Mummy Dearest

by Joan Hess

  “You’re welcome to join us,” I said, albeit ungraciously.

  “I know a delightful little restaurant near the Ramesseum. It has a shady patio, and the food isn’t too dreadful.”

  I saw Lord Bledrock heading toward us with the determination of a missile. To my relief, he paused as the door opened.

  “Howdy,” boomed a familiar voice. “Is this the shindig? I sure am tickled pink to be invited.”

  “Save me,” I whispered to Peter. “I feel a headache coming on. Can we please leave now?”

  Sittermann’s white suit was slightly grimy, but his face was infused with joviality. He caught Lord Bledrock’s hand and shook it with undue enthusiasm. “How’s it going, old boy? What you got to drink? I sure could stand something stiffer than beer that tastes like horse piss. I can almost feel the hair on my chest sagging like a bull’s balls on a busy day. How about a shot of whiskey with a splash of branch water?”

  Even Peter, who was usually unflappable, shuddered.

  CHAPTER 3

  Peter and I had dinner at the swanky restaurant in the hotel, then went up to our suite. We’d changed into more comfortable attire and were sitting on the balcony when Caron and Inez arrived. My daughter had several bulging bags; Inez had limited herself to one. They dumped their trophies in their bedroom, then joined us.

  “How was your day?” I asked.

  “It was great,” Caron said. “I could really get into having a chauffeur. Every time we got somewhere, he jumped out of the car and opened our doors. Inez tried to give him a tip when he brought us back here, but he wouldn’t take it. Maybe he thinks he’ll get a real one before we leave.”

  “I offered him ten pounds,” Inez said, offended.

  “Like he’s going to fall over dead for two dollars? That works out to about twenty cents an hour.”

  “It was a polite gesture,” I said. “Did you enjoy your guided tour of Karnak?”

  Caron grinned. “We were afraid we’d get stuck with a boring old geezer, but we had a really neat guide. Her name is Salima. She told us about all the seriously wicked stuff that went on in the rooms at the back. And she’s a master shopper. I felt like an amateur. She bargained with all the shop owners, but whatever she said must have been funny because they fell all over her.”

  “It was so cool,” Inez added. “We were invited to sit down and have mint tea right there in the stores. It was like we were nobility, or at least movie stars. All these tourists were staring at us through the window.”

  “She invited us to go to her house on Saturday,” said Caron. “It’s on the other side of the Nile, but she says she’ll meet us in the lobby and take us over and back on a ferry.”

  I glanced at Peter. “Is this woman on Mahmoud’s payroll?”

  “I’ll find out.” He went into our bedroom and closed the door.

  Inez regarded me soberly. “It would be very educational to learn how a middle-class family lives. Salima said it’s not a big deal, just a birthday party for her younger brother. A lot of aunts and uncles and cousins will be there.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I said, then attempted to divert them with our plans to go to the West Bank the following day.

  “Can Salima be our guide the next time you’re trying to be ever so subtle about getting rid of us?” asked Caron, who is not easily diverted unless her physical comfort is at stake. “She knows everything about all these old temples and tombs. She went to Cambridge to study Egyptology. Her specialty is mummified animals.”

  “Animals?” I tried to envision a sarcophagus large enough to accommodate a camel, a cow, or even a donkey. A crocodile would be less challenging, if it wasn’t too long. Hippopotami were out of the question.

  Inez nodded. “When the pharaoh or one of his favorite wives died, they’d mummify some pets to put in the tomb. I don’t guess PETA was around back then.”

  “Salima’s going to take us to the Mummification Museum here,” Caron said. “She knows all about how they cut open the corpse to remove the internal organs and pulled the brains out through the nose with a—”

  Peter returned, sparing me from the graphic details. “I spoke to Mahmoud,” he said. “Salima el-Musafira’s father is a professor at the university in Cairo, is noted for his books on hieroglyphs, and lectures at universities in Europe. Her mother is a doctor. The family is well respected. They have a house in Gurna across the Nile and an apartment in Cairo. Salima has published in Egyptology journals, and currently has a small grant from the university to document preservation efforts in some of the excavations in the area. She supplements her income by giving tours. She’s fluent in a dozen languages, and the embassies often engage her when there are dignitaries in town. Mahmoud was telling me how charming she is when Aisha started making caustic remarks in the background.”

  “See?” Caron said, as if rebutting an argument not yet on the table. “I told you she was okay. Can we go to the birthday party on Saturday?”

  I reminded myself that the girls were seventeen, well beyond the age of requiring a babysitter. On the other hand, we were in a country where they did not speak the language and were unfamiliar with the cultural traditions. “I don’t know. We’ll have to talk about it.”

  Peter did not help. “You and I have been invited to go on a sunset cruise and have dinner on a dahabiyya that evening. Local bigwigs, attachés from the American and British embassies, and a few others. The girls were going to be stuck in the hotel. Mahmoud assured me that Salima is reliable.”

  “How old is she?” I asked.

  Caron and Inez exchanged furtive looks. Caron at last shrugged and said, “I didn’t ask to see her driver’s license, Mother. I suppose she’s in her early twenties, but she grew up here and she knows how to use the ferries and—”

  I held up my hand in defeat. “All right, then, as long as we agree what time you’ll be back. You’ll need to dress conservatively, and find out if you’re expected to bring a birthday present.”

  The girls retreated to their bedroom before I could continue. In two years they would be away at college, I thought, and free to make all of their own decisions. I wouldn’t be there to demand that Caron tell me where she was going and with whom, and when she would be home. At the same time, this did not seem to be the place to start loosening the apron strings (as if I’d ever worn, much less owned, one).

  Peter pulled his chair closer to mine. “They’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe Bakr could go with them,” I whimpered.

  “They won’t need a bodyguard.” He gazed at the sky, trying not to meet my suddenly wary stare. “A chauffeur, I meant to say. It’s just a family party, an opportunity to learn how other cultures celebrate.”

  I did my best to remain gloomy and unconvinced, but before too long I was distracted by Peter’s delightfully ticklish assault on my neck and we retired for the night.

  We received more than our fair share of stares when we went to the patio for the breakfast buffet. Peter was wearing slacks and a cotton shirt, and Caron and I both wore shorts and short-sleeved tops. Inez, in contrast, had been swept into the mystique of archeology—and not with a whisk broom. She had emerged from their bedroom in full khaki, with knee-length shorts, a belted field jacket with well-stocked pockets, a pair of binoculars and a camera hanging on straps around her neck, and a broad-brimmed cloth hat with a dangling chin strap. Her sturdy shoes and thick socks would serve her well if she found the need to climb a mountain or descend into a rough-hewn pit. A water bottle, compass, flashlight, and first-aid kit were clipped to her belt. I had no doubt she had a week’s worth of rations and a Swiss Army knife somewhere on her body.

  None of us had the courage to comment as we chose a table and sat down. The employees in their red fezzes watched us, their expressions admirably restrained. Caron’s face was pink, but I suspected it wasn’t due to their outing the previous day. Peter’s lips were clamped together as if he’d used superglue when he brushed his teeth, and he expressed a sudden
need to detour to the newsstand and buy a paper. His shoulders were quivering as he hurried toward the lobby.

  Alexander arrived while we were eating. He dragged over a chair from a nearby table, sat down with a pained sigh, and ordered coffee from a waiter. After a guarded glance at Inez, he said, “You’re lucky to have made your escape when you did last night. That abysmal man—I’ve forgotten his name—would not shut up. He’s building a theme park out by the pyramids in Giza. Tut-O-Rama, or some grotesque thing. I was literally driven to drink. Shannon King was glowering like the embers in a sheesa. Lord and Lady Fitzwillie showed up with Lady Emerson, who has vehement views on the sanctity of the historical sites and expressed them at length. My father was blustering, and Wallace looked as though he was on the verge of a stroke. The argument became so heated that I was certain Ahmed would come knocking discreetly on the door.”

  “We had dinner reservations,” I said mendaciously, then introduced him to the girls. They gaped at him in response, although I wasn’t sure if they were awed by his father’s title, his accent, or his undeniably handsome demeanor. His studiously casual attire had not come off the racks but off the pages of glossy men’s fashion magazines. Even my impeccably dressed husband looked a bit shabby in comparison. “Please finish your breakfast,” I said to the girls, hoping to break their transfixed stares. “Bakr is meeting us outside in fifteen minutes.”

  Alexander grinned at Inez. “I see you’re well prepared for all contingencies.”

  “I have extra sunscreen if you need some,” she said, flustered.

  Caron carefully put down her fork. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. Inez, are you coming?”

  The two fled like gawky fillies, their knees wobbling so wildly I was afraid they were going to crash into a waiter—or into Mrs. McHaver, who was poised in the doorway. Miriam hovered behind her, peering over her aunt’s broad shoulder.

  “God save us all,” Alexander murmured as he lit a cigarette. “I suppose in this case I should be imploring Allah, but my Arabic is shaky before noon. I say, shall we have a round of Bloody Marys before we go?”

  Peter and I declined. Mrs. McHaver acknowledged us with a slight nod as she swept by and sat down at a table in the corner. Miriam paused at our table.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her tentative smile was aimed at all of us, but it was obvious that she was speaking to Alexander. Her eyelids quivered spasmodically as she attempted to give him a sultry gaze. “Are you off on an outing? I was so hoping you might come to Lady Emerson’s this afternoon. I don’t play bridge, and the others are always so engrossed that I feel as if I’m not there. I usually end up out in the garden, sketching. It’s dreadfully dull. You could help me with irregular verbs. They’re such a bother, but my aunt insists that I become fluent in Arabic, as well as French and German.”

  “So sorry, old girl, but I have a previous engagement,” Alexander said, sending a cloud of smoke at her. “Luckily, you’ll be there to make sure Mrs. McHaver’s martinis have the proper number of olives. Essential to the digestive process, I understand. One simply cannot rely on the local servants to attend to such matters of magnitude.”

  Miriam’s eyes narrowed. “If there’s no persuading you, I do hope you enjoy your outing. Good day.”

  Alexander ground out his cigarette in a saucer. “Pitiful creature, isn’t she? It would never occur to her to simply refuse to trail after her great-aunt like some sort of lapdog.”

  “She looks almost ashen in the sunlight,” Peter said. “Is she ill?”

  “I believe she’s recovering from a prolonged bout of a mysterious fever.” Alexander beckoned to a waiter and ordered more coffee. “I wasn’t really paying much attention when her case was discussed. Last spring she was obliged to take a medical leave from her teaching position. Mrs. McHaver brought her to Luxor because the weather in Cumbria can be brutal in the autumn and winter. The girl didn’t have the spirit to refuse, although she’s not at all interested in archeology. She’d much prefer to be in her flat watching the telly and drinking watery tea.”

  “Her first trip out here?” I asked.

  “She’s come in the past, but just for holiday between terms. Miriam’s parents died when she was quite young. Mrs. McHaver took her in and saw to her upbringing. I do feel sympathy for the girl, growing up in a remote house on the moors. No money of her own, forced to accept her great-aunt’s charity. Given grudgingly, one would suppose. Mrs. McHaver doesn’t pinch pences—she squeezes them until they scream for mercy.”

  I was sorry Caron wasn’t at the table, since her concept of deprivation was defined by her lack of cell phone and credit cards.

  “This is hardly a modest bed-and-breakfast,” Peter pointed out.

  “She does have to keep up appearances, doesn’t she?” Alexander lit another cigarette. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not paying the same room rate that her father used to pay fifty years ago. You’ll notice that she herself does not entertain, but never declines an invitation. Don’t let her fool you, though. She may seem like a stereotypic Scot, but there’s more to her than you may suspect.”

  “And Miriam?” I asked.

  “That I doubt, but who knows? One night she may snap and plunge a fish fork into her great-aunt’s neck. Would you mind if I take a look at your newspaper?”

  After a few minutes, we finished our coffee and met the girls in the lobby. Bakr was waiting for us in a small van at the curb. His shirt was already wrinkled and damp beneath his armpits, and his wisp of a mustache twitched like a convulsed caterpillar. He looked so alarmed by our approach that I wanted to clasp his arm and assure him that we harbored no cannibalistic notions. Alexander insisted that Inez sit in the front seat where she would have the best view, then took Caron’s hand and coerced her into the back row with him. Peter and I took the middle seats. Bakr slid the door closed, then hoisted himself into the driver’s seat and looked back at us.

  “Mr. Rosen and Mrs. Malloy,” he said, “Chief Inspector Mahmoud el-Habachi sends his regards and wishes all of you a pleasant day. There are bottles of water in the seat pockets, so you must please to help yourselves. Behind the last row is a box with fruit, potato chips, and—”

  “Let’s go,” Alexander said cheerfully.

  As we drove south, the corniche gave way to a typical city street of stores, hotels, and restaurants. Some of the men on the sidewalks wore long robes, others Western attire. The women had scarves on their heads and drab, ankle-length skirts, but some had cell phones plastered to their ears. Groups of girls giggled as they window-shopped. Horse-drawn carriages impeded traffic, eliciting shouts and blaring horns. In a vacant lot, a donkey pulled a cart piled to a precarious height with some sort of fresh produce, while men squatted in the shade, smoking brown cigarettes. There was a sense of modest prosperity; poverty was well concealed from the tourists.

  Eventually we left the congested traffic and drove past fields, unadorned buildings, and houses ringed by palm trees and dusty yards. I relaxed and sat back, aware for the first time that Caron and Alexander were having a quiet conversation. Before I could turn around, Peter opened a bottle of water and gave it to me.

  “First impression?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment. “It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced, yet not overwhelming. Trucks and cars whizzing past donkey carts that must have been using this route for thousands of years. Satellite dishes on the roofs of houses built out of mud bricks. The greenery here, with the contrast of the barren mountains just beyond—two diametrically different ecosystems.” I leaned forward and tapped Inez’s shoulder. “Seen any camels?”

  “Two so far. I’m going to keep a tally. Do you think a baby camel should get a full mark or just a half?”

  Bakr glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “The young miss will see a few camels, but they are not so useful for farming. To the west is the sand and the oases, where there are many camels. Mrs. Malloy is comfortable? Should I turn up the air conditioner? Would you li
ke to listen to music? Something to eat?”

  “I think not,” Peter said. “Mrs. Malloy is much tougher than she looks, Bakr. She can be as formidable as a falcon, as sly as a jackal, as dangerous as a cobra. In an earlier life, she was the wife of a powerful pharaoh, but on his death she seized the throne and ruled the land with an iron fist.”

  “Why, thank you,” I said. “Did I decorate my tomb with taste and charm?”

  “It was featured on the cover of Better Homes and Burial Chambers.”

  I ignored the snickers from behind me. We drove across the bridge spanning the Nile, and then alongside flat green fields. White egrets circled above, looking for promising picnic spots. Children stood at the edge of the road or rode on donkeys. Laundry flapped on lines around houses without doors or windows, while goats and chickens wandered nearby. Bakr managed to navigate the rough streets through a small town, where men sat in front of cafés, their eyes tracking our progress. The garages had piles of discarded tires, and rusty metal signs written in Arabic that probably advertised soft drinks. It had the same ambiance as rural towns back home.

  When we’d reached the far edge of town, Bakr pulled over. “We stop now at the taftish to purchase tickets. Will you be wanting to visit the Ramesseum and Medinet Habu?”

  “The Ramesseum was built by Ramses II,” Inez announced. “He was nineteenth dynasty, and lived to be ninety-six years old. He had over two hundred wives and concubines, including Nefertari. One colossus of Ramses bears a cartouche of his royal name, which was translated as Ozymandias and inspired the poem by Shelley. Nearby are the Osiris pillars and a hypostyle—”

  “Next,” Caron said from behind us.

  “Medinet Habu was built by Ramses III. It’s a mortuary temple linked to the Theban necropolis. Ramses III was considered the last great pharaoh. He was murdered by his wives.”