The Buried Pyramid (21 page)

Reaching from his box, the driver pulled a conveniently placed bell rope. A cascade of chimes rang out, and the passengers had hardly begun to climb somewhat stiffly down from their seats when a small, withered man with snowy white hair and beard, and piercing black eyes emerged from the wide front door. He was tanned as darkly as the Arabs and wore a long, loose robe after their style of dress, but his features were European.

“Leonardo! Leonardo!” he cried out in a sing-song voice that owed its music to Italian. “You have come back to your old friend at last. I had your letters and have set aside rooms for you and your companions. Come inside out of the dust and introduce me.”

The old man waved them ahead, stopping only to speak a few words to the carriage driver and baggage porter. To Jenny’s ear, his Arabic seemed as fluid and musical as his English.

“Come in, come in out of the heat and the noise,” the innkeeper urged, motioning for Emily and Bert to join the others. “The porters will do their job without your watching—I know them. They are good men and hard-working. Surely you need something refreshing to drink.”

The servants obeyed, and soon they were all settled in a sitting room that was astonishingly comfortable, especially in contrast with the dry dustiness outside. Jenny knew how well thick adobe insulated against both heat and cold, but Stephen looked as astonished as if he’d been subjected to a conjuring trick.

“Ah,” said their host, “you notice how fine and pleasant it is. Enjoy. Now, Leonardo, though I think I can guess, introduce me to my new friends.”

Neville complied. “This young lady is my niece, Genevieve Benet, the daughter of my late sister, Alice, and her husband, Pierre. Jenny, this is Antonio Donati, a very old friend of mine.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Donati,” Jenny said, curtseying.

The old man’s face crumpled. “Please, Miss Benet, call me Papa Antonio, as my Leonardo did when he was younger and not so grand.”

Jenny smiled, “I would be delighted, Papa Antonio. Would you please call me ‘Jenny’? I get so tired of all this ‘Miss Benet’ stuff.”

“I, too, would be delighted,” Papa Antonio replied. “Now Leonardo, you move too slowly. This young man like a flower in sunlight with his golden hair and beard, this must be Stephen Holmboe, the linguist.”

Stephen bowed acknowledgment, saying something in what must have been Italian.

Papa Antonio beamed and turned to Emily and Bert. “And these are the good people who care for you, Mr. and Mrs. . . . Hamilton, yes? Now, take seats and I will give you chilled wine and perhaps some bread and fruit to nibble, and you will tell me about your journey.”

Jenny accepted the wine, noting with interest that the bottle had been kept cool in a small well at one corner of the room.

“Papa Antonio . . .” she began.

He interrupted, his expression anxious. “You perhaps do not like this wine? Perhaps as a young lady you would prefer fruit juice or even tea?”

“The wine is wonderful,” Jenny assured him.

Papa Antonio beamed. “It is from Italia, from the vineyards of my own family. I, of course, am very proud of it, but perhaps I think it is not to English tastes.”

“I am American,” Jenny replied. “And it would be excellent wine to anyone with taste. What I wanted to ask is why do you call Uncle Neville ‘Leonardo’?”

She saw a half-smile quirk the corner of her uncle’s mouth.

“Ah,” replied Papa Antonio with a wide flourish of his hand “ ‘Neville’—that sounds to me like a horse. Hawthorne is a tree, and this man is many things, but he is not stolid like a tree. He tells me his second name is ‘Leonard,’ which is nearly as stiff, but Leonardo, that slips off the tongue as good wine down the throat, yes?”

Jenny laughed.

“Yes, it does. What will you call Mr. Holmboe?”

“If he wishes, I shall call him that, since we are only newly met . . .”

Stephen interrupted, and Jenny suddenly realized that he was probably as weary as she with the enforced formalities of the voyage. What did his sisters call him, she wondered, Stephen? Stevie? Certainly not “Mr. Holmboe.”

“My first name is Stephen,” Stephen said, almost as if reading her thought, “which is what my family calls me. However, if it does not flow like wine for you, you are welcome to use another name.”

Papa Antonio tugged at his beard in contemplation.

“Stefano is easier on my tongue,” he said, “if it suits you.”

Stephen smiled, a thing that was hard not to do when confronted with Papa Antonio’s enthusiasm.

“I would be very pleased.”

Bert and Emily were spared rechristening, perhaps because the old man was wise enough to see that they were rather overwhelmed by all the newness. While wine and refreshments relaxed his guests, Papa Antonio explained his rather peculiar hotel.

“It is more, I think Neville say to me once, like what you English call a boarding house. I do not rent a room for a night or two, but have visitors who stay with me for months and even years. Many of my guests are military men or business travelers. These are assured that when their duties make them go elsewhere their belongings will be safe.”

As he said this, Antonio Donati cast a quick, guilty look toward Neville, and Jenny realized that this must be the very house which had been broken into by the mysterious burglars all those years before. Suddenly, the elaborate grates covering the exterior windows did not seem so much adornment, but more obviously protection.

Neville gave Papa Antonio a small smile and, so encouraged, the old man returned to his subject.

“As you will see, this house is arranged around a central courtyard, very pleasant in the evening, very nice all the time, I think. Your rooms are along one side on the lowest floor. There is only one floor above, and right now no guests are using those rooms so there will be no trampling of elephants over your sleeping heads. Good, yes?”

They agreed, and pleased, the innkeeper went on.

“Now, I am too old to much like going out into the markets every day or doing laundry and cleaning, so I have a good family who lives here and does such things. They are Copts, as you say, Egyptian Christians. You will like them very much. They have rooms on the second story, over this section of the house. This way if the
bambinos
wail in the night they do not trouble the guests.”

Stephen dove into the gap when Papa Antonio paused to sip his wine.

“Are we your only guests? The place seems remarkably quiet.”

“It is so quiet because the train bring you in as the hot part of the day is ending. Soon you will hear more noise, this I promise. However, it is true that I have fewer guests here than is usual. Winter is the best time for travel, and many of my guests are away for days at a time. Some will come in and out, but I do not think they will trouble you. All are lovely people or I would not have them.”

He smiled warmly at them all. “But now my helpers will have had time to put water and other comforts into your rooms. Perhaps you would like to have a rest from the heat and maybe wash off the travel dirt? Do not worry that I will let you sleep too long and miss your dinner. I shall come myself and rap gently on your doors, waking you with plenty of time to spare.”

They accepted their host’s invitation. The rooms proved to be large and airy, with a curtained sleeping area in one corner and the remainder furnished as a sitting room. Jenny, Sir Neville, and Stephen each had their own rooms, while Bert and Emily shared a fourth. Emily and Bert were obviously surprised to discover that their room was in no way inferior to those assigned the other guests, and Bert even drew his master to one side.

“Sir, there must be a mistake. Mr. Donati should be told.”

Jenny saw her uncle’s grin and realized that he had been waiting for this.

“No need, Bert,” he assured the man, clapping him genially on the shoulder. “If you and Emily are to stay on when I go elsewhere I wanted you to be comfortable, not cramped in servant’s quarters. I hope you won’t find one room too small.”

Bert answered politely, “Not at all, sir. Thank you, sir.” The delight he was too well-trained to express in words was evident as he gathered Emily to him and they went into their assigned place. Emily appeared a moment later to help Jenny undo her laces.

“Will you need anything from your trunks, Miss?” she asked.

“Nothing I can’t get for myself,” Jenny assured her. “Go rest.”

Emily turned to go, then turned impulsively back.

“Your uncle’s a good man, Miss Benet.”

“He is indeed,” Jenny agreed with a smile. “I could have done far worse for a guardian.”

It seemed for a moment Emily might say something more, but she grew suddenly shy, bobbed a curtsey, and hurried away.

The evening meal was magnificent, prepared by Papa Antonio himself with the assistance of two young Copts, twins of about thirteen whom he insisted on referring to as Castor and Pollux, though apparently they possessed perfectly normal Christian names. Afterwards the group retired to the central courtyard, which was every bit as pleasant as their host had promised.

Date palms taller than the second story roof granted both shade and privacy. Water trickled from a vase cradled in the arms of an Italian Renaissance cupid into a basin tiled a delicate rose pink. Honeyed dates and enormous golden sultanas were set out on a gauze-covered tray for those with an inclination to nibble. More of Papa Antonio’s family
vino
—this a sweeter, dessert vintage with a faint undertone of oranges—had been offered as an alternative to dark, almost muddy coffee.

Neville and Jenny accepted small cut-crystal goblets of the wine, while Stephen happily indulged in the coffee, sweetening it almost to syrup and adding thick cream.

Papa Antonio held his wine up to the candlelight to admire its delicate color.

“Like amber, no? Or translucent gold, perhaps.” He sipped and sighed happily. “Beauty is everywhere if you know where to look for it, I think. In memory or in color or in a dream about to be realized. How long do you plan to remain in Cairo, Leonardo?”

Sir Neville stretched lazily. He had discarded his formal English clothing and sat in his shirt and a loose pair of trousers, rather as if he were in his private quarters at home. Jenny made a mental note that formal etiquette was apparently dispensed with at least here within the walls of Papa Antonio’s inn.

Tomorrow she would have Emily help her unpack some of her lighter dresses, including those with the shorter skirts. She was certain that Uncle Neville would agree with her that ankle length made more sense when one was going to be trailing about on dirty pavement. Trousers would be out of line, at least until they entered the desert and there was no one to be scandalized but gerbils and camels.

“I need to contact Eddie Bryce,” Neville said in response to Papa Antonio’s question. “Do you know where we could reach him these days?”

“Write to Ibrahim Alhadj ben Josef on the Street of Potters,” came the reply.

“Gone completely native then, has he?” Neville said. “I thought as much. My letters reached him though, under his other name.”

“They would,” Papa Antonio agreed, “for he continues to do a great deal of work for the English. Many scorn him for his choice, but cannot quite give up the usefulness of one who speaks both Arabic and English fluently, and has such good contacts within the Arab community.

“I’ll send the letter out this evening,” Neville said, “if one of your servants would deliver it.”

He did so, and a reply was waiting for them when they came out into the courtyard to breakfast. The waiting letter was addressed in a sloppy masculine hand on rough paper of local manufacture.

Delighted to learn you have arrived safely. I have a job that will take up the better part of today. If I do not hear otherwise, I will call this evening after dinner.

Edward Bryce

“That’s fine, then,” Neville said, folding the note away. “Stephen, before the day gets too hot, why don’t you and I go out to the bazaars and see about a few supplies?”

“Can’t I go, too, Uncle Neville?” Jenny asked.

“It would probably be best if you did not,” Neville replied. “The bazaar I have in mind is not one usually frequented by the tourists. Even we Englishmen may find ourselves treated coolly, but I expect our knowledge of the local languages to get us through. If we took a young woman with us—especially one who went unveiled—the Arabs would consider it an insult. Tomorrow when we have spoken with Eddie, I will arrange for you to see something of Cairo. Perhaps you can look up Mary Travers and go visiting.”