The Mummy

by Anne Rice

  "Do that, Walter, but you'll bring me a drink first. Scotch, and set the bottle beside the glass."

  "Father, I've never seen you like this. I'm going to ring the house doctor."

  "You are not!" Elliott said. His tone startled Alex, which was all well and good. "Would Lady Macbeth have benefited from a doctor? I don't think a doctor would have helped her."

  "Father, what is all this about?" Alex's voice had dropped to a whisper, as it always did when he was truly upset. He watched as Walter put the glass in Elliott's hand.

  Elliott drank a swallow of the whisky. "Ah, that's good," he sighed. In that horrid little house, that house of death and madness, there had been a dozen bottles of Henry's liquor, yet he could not bring himself to touch them; could not bring himself to drink from a glass that had been Henry's, or to eat a morsel of Henry's food. He had given it to her, but he could not himself touch it. And now he luxuriated in the sweet warmth of the Scotch, so utterly different from the burning in his chest.

  "Now, Alex, you must listen," he said, taking another swallow. "You are to leave Cairo immediately. You're to pack your bags now and be on the five o'clock train to Port Said. I 'm taking you to the train myself."

  How utterly defenseless his son looked suddenly. Just a boy, a sweet young boy. And this is my dream of immortality, he thought; and it has always been there. My Alex, who must go home now to England where he will be safe.

  "That's out of the question, Father," Alex said with the same gentleness. "I can't leave Julie here."

  ' 'I don't want you to leave Julie. You're taking Julie with you. You're to go to her now. Tell her to get ready! Do as I say."

  "Father, you don't understand. She won't leave until Ramsey's been cleared. And no one can find Ramsey. And no one can find Henry, either. Father, until this matter's settled, I don't think the authorities would let any of us leave."

  "Dear God."

  Alex took out his handkerchief; he folded it carefully and blotted Elliott's forehead. He folded it again and offered it to Elliott. Elliott took it and wiped his mouth.

  "Father, you don't think Ramsey really did these dreadful things, do you? I mean, I was rather fond of Ramsey!"

  Walter came to the door. "Your bath's ready, my lord."

  "Poor Alex," Elliott whispered. "Poor decent and honorable Alex."

  "Father, tell me what's the matter. I've never seen you like this. You're not yourself."

  "Oh, yes, I am myself. My true self. Desperate and cunning and full of mad dreams as always. Too much myself. You know, my son, when you inherit the title, you will probably be the only decent and honorable Earl of Rutherford in our whole history.''

  "You're being the philosopher again. And I'm not all that decent and honorable. I'm merely well bred, which I hope is a tolerable substitute. Now, get into the bath. You'll feel much better. And don't drink any more Scotch, please." He called out to Walter to come and give him a hand.

  Miles Winthrop stared at the telegram placed in his hand by the man standing before him.

  "Arrest her? Julie Stratford! For the theft of a priceless mummy in London? But this is madness, all of it. Alex Savarell and I went to school together! I'm contacting the British Museum myself.''

  "Very well, but do it promptly," said the other. "The governor's furious. The Department of Antiquities is up in arms. And find Henry Stratford. Track down that mistress of his, that dancing girl, Malenka. Stratford's somewhere in Cairo, and pretty well besotted, you can be sure of it. In the meantime arrest somebody or the old man will blow his top."

  ' "The hell I will,'' Miles whispered as he picked up the phone.

  Ah, such a bazaar. Everything was for sale here-rich fabrics, perfumes, spices, and strange ticking devices with Roman numbers on them; jewelry and pottery; and food! But she had no money to buy the food! The first peddler had told her in English and with age-old indisputable gestures that the money she had was no good.

  She walked on. She was listening to the voices on all sides of her, picking out the English, trying to understand.

  "I won't pay that much. That's too dear, the man's trying to rob us. . . ."

  "Just a little drink, come on now. It's burning hot."

  "Oh, and these necklaces, how pretty."

  Laughter, horrid noises; loud grating noises! She had heard these before. She put her hands over her ears under the broad floppy headdress. She walked on, trying to shut out what hurt her and still hear what she needed in order to learn.

  Suddenly a monstrous sound-an inconceivable sound-shook her and she looked up, on the verge of screaming. Her hands would not shut it out. She stumbled forward, realizing in her panic that those around her were not frightened! Those around her were scarcely paying any attention at all.

  She had to fathom this mystery! And though the tears were welling in her eyes, she moved on.

  What she beheld suddenly filled her with a nameless dread. She had no words in any tongue to describe it. Immense, black, it moved forward, on wheels made of metal, a chimney atop it belching smoke. The sound was so loud all other sounds vanished. Great wooden wagons following, coupled to it by huge hooks of black iron. The whole monstrous caravan thundering along a thin strip of metal that ran along the ground. And the noise grew even louder as the thing rolled past her and entered a great yawning tunnel in which hundreds crowded as if trying to get near to it.

  She sobbed aloud, staring at it. Oh, why had she left her hideaway? Why had she left Lord Rutherford, who would have protected her? But just when it seemed she could see nothing worse than this awful chain of wagons rattling past her, the last one entered the tunnel and she beheld, beyond the metal pathway, a great granite statue of the Pharaoh Ramses, standing with arms folded, his scepters in his crossed hands.

  In dizzying shock she looked at this colossus. Ripped from the land she had known, the land she had ruled, this tiling stood here, grotesque, abandoned, ludicrous.

  She backed away. Another one of the demonic chariots was coming. She heard a great searing screech from it, and then it roared by, obliterating the statue.

  She felt herself turning, inward, away from all of it, back into the darkness, into the dark water whence she'd come.

  When she opened her eyes a young Englishman stood over her. He had his arm around her and was lifting her and telling others to get away. She understood that he was asking after her and what he might do.

  "Coffee," she whispered. "I should like some sugar in my coffee." Words from the talking machine Lord Rutherford had revealed to her. "I should like a bit of lemon in my tea."

  His face brightened. "Well, yes, of course. I shall get you some coffee. I shall take you there, into the British cafe!"

  He lifted her to her feet. What a fine muscular youth he was. And blue eyes he had, so rich in color, almost like the other. . . .

  She glanced back over her shoulder. It had not been a dream. The statue stood there towering over the iron pathways; she could hear the roar of the chariots, though none was in sight.

  She was weak again for a moment, stumbling; he caught her. He helped her right along.

  She listened keenly to the words he spoke.

  "It's a nice place; you can sit, rest. You know, you gave me quite a scare there a moment ago. Why, you fell just as if you'd been struck over the head.''

  The cafe. The voice on the gramophone had said, "I shall meet you in the cafe." A place for drinking coffee, obviously, for meeting, talking. And full of women in these dresses, and young men clothed like Lord Rutherford and this fine creature, with the powerfully built arms and legs.

  She sat down at the small marble-top table. Voices everywhere. "Why, I frankly think everything here is super, but you know Mother, the way she carries on." And "Gruesome, isn't it? They say her neck was broken." And "Oh, this tea is cold. Call that waiter."

  She watched the man at the next table peel off slips of printed paper for the servant. Was this money? The servant was giving him coins in return.

&nb
sp; A tray of hot coffee had been set down before her. She was so hungry now she could have drunk the pot entirely, but she knew it was proper to let him pour it in the cups. Lord Rutherford had showed her that much. And yes, the young man did it. Pretty smile he had. How to tell him that she wanted to bed him immediately? They should find a small inn. Surely these people had inns.

  Across from her a young woman spoke rapidly:

  "Well, I don't even like opera. I wouldn't go if I were in New York at all. But since we're in Cairo, we're all supposed to go to the opera and love it. It's ridiculous."

  "But darling, it's A'ida."

  A'ida. "Celeste Ai'da." She began to hum it, then sing it softly, too low for these people to hear. But her companion heard her. He smiled at her, positively beamed. Getting him into bed would be nothing. Finding the bed, that might be hard. Of course she could take him back to the little house, but that was too far away. She stopped singing.

  "Oh, no, you mustn't stop," he said. "Go on singing."

  Go on singing, go on singing. Waiting just a moment was the secret, then the meaning came surprisingly clear.

  Ramses had taught her that. In the beginning, each tongue sounds impenetrable. You speak it; you listen; and gradually it comes clear.

  Ramses; Ramses, whose statue stood among the iron chariots! She turned, craning her neck to see through the window-why, the window was covered over with a giant piece of very clear glass. She could see the dirt on it. However did they make such a thing? "Modern times," as Lord Rutherford said. Well, if they could make those monstrous chariots, they could make such glass.

  "You've a lovely voice, positively lovely. Are you by any chance going to the opera? Everyone in Cairo is going, or so it seems."

  "The ball will last till dawn," said the woman opposite to her female companion.

  "Well, I think it's super. We're just too far from civilization to complain."

  He laughed. He had overheard the women too.

  "The ball's supposed to be the event of the season here. They hold it at Shepheard's." He drank a swallow of his coffee. That was the signal she'd been waiting for. She downed her entire cup.

  He smiled. He poured her another from the little pot.

  "Thank you," she said, carefully mimicking the record.

  "Oh, but didn't you want sugar?"

  "I think I prefer cream, if you don't mind."

  ' 'Of course not.' * He poured a dollop of milk in her cup. Was that cream? Yes, Lord Rutherford had given her the last of it that the slave woman had in the house.

  "Are you going to the ball at Shepheard's? We're staying at Shepheard's, my uncle and I. My uncle's in trade here."

  He stopped again. What was he staring at? Her eyes? Her hair? He was very pretty; she loved the fresh new skin of his face and throat. Lord Rutherford was a fine-looking man, for certain; but this one had the beauty of youth.

  She reached across the table and felt his chest through the linen of his clothing, through the silk that covered her fingers. Don't let him feel the bone. How surprised he looked. Her fingertips touched his nipple and she pinched it ever so slightly with her fourth finger and thumb. Why, he blushed like a vestal virgin. The blood was roaring in his face. She smiled.

  He glanced around, at the two women opposite. But they went right on talking. "Simply super!"

  "I bought this gown, you know, spent a fortune on it. I said, well, if I'm going to be here, and everyone's going . . ."

  "The opera." She laughed. "Going to the opera."

  "Yes," he said, but he was still amazed at what she'd done. She emptied the pot into her cup and drank it. Then she picked up the little pitcher of milk and drank that too. She picked up the sugar and poured it into her mouth. Ah, she did not like that. She set it down, and then slipped her hand under the small table and squeezed his leg. He was ready for her! Ah, poor young boy, poor wide-eyed young boy.

  She remembered that time when she and Antony had brought those young soldiers in the tent, and stripped them, before making a choice. That had been a lovely game. Until Ramses found out about it. Was there anything he hadn't accused her of in the end? But this one was powerfully amorous! He wanted her.

  She rose from the table. She beckoned and went towards the doors.

  Noise outside. The chariots. She did not care. If they didn't frighten all these people, surely they were something explainable. What she had to do now was find a place. He was right behind her, talking to her.

  "Come," she said in English. "Come with me."

  An alleyway; she led him back, stepping over the puddles. Shadowy here, and quieter. She turned around and slipped her arms under his. He bent to kiss her.

  "Well, not here, right here!" he asked nervously. "Miss, I don't think ..."

  "I say here," she whispered, kissing him and thrusting her hand into his clothes. Hot his skin, what she wanted. Hot and sweet smelling. And so ready he was, the young fawn. She lifted the skirts of the pink dress.

  It was over too quickly; she shuddered as she held on to him, her body clamped to him, her arms wrapped around his neck. She heard him moan as he spilled into her. He was still for a moment, too still. The shudders were still passing through her; but she could not coax him anymore. He released her and leaned back against the wall, staring, as if he was ill.

  "Wait, please, give me a moment," he said when she started to kiss him again.

  She studied him for a few seconds. Very easy. Snap. Then she reached up, took a firm hold of his head with both her hands, and twisted it until his neck broke.

  He stared off, the way the woman had stared off, and the way the man had also. Nothing in his eyes. Nothing. Then he slipped down the wall, his legs wide apart.

  She studied him. There was that nagging sense of a mystery again, something to do with her. Something to do with what she'd just done.

  She remembered that dim figure standing over her. Had it been a dream? "Rise, Cleopatra. I, Ramses, call you!"

  Ah, no! Merely trying to remember caused a searing pain in her head. But the pain was not physical. Pain of the soul it was. She could hear women crying, women she had known. Women weeping. Saying her name to her. Cleopatra. Then someone covered her face with a sheer black cloth. Was the snake still alive? Strange it seemed to her that the snake should outlive her. She felt again the sting of the fangs in her breast.

  She gave a dull little groan as she stood there, leaning against the wall, looking down at the dead boy. When had all that happened? Where? Who had she been?

  Don't remember. "Modern times" await.

  She bent over, and slipped the money out of the boy's coat. Lots and lots of money in a little leather book. She slipped it deep into her pocket. Other things here as well. A card with English writing and a tiny portrait of the boy, how remarkable. Very beautiful work. And then two small bits of stiff paper with AIDA written on them. And OPERA. They bore the same tiny drawing she had seen in the "magazine" of an Egyptian woman's head.

  Surely these were worth taking as well. She threw away the dead man's picture. Slipping the little opera papers into her pocket also, she sang ' 'Celeste A'ida'' again softly to herself as she stepped over the dead boy and walked out again into the noisy street.

  Be not afraid. Do as they do. If they walk near the metal pathways, you must do this too.

  But no sooner had she started off again than there came one of those shrill blasts from the iron chariots. She covered her ears, crying in spite of herself, and when she looked up another fine man was standing in her path.

  "Can I help you, little lady? You're not lost down here, are you? You mustn't go about down here by the railway station with that money showing in your pocket like that."

  "Railway station ..."

  "Don't you have a handbag?"

  "No," she said innocently. She allowed him to take her arm. "You help me?" she said, remembering the phrase Lord Rutherford had used a hundred times to her. "I can trust you?"

  "Oh, of course!" he said. And he mean
t it. Another young one. With smooth, lovely skin!

  Two Arabs left the rear of Shepheard's, one slightly taller than the other, both striding very fast.

  "Remember," Samir said under his breath, "take very big steps. You are a man. Men do not take small steps, and swing your arms naturally."

  "I should have (earned this trick a long time ago," Julie answered.

  The Great Mosque swarmed with the faithful as well as tourists who had come to see this wonder, and come to see the sight of devout Moslems in worship on their knees. Julie and Samir moved lazily through the crush of tourists. Within minutes they had spotted the tall Arab with the dark glasses, in his flowing white robes.