What she said in reply to Mr. Wall’s question nearly made Moustafa fall off his camel.
“Oh, I’m sad to say he’s not here.”
“No?” Mr. Wall asked.
“No. Mr. Montjoy is, as Rupert Brooke wrote, ‘in a corner of some foreign field that is forever England.’”
Mr. Wall bowed his head. “I am terribly sorry to hear that, madam.”
Moustafa couldn’t contain his curiosity. “So who did you come with?”
“I came by myself.”
“Yourself!”
“Yes, from Cyrenaica.”
“Cyrenaica!” Mr. Wall exclaimed. “That’s Senussi territory.”
“Oh, that tribe has been fully pacified thanks to you chaps,” the woman said with a casual air.
“But … but,” Moustafa sputtered. “To go through their territory alone, unchaperoned! You could have been—”
“Stuffed with dates and nearly drowned in tea? Oh yes, the hospitality of the Senussi rivals that of the Arabian Bedouin and the merchants of Timbuctoo. And what might your name be?” she asked, turning to Farouk.
Farouk barely managed a reply, which was better than his men, who were struck dumb. Moustafa had to introduce them.
“And I’m Faisal,” the boy piped up. He had reappeared, as always. “Do all Englishmen speak Arabic funny?”
Mrs. Montjoy chuckled. “I learned my Arabic in Tripoli. From Sir Augustus’s speech, it sounds like he learned his Arabic in Morocco.”
“Almost correct,” Mr. Wall said. He kicking his camel to such speed that Mrs. Montjoy had trouble keeping up with her donkey. “While convalescing in hospital in France I struck up a friendship with a patient from a Moroccan regiment. He taught me Arabic and I taught him English. It was a way to while away the hours. And months. I’ve never actually been to Morocco. I say, is this Biwati place nearby?”
“We’re almost there,” Mrs. Montjoy said, her eyes softening. “I’ll take you to my lodgings. I have some tincture that will help your pains.”
“Yes, um, thank you. I lost my medical bag in a sandstorm, you see.”
“And then he got possessed by djinn,” Faisal put in. “But I cured him with a charm.”
Moustafa resisted the urge to slap him. The brat would only ask why he got hit and Moustafa wasn’t prepared to answer that question.
Mrs. Montjoy smiled at him. “That was very thoughtful of you, Faisal. He’s very lucky to have you here to take care of him.”
Faisal grinned. “He’s going to take me to the moving pictures when we get back!”
“Oh, won’t that be fun?”
As they descended the slope, Faisal chattering about their journey and Mr. Wall trying to hurry them on, Moustafa watched this woman’s every move. What was her game? Was she some sort of spy? If so, who had sent her, and why had they chosen a spy who stood out so? Surely she must be the talk of the oasis!
They reached the edge of the cultivation, the moist air heavy with the fragrances of life filling their lungs, and Moustafa discovered that she was indeed well known. The farmers tilling their fields waved to her, then stared with frank curiosity at the caravan. Mohammed al-Biwati knew everyone as well. His name showed he had been born here, and he greeted everyone by name and answered all their questions about the Englishman in the strange mask.
We left Cairo with our mission a secret, Moustafa thought with despair, and now the entire oasis will know of us by sundown.
They passed through a small, shady village of low mud brick houses, the caravan picking up an escort of little children who waved and called out to them. Women in red and black dresses decorated with glittering coins sewn into the fabric watched them from doorways, their ankles encircled in heavy silver anklets, shy smiles half hidden behind large nose rings of gold.
“Those are funny,” Faisal commented. “How do they eat with those on?”
“I’m not sure,” Moustafa admitted.
“And when do we eat?” Faisal asked.
“Quiet, I’m thinking.”
Thinking about what we’re getting ourselves into here. You’re no help, and at the moment, all Mr. Wall can think about is getting some of that so-called medication.
They passed through the village and went another half mile before coming to a peaceful glade in the middle of a large stretch of date palms. The area had a small channel of water running through it and plenty of grazing for the camels.
“This is one of the campsites the caravans use,” Farouk said.
“I have the house just beyond that row of trees,” Mrs. Montjoy told him. “Why don’t you and your men pitch camp and I’ll take Sir Augustus and his friends to my place.”
Farouk looked scandalized. Mrs. Montjoy seemed not to notice, or cared not to notice, and gestured for them to follow. It was all Mr. Wall could do not to whip his camel into a gallop. Sweat poured down his face now, and his body shook so much Moustafa felt sure he would have a heart attack.
They passed through the palm trees and came to a small mud brick house undistinguishable from those of the village except for the windows being open and fitted with fine lace curtains. Several potted flowers stood in a row along the front wall.
“A touch of home always lifts the spirit,” Mrs. Montjoy said.
Mr. Wall vaulted from his saddle and stood fidgeting as the others dismounted.
“So what brings you to the Western Desert?” Moustafa couldn’t help but ask.
“A whim,” she replied cheerily. “I have always been interested in travel, and after my children had grown and Mr. Montjoy was laid to rest, I saw nothing to stop me. I started with a tour through Lapland in the Swedish and Norwegian Arctic, before visiting Iceland and Greenland. Then warmer climes took my fancy. Knowing Italian, I decided the best place to start was Tripoli. I must confess the colonial authorities there were not happy to see me, but I managed. And now I’m here. I’m collecting notes for a book I intend to publish once I return home.”
“And when will that be?” Moustafa was amazed that her male relatives would allow such a thing. He didn’t think even European men could be that permissive.
Mrs. Montjoy laughed. “Whenever I’m done traveling!”
Before Moustafa could sputter a response, she hurried to the door, where Mr. Wall was already standing, and opened it.
“Stay here with the mounts,” Moustafa told Faisal. The less time the child spent around this fallen woman the better. He was corrupt enough.
They entered the house. Mrs. Montjoy had done what she could to transform an oasis home into something a little more European. Besides the lace curtains, the crude wooden table had been covered with a tablecloth, a few prints hung on the walls, and another table was covered with a typewriter and piles of maps and papers.
She turned to Mr. Wall.
“I take it that an opiate would be the most effective cure for your pains?”
Mr. Wall nodded eagerly.
She opened a case sitting against one wall to reveal a large variety of phials and bottles. She pulled out one along with a dropper.
“Only two drops if you want to get some work done this evening,” she said, handing it to him. “You can take the bottle. I have a spare. Rest in the bed you’ll find through that door.”
With shaking hands, Mr. Wall opened the bottle, dipped the dropper in it, and leaned his head back.
He let first one, then two drops fall on his tongue.
Mr. Wall paused for a moment, shaking like a leaf, and then with a visible force of will squeezed the remaining liquid back into the bottle and stoppered it. With a shudder he passed through the doorway and closed the door behind him.
Moustafa squared his shoulders and faced the woman.
“You should not have given that to him,” he whispered.
Mrs. Montjoy looked at him with an amused smile.
“Wouldn’t the time for objections have been before he took the medicine?”
Moustafa glanced at the closed door.
“He is my employer. It puts me in a difficult position.”
“He was in pain. I merely alleviated that pain.”
“Don’t you realize that vile medicine has its hooks in him? You are like a wine seller giving a bottle to a drunk!”
Mrs. Montjoy inclined her head. “My brother was in the war. He came back without so much as a scratch, at least on the outside. But if he doesn’t get a drop of opium at night he wakes up shrieking in terror. I suspect your employer does the same thing, and for far more reason. Which is the worse fate, that or nightly oblivion?”
Before Moustafa could reply, their conversation was interrupted by the sound he least suspected to hear in this remote place—the engine of a motorcar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Faisal couldn’t believe it. A motorcar—here?
The sound drew closer, and suddenly the motorcar burst through the greenery. It was a beat up, dusty machine, but drove very fast. It was missing a lot of the metal parts and Faisal could see the engine, which was usually hidden beneath metal plates. He also saw that instead of one tire on each corner it had two, stuck one behind the other. A thin English soldier with a deep tan and a blonde moustache sat at the wheel, an Egyptian boy of about fifteen in the seat beside him.
The car screeched to a stop in the front of the house, the camels bellowing in fear. Faisal had tethered them well, though, and they didn’t stampede.
The soldier got out.
“Well, hello young man,” the soldier said in Arabic. “I don’t think I’ve met you before. You don’t look to be of Bedouin stock. How did you get here?”
Faisal blinked. Was this oasis filled with Englishmen who spoke Arabic?
Not being able to find any words, he gestured to the camels.
“Right,” the soldier said. “How silly of me. You came with that caravan, of course.”
Moustafa and the beardless Englishman emerged from the house.
“Hello Jocelyn. Another newcomer, I see,” the soldier strode over to Moustafa. “Captain Claud Williams, Number Five Light Car Patrol. The unholy terror in the Model T is Ahmed Fakhry.”
“I am Moustafa Ghani El Souwaim. We have just arrived. My employer, Sir Augustus Wall, has a package for you from Orhan Bey of Cairo. He is most anxious to meet you but he is presently … indisposed with a slight illness from the journey. He will be with us in a couple of hours.”
“Orhan sent me a package? What a fine chap!” Captain Williams pointed to a mountain of black rock that towered over the side of the valley. “My lookout point is up there. I saw you come in and figured you’d head for this spot. It’s popular with caravans. You’re quite late in the season, though.”
Faisal could tell the soldier was curious, but Moustafa didn’t tell him why they were here.
“We can talk about that after my employer is feeling better,” Moustafa said.
“Would you like some tea, Claud?” the beardless Englishman named Jocelyn asked.
“Would love some, thank you. Ahmed, check the motorcar and then do what you like for a while.”
This was said to the boy who had come with him.
Ahmed hopped out of the motorcar and began inspecting the tires. The boy was much taller than Faisal and was beginning to get the broad shoulders and harder features of a man, although it didn’t look like he had to shave yet. He wore a green djellaba that was newer and nicer than Faisal’s, as well as a pair of good sandals. Faisal went over to him as the adults went inside.
“I’m Faisal. Do you know about motorcars?”
Ahmed grinned. “I sure do. Claud is teaching me everything. First I have to check the tires to make sure the pressure is good, then I have to check that the radiator isn’t leaking and check the oil level as well. We filled up with petrol before we left so I know that’s all right.”
Faisal had no idea what he was saying, but it sure did sound like Ahmed knew what he was talking about. He watched as the older boy fiddled around with the engine.
“So you work for that Englishman?”
“He’s from New Zealand.”
“Is that next to England?”
“No, it’s next to Australia.”
“Oh, right,” Faisal said, trying to sound like he knew all about it. “I work for an Englishman too. He’s in the house resting.”
“What’s he doing here? Is he an Egyptologist?”
“A what?”
“One of those people who digs up ancient things.”
“Yes, that’s what he is. I guess. He doesn’t dig things up much. Mostly he just buys and sells old things. Does that make him a … whatever you said?”
Ahmed cocked his head. “You don’t seem to know much about him.”
“He’s a bit strange.”
Ahmed laughed. “They all are! Hey, have you been to the hot spring yet?”
“The what?” Faisal was beginning to feel like a fool in front of Ahmed. He didn’t like that, because if older boys thought you were a fool they beat you up and took your food.
“It’s a place where hot water comes out of the earth and makes a big pool. The oasis has plenty of them. Some are cold too. The one here is just right. That’s why the caravans like to stop here. I always take a dip if I’m near one. Come on, let’s get cleaned up. You’re filthy from the desert.”
Faisal looked at himself. He didn’t look any dirtier than usual.
Ahmed grabbed a piece of soap from a bag in the motorcar and motioned for him to follow.
They passed through a grove of date palms and to an open stretch of cultivated fields. A low farmhouse of mud brick stood not far off. Ahmed led him to a hole in the ground about the size of a doorway. The earth sloped down into the darkness.
Faisal paused. “We’re going to bathe in here?”
“No, this isn’t the hot spring. I just wanted to show this to you because we don’t have them along the Nile. Come on.”
Ahmed went down the slope. Faisal trailed along behind. The slope continued down about twenty feet before leveling out. The light grew dim and Faisal stopped, suddenly afraid.
He stood at the entrance to a tunnel running beneath the field. Every hundred feet or so a small opening in the roof allow light in. The tunnel was about as big as a normal hallway, hewn out of the stone. The floor was hidden under flowing water. Ahmed stood a little ahead of him, water up to his knees.
“What is this place?” Faisal asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
“It’s an aqueduct. There are dozens of them all through the oasis. Some run for miles. The men of the oasis keep them clear of sand and pull water out of them for their fields. There’s plenty of water here in the oasis, but it’s all underground and they have to channel it everywhere and then pump it out. There are ancient ones too that have filled up with sand. Claud and I explored one once. We couldn’t get far.”
“We saw a lake when we were coming in. Why don’t they just dig irrigation canals from the lake like the fellahin do with the Nile?”
“The lake is salt water. This is fresh water.”
“Can we go now?” He didn’t like this dark, hidden place with the black water that could have anything swimming beneath the surface.
Ahmed gave him a knowing grin. “Scared of the dark?”
“No. I just … want to take a bath. I’m dirty from the desert, like you said.”
“All right,” Ahmed said with a chuckle.
Ahmed led him out of the tunnel and back into the sunlight. They entered another grove of date palms and came to a little glade where the ground sloped down to a small pond. To one side a spring bubbled out of the earth, feeding it. The water ran out the other end and was channeled into the farmland through a network of irrigation canals so narrow that the boys could easily step across them.
Faisal dipped his fingers into the pool.
“It’s warm!”
“I told you. Many of them are.”
“What kind of magic is this?”
“It’s not magic. Claud expl
ained it to me. He says the water comes from deep in the earth, where it’s hot. The water in the aqueduct I showed you is cool. It comes from another source. Water comes up all over this oasis. That’s because it’s in a deep valley and closer to the water underneath the ground. Come on, let’s get in.”
Faisal looked around to see if they were alone.
“Don’t worry,” Ahmed said. “The women never come here. There’s one of these pools about half an hour’s walk away they use.”
“They bathe in public?” Faisal asked, shocked. Back in Cairo, not even little girls did that.
“No, silly, they use it for washing. It’s the hottest one, too hot to get in. You’d end up looking like a grilled chicken. Come on, let’s get in. We can wash our clothes too.”
They pulled off their djellabas.
“Wow, you’re really skinny,” Ahmed said. “I can count all your ribs. You should get your Englishman to feed you more.”
“I’m not skinny. You should have seen me before I met him.”
They waded in until Faisal was up to his waist and then he eased himself into the water. It felt great!
“Just like a hammam,” Ahmed said, ducking his head in the water and then spitting out a long stream.
“I don’t go to the hammams.”
“Why not?”
“They cost money.”
“Doesn’t your Englishman pay you?”
“Sure, but I spend it on food.”
Faisal went under the water and held his breath for a minute, enjoying the warmth all around him. If hammams felt this good, maybe he should save his money and go sometimes. When he came up for air he saw Ahmed swiping the surface of the pool, forcing a bunch of dirt floating on the surface into the drainage channel.
“Here, take this soap,” Ahmed said. “You brought half the desert with you.”
As Faisal soaped down, he asked, “So how did you end up working for that soldier?”
“I’m from the Fayoum. He was stationed there. I made money shining boots at the army camp and learned some English. Claud was impressed and hired me as his personal servant. Then he got transferred here and I came. I’m the youngest of four brothers, so there was nothing for me on the farm.”
The Case of the Golden Greeks Page 15