The Golden One

by Elizabeth Peters

  “A forger?” inquired Nefret, scanning the papers I had handed her by the light of the flickering flames. “A very skilled forger. You know a good many of them, I expect.”

  Emerson went about filling his pipe. “The ones with whom I am acquainted specialize in antiquities,” he replied. “I required a different sort of expertise. So I paid a visit to Ibrahim el-Gharbi.”

  “The procurer?” I gasped. “But, Emerson, you called him -”

  “A vile trafficker in human flesh. A good phrase, that,” said Emerson, puffing. “According to Ramses, el-Gharbi can be useful if one takes everything he says with a strong seasoning of skepticism, and he has connections with every illegal business in Cairo. At the moment he is open to reason. He wants to get out of that prison camp.”

  “I hope you didn’t promise you would arrange his release in exchange for these papers,” I said severely. “The end does not justify the means.”

  “I made no promises” was the evasive reply. “But we owe the rascal, Peabody. It was through el-Gharbi, or rather one of his sources, that I was able to – er – acquire the motorcar. He also gave me the name of the man who forges official papers for him, and a chit telling him to comply with my request. Good, aren’t they?”

  “Let us hope all our difficulties will be so easily solved,” I said.

  “Don’t be such a pessimist, Peabody,” said Emerson. “Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me to enjoy the moment, without worrying about what the future may bring? What could be more enjoyable than this?”

  I could have mentioned quite a number of things, but it was pleasant to sit round the fire with the fresh breeze of the desert cooling our faces and the blazing stars of the desert shining down. The infinite eyes of God – and nowhere in that vast wasteland to hide from them.

  Fortunately my conscience was perfectly clear.

  It was to be our last peaceful hour for several days. From Romani on, the road surface worsened, and we encountered a great deal of traffic. Heavy lorries lumbered past, loaded with supplies; troops of soldiers plodded through the sand. They gave us curious glances, but no one ventured to address us. The magnificent presence of Emerson, his nose jutting out from the spreading blackness of his beard, was imposing enough to win respect, and the presence of two veiled females forbade interference. The men had been warned to leave Moslem women strictly alone. Squeezed uncomfortably in our nest of baggage, Nefret and I looked enviously at the troops of cavalry that occasionally contested our right of way. Most of them were Australians or New Zealanders, and a splendid-looking lot of men they were.

  It was after we passed el-Arish, the farthest advance of the railroad, that the real trouble began. Men were working on the tracks and our unusual group had begun to attract undesirable attention. Emerson, who thinks he knows everything – and usually does – declared he knew of another path that would lead us through the Wadi el-Arish and into Palestine from the southwest.

  There had been fighting at Maghdaba, some twenty miles west of el-Arish, and the ground was strewn with the debris of battle, including the pathetic remains of horses and camels. After the second tire blew I began to worry about supplies. We were down to our last three cans of petrol, and the water was running low. The bed of the wadi was rough but not impassable; Selim kept turning and swerving, trying, as I supposed, to avoid the worst bumps. He could not avoid all of them; holding Nefret in a firm embrace, I began to wonder how the devil we were to get out of the cursed canyon. It was one of the longest wadis in the region, stretching all the way down into the desert. Suddenly there was a shout from Emerson.

  “There!” he cried, pointing. “Left, Selim.”

  I took one appalled look at the slope, littered with boulders, and shrieked, “Stop!”

  Selim did, of course. When faced with conflicting orders from Emerson and me, he knew whose command to obey. Emerson turned and shot me an outraged glare. “What’s the matter with you, Peabody? There is no easier way out of the wadi for another five miles, and -”

  “Easier? Well, Emerson, I will take your word for it, but I am not going to be bounced up that incline. Nefret and I will ascend on foot. Get out of those clothes, Nefret.”

  I began stripping off my own garments as I spoke. Flushed with heat but perfectly composed, Nefret said meekly, “Yes, Mother,” and followed my example.

  The men raised all sorts of objections. Emerson declared, “You can’t climb in those clothes!” and Selim, deeply offended, assured us that he was perfectly capable of getting the confounded motorcar up the slope without difficulty. Naturally I ignored these complaints. After fumbling about, I located one of the bundles I had brought and took out two pairs of boots.

  “What the devil,” Emerson began.

  “I believe in being prepared for all possible contingencies,” I replied. “And as you see, it is as well I was! Hoist up your trousers, Nefret, and tuck the ends into your boots. Now then, I think we can manage; are you ready, my dear?”

  Nefret grinned. “As Ramses has often said, you never cease to amaze me, Mother. Yes, I’m ready.”

  It was not a difficult climb – there was even a path of sorts, winding back and forth across the slope. We were able to remain upright most of the time, without having to resort to four-limbed progress. When we reached the top we saw before us a baked, barren landscape that shimmered with sunlight; but the hot air dried the perspiration that had coated our bodies, and it was wonderful to be out of those layers of clothing.

  Nefret peered down into the wadi. “Selim has backed the car up,” she said. “They see us – the Professor is waving us to get out of the way – they’re coming… Oh dear. I don’t think I can watch.”

  It was impossible not to, though. Amid crashes and thumps and the groans of various bits of the machinery, the vehicle thundered up the slope. Even louder than the other noises were the enthusiastic whoops of Emerson, bouncing up and down and grinning from ear to ear. When Selim stopped, on a fairly level stretch of ground, Nefret and I ran toward the car.

  “There, you see?” Emerson demanded. “I told you it would be all right.”

  “One of the tires is flat,” I remarked.

  Emerson waved this aside. “We’ll have it mended in a jiffy.”

  Selim managed to mend the tire, despite Emerson’s attempts at advice and assistance. We passed round the water bottle, resumed our costumes, and started again.

  I will draw a veil over the succeeding hours. I lost count of the number of times we got stuck in a sand dune. On several occasions Selim was able to back up and go at it again; at other times he had to lay the planks down and Emerson had to push from behind. He had removed all his extraneous garments, and shouted encouragement to Selim as the wheels spun and sent sand spraying over him. His head was bare, his fine linen shirt was torn and smeared with oil; in short, he was having a wonderful time.

  As the sun sank westward, it became apparent that we were not going to make it back to the coastal road that day. Bathed in perspiration, muffled in fabric, I was considering methods of murdering Emerson, and perhaps Selim as well, when I saw ahead a few spindly palm trees.

  “There it is,” Emerson said happily. “I thought I remembered the location.”

  “You thought?” I repeated.

  It was not much of an oasis, but there was water, brackish and muddy, but enough to allow us to sponge our faces and limbs. “Your little shortcut has only cost a day,” I remarked, as we sat round the small fire. “So far.”

  “We’ll be back on the main road tomorrow,” Emerson said. “And in Khan Yunus by nightfall.”

  “So you say.” I looked at Nefret, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground eating sardines out of a tin. “I will have to dye your skin again, Nefret. What with sand and perspiration, most of it is gone. And you, Emerson -”

  “What’s wrong with my appearance?” Emerson demanded, running his hand through his beard and sprinkling his sardines with sand.

  “Shall I have a disguise, Si
tt Hakim?” Selim asked hopefully.

  “You might shave your beard,” I said.

  Selim went pale and clutched at his treasured beard. I repented my cruelty almost at once. “I was joking, Selim. You are not known in this region; I do not believe a disguise is necessary.”

  One can easily comprehend how the Israelites felt when, after toiling through the arid wilderness, they beheld before them the green pastures and fertile fields of the Promised Land. (I did not mention this charming idea to Emerson, since he does not believe in the Exodus and would have given me a long boring lecture about it.)

  All was fresh and emerald green, with the brilliant scarlet spots of poppies dotting the landscape. Winter was passing and summer was yet to come; the air was fresh and cool, the sky a cerulean cloudless vault; wildflowers grew in profusion: anemones and lilies, wild purple iris and sweet peas of all shades, from golden yellow to rosy mauve.

  Yet the signs of war were everywhere. Every now and again an aircraft would drone overhead, and sometimes its passage was followed by an explosion and a cloud of dust. None of the bombs came close to us, but I was glad of the veil that covered my face. Since that air raid in London I had a tendency to flinch at explosions.

  We did not want to spend another night on the road, so we started early and went on with scarcely a pause until late afternoon. As the sun blazoned the western sky with flaming color we came to the outskirts of Khan Yunus. An old city of the Philistines, like Gaza, it was a garden spot indeed, with flowers everywhere and fig and orange trees heavy with fruit. Selim propelled the motorcar skillfully through the narrow streets, and I realized that our arrival would not go unnoticed by the military. Since the enemy had withdrawn without a battle, the town had been spared destruction, and our brave fellows were enjoying the amenities of the suk and the picturesque winding lanes. In the center of the main square, a group of field engineers was at work improving the old well. According to Emerson, Mahmud’s house was on one side of this square.

  Unlike the city mansions with which I was acquainted, this one did not face directly onto the street. Instead we saw a high, featureless wall of stone covered with crumbling plaster and a double-leaved door wide enough to be called a gate. Heavy and banded with iron, it stood ajar, and from the litter that had blown up against it I had the impression it had not been closed for quite a while.

  Selim got out and shoved at it. Emerson maintained his stately persona, looking neither to right nor left. I leaned forward and spoke softly. “It is an unusual arrangement, Emerson. More like a khan or caravansary. And the gate is wide enough for -”

  “Camels,” said Emerson, sotto voce and without turning his head. “Some of the old villain’s caravans carry merchandise that cannot be unloaded in the open street. Be quiet, Peabody, you have not been given permission to speak.”

  After shoving with all his strength, Selim got the rusted hinges to move. When the gates creaked open we saw an unpaved courtyard and a group of men, women, naked babies, chickens, goats, and a sheep gathered in the courtyard. All, except for the chickens, stared in stupefaction. Obviously we had not been expected.

  They were members of a family that had been charged by Mahmud to look after the place; they had taken advantage of his absence to move in and make themselves at home. Our appearance threw them into a total panic. Emerson’s curses soon sorted them out, and they scattered in all directions to carry out his orders. Once the babies, goats, and sheep had been removed, Selim drove the car into the courtyard and closed the gates. I did not doubt the military authorities would soon be informed of our arrival, and could only hope that Emerson’s forged papers would convince them of our bona fides. There was no use worrying about it. We would deal with unexpected setbacks in our usual efficient fashion.

  Straight ahead, forming one side of the courtyard, was the house itself. The living quarters were on the first floor, with storage and work areas underneath. The barred and closely screened windows on one side of the facade must be those of the haremlik; on the other side, stone steps led up to the carved arches of the mak’ad, a reception room that was open to the court so that the owner of the house could see approaching visitors – male visitors. The mak’ad was not used by the women of the household.

  Obeying a brusque gesture from Emerson, who was reveling in his role, Nefret and I gathered up our voluminous skirts and went through a side door and up a flight of narrow stairs to the haremlik.

  We were followed by several women, squawking like the chickens as they made excuses and offered assistance. I could see I had a long job ahead of me getting the place in proper order. The basic plan was comfortable if somewhat old-fashioned, with a bath chamber and a number of small cubicles surrounding a handsome saloon, or ka’ah, a lofty chamber with an arched ceiling and tiled floor. One end was raised, with rugs covering the floor, and two divans. I cannot describe to persons of fastidious tastes (as my Readers certainly are) the condition of the place. It was all I could do to refrain from rolling up my sleeves and seizing a broom. Since this was impossible, I threw myself into my role as elderly harridan and began shouting out directions. I doubt the flustered females had ever moved so fast. The rugs and cushions were removed to be beaten and fumigated, the floor was swept and scrubbed, the dust and cobwebs covering all the flat surfaces were removed. When the room was habitable, and we had been supplied with a jug of warm water, I sent the whole lot of them off to the bath chamber, assuring them I would come soon to make certain they had cleaned it thoroughly.

  Nefret had remained modestly silent; her Arabic was less fluent than mine. I wondered what Ramses would think of the transformation in her appearance. She had darkened her skin a shade or two, and her hair was now a pretty shade of russet brown. The cornflower-blue eyes could not be concealed, but they could be explained by the assumption that she was of light-skinned Circassian or Berber ancestry. There were a good many girls of that complexion in Turkish harems.

  “You certainly look like an old man’s darling,” I remarked in French. We had decided it was safer to use that language, even in private conversation, in case we were overheard.

  Nefret made a face and plucked at the embroidered gibbeh that covered several other layers of garments. “I don’t smell like one. I’d give anything for a bath and a change of clothing.”

  “So would I. It will have to wait. But you may as well remove the gibbeh and freshen up a bit. Curse it, here are some of the women come back.”

  They had brought our luggage, including the mats on which I intended we should sit and sleep. Emerson had howled at the amount of baggage I had considered necessary – he would have gone off to Timbuktu with only the clothes on his back – but I absolutely refused to share my bed with the interesting variety of insect life that I had good reason to expect. The women spread the mats over the divans and unpacked a few more things, including my traveling tea set, which included a silver kettle and a spirit lamp. (This had produced a particularly sarcastic string of remarks from Emerson.)

  I was preparing an emphatic speech of dismissal for the ladies when the appearance of Emerson spared me that effort. The women at once fled, drawing folds of their garments over their faces, and closed the doors.

  Hands on hips, feet apart, Emerson inspected the room and us with a lordly sneer. He looked magnificent! I repressed the thrill of admiration that ran through my limbs, since it was unlikely I could do anything about it for some time. Regret was mitigated by the presence of the beard. It looked splendid, but I knew how it would feel – like a bramble bush.

  “Well, this is very pleasant,” he remarked.

  “French, Emerson,” I said.

  “Merde,” said Emerson, whose command of that language is limited. He does know most of the swearwords, though.

  “I have ordered dinner to be brought here,” he went on. “It is a condescension on my part, but I am an uxorious, indulgent husband. You will serve me kneeling, of course.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Emerson,” I
warned.

  “En français, ma chérie, s’il vous plaît,” said Emerson, grinning broadly. He went on in his version of that language, with occasional lapses into English when his vocabulary failed him. “Selim is in a condition because of the motorcar. He injured the – er – bonnet when he passed it between the gate.”

  Through the window I could hear Selim’s voice, raised in vehement commentary, and understood enough to comprehend that he was trying to sort out the servant situation. I deduced that dinner would be late.

  “Well, we are here,” I remarked, “and although some of our habits will undoubtedly strike the servants as peculiar, they won’t think much about it. But how is Ramses to reach us? He can’t come here as himself.”

  “He knows that,” Emerson said. “Give the boy credit.”

  “We must do something about the mashrabiya screens, Emerson. I cannot see an infernal thing out the window.”

  “Vous êtes en la harem, ma chérie,” said Emerson, smirking. “Les dames non pouvait – pourraint – (curse it!) voir dans le aperture.”

  I understood his meaning, despite his atrocious grammar. Some of our windows opened onto the courtyard; it would not have been proper for strangers to see a woman looking out.

  After his little exercise of wit, Emerson admitted we would be well advised to get the screens loose, so that we would have warning of unexpected visitors. It took all three of us to do the job, since we did not want to remove them entirely. With the aid of strips of fabric cut from the hangings, we managed to secure them so they would not flap but could be opened without difficulty.

  Dinner finally arrived. It was very bad, so I assumed Selim had not been able to find a skilled cook. We ate sitting cross-legged round the platter of rice and mutton. Though mats had been placed in the adjoining cubicles, we decided to spend the night in the ka’ah. What the servants thought of this I cannot imagine (or rather, I prefer not to imagine). Emerson considered it best that we should not separate, however.