“Fucking hell, Moustafa, stop hitting me, or I’ll sack you!”
Moustafa blinked in shock. “Such language, Mr. Wall!”
“Sorry, only halfway back. Get in the car before we get shot,” Augustus said, adjusting his mask. Moustafa had nearly slapped it off.
Augustus revved the engine and sped out, turning in a tight circle when a muzzle flashed a block down the street. The gun fired again as they sped away, a bullet smashing the windshield.
“The bastard damaged my motorcar!” Augustus complained.
“Herr Schäfer’s motorcar,” Moustafa corrected.
“We stole it from a German? Oh no, right.”
Moustafa studied him. “Are you able to drive, Mr. Wall?”
“Do you think you can do better? Were you a taxi driver back in Morocco? Um, no, the Soudan, isn’t it?”
Moustafa said something else, but Augustus didn’t hear. Images and sounds roiled through his brain. He had to squint at the clear path the headlights shone through the gloom, trying to see the road for a road and not a moonscape of destruction. He had to remind himself the sound of the engine was that of his own, not that of an approaching tank. The shots he heard in the distance he couldn’t place. Were they real or not? Were they being pursued? He didn’t dare look back. He might get lost in another world.
The drive seemed to last forever. At times, a dark hand grabbed the wheel and turned it to keep him from hitting a lamppost or a building, and he vaguely remembered a strange conversation with some soldiers at a roadblock where he tried to give them orders to repel the German counterattack, and they stared back at him in utter confusion. There were moments of relative clarity, when Augustus wanted to curl up and die rather than see Moustafa and Faisal staring at him like he was some lunatic. And then he would fall into the other world, and the barrages and machine-gun fire brought a strange comfort.
And then he was in his room, barring his door and ignoring Moustafa’s shouts from the other side. He grabbed his opium and hurriedly packed a pipe. He didn’t have time to dissolve it in wine.
Within a few minutes, he plunged into blessed oblivion.
Hours later, the sounds of wailing tore him out of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Augustus peeked through the wooden latticework that screened his bedroom window and couldn’t see anything amiss, only the usual crowds in the street below. The angle of the sun told him he had been unconscious for at least ten hours. It was already approaching midday. Some of the stalls in the market had already shut to escape the sun, although a melon seller was doing a brisk trade as his neighbors bought the best food with which to endure the heat.
As the wailing grew louder outside, he put on his mask, uncovered his mirror, and made himself presentable as quickly as possible. Hurrying downstairs, he found a weary-eyed Moustafa still standing sentinel at the front door, the Lee-Enfield in his hands.
“What’s going on outside?” Augustus asked.
“I don’t know. Um, Mr. Wall, how are you fee—”
“I’m fine,” Augustus snapped.
He took up the MP 18 where it lay on a table in the front hallway, saw that in his delirium he hadn’t neglected to reload it, and cautiously opened the door.
At first he couldn’t see anything from this angle either, but then the crowd parted for a small procession. Four men in worn clothing and bare feet carried a board on which lay someone covered in a shroud. They were shouting and calling to God. Behind came a ragged little group of men and women, some hobbling along with the aid of canes, others bent over and coughing from various diseases. Trailing at the end was Faisal, tears pouring down his cheeks.
“It is Osman ibn Akbar who has died,” Moustafa said. “God grant him eternal paradise.”
“A pity. He seemed a decent sort. I hope he got to eat some of that tip Faisal earned for him last night. Speaking of, I’m famished. Have you eaten?”
“No, Mr. Wall. But—”
“I’ll fry us up some eggs,” he said, closing the front door and heading for the kitchen before Moustafa could say any more.
Over a breakfast of eggs and toast and a strong pot of coffee, Moustafa tried once again to broach the subject.
“Mr. Wall, what happened last night? It was like you weren’t with us.”
Augustus put his fork down, annoyed.
“Do you like working here, Moustafa?”
“Of course, but—”
“The pay is good enough? You like having access to my books?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then honor my privacy.”
Moustafa’s face hardened. “No, Mr. Wall. That will not do. We were in danger last night, and we will be in danger again soon enough. I suspect that you are often in danger. If I am to work for you, I need to know what is happening with you.”
Augustus almost sacked him then. He was just opening his mouth to say the words when he stopped himself. What Moustafa said was only the truth, and where would he find someone else like him? Linguists of Moustafa’s caliber were rare. Plus, he hadn’t shied away from that fight.
But talking about this made Augustus squirm.
He paused, trying to find the right words.
“I . . . get confused sometimes. It’s gunfire that usually sets it off.”
Moustafa looked grave. “Is there a good way to bring you back?”
“Well, those slaps certainly did the trick, but I don’t suggest you repeat that without disarming me first.”
“And that smell coming from your bedroom last night? You were burning something.”
“Medicine.”
Moustafa looked doubtful.
The ringing of his newly installed telephone saved Augustus from having to say more. He hurried to answer it.
Zehra’s soft voice came over the line.
“Heinrich gave me your new number. I have some news for you.”
“What is it?” he asked, feeling a stab of jealousy that Zehra and Heinrich had a conversation without him. He glanced over his shoulder and was annoyed to see Moustafa standing there. Didn’t this fellow know when to step back? Zehra went on.
“I made enquiries with the other antiquities dealers and discovered that one has a large monumental inscription of polished limestone. It was found during the demolition of an old house. The dealer’s name is Ibrahim Shalaby, and he lives at number 28 Rue Josephine. He has an appointment with Herr Baumer this morning at eleven-thirty.”
Augustus glanced at his watch.
“That’s only half an hour from now. Even without the protests, getting there in time would be difficult.”
“I know. I only just heard. I told him to delay Baumer as much as possible.”
“You didn’t tell him our business, did you?”
Zehra’s musical laugh came over the line. “Of course not, you silly man! But Shalaby Bey knows not to upset a good supplier. Go get that inscription before Baumer does, and try to catch him too.”
She hung up. Augustus’s heart raced. He turned to Moustafa, the awkwardness of their previous conversation forgotten in the excitement. In a few words, he told him what they needed to do.
Five minutes later, they left the house. Both men carried pistols in their pockets, and Augustus also carried his sword cane. He wished he could bring better weaponry, but in broad daylight it was impossible. They hurried to Heinrich’s motorcar. Augustus looked ruefully at the smashed windshield and the various bumps and scratches.
“Oh dear, that wasn’t all the Germans’ fault, was it?”
“No, Mr. Wall.”
“Driving like a maniac, was I?”
“Faisal enjoyed it very much. I not so much.”
“Poor little chap, losing his guardian like that. Remind me to give him some money the next time I see him.”
“I am sure he will remind you, Mr. Wall. Oh, I got a good look at many of the inscription fragments last night. Do you remember the room of inscriptions?”
“My memory is
just fine, Moustafa,” Augustus replied, irritation lacing his voice. “Tell me all about it on the drive over.”
The motor started and then seized up a second later. Augustus tried again, but the motor didn’t respond. Augustus got out and examined the front end.
“Blast! Whatever I hit last night started a slow leak in the radiator. See this crack? It must have been leaking water all the way home. A good thing we made it. But now we’re stuck.”
“What do we do?”
“We’ll have to take the tram.”
Moustafa paused. “There have been attacks on the tram.”
“Come on. We’ll have to risk it.”
They hurried a few blocks to get on a main street with a tram line. The neighborhood was unusually quiet, with few Egyptians and fewer Europeans about. Soldiers stood at every public building. A troop of cavalry clopped down the road. They were an Indian regiment, armed with lances as well as rifles. Augustus smiled. Such troops had been useless in the war, although a few idiot generals had tried sending them against machine-guns. Against a civilian protest, however, he supposed horses and lances would still do the trick.
“So tell me about this inscription,” Augustus asked as they waited at the stop.
“Firstly, it is definitely from the Great Pyramid of Cheops. Two different fragments bore his cartouche. As you no doubt saw, there were many little fragments, single words or parts of words. I ignored those. The Germans had managed to restore a section of the writing, however. It said, ‘Cheops leads the way to the underworld. Beyond his eternal house in the direction of the pole star stride . . .’ And here the inscription breaks off but appears to be associated with another inscription. ‘The underworld honors all gods, all goddesses, and Isis above all, the collector of body parts.’”
Augustus nodded. “That sounds related to that other fragment in the German’s notebook: ‘down the main corridor past the guardians who stand eternal watch to the great altar of Isis, collector of body parts.’”
“I saw that fragment in the house,” Moustafa replied eagerly. “It was right next to the main inscription. Obviously the Germans believe it is associated too. But there’s more. Another fragment sitting nearby said, ‘Isis gives power to the limbs, power to the eye, power to the ears and mouth. Isis gives life to the living.’”
“Hm, sounds a bit like the ceremony for the opening of the mouth, except that was done on a mummy to give it eternal life, not on a living being. I wonder what that is all about? Did you find any fragments with numbers?”
“I think I anticipate your meaning, Mr. Wall. You are hoping there was a measure of distance for how far north the seeker must stride from the Great Pyramid to find the entrance to this underground chamber. When I saw that fragment, I did a quick look around the room and saw no inscriptions bearing numbers.”
“Considering the size of the pyramid, we probably don’t have even one-tenth of the inscription—or should I say the Germans don’t,” Augustus grumbled.
The tram arrived, flanked by a pair of armored cars. Augustus recognized the model—a Rolls-Royce chassis with armor plating and a cylindrical turret on top equipped with a Lewis machine-gun. In the mud of the Western Front they had been as useless as the cavalry, but they had proven vital in the desert campaigns of Mesopotamia, Sinai, and Palestine.
The tram had been given a bit of armor too, in the form of boards to cover the glass windows, with only a few thin slits for the driver and passengers to see out.
The tram pulled to a stop and the conductor opened the door. Augustus could see no one inside except a few policemen.
“First class or second, sir?” the conductor asked, pretending as if nothing unusual was going on.
“Which has thicker armor?” Augustus asked.
“I would suggest first class, sir.”
“Very good. A ticket for me and my assistant, please.”
Moustafa took a step back, looking at the tram uncertainly.
“What’s the matter?” Augustus asked him.
Moustafa shook his head. “I cannot ride on the tram, Mr. Wall. There is a boycott.”
“Oh, come now! No one will see you.”
Moustafa looked him in the eye. “I cannot ride on the tram, Mr. Wall. I’ll go on foot. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”
Augustus was about to object and thought better of it. He didn’t have time for an argument he sensed he would lose. “Very well. See you there.”
He paid for his ticket, and the tram started. Inside it was dark and stuffy. Augustus peered through the boards at the nearly abandoned streets. The police checked and rechecked their pistols and said nothing.
***
Moustafa watched the tram pull away for a moment before walking quickly down a side street. He knew a shortcut that would get him there without going on the main streets, where the protests would surely be the thickest. He sent up a quick prayer to God that Mr. Wall would make it safely and that no one would try and stop the tram.
Why had he not ridden with his employer? He had intended to, but at the last moment, he found that he couldn’t. The sight of those empty cars, with not a single dark face in them, had made him pause. The authorities weren’t even using the colonial police, his fellow Nubians, to guard it. The soldiers had all been white. Even the conductor had been white. None of the usual conductors were white. Was he a manager from the central office?
So he couldn’t make himself get on board, and in the instant that he paused, he had made a decision. Being the only African on an African tram in an African city would have made him feel out of place. Why should all these Europeans make him feel out of place in his own land? What right did they have to make him feel like the foreigner?
Did that mean he was for the protests? He wasn’t quite sure.
No. No, he wasn’t. Those fools carrying placards and chanting slogans didn’t know how to run a country, and if they got in power they would only run it for their own benefit. Of course the English were only running it for their own benefit too, but at least they had the experience and money to run it correctly. But was that enough to justify foreign rule?
Still mulling this over, he made his way down a narrow residential street. Few people were out, only a scattering of street vendors and some old women doing their shopping with a hurried air, stuffing their purchases into their bags of woven palm leaves and scurrying off back home. The rest of the people were either at the protests or hiding inside. Chanting echoed down the valley of tall buildings to him from far ahead.
As he continued, he saw a crowd passing along a cross street. Cursing under his breath, he took another route to try and avoid them. Here he was trying to solve a murder, and these fools were blocking the way!
He hurried down an alleyway, jogging now despite the blazing sun, and came to a street he knew would get him to where he was supposed to meet Mr. Wall. He’d probably be late now thanks to the protestors, but Mr. Wall was smart and would find some safe refuge until he showed up. Perhaps the tram would stay with him, seeing as he was the only passenger.
On second thought, the tram would not stay with him. The tram would keep to its rigid schedule. Whenever things went wrong, the English always pretended life went on as normal.
As he reached the end of the alley, Moustafa saw there was no avoiding the protest. It was huge. He’d gone far out of his way in an attempt to get around it, and the crowd was just as thick as before.
He came to the end of the alley where it opened onto a wide boulevard. People thronged the street as far as he could see in both directions. The chants for independence shook the walls of the buildings. It seemed like every window flew an Egyptian flag.
The crowd was moving in the direction he needed to go, so he stepped out of the alley and was carried along by the crowd like a reed thrown in the Nile.
Moustafa looked around him in wonder. He saw people of all descriptions here, from Nubians as dark as him to light-skinned Circassians. There were fellahin from the countryside
and students from the university. Moustafa did a double take when he saw a Coptic priest chanting, “Long live Sa’ad Zaghloul! Long live independence!” as he held a cross up high. He saw other Christians in the crowd too, some with their arms linked with Muslims.
A loud cheer came from up ahead, like the roar of a desert wind. Craning his neck, Moustafa could see that they were coming to the intersection he had first avoided, where another large street connected with the one he was on. The crowd parted for a procession of some sort. All he could see was a mass of black cloth behind the whites and greens of the jellabas.
Curious, Moustafa pushed his way ahead. After a few minutes, he got close enough to see what was going on . . . and stopped in wonder.
Women were marching too! A whole procession of upper-class women, their bodies swaddled in loose black-hooded gowns, their faces covered by white veils, marched carrying banners proclaiming their support for independence. The men gave them a wide berth, parting like the Red Sea for Moses. And all around the women, the men cheered them on.
“Our mothers fight for us! Our sisters stand with us! We will drive the British out of Egypt!”
These were not working-class women. Every one of them was dressed in fine silk. Some even carried European purses, and from beneath the robe of one of the leaders poked a pair of French shoes of the latest fashion.
Moustafa shook his head in disbelief. The leading families of Cairo were letting their women march? This movement had spread everywhere.
How could he have missed it? Of course he had heard the talk in cafés, had read the articles about the Wafd Party, but he had never imagined that the fever for independence had risen to such a high temperature. Was he really so lost in his studies that he could have been so blind?
He followed the crowd once more. The road forked, and the women and some of the men went one way, probably headed for the high court. He took the other street as it would lead him to the tram stop.
He moved with the crowd, having given up trying to push through it, the press being so tight.
“Where are we going?” he asked a man next to him.
The Case of the Purloined Pyramid Page 16