“Emilie, ah mon chere,” she said. “I am Madam Babbette Boissiere, but you shall call me Madam Bibi.” “It is now 10:45 AM and your first French lesson will begin at 11:30 AM so that we can lunch at the last sitting at 2:15 PM like civilized persons.” With that Madam Bibi left the state room. “Civilized persons,” thought Emily. She had never eaten lunch that late in her life and she did not appreciate Madam Bibi’s suggestion that she and her mother and father were uncivilized.
Nevertheless, at 11:30 Am sharp Madam Bibi arrived at the state room and took Emily to another room for her lessons. “This is the card room,” Madam Bibi explained, “but it is not used before the afternoon so it will be our classroom.” Emily has never studied a foreign language before and had not the faintest idea how the studies would be done. She soon learned. like English there were verbs and nouns and all of the other words that modified them but there was much more which Madam Bibi taught with the most engaging manner. She would always place her French in some context of Emily’s life or what she approved of for Emily’s life.
After lunch, there was a short nap followed by lessons so that they would also eat dinner at 10:00 PM “like civilized persons”. Even Professor Witherspoon accepted the Madam’s dictates. As he told Emily aside, “you know the French are famous for their cooking.”
Not only was lunch and dinner eaten quite late, but Madam Bibi had strict ideas of what “civilized persons” ate. Much of it Emily loved, but when she discovered that she was eating the brains or the pancreas or even the intestines of an animal, she lost her appetite and asked to be excused one evening.
“Ah, Professor,” said Madam Bibi, “you Americans have such limited minds, such peasant tastes, such lack of adventure in food.” “I suppose you could call us “meat and potatoes,” he answered, “and please call me Ernest.” “Ah, we shall change that, mon chere Ernest,” she replied. “There is a dance this evening. Would you care to escort me?” she went on.
Professor Witherspoon was flabbergasted. Such brazen behavior to almost force him into dancing. Outrageous. He looked at Bibi, who gave him her best fluttering eyelashes, and said, “I would be delighted.”
Having gone to bed without supper, Emily found herself very hungry. She peered out of her state room just as a porter was passing. “May I do something for you, miss?” he asked. Emily explained how she had not dined and was hungry. “We can fix that,” he answered. “Put on your shoes and follow me.” They went past the dining room into a large ballroom with chandeliers lit with hundreds of lights, chairs in plush red fabrics, tables filled with candles and glasses of wine. Couples were dressed in black tie and evening gowns, either talking at the tables or dancing.
The porter put Emily at a small table in a corner where she could see but not be seen too well. In a few minutes he returned with a plate full of smoked salmon, cheeses, cold cuts, small pickles, butter, bread and a glass of milk. “Bon Appetite,” he announced and left. While Emily ate, she suddenly spied Madam Bibi and the professor dancing. He seemed quite awkward, often tripping over Madam Bibi’s elegant tiny slippers. She heard the Madam say, “Oh you naughty boy!” when the professor tripped. “How could she address him as if he were a child,” Emily thought.
By the time Emily finished her meal she was so tired it took all her effort to find her state room and drop into her bed, fully clothed.
But she awoke with a start the next morning as the ships bells and horns blew. Already dressed she stepped out into the corridor to find both Madam Bibi and the professor dressed and carrying large orange vests with them. “Ah, mon chere,” said Madam Bibi, “you are a clever girl to dress so quickly for the fire drill. Put this on and follow us onto the deck.” An officer of the ship, with his uniform showing two stripes around his cuffs, explained what to do if the ship should catch fire. They would be put in the life boats that were secured on the sides of the deck.
After the drill, all three went to eat breakfast. “A barbaric rite, Ernest,” said Madam Bibi. “I shall have a croissant and coffee in my room, if you will please excuse me,” she added as she marched out of the dining room. The professor seemed more amused than surprised and winked at Emily. Emily drank her orange juice and looked forward to her bacon and eggs.
The lessons went well. French was fun. But even more fun was the strange way Madam Bibi spoke English. “Professor Witherspoon is more than meets the eyes, yes?” she noted. “How can somebody be more than meets the eyes?” Emily wondered.
Emily’s French had advanced much faster than Bibi had imagined. So much so that before an afternoon lesson when Emily asked about Bibi’s life, she decided to tell Emily about life in France.
“My father was an army officer. He was a second son and in Europe the second son does not inherit as does the first, so he often joins the army.
“Inherit?” asked Emily.
“The family estate, in our family it would be my father’s vineyard in Bordeaux. So my father went to Saint Cyr, the great military academy, like your West Point. It was difficult for him because his family were Huguenots.”
“Huguenots?” Emily asked again.
“Protestants. You know France is a Catholic country, and my mother came from a very strict Catholic family. So there was quite a fuss about the marriage of their daughter brought up in schools run by Nuns marrying not just a religious non-believer but a Protestant as well. But my grandfather was really a non-believer and he adored my father.
I was told he said to my grandmother, “which do you prefer, a boring, unimaginative son-in-law who attends matins every afternoon or a well educated, amusing, alert, questioning young man who adores our daughter and is quite willing to be instructed by Priests even though you know he has no real interest in any religion.” I think my father had already won over my grandmother, so they were married.”
“As you know, the Great War came when I was thirty-six. An old maid, as you would say.
“You could never have been an old Maid,” exclaimed Emily.
“Well, it is an old and sad story. I was once in love, when I was eighteen. He was an officer in my father’s company. Not really a soldier, he was a physician. Tall, angly, shy, not unlike the professor, with dark hair and eyes that sparkled. We were in love, but when he proposed to marry me, everything fell apart. Phillipe was Jewish and his parents were absolute that he marry within his religion. Mine were so very different. I don’t think they cared much about religion. If you love him and he loves you and he is a good man was all they wished. But to be fair to Phillipe’s parents, there was very little intercourse between these religions. How shall I explain it. Christians and Jews lived separately and if not spoken aloud there was a distinct aloofness, a looking down on Jewish people. I am sure they wished to protect him from moving too tightly into such an un-Christain, Christian society. Ah my cher, you look so sad.”
“But it is so unfair,” said Emily.
“Well, life must go on and I held on to Phillipe for much too long. I did many things but my favorite was studying ballet. I was just a fair student and the men loved me. I was so small and light, they could pick me up and carry me with such little effort.
Now here I was in 1914, when the Great War began. We thought it would be over quickly. Why? I do not know. For me it was. Too soon after that, my father was killed in battle. They were so close, my mother never got over his death and she died less than a year later. My Uncle became my new father and he was, what can I say, the most generous and kindliest stepfather a girl might dream of. With the War raging and, fearing for all of our lives, he pleaded with me to go to America to escape the carnage.
I landed in Ellis Island, where the importer of my uncle’s wines, a portly and very attentive man, met me and took me to his home in New York City, a large apartment near Central Park. What should I do? I thought of so many things but then made a decision. I became a French teacher at a private girl�
�s school, Rosemary Hall, in Greenwich, Connecticut. Con-nec-ti-cut That is a word I still cannot pronounce correctly. What a change for me from remembering my Nuns in their black habits, to joining women teachers in everyday dresses. So, Cher Emily, when I speak correct English, you can thank those ladies, and when I do not, you can blame me, also spending too many weekends in New York City.”
“So you became a teacher?”
“Oh no, Cherie, nothing is ever as simple as that. My uncle has made me quite self-sufficient. Enough income to do pretty well what I pleased. It took some time to discover how much I loved teaching. I loved the spirit I found in the young girls. And when this Summer job, as you might call it, teaching you French along with other subjects, came along, I took it as a lark, just for a change. And it is pleasing me more than you shall ever know.”
That night Emily lay in bed with tears in her eyes. She could not sleep. What a sad story of Bibi's life. Emily knew that war was terrible. Her father never mentioned it and when she had asked him about it her mother told her never to do that. But what about religion? Was it not about God is love. Why would it separate people's love of each other? And how could Bibi be so full of the love of life now after all it had done to her?
Tomorrow they would land and Emily finally willed herself to sleep.
When they disembarked at Le Havre, the Professor dropped his briefcase. “Oh you naughty boy,” said Madam Bibi. And the professor laughed.
The smaller boat to Beirut had none of the elegance of the Ile de France. “It is down and dirty,’ commented the Professor. “More dirty, than down,” echoed Madam Bibi. But the trip was shorter and when they docked in Beirut, Emily said “adieu” to Madam Bibi who took the professor aside to say their farewells. They would meet again in the beginning of August to return.
CHAPTER THREE:
A Pyramid
WHILE PROFESSOR WITHERSPOON was taking much too long to say good bye to Mada Bibi, Emily looked around the dock to see if she could spot Professor Dasam. There was nobody dressed in Arabic garments to be seen. She was turning around when she heard a high pitched voice call out, “Are you by any chance Miss Emily Darrow?”
Before her stood the opposite of Professor Witherspoon. Where the professor was tall and thin, unkempt and tweedy, the man addressing her was short and fat, impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, white starched shirt with a striped tie, black shined shoes, a clean shaven face with the bushiest eyebrows Emily had ever seen. “May I introduce myself,” he ventured, “I am Professor Demosthenes Dasam.”
He led Emily to a large black automobile with a driver in a light gray uniform, white gloves and a matching gray and white cap. The driver opened the rear door and Emily peered in to a sumptuous interior of soft leather and burled wood and enough room for four or five people.
“Aha Dasam, you’ve met Emily and now I see you are impressing her with your brand new Rolls Royce,” said Professor Witherspoon arriving just as Emily entered the limousine. The three sat in the back while the driver placed the luggage from the boat onto a rack on the rear of the automobile. “We’re on our way,” Dasam exclaimed.
As the car drove south along the Mediterranean Sea, the two professors talked endlessly about archaeology, ancient texts, early civilizations and the possibility of a lost city. Between the rumbling of the car and the incessant chatter of the professors, Emily soon fell fast asleep.
When she awoke, she found her head lying on a pillow on professor Witherspoon’s lap. She sat up with a start. “I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep. What did I miss?” she asked. “About two hours of dusty driving and two hours of boring conversation, my dear,” answered Professor Dasam with a twinkle. “But it is lunchtime,” he added. Emily looked about. As far as she could see there was nothing but the road, occasional palm and Cyprus trees and the sea at a distance. Where would they dine?
The driver turned down a small dirt road that led towards the sea. In a few minutes they stopped under a grove of palm trees, facing the water. The driver unstrapped the luggage and opened the boot or trunk of the car. He took out a folding table, three chairs, table cloths and napkins, sterling silverware and from a wicker basket an assortment of fruits, nuts, a canister holding cold yogurt and sandwiches.
“Add another chair, Ali,” Professor Dasam, requested. “Ali and I have been together for many years and he knows I do not favor the great separation of classes you Westerners prefer.”
“Professor Dasam and I were roommates at Cambridge where we both received our PHD’s,” Professor Witherspoon explained. “He thinks all English speaking people share the same cultural attitudes. He has never been to America and I plan to ask him there to see the vast differences there are between the English-speaking English and the English-speaking Americans.”
“In my little town there are English and German and Portuguese and Italian and Irish and two Armenian families who sell Oriental rugs,” commented Emily. That seemed to calm the professor and they set to eating a light but tasty meal followed by tea. The driver put everything back into the Rolls Royce and he and his three passengers drove off.
“Let me tell you the bad news, first, Professor,” said Dasam. We are certain it exists but we cannot find one thing that might lead us to a lost city.” “There are numerous tracts describing the city, but none mention its name or location.” “And to add insult to injury, there is a band of thieves also looking for the city, to loot it before we might find it.”
By now the limousine had arrived at Dasam’s palatial house in Cairo, where Emily and Professor Witherspoon were introduced to Dasam’s wife and three children. Not really children at all, since the youngest was nineteen. They were curious about everything American - jazz music, dancing, silent movies, the Edison gramophone. Few things that Emily really knew much about but she embellished a story as best she could. She told them Thomas Edison had invented the electric light bulb and the talking machine that started with round discs but now had large circular records with hundreds of grooves over which a needle moved and turned the grooves into voices and music. But she had no idea how it all really worked.
The Professor’s house was filled with rugs and pillows and many servants who were at that time preparing tea. Tired from the long ride in the Rolls Royce, Emily asked to be excused and took a long nap. So long that she didn’t wake up until the next morning.
“What shall we do today?” she asked at breakfast. “I thought it would be entertaining and instructive to drive out to see the Great Pyramids of Gaza,” said Professor Dasam. Another ride in a car wasn’t what Emily had in mind but she was a good sport and agreed enthusiastically.
Halfway to the Pyramids off to the side of the road Professor Witherspoon spotted what looked like a tiny pyramid about three feet tall. “Some child must have dropped his toy, let’s pick it up,” he suggested. The driver stopped the Rolls Royce and Emily and the professors walked over to pick up the toy. It seemed to be stuck in the sand and after a few tugs the professors agreed to leave it where it lay and let its owner find it.
“Suppose it isn’t a toy,” said Emily. “Suppose it is the very top of another pyramid covered over with sand, like the tops of icebergs in the North Sea where more than two-thirds are under the water, unseen.”
“People have come past here for centuries, Emily, and not seen the top of another pyramid,” Professor Dasam remarked. But Professor Witherspoon was intrigued and he asked the driver of the automobile if he had a shovel. One was produced. “Ernest, you don’t really plan to dig out a lost pyramid,” said Dasam. “Just a poke here and there,” Witherspoon answered.
But the poking turned into something very different. With each shovel-full of sand the “toy” pyramid grew larger and larger until it was more than ten feet across and still growing bigger and bigger. Professor Dasam’s eyes also grew bigger and bigger. “Allah be praised, Emily is right. Before us is a new undiscovered pyr
amid.” They all returned to the car and sped back to Cairo, where Professor Dasam called the University and several government officials to close off that section of the desert and organize a proper excavating team.
The news sped all over Egypt and even the rest of the world. In fact just five days later, Emily’s mother read about it in her local paper. Its headline read, “Emily Darrow of West Elm Street Has Discovered a Pyramid in Egypt.” It went on to note that Emily would enter Seventh Grade in the Fall but said little about the actual discovery. Sarah called the editor but was told he was off for the rest of the day and there was nobody in the news room to help her find out anything more.
At the site of the pyramid were hundreds of men digging and large trucks removing the sand. The work went from dawn to early in the evening while it was still light out. While the men were digging, Professor Dasam showed Emily pictures of the other pyramids and she read about their secret entrances, many rooms, mummies and other objects placed next to the dead kings and queens of ancient Egypt.
While digging at an eastern wall, workers discovered a room or hallway block that suggested a passageway into the pyramid. With careful instructions from Professor Dasam, they unearthed the passage, scraped away all the dirt and found a doorway with two large alabaster cats sitting on either side. The cats were at least twelve feet high with their necks stretched and their faces facing inwards towards the door. “This must be the entrance to the royal tombs,” said the professor.
It was. With light from hundreds of candles held by workers, the three entered what turned out to be a square room some ninety feet across each direction. In niches in the walls were statues of men and women all facing towards one larger niche in which a small box lay on a golden stone.
The box was no larger than a candy jar, but it was encrusted with precious stones overlayed with gold. “May I touch it,” Emily asked. “Normally, I would say no, but this is your discovery. Put on your gloves and pick it up, if you wish,” Professor Dasam replied.
Emily and the Lost City of Urgup Page 2