by Anne Rice
"Oh, yes, that little trench you dug between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. Did you whip the slaves in the hot sun to dig that trench? Do tell me."
"Touché, old fellow, touché. Truth is, I haven't the foggiest notion." Alex put down his fork and sat back, smiling at Henry. "This has been the most exhausting dinner."
Henry stared at him with the same expressionless glassy eyes with which he regarded everything else.
"Tell me, Mr. Ramsey," said Elliott. "Your personal opinion, if you will. Is this mummy truly Ramses the Great? An immortal who lived until the time of Cleopatra?"
Alex laughed softly. He looked again at Henry, and this time apparently Henry's condition shocked him. He was about to say something when Ramses went on.
"And what do you think, Lord Rutherford?" Ramses asked. "You read the notes of your friend Lawrence. Is there an immortal man in that mummy case in Julie's house in Mayfair?"
Elliott smiled. "No, there isn't," he said.
Julie stared at her plate. Then slowly she looked up at Samir.
"Of course not!" Alex said. "And it's about time somebody said so. When they take him to the museum and cut him up, they'll discover he was a scribe with a lively imagination."
"Forgive me," Julie said. "But I am so weary of all this. We'll be in Egypt soon enough, among the mummies and the monuments. Must we go on?"
"I'm sorry, my dear," Elliott said, lifting his fork and taking a small morsel of chicken. "I've rather enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Ramsey. I find your perspective on ancient Egypt absolutely riveting."
"Oh? The present era is my fascination of late, Lord Rutherford. Englishmen such as yourself intrigue me. And as you were saying, you were a good friend of Lawrence, were you not?"
Julie saw the change in Henry before she realized that Ramses was once again glaring at him. Henry shifted, lifted the empty glass in his hand, then realized it was empty and stared at it as if he did not know what to do with it, and then stared just as stupidly at the waiter who took it from him and gave him another drink.
If Elliott noticed all this, he gave no sign.
"We had our differences, Lawrence and I," he answered, "but yes, we were very good friends. And we did agree upon one thing. We hoped mat our children would soon be happily married."
Julie was stunned. "Elliott, please."
"But we needn't discuss this, you and I," Elliott said quickly. Obviously rudeness wasn't easy for him. ' 'There are other things I should like to discuss with you. Where you came from, who you really are. All those same questions I ask myself when I look into the mirror."
Ramses laughed, but he was now angry. Julie could feel it.
"You'll probably find my answers brief and disappointing. As for the marriage of Julie to your son, Lawrence believed it was Julie's choice. Let me see. How did he put it?" He turned his eyes on Henry again. "English is rather new to me, but my memory is exceptional. Ah, yes. 'Julie's marriage can wait forever.' My dear Henry, were those not the words?"
Henry's lips worked silently, but only a faint moan came out of his lips. Alex was red-faced, hurt, looking at Ramses. Julie had to do something to stop this, but what?
"Well, you certainly do seem to have been a close friend of Julie's father," Alex said almost sadly. "Closer perhaps than we realized. Was there anything else that Lawrence made known to you before he died?"
Poor, poor Alex! But this was all aimed at Henry, and in another moment things were going to explode.
"Yes," Ramses said. Julie grabbed his hand and squeezed it, but he did not acknowledge this. "Yes, that he thought his nephew was a bastard." Again he glared at Henry. "Am I right? 'You bastard.' Weren't those his last words?"
Henry rose from the chair, upsetting it. He stumbled backwards as the chair went over with a thud on the carpeted floor. He stared at Ramses, his mouth open, a low sound coming from him, half gasp, half moan.
"Good God," said Alex. "Mr. Ramsey, you go too far."
"Do I?" asked Ramses, watching Henry.
"Henry, you're drunk, old man," Alex said. "I should help you to your room."
"Please do not do this," Julie whispered. Elliott was studying both of them. He had not so much as looked up at Henry, who turned now and half stumbled towards the far door.
Alex stared at his plate, his face reddening.
"Mr. Ramsey, I think there's something you must understand," Alex said.
"What is that, young man?"
"Julie's father was plainspoken with those he loved." Then something dawned on him. "But . . . you weren't there when he died, were you? I thought Henry was with him. Alone."
Elliott was silent.
"My, but this is going to be a very interesting trip," Alex said lamely. "I must confess-"
"It's going to be a disaster!" Julie said. She could take this no more. "Now, listen to me. All of you. I don't want any more talk of marriage; or of my father's death. I've had quite enough of both." She rose to her feet. "You must forgive me, but I'm leaving you now. I'll be in my cabin if you should need me." She looked down at Ramses. "But no more talk of these things, is that clear?"
She gathered up her small evening bag and walked slowly through the dining room, ignoring those who were staring.
"Oh, this is dreadful," she heard Alex say behind her. And then he was at her side. "I am so sorry, darling, really! Things just got out of hand."
"I want to go to my room, I told you," she said, walking faster.
Nightmare. You are going to wake up, back in London, safe, and none of this will have happened. You did what you had to do. That creature is a monster and must be destroyed.
He stood at the bar waiting for the Scotch, which seemed to be taking forever, and then he looked up and saw him-that thing, that thing that wasn't human, standing in the door.
"Never mind," he growled under his breath. He turned and rushed through the little carpeted corridor to the deck. Slam of the door behind him, the thing was coming after him. He turned, his face stung by the wind, and almost fell on the narrow metal steps. The thing was only a few feet away from him, those big glassy blue eyes staring at him. He ran up the steps, the wind working against him as he ran along the deserted deck.
Where was he going? How would he get away from it? He pushed open another door into a little corridor. Numbers he didn't recognize on the polished doors of the staterooms. He looked back; the thing had entered the corridor; it was pounding after him.
"Damn you." His voice was a whimper. Out on the deck again and this time the wind was so damp it was like rain. He couldn't see where he was going. He clutched the railing for a moment, looking down at the boiling grey sea.
No! Get away from the railing. He rushed along until he saw another doorway, and ducked inside again. He felt the vibration right behind him, heard the thing breathing. His gun, where the hell was his gun?
Turning, he fumbled in his pocket. The thing had hold of him. Dear God! He felt a large warm hand close over his. The gun was wrenched out of his fingers. Groaning, he slumped against the wall, but the thing held him up by his lapel, peering into his face. An ugly light flashed through the porthole of the door, illuminating the thing in irregular bursts.
"A pistol, am I correct?" the thing said to him. "1 read of it when perhaps I should have been reading of Oxford, egomania, aspirin and Marxism. It fires a small projectile of metal at high speed, as the result of intense combustion within the chamber behind the projectile. Very interesting, and useless when you are dealing with me. And were you to fire it, men would come and want to know why you did it."
"I know what you are! I know where you came from."
"Oh, you do! Then you realize that I know what you are. And what you have been up to! And I have not the slightest scruple about carrying you down to the coal furnaces which fuel this magnificent ship and feeding you to the fires which drive us now into the cold Atlantic."
Henry's body convulsed. With every muscle he struggled, but he could not free himself from the ha
nd that now locked on his shoulder, gently crushing the bones.
"Listen to me, foolish one." The thing drew in closer. He could feel its breath on his face. "Harm Julie and I shall do it. Make Julie cry and I shall do it! Make Julie frown and I shall do it! For the sake of Julie's peace of mind, you live. There is nothing more to it. Remember what I say."
The hand released him. He slumped towards the floor, only catching himself before he actually fell. He gritted his teeth, his eyes closing as he felt the warm stickiness inside his pants, and smelled his own waste. His bowels had cut loose.
The thing stood there, its face veiled in shadow as it studied the gun which it held out to the gray light from the porthole in the door. Then it pocketed the gun and turned on its heel and left him.
A wave of sickness rose; he saw blackness.
When he awoke he was crouched in the corner of the passage. No one had passed, it seemed. Trembling, dizzy, he climbed to his feet and made his way to his stateroom. And once there he stood over the small toilet vomiting up the contents of his stomach. Only then did he strip off his soiled clothes.
She was crying when he came in. She had sent Rita off to supper with the other servants on board. He did not even knock. He opened the door and slipped inside. She wouldn't look at him.
She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, but her crying wouldn't stop.
"I'm sorry, my Queen. My gentle Queen. Believe me, lam." When she looked up she saw the sadness in his face. He stood helplessly before her, the lamp behind him filling the edges of his brown hair with an uneven golden light.
"Let it be for now, Ramses," she said desperately. "I can't bear it, the knowledge that he did it. Let it be, I beg you. I only want us to be in Egypt together."
He sat down on the settee beside her, towering over her, and gently he turned her and this time when he kissed her she melted completely, letting him enfold her, letting him breathe into her that powerful heat. She kissed his face, his cheek where the flesh was so taut over the bones, and then his closed eyes. She felt his hands tighten on her naked shoulders and she realized he was pushing her gown down and away from her breasts.
She drew back, ashamed. She had led him on and she hadn't meant to.
' 'I don't want it to happen," she said, her tears coming again.
Not looking at him, she pushed the satin sleeves upwards. When finally their eyes met, she saw only patience, and that faint half smile, now tempered by the same sadness she'd seen before.
He reached out for her, and she stiffened. But he merely adjusted the sleeves of her dress for her. And straightened the pearls around her neck. Then he kissed her hand.
"Come out with me," he said in a low, soft voice, kissing her tenderly on her shoulder. "The wind is cool and fresh. And they are playing music in the public rooms. Can we dance together to the music? Ah, this floating palace. It is paradise. Come with me, my Queen."
"But Alex," she said. "If only Alex . . ."
He kissed her throat. He kissed her hand again. He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm. The heat coursed through her again. To stay in this room would be folly, unless, of course. But no. She could not let it happen, until it was really what she wanted with her whole soul.
She might lose her soul utterly; that was the horror. There was a dim sense again of her world being destroyed.
"Let's go, then," she said drowsily.
He helped her to her feet. He took her handkerchief from her and wiped her eyes with it as if she were a child. Then he picked up her white fur from the arm of the chair and put it over her shoulders.
They walked together along the windy deck and into the corridor and towards the grand ballroom-a lovely confection of gilded wood and satin wall panels, of drowsing palms and stained glass.
He moaned as he looked at the distant orchestra. "Oooh, Julie, this music," he whispered. "It enslaves me."
It was a Strauss waltz again, only there were many musicians here, and the sound was louder and richer, flooding the great room.
No sign of Alex, thank God. She turned to him, and let him take her hand.
With a great sweeping turn, he began to waltz with her, beaming down at her, and it seemed then nothing mattered. There was no Alex; there was no Henry; there had been no terrible death for her father which must be avenged.
There was only this moment of dancing with him, round and round, beneath the soft iridescent chandeliers. The music surged; the other dancers seemed perilously close around them; but Ramses' steps were perfect for all their great breadth and strength.
Wasn't it enough that he should be a mystery? she thought desperately. Wasn't it enough that he'd torn the veil away completely? Did he have to be irresistible? Did she have to fall so hopelessly in love?
Far away, from the deep shadows of the darkly paneled bar, Elliott watched them dancing. They were going into the third waltz now, and Julie was laughing as Ramsey led her recklessly and madly, driving the other dancers out of his path.
No one seemed to take offense at it. Everyone respects those who are in love.
Elliott finished his whisky, then rose to go.
When he reached Henry's door, he knocked once and then opened it. Henry sat hunched over on the small couch, a thin green robe wrapped around him, his legs naked and hairy beneath it, his feet bare. He appeared to be trembling, as if he were terribly cold.
Elliott was appalled suddenly at the heat of his own anger. His voice came out hoarse and unfamiliar.
"What did our Egyptian King see?" he demanded. "What happened in that tomb when Lawrence died!"
Henry tried to turn away from him, in a pathetic moment of hysteria, as if he could claw his way through the wall. Elliott turned him around.
"Look at me, you miserable little coward. Answer my question. What happened in that tomb!"
"I was trying to get what you wanted!" Henry whispered. His eyes were sunken. There was a great bruise on his neck. "I was . . . trying to persuade him to advise Julie to marry Alex.'
"Don't lie to me!" Elliott said. His left hand clutched at the silver walking stick, ready to lift it, to wield it like a club.
"I don't know what happened," Henry pleaded. "Or what it saw! It was wrapped up in the damned mummy case. What the hell could it have seen! Uncle Lawrence was arguing with me. He was upset. The heat... I don't know what happened. Suddenly he was lying on the floor."
He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he sobbed. "Oh, God, I didn't mean to hurt him! I did what I had to do.'' He bowed his head, fingers meshed in his dark hair.
Elliott stared down at him. If this had been his son, life would have no meaning. And if this miserable creature was lying . . . But he didn't know. He simply could not tell.
"All right," he murmured. "You have told me everything?"
"Yes!" Henry said. "God, I have to get off this ship! I have to get away from it!''
"But why does it despise you? Why did it try to kill you, and why does it seek to humiliate you?"
There was a moment of silence. All he heard were Henry's desperate broken gasps. Then the thin white face was turned up again, the sunken dark eyes imploring him.
"I saw it come alive," Henry said. "I'm the only one other than Julie who really knows what it is. You know, but I'm the one who saw it. It wants to kill me! "He stopped, as if he feared losing control altogether. His eyes were dancing as he looked at the carpet. "I'll tell you something too," he said, as he slumped back again on the couch. "It's unnaturally strong, that thing. It could kill a man with its bare hands. Why it didn't kill me the first time it tried, I don't know. But it could succeed if it tried again."
The Earl didn't respond.
He turned and left the stateroom. He went out onto the deck. The sky was black over the sea, and the stars were, as always on a cloudless night over the ocean, wonderfully clear.
He leaned on the railing for a long time, and then drew out a cheroot and lighted it. He tr
ied to reason things out.
Samir Ibrahaim knew this thing was immortal. He was traveling with it. Julie knew. Julie had been swept off her feet. And now in his sheer obsession with this mystery, he had let Ramsey know that he knew as well.
Now, Ramsey clearly felt affection for Samir Ibrahaim. He felt something for Julie Stratford, though what that something was, still wasn't clear. But what did Ramsey feel for him? Maybe he would turn on him as he had on Henry, "the only witness."
But somehow that didn't make sense. Or at least if it did, it didn't frighten Elliott. It only fascinated him. And the whole question of Henry continued to puzzle him and repel him. Henry was a convincing liar. But Henry wasn't telling the whole truth.
