by Anne Rice
"But who would create such a fiction!" she whispered.
She found herself staring at the marble bust of Cleopatra. Immortality. Why would Cleopatra not drink the potion? Oh, but really, she was beginning to believe it! She smiled.
She turned the page of the diary. The translation was interrupted. Her father had written only:
Goes on to describe how Cleopatra awakened him from his dream-filled sleep, how he tutored her, loved her, watched her seduce the Roman leaders one by one. . . .
"Yes," Julie whispered. "Julius Caesar first and then Mark Antony. But why would she not take the elixir?'' There was another paragraph of translation:
"How can I bear this burden any longer? How can I endure the loneliness anymore? Yet I can not die. Her poisons can not harm me. They keep my elixir safe so that I may dream of still other Queens, both fair and wise, to share the centuries with me. But is it not her face I see? Her voice I hear? Cleopatra. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Cleopatra. ''
Latin followed. Several scribbled paragraphs in Latin which Julie could not read. Even with the aid of a dictionary she could not have translated it. Then there were a few lines of demotic Egyptian, even more nearly impenetrable than that Latin. Nothing more.
She laid down the book. She fought the inevitable tears. It was almost as if she could feel the presence of her father in this room. How excited he must have been, what a lovely scribble his handwriting had become.
And how lovely the whole mystery was.
Somewhere among all those poisons, an elixir that conveyed immortality? One need not take it literally to find it beautiful.
And behold that tiny silver burner and the delicate vial. Ramses the Damned had believed it. Perhaps her father had believed it. And for the moment, well, maybe she did too.
She rose slowly and approached the long marble table against the opposite wall. The scrolls were too fragile. There were tiny bits and pieces of papyrus scattered everywhere. She had seen this damage done as die men lifted them ever so carefully from their crates. She dared not touch them. Besides, she couldn't read them.
As for the jars, she mustn't touch them either. What if some of that poison were spilled, or somehow released into the air?
She found herself suddenly looking at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall. She went back to the desk, and opened the folded newspaper that lay there.
Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra was enjoying a long run in London. She and Alex had meant to go and see it, but then Alex fell asleep during serious plays. Only Gilbert and Sullivan entertained Alex. and even then he was usually nodding off by the end of the third act.
She studied the little announcement for the performance. She stood up and reached for Plutarch on the bookshelf above the desk.
Where was the story of Cleopatra? Plutarch had not devoted a full biography to her. No, her story was contained in that of Mark Antony, of course.
She paged quickly to the passages she only dimly remembered. Cleopatra had been a great Queen, and what we call now a great politician. She had not only seduced Caesar and Antony, she kept Egypt free of Roman conquest for decades, finally taking her own life when Antony was dead by his own hand, and Octavius Caesar had stormed her gates. The loss of Egypt to Rome had been inevitable, but she had almost turned the tide. Had Julius Caesar not been assassinated, he might have made Cleopatra his Empress. Had Mark Antony been a little stronger, Octavian might have been overthrown.
Even in her final days, however, Cleopatra had been victorious in her own way. Octavian wanted to take her to Rome as a royal prisoner. She had cheated him. She had tried out dozens of poisons on condemned prisoners, and then chosen the bite of a snake to end her life. The Roman guards had not prevented her suicide. And so Octavian took possession of Egypt. But Cleopatra he could not have.
Julie closed the book almost reverently. She looked at the long row of alabaster jars. Could these really be those very poisons?
She fell into a strange reverie as she gazed at the magnificent coffin. A hundred like it she had seen here and in Cairo. A hundred like it she had examined ever since she could remember. Only this one contained a man who claimed to be immortal. Who claimed to be entering not death when he was buried, but "a dream-filled sleep."
What was the secret of that slumber? Of being awakened from it? And the elixir!
"Ramses the Damned," she whispered. "Would you wake for me as you did for Cleopatra? Would you wake for a new century of indescribable marvels even though your Queen is dead?"
No answer but silence; and the large soft eyes of the golden King staring at her, graven hands folded over his chest.
"That's robbery!" Henry said, barely able to contain his anger. "The thing's priceless." He glared at the little man behind the desk in the back office of the coin shop. Miserable little thief in his stuffy world of dirty glass cases and bits and pieces of money displayed as if they were jewels.
"If it's genuine, yes," the man answered slowly. "And if it's genuine, where did it come from? A coin like this with a perfect image of Cleopatra? That's what they will want to know, you see, where did it come from? And you have not told me your name.''
"No, I haven't." Exasperated, he snatched the coin back from the dealer, slipped it into his pocket and turned to go. He stopped long enough to put on his gloves. What did he have left? Fifty pounds? He was in a fury. He let the door slam behind him as he walked into the biting wind.
The dealer sat quite still for a long moment. He could still feel the coin that he had let slip literally from his hand. Never in all these long years had he seen anything quite like it. He knew it was genuine, and suddenly he felt the fool as never before in his life.
He should have bought it! He should have taken the risk. But he knew it was stolen, and not even for the Queen of the Nile could he become a thief.
He rose from the desk, and passed through the dusty serge curtains that separated his shop from a tiny drawing room where he spent much of his time, even during business hours, quite alone. His newspaper lay beside the wing chair where he'd left it. He opened now to the headline:
STRATFORD MUMMY AND HIS CURSE COME TO LONDON
The ink drawing beneath showed a slender young man disembarking from the P&O H.M.S. Melpomine along with the mummy of the famed Ramses the Damned. Henry Stratford, nephew of the dead archaeologist, said the caption. Yes, that was the man who had just left his shop. Had he stolen the coin from the tomb where his uncle died so suddenly? And how many more like it had he taken? The dealer was confused; relieved on the one hand, and full of regret on the other. He stared at the telephone.
Noon. The club dining room was quiet, the few scattered members eating their lunch alone on white-draped tables in silence. Just the way Randolph liked it, a true retreat from the noisy streets outside, and the endless pressure and confusion of his office.
He was not happy when he saw his son standing in the door some fifty feet away. Hasn't slept all night, more than likely. Yet Henry was shaven, neatly dressed, Randolph gave him that much. The little things were never out of Henry's control. It was the great disaster with which he couldn't cope-that he had no real life any longer. That he was a gambler and a drinker with no soul.
Randolph went back to his soup.
He didn't look up as his son took the chair opposite, and called to the waiter for a Scotch and water "at once."
"I told you to stay at your cousin's last night," Randolph said gloomily. There was no point to this conversation. "I left the key for you."
"I picked up the key, thank you. And my cousin is no doubt doing quite well without me. She has her mummy to keep her company."
The waiter set down the glass and Henry drained it at once.
Randolph took another slow spoon of the hot soup.
"Why the hell do you dine in a place like this? It's been out of fashion for a decade. It's positively funereal.''
"Keep your voice down."
"Why should I? All the members are deaf."
/> Randolph sat back in the chair. He gave a small nod to the waiter, who moved in to take the soup plate. "It's my club and I like it," he said dully. Meaningless. All conversation with his son was meaningless. He would weep if he thought of it. He would weep if he lingered too long on the fact that Henry's hands trembled, that his face was pale and drawn, and that his eyes fixed on nothing-eyes of an addict, a drunk.
"Bring the bottle," Henry said to the waiter, without looking up. And to his father, "I'm down to twenty pounds."
"I can't advance you anything!" Randolph said wearily. "As long as she's in control, the situation is very simply desperate. You don't understand."
"You're lying to me. I know she signed papers yesterday. ..."
"You've drawn a year's salary in advance."
"Father, I must have another hundred. ..."
"If she examines the books herself, I may have to confess everything; and ask for another chance."
It filled him with surprising relief merely to say it. Perhaps it was what he wanted. He gazed at his son from a great remove suddenly. Yes, he should tell his niece everything, and ask for her . , . what? Her help.
Henry was sneering.
"Throwing ourselves on her mercy. Oh, that's lovely."
Randolph looked away, across the long vista of white-draped tables. Only one stooped grey-haired figure remained now, dining alone, in a far corner. The elderly Viscount Stephenson- one of the old landed gentry who still had the bank account to support his vast estates. Well, dine in peace, my friend, Randolph thought wearily.
"What else can we do!" he said softly now to his son. "You might come to work tomorrow. At least make an appearance. ..."
Was his son listening, his son who had been miserable for as long as Randolph could remember, his son who had no future, no ambitions, no plans, no dreams?
It broke his heart suddenly, the thought of it-the long years since his son had been anything but desperate, and furtive, and bitter as well. It broke his heart to see his son's eyes darting anxiously over the simple objects of the table-the heavy silver, the napkin which he had not yet unfolded. The glass and the bottle of Scotch.
"All right, I'll give you some on account," he said. What would another hundred pounds matter? And this was his only son. His only son.
A somber yet undeniably exciting occasion. When Elliott arrived, the Stratford house was crowded to overflowing. He had always loved this house, with its uncommonly large rooms, and its dramatic central stairway.
So much dark wood, so many towering bookshelves; and yet it had a cheerful atmosphere with the wicked abundance of electric light and the never-ending stretches of gilded wallpaper. But he missed Lawrence sharply as he stood in the front hall. He felt Lawrence here; and all the wasted moments of their friendship came back to torment him. And the long-ago love affair that haunted him still.
Well, he had known it would happen. But there was nowhere else on earth that he wanted to be tonight, except in Lawrence's house for the first official showing of Ramses the Damned, Lawrence's discovery. He made a light dismissive gesture to fend off those who immediately came towards him, and bowing his head he pushed his way gently through strangers and old friends until he reached the Egyptian room. The pain in his legs was bad tonight, because of the damp, as he always said. But luckily he wouldn't have to stand long. And he had a new walking stick that he rather liked, a fancy affair with a silver handle.
"Thank you, Oscar," he said with the usual smile as he took his first glass of white wine.
"Not a moment too soon, old boy," Randolph said to him wearily. "They're going to unveil the ghastly thing now. Might as well come along.''
Elliott nodded. Randolph looked dreadful, no doubt about it. He'd had the wind knocked out of him by Lawrence's death. But he was doing his best here, it was obvious.
They moved together into the front ranks-and for the first time, Elliott laid eyes upon the startlingly beautiful coffin of the mummy.'
The innocent, childlike expression of the golden mask charmed him. Then his eyes moved to the bands of writing that girded the lower portion of the figure. Latin and Greek words written as if they were Egyptian hieroglyphs!
But he was distracted as Hancock of the British Museum called for quiet, tapping a spoon loudly on a crystal glass. Beside Hancock stood Alex, with his arm around Julie, who looked exquisite in her black mourning, her hair drawn severely back from her pale face, revealing to all the world that her features had never needed fancy coifs or other adornments.
As their eyes met, Elliott gave Julie a little melancholy smile, and saw the immediate brightening in her that always greeted him. In a way, he thought, she is more fond of me than of my son. What an irony. But then his son was staring at these proceedings as if he were utterly lost. And perhaps he was, and that was the problem.
Samir Ibrahaim appeared suddenly at Hancock's left. Another old friend. But he did not see Elliott. A bit anxiously, he directed two young men to take hold of the lid of the mummy case and wait for his instructions. They stood with eyes downcast as if faintly embarrassed by the act they were about to perform. And the room went dead silent.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Samir said. The two young fellows at once hoisted the lid and moved it gracefully to one side. "I give you Ramses the Great."
The mummy lay exposed for all to see; the tall figure of a man with arms crossed on his breast, seemingly bald and naked under its thick discolored wrappings.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. In the golden light of the electric chandeliers and the few scattered candelabra, the form was faintly horrible as they always are. Death preserved and mounted.
There was an uneasy sprinkling of applause. Shudders, even uneasy laughter; and then the thick bank of spectators broke up, some drawing in for a closer look, then backing off as if from the heat of a fire, others turning their backs on the thing altogether.
Randolph sighed and shook his head.
"Died for this, did he? I wish I understood why."
"Don't be morbid," said the man next to him, someone Elliott ought to remember, but didn't. "Lawrence was happy-"
"Doing what he wanted to do," Elliott whispered. If he heard it said even one more time, he would weep.
Lawrence would have been happy examining his treasure.
Lawrence would have been happy translating those scrolls. Lawrence's death was a tragedy. Anyone who tried to make anything else out of it was a perfect fool.
Elliott gave Randolph's arm a gentle squeeze and left him, moving slowly towards the venerable corpse of Ramses.
It seemed the younger generation had decided en masse to block his progress as they surrounded Alex and Julie. Elliott could hear her voice in snatches as conversation regained its spirited volume all around.
"... a remarkable story in the papyri," Julie explained. "But Father had only begun his translation. I should like to know what you think, Elliott."
"What was that, my dear?" He had just reached the mummy itself and he was staring at the face, marveling at how easily one could discern an expression under so many layers of decomposing cloth. He took her hand now as she moved close to him. Others pressed in, trying to get a good look, but Elliott stood his ground rather selfishly.
"Your opinion, Elliott, of the whole mystery," Julie said. "Is this a nineteenth-dynasty coffin? How did it come to be fashioned in Roman times? You know, Father told me once, you knew more about Egyptology than all the men at the museum."
He laughed softly to himself. She glanced about nervously to make sure Hancock was nowhere near. Thank God, he was in the thick of his own little crowd, explaining something about those scrolls, no doubt, and the row of exquisite jars along the wall beneath the mirror.
"What do you think?" Julie prodded again. Had seriousness ever been so seductive?
"Can't possibly be Ramses the Great, my dear," he said. "But then you know that." He studied the painted lid of the coffin again, and once more the body nestled in its dusty swathi
ng. "An excellent job, I must say that. Not many chemicals were used; no smell of bitumen whatsoever."
"There is no bitumen," Samir said suddenly. He had been standing on EUiott's left and Elliott had not even seen him,
"And what do you make of that?" Elliott asked.
"The King has given us his own explanation," Samir said.
"Or so Lawrence told me. Ramses had himself wrapped with
all due ceremony and prayers; but he was not embalmed. He
was never taken from the cell where he wrote his story."
"What an amazing idea!" Elliott said. "And have you read these inscriptions yourself?'' He pointed to the Latin as he translated: " 'Let not the sun shine on my remains; for in darkness I sleep; beyond all suffering; beyond all knowledge. . . .' Now that is hardly an Egyptian sentiment. I think you'll agree."