Mummy Dearest

by Joan Hess

  I obliged with a recap of the sites we’d visited, then hesitated to collect my thoughts before I told him what had happened when Caron and I had gone shopping in the mall. “I was so sure it was Lord Bledrock in that antiques shop, but Alexander was adamant that they’d been at the lecture all afternoon. What’s more, the proprietor implied that I was crazy.”

  Peter leaned across the table and squeezed my hand. “You’ve been awfully nervous about the girls going to this party tonight.”

  “I did not say I saw mummies lurking about in the garden at midnight,” I said as I withdrew my hand. I was too mature and reasonable to react with Caron’s petulance, so I settled for a haughty stare. The waiter, who was approaching with the check, turned around and went back into the kitchen. “It’s remotely plausible that I saw someone with a strong resemblance to Lord Bledrock, but it was definitely not a reflection in the glass.”

  “And whoever it was left while you were distracted by the merchant next door. That’s reasonable.”

  Peter had that faintly skeptical expression that never failed to annoy me. Had it not been for the faces peering at us through the beaded doorway of the kitchen, I might have mentioned as much. “Don’t patronize me,” I said in a steely voice.

  “I’m not patronizing you, Claire. I believe you, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. You could have seen Lord Bledrock, although I don’t know why Alexander and the others would lie about it. Maybe it’s nothing more than a misunderstanding. Alexander didn’t mention that his father had taken off for a few minutes when they returned to the hotel. They all could have parted ways in the lobby to buy newspapers and magazines or gripe at the concierge’s desk. He didn’t know you were interested in the details.”

  “What about the proprietor?” I asked. “Dr. Guindi, I think he said. Why did he lie?”

  “He had his own reasons,” Peter said, beginning to sound a wee bit exasperated. “He might have thought you were some kind of cat burglar who would sneak into Lord Bledrock’s suite and steal whatever silver and gold pieces you could find. Lord Bledrock may be a long-standing client with a propensity for expensive jewelry. The proprietor was being discreet.”

  “He used my name.”

  “Or said ‘ma’asalama,’ which is Arabic for good-bye. You misunderstood. It’s a common neurological response to interpret foreign phrases into something the brain can process.”

  I leaned back, my arms crossed. My glower was sharp enough to etch a few new wrinkles in his roguish face. “Is that what you learned at spy camp? Do you use this technique when interrogating suspected terrorists, or do you prefer electrodes and water torture? I think it’s time to change the subject. What shall we get your mother? A tasteful T-shirt with a depiction of a smirking camel jockey? A hand-woven flying carpet? A coffee mug with Tut’s face?”

  He had enough sense to make no further references to what he surely considered to be an episode provoked by an overly active imagination coupled with maternal wariness. We wandered in and out of shops, purchasing a goodly number of gifts, and returned to the hotel late in the afternoon. When we stepped out of the elevator on the third floor, Abdullah was in the hallway with a cleaning cart. He gave me a piercing stare, then offered to fetch us a bucket of ice.

  I was trying to fathom his hostility, if that’s what it was, as we went into the suite. The cocktail party had been loud and messy, but surely it had been no worse than Lord Bledrock’s frequent gatherings. I’d seen Sittermann slip Abdullah a healthy tip. It seemed likely that he did not approve of women entertaining without a proper host.

  The shower was running in the girls’ bathroom; I hoped that no one else in the hotel expected hot water in the immediate future. I left Peter to wait for the ice and went into our bathroom to freshen up and gaze at my sunburned face. He and the girls were sitting on the balcony when I emerged, companionably listening to the incessant blare of horns and reverberating boom boxes.

  “Guess where we’re all going Monday!” Caron demanded before I could sit down. “This is so cool.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s to a psychiatric facility for overwrought tourists,” I said. I accepted a drink from Peter to let him know he was on the road to forgiveness, but hardly at his destination.

  “To the Nubian Sea,” Inez said excitedly. “It’s called Lake Nasser in the guidebooks, but that’s not as classy. It extends to the Sudan border. The British constructed Aswan Dam at the turn of the nineteenth century in order to increase the amount of cultivated land. At the beginning of the twentieth century it was rebuilt and—”

  “What’s odd,” Caron said, “is that it’s called the Upper Nile, although if you look at a map, it’s at the bottom. I think it should be the Lower Nile.”

  Inez shook her head. “I already explained that. It originates in Burundi, and the Blue and White Niles converge at Khartoum and empty into the Mediterranean. At a little more than four thousand miles, it’s the longest river in the world. The Amazon carries a greater volume of water because of its tributaries.”

  “Here’s a fig,” Caron said as she proffered a bowl. “Why don’t you stuff it in your mouth?”

  I looked at Peter, who said, “While you were in the other room, I called Mahmoud and confirmed it. He’s arranged two first-class cabins with private balconies on a luxury cruise ship for three nights. We board at Aswan in the afternoon. Bakr will drive us there, and we’ll fly back here on Thursday.” He gave me a dose of the boyish charm, replete with a dimple and the full impact of his molasses brown eyes. “If that’s all right with you.”

  “How can we possibly be ready to go on such short notice?” I said, thinking of all my clothes scattered in the bedroom. The chaos in the girls’ room no doubt resembled the aftermath of a tornado that had touched down during a hurricane. “All that packing, and trying to figure out what to do with everything we’ve bought, and—”

  “We won’t vacate the suite,” he said soothingly. “It’s ours for three weeks, whether or not we’re in residence. All we need to do is take enough for a few days. Dress is casual.”

  “Abu Simbel at dawn,” Inez said dreamily. “As the sun rises above the mountains, the first rays catch the four colossi of Ramses II as they stand guard should any boats dare to encroach upon the pharaoh’s land from the south.”

  “It sounds lovely,” I said. Even lovelier, it would be miles away from Lord Bledrock and his cronies, including Sittermann. Abdullah might recover from his current displeasure with me as well. Ideally, Peter would not be beckoned to Cairo or wherever it was he actually went. We could have a few days of bona fide honeymoon moments, including sunrise at Abu Simbel.

  Caron, who was astute if not versed in the art of mind reading, rolled her eyes and poked Inez. Sniggering, they went into their room to dress for the party. Peter told me that we would be departing for the dinner party on the dahabiyya within a few minutes. I returned to our room, changed into a dress, and grabbed a sweater. The girls decided to wait for Salima in the lobby, so we took the elevator together. They were, I think, less pleased with their decision when we all spotted Mrs. McHaver, Miriam, and Lord Bledrock sitting around one of the low tables.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Lord Bledrock, standing up as we approached. “A fancy restaurant, I’d wager. Rosen, you’d better keep a close eye on this wife of yours. She’s liable to catch the fancy of a Saudi prince and be whisked away to a vast marble palace, where she’ll be draped in diamonds and rubies and lead a life of decadent luxury.” His eyebrows wiggled as he attempted to pat my derrière, but I deftly avoided his hand.

  “Neville has such naive fantasies,” said Mrs. McHaver. “I suspect it’s due to harsh toilet training in the nursery. Don’t you agree, Miriam?” When she had no response, she thumped her cane on the wood floor. “Miriam!”

  Miriam looked up, startled. “I couldn’t say, Aunt Rose.” She was wearing her standard attire of drab brown, but she had make an attempt to lessen her pallor with pale lipstick
and a trace of blush. She still looked as if she could be sent flying across the lobby with the flick of a finger.

  Mrs. McHaver sniffed. “We’re waiting for Lady Emerson’s car. She’s arranged a small dinner party for a group of trustees from a university in the States. Mary and William is the name of the institution, I believe. Americans have such an odd way with names, and their spelling is atrocious.”

  “You’ll have to excuse us,” Peter said, keeping an eye on Lord Bledrock, who was once again maneuvering to get near me. “We, too, have a dinner party to attend. Caron, Inez, it might be more polite of you to wait for Salima on the terrace.”

  “Salima?” Mrs. McHaver heaved her ample chest like a startled pigeon. “I presume you’re speaking of the gal who was in your suite yesterday evening. I’ve met her father, Dr. el-Musafira. I was not at all impressed with his knowledge of the syntactic structure of the early Coptic manuscripts. One would think someone of his international repute has more than fleeting familiarity with such fields.” She pointed her finger at the girls. “Is she taking you to bars and nightclubs? I hope you do not intend to take advantage of the laxity in alcoholic beverages being served to teenagers. Many a young girl has seen her career expectations brought to a halt as the result of a single night’s indiscretion.”

  Caron returned her stare. “I already have twins, Beth and Macbeth. They’re at home, being toilet trained by their nanny.”

  She spun around and stomped toward the exit. Peter murmured something indistinguishable, as he, Inez, and I fled out the door. Caron was already at the bottom of the staircase, her expression as immutable as the faces carved on the colossi.

  “Beth and Macbeth?” I said.

  “I was going to add that the nanny’s name was Mary Poppins, but I let it go,” she said without smiling. “Who does she think she is? No wonder Miriam quivers every time the old witch pokes her with that horrible, gnarly finger!”

  “I doubt Mrs. McHaver will give you any more advice,” Peter said drily. “Salima should be here shortly. If you have any problems, call Bakr and he’ll come pick you up. We’ll see you at eleven.”

  Before I could launch into the short lecture I’d been rehearsing in my mind all day, Peter caught my arm and firmly escorted me to the sidewalk and across the corniche. My objections, which I was voicing stridently, were drowned out by arrival of a dozen drummers, a horn player, cheering spectators, and a bride in a white dress with voluminous stiff petticoats. Old women in long black skirts began to ululate. Flower petals were flung into the air. The decibel level was alarming.

  I was looking back over my shoulder as we went down steps to the pier. A servant in a white jacket gestured at a narrow plank that led to a motorboat. My previous indignation at Peter’s high-handed behavior vanished as I assessed my chances of surviving the short but perilous trip wearing high heels. There were no crocodiles in the Nile, I reminded myself, or piranhas. On the other hand, debris floated in the water, and the redolence was not appealing.

  “Shall I carry you?” Peter asked.

  “Don’t be absurd.” I took off each shoe, said a silent prayer to Taweret, the hippopotamus goddess (it seemed appropriate), and teetered across the plank. My breathing may have been shallow for the five-minute ride to the dahabiyya, but I was quite capable of smiling graciously as we were helped on board and introduced to an assortment of British, American, and Egyptian dignitaries, none of whom seemed likely to have an affiliation with Mary and William.

  A short flight of metal steps led to the upper deck, open and with ample seating on benches and around a long table. At the front (or the bow, for the nautically minded) were boxes of produce, a stove, a grill, and counter space. Several Egyptian men in white jackets were stirring large pots and chopping vegetables.

  I accepted a glass of wine and sat by the railing, watching fishermen pull in their nets as the sun began to sink. The houses set back from the bank were likely to be the homes of those with decent incomes. Children and dogs cavorted in the yards, while goats watched us incuriously. A heron wading in a pool failed to notice us. Lights began to glitter on the sloping mountainsides. We glided past dark cruise boats moored three across at piers. The muezzins in distant minarets beckoned the pious to prayer. On the lower deck, one of the crew members unfurled a prayer rug and knelt.

  Peter sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulder. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, the sky rippled with rosy hues. A flock of birds were silhouetted as they flew downstream in an unsteady formation. We remained on the bench for a few more minutes, then reluctantly turned around to be sociable.

  I had been dreading a long, convoluted conversation about policies and economics, but such subjects were avoided. The next few hours passed pleasantly, with discussion about travel misfortunes and worthy destinations. We were served an array of beef, chicken, and vegetables, along with plentiful wine, followed by coffee and dessert. I realized we’d turned back toward Luxor and were approaching the location where the dahabiyya had been anchored. Peter and several other of the male guests went downstairs, supposedly to examine the cabin facilities. I was not at all annoyed to be spared any high-level networking or whatever they were up to. The rest of us finished our coffee, then began to gather our things and thank the hostess, who smiled bravely and no doubt was quite ready for us to disembark.

  The motorboat made several trips to the pier before it was our turn. Our fellow passengers, one an attaché from the American Embassy and the other his counterpart from the British Embassy, had drunk enough to be as daunted by the plank as I was (although for other reasons). Peter kept a firm grip on my shoulder as he steered me to the concrete pier. We all went up to the corniche. The two diplomats invited us to go to a nightclub with them, but we declined and waited until they’d found a taxi and departed.

  “What time is it?” I asked Peter.

  “The girls won’t be back for an hour, if that’s what you’re wondering. Why don’t we sit on the terrace? We can drink coffee and smoke sheesa.”

  “That sounds illegal.”

  “It’s a water pipe, very traditional. You pick a flavor of tobacco, and the waiter puts it in a special cup over an ember. It’s milder than you might think it would be.”

  “Is this a ruse so that you can seduce me later?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The terrace was moderately busy. A few of the patrons were the hotel guests I’d mentioned to Caron and Inez; others were businessmen with loosened ties and weary faces. A young Arab woman in conservative dress sat down near us and ordered coffee and a water pipe. I nudged Peter to watch as she pulled out a cell phone and conducted a conversation between puffs.

  Since neither of us smoked, we decided to pass on the sheesa and settled for coffee, brandy, and a platter of dried fruit. The wall surrounding the hotel muffled the sounds of the taxis and clopping feet of the carriage horses.

  “Did you and your colleagues on the dahabiyya solve the world’s problems?” I asked idly.

  “Only if the world’s problems involve leaky plumbing behind mahogany paneling. The boat was built eighty years ago and refurbished twenty years ago by an American tour facilitator. I wasn’t able to provide any useful suggestions.”

  “The Rosen boys didn’t play pirates on the family yacht?”

  “No, we played lawyers in the attic. We had a courtroom, a library, and an old dining room table we used for negotiating mergers and hostile takeovers by foreign investors. They always made me be Taiwan.”

  “With Monopoly money?”

  “No money ever exchanged hands. It was all about stock certificates and proxies.”

  “Am I ever going to meet these other Rosen boys—and their mother?”

  “One of these days.” He popped a date in his mouth and looked away, adding something under his breath that suggested hell might be expecting a blizzard.

  The young woman put away her cell phone, took out some pound notes to pay her bill, demurely tugged her scarf int
o place, and wafted away. I realized that other patrons had begun leaving, as well. Our waiter came to the table and inquired if we might like more coffee. He did not seem enthusiastic about the proposition.

  “What time is it?” I asked Peter.

  “About eleven. Maybe the girls came in through the New Winter Palace entrance, just in case Mrs. McHaver was still lurking in the lobby. You wait here and I’ll go upstairs to check.”

  An iron clamp squeezed my stomach. I regretted having nibbled so many dates and apricots and drunk so much bitter coffee. “Salima promised to have them here at eleven.”

  “And they probably are here, wondering where we are. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “We should have called the suite on the house phone when we got here,” I said, trying to sound confident despite the waver in my voice. “It was a child’s birthday party, after all. How late could it last?”

  “It won’t take me any longer to go upstairs than it would to call. You wait here in case they come straggling back with an assortment of lame excuses.”

  I resolved to remain outwardly calm as I kept a careful eye on the walkway from the corniche to the hotel entrance. Caron and Inez were likely to be watching TV or reading that cursed book. Salima’s family was reputable (despite her father’s woeful lack of expertise in the syntactic structure of early Coptic manuscripts). Mahmoud had spoken highly of her. She would not have been hired to escort dignitaries around the archeological sites if she wasn’t reliable. She had a grant to do research.

  And if she had appeared at that moment, I would have grabbed her by the back of her neck and flung her into the Nile.

  It took Peter a long while to return, or so it seemed. “They aren’t there,” he said as he sat down. “It didn’t look as though anyone has been in the suite except for the maid who turned down the beds and left fresh towels in the bathrooms. None of the staff in the lobby has seen them since we left.”