.
That offer still stuck in his mind. As he rode the streetcar to work he held the Copt’s business card in his hand. What would it be like to work for him? A whole new language and era of history to study, a whole new personal library to delve into, plus trips to Sinai and the Western Desert to buy antiquities. Tempting.
Yes, working for Marcus Simaika would be educational, rewarding, and safe.
And dull.
Damn that Englishman! How could he make danger so alluring?
By the time he entered Mr. Wall’s antiquities shop, Marcus Simaika’s card was safely back in his pocket.
He found his boss going through the morning mail.
“No strange notes from French bandits today, sir?” Moustafa asked.
“Unfortunately not. I suppose we’ll have a rest for a time.”
“Not a long time, boss.”
“Are you implying that I lead a life filled with danger and risk?”
“Yes, boss.”
Mr. Wall chuckled and continued to leaf through the mail. He pulled out a letter from the pile.
“Hello, what’s this? It’s addressed to one George Franklin, care of myself. Moustafa, do you know anything about this?”
Moustafa snatched the letter from his boss’s hand.
“It’s for me,” he said. The return address was from Dr. Lansing at the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology. “Yes, it’s for me!”
He tore the envelope open, barely able to contain his excitement, and pulled out the note within.
Dear Mr. Franklin,
We were most happy to receive your paper on the Nubian influence on Egyptian monumental art, which we feel is a groundbreaking study in a sadly underdeveloped field of inquiry. We would very much like to publish it in the Spring 1920 issue. Please contact us at your earliest convenience in order to sort out the details. You mentioned in your cover letter that you are frequently traveling and unable to come to our office. That is quite all right. We will be able to work through all editorial issues via the post.
I did not recognize your name and took the liberty of looking you up in the indices of various journals. It appears this is your first scientific paper. May I congratulate you on such a fine study. You have a most promising career ahead of you.
Kindest regards,
Dr. Jonathan Lansing
Moustafa belted out a laugh that echoed throughout the house.
“What’s so funny?” Mr. Wall asked.
It took Moustafa a couple of minutes to control his mirth long enough to tell him. At first Mr. Wall grew angry at how the journal had treated him, but when Moustafa told him he had submitted the paper again by post, this time under a false name, his boss laughed too.
“The fools!” Mr. Wall said. “Serves them right. But weren’t you afraid they’d notice it was the same paper?”
Moustafa shook his head, holding his sides and he continued to chuckle. “Not at all. You see, as soon as they saw me, they stopped listening to what I said. They couldn’t even remember my name two minutes after I told them.”
“Oh dear. I must admit far too many of my countrymen are pig-headed in this regard. Now do you see why I left Europe behind?”
“Ah, but Mr. Wall, you still have the finest archaeological journals. And now I am going to have a paper in one!”
Mr. Wall extended a hand. “Then congratulations are in order.”
Moustafa shook his hand.
“Thank you, sir. Coming from you that means a lot,” Moustafa said, and meant it.
“So is this George Franklin fellow entirely fictitious?”
“Entirely, Mr. Wall.”
“Where did you get the name from?”
That set off another round of laughter. It took some time before Moustafa could reply.
“American history. The name is a combination of George Washington and Benjamin Franklin, two of the Americans who kicked out the English.”
“Hmm, you haven’t thrown in your lot with the independence crowd, have you? You’re not one of those who will ‘take care of the British’?”
Moustafa paused as he heard the words he had said in anger at the Nilometer repeated back to him. His laughter stopped. His boss was not a normal European. If Moustafa gave him the answer he wanted to hear, if he said he still supported the British, Mr. Wall would not believe him. But how would he react if he said yes?
And was “yes” even the correct answer?
He remembered the British soldiers firing into the crowd of protestors. H
e remembered all the insults, great and small, that had been hurled in his direction ever since he had left his village. But he also remembered those Egyptians who had sold out their own country for a bit of money, and all those Egyptians and Soudanese who didn’t care about their past, who could never understand why he was fascinated by the deeds of their ancestors. He thought of the Suez Canal and the trams and all the other things the Europeans had built, and he thought of the ignorance and backwardness of the villages.
But most of all, he thought of the people themselves, both European and African, and how only those people who had a nation to call their own held their head high. Even people from small, unimportant countries like Belgium or Greece held their heads high, while those from places far bigger such as the Soudan always ended up as servants no matter what their station.
At last he answered his boss’s question. Moustafa knew it was not what Mr. Wall wanted to hear, but it was the only answer he could give.
“We are not ready, but soon we will be, and when that day comes, British rule must end.”
“And the British?”
Moustafa paused. “Most will have to go. People like him,” Moustafa waved the letter, “will have no place in the nation of Egypt.”
“I see,” his boss said. His tone sounded guarded.
“Some British can stay,” Moustafa added quickly, “as well as other foreigners. Those who respect our ways and obey the new laws.”
“Well, I suppose a few of us get to stay then. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to be surrounded by English people the rest of my life.”
Moustafa smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Wall. I am sure that in our new nation there will be murders to be solved. You will have a place here.”
27
Faisal stood outside the little lean-to of reed mats, listening to the happy conversation within. Mina’s father had gone twice to the doctor and was already well enough that he could help out half a day at the ful stand. Mina, who was allowed to talk to him again now that Abbas Eldessouky was breaking rocks in a prison mine in the Western Desert, said that his injury was only something called a pinched nerve and that it was a simple thing for a European doctor to fix. The whole family was amazed that the Englishman had heard of their plight and had come to save them. Faisal didn’t tell them how that had happened.
While Faisal was happy for Mina, he felt a bit sad for himself. He hadn’t been able to get enough honest money for the spell against the Englishman’s marriage, and he figured by this time it was too late. The Englishman had saved that Englishwoman and her brother, so there was no way their families wouldn’t join now.
So he’d be out on the street soon. The disaster hadn’t happened yet, but it was only a matter of time. His heart felt heavy to see that cozy little lean-to and to hear the happy family within. At least he had some money to keep hunger away for a week or so. After that it would be back to his old life.
Faisal accepted his fate. He had been silly to think his life would be any different. At least Mina would be all right.
In his hands was a little paper bird on a string. He had found it at a toy stall in one of the bazaars and bought it with some of his honest money. It had a brown body and black beak just like a real bird, and wings that opened up like a pair of those fans the European ladies used. The wings weren’t like a real bird’s, more like one of those birds in the stories with all sorts of colors on them. It looked amazing with the wings opened up.
He tiptoed up to the flap that passed for a door in Mina’s home and hung the paper bird from the top so she’d see it when she came out in the morning. When he came for a breakfast of ful tomorrow he wouldn’t say a word.
Faisal went to the end of the Ibn al-Nafis Street and lingered there, spying on the Englishman’s house. He had been watching the house for the past few days and hadn’t seen any carts coming to bring his wife’s dowry with her, or any musicians playing, or chefs bearing trays of food for the feast. In fact, he saw no sign of a wedding at all.
What was going on? Maybe in England the husband went and lived in the wife’s home. Europeans did everything the wrong way, so even such a ridiculous thing could be possible.
After a time, he saw the small door set into the main front portal open. The Englishman stepped out, alone. After locking the door behind him, he set off as if for his usual evening stroll, swinging his cane in time with his stride. Faisal grinned as he remembered the surprise on everyone’s face when he had turned that cane into a sword to fight a bunch of bullies in this neighborhood.
Faisal looked around, worried. Was the Englishman going to meet his bride? If so, why wasn’t he carrying any gifts or bringing his friends and family with him? There weren’t even any musicians. Faisal tagged along behind him for a time. After following him for a few blocks, he became more and more convinced that he wasn’t going to meet anyone after all. He really did look like he was going for his usual evening stroll.
He couldn’t take this suspense anymore. Picking up his pace, he caught up with the Englishman.
“Hello,” he said.
“Oh, hello Faisal.” The Englishman didn’t slow down. That was his way of saying that he didn’t want any company.
“Where are you going?” Faisal asked.
“Nowhere interesting.”
“Are you meeting anyone?”
“No one I want to meet.”
“Are you meeting with that woman?”
“What woman?”
“The …,” Faisal summoned his courage. He had to know. “The Englishwoman you’re going to marry.”
The Englishman stopped. “What on Earth are you talking about?”
Faisal looked everywhere except at the Englishman. “Um …”
“You mean Cordelia? You thought I was going to marry her?”
“Well, you took her into your house.”
The Englishman’s laughter rang out across the street. Faisal felt a bit annoyed. He didn’t like being laughed at.
He forgot to be annoyed when the Englishman said, “Of course I’m not going to marry her! I have no intention of getting married.”
Faisal resisted the urge to jump up and down and cheer. His mind raced. How could this have happened? He hadn’t cast a spell on their marriage, only Mina’s.
Then understanding dawned. Because he had stopped Mina’s marriage himself by getting that pot-bellied bandit arrested and Mina’s father a doctor, the spell had nothing to take effect on and bounced over to work on the Englishman. Khadija umm Mohammed’s magic worked every time!
“Good Lord, Faisal, whatever gave you such a peculiar idea?” the Englishman asked.
“Oh, um, street gossip.”
“I can’t imagine what else people on my street must be saying about me. Ignore it all; it’s all wrong.”
“So you’re not friends with the police commandant?”
“Can’t stand the man.”
“And you’re not moving back to England?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“And that woman isn’t going to move into your house?”
“Over my dead body.”
“Don’t say that! It will give the jinn ideas.”
“Back to the jinn again. I suppose I’ll never win that battle. I did want to thank you for saving Cordelia from the baboons. I would have been in some very hot water if the police commandant’s sister got killed on my watch.”
Faisal puffed his chest out. “Chief Mohammed protects the innocent and defeats the guilty.”
“Indeed. You were a very brave boy to face those baboons. I think you deserve some additional reward.”
Faisal perked up. This sounded good.
“Maybe we should ask Tariq ibn Nagy for more information about the Apaches,” Faisal suggested. The storyteller usually changed his show every two weeks, and it was getting to be about that time. Maybe the new show would be more useful to the Englishman. Even if it wasn’t, it would be sure great to see it.
To his disappointm
ent, the Englishman said, “I don’t think so.”
“But everyone goes to Tariq ibn Nagy. He’s the best!”
“Amusing in his own way, I’m sure. But in England the boys all go to the cinematograph,” the Englishman said.
“The what?” Faisal wondered if the Englishman had forgotten how to speak Arabic. That happened sometimes when he saw things that weren’t there.
“Moving pictures. Do you know what they are?”
“Of course! The Europeans go to them.”
“Yes, but do you know what they are?”
“Pictures. That move.” Faisal looked up at him. “Is that right?”
“As far as it goes, yes.”
“But that’s silly, why would they move the pictures? Then you can’t see them right!” Europeans really were strange people.
“No, it’s the images that move.”
Faisal stared at the Englishman, waiting for him to make sense.
“They take a series of photographs of someone moving, and run them in front of a light really quickly and project them on a wall, and it looks like the person in the picture is moving.”
Faisal continued to wait. Usually if you gave him time, the Englishman eventually made sense.
“Here.” The Englishman stepped beneath a streetlight and took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. He drew a little man standing on the bottom of the first page. Then he turned the page and drew another little man, this time with his foot a bit forward like he was taking a step. He turned the page and drew another little man with his foot a little further forward. The Englishman continued to draw little men for several pages.
“It’s not moving,” Faisal said.
“Wait until I’m done.”
Faisal felt relieved. The Englishman still understood Arabic. That meant he wasn’t gripped by madness at the moment.
After another minute he turned back to the first page and held it in front of Faisal.
“Watch.”
Faisal gasped as the Englishman flipped through the pages and the little man looked like he was walking across the bottom of the notebook.
“Now remember, Faisal, this isn’t magic—”
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 25