The Mummy or Ramses the Damned (57 page)

She was alive!

Elliott ducked outside the curtain into the lighted foyer behind the box, to read the note in the electric light.

“It was at the desk at Shepheard’s, sir,” said the boy, waiting for the coin which Elliott fished from his pocket and held out.

Infuriating. But so be it! He went back into the darkened hall.

Ramses hadn’t thought it possible to enjoy this spectacle. He was furious still with Elliott that he had been dragged here against his will. And indeed, the opera would have been ludicrous had it not been so beautiful—the fat “Egyptian” figures down there singing in Italian against a backdrop of painted temples and statues which appeared to be utterly grotesque. But the melodies overcame him, even as they worsened Julie’s pain. Julie leaned against his shoulder in the privacy of the darkness. The lovely voices rising in the gloom touched his heart. These hours wouldn’t be the agony he had imagined; it even occurred to his cowardly soul that perhaps Cleopatra had fled Cairo, that she was lost now in the modern world, beyond all hope of his finding her. And this both released him and terrified him. What would her loneliness be as the weeks and months passed; what would her rage demand?

She lifted the magical opera glasses. She peered at Ramses and Julie, astonished at the intimate focus. The woman was crying, no doubt of it. Her dark eyes were fixed on the stage, where the ugly little man sang the beautiful song, “Celeste Aïda,” his voice enormous, the melody enough to break the heart.

She was about to put down the glasses when suddenly Julie Stratford whispered something to her partner. They rose together,
Julie Stratford hurrying through the curtain, and Ramses following.

Quickly, Cleopatra touched Alex’s hand.

“You stay here,” she whispered in his ear.

He seemed to think it quite the normal thing. He didn’t try to stop her. She hurried through the alcove behind their little section of the theatre, and moved slowly and cautiously out into the grand room of the second floor.

It was almost empty. Servants behind a marble-top counter poured drinks for a few old men who looked quite miserable in their black-and-white uniforms, one of them pulling at his collar in obvious annoyance.

At a far table, against a great arched window hung with tapestried drapery, Julie Stratford and Ramses talked in whispers that she could not possibly hear. She moved closer, behind a stand of potted trees, and lifted the opera glasses, bringing their faces close again; but not the words.

Julie Stratford shook her head, recoiling. Ramses held her hand, he would not let her go. What was she saying with such passion? And how he pleaded with her; she knew that authority, that insistence, but Julie Stratford was strong just as she herself had been strong.

Suddenly Julie Stratford rose, clutching a small bag in her hand, and walked swiftly away with her head bowed. Ramses was in despair. He rested his forehead on his hand.

Swiftly, she followed after Julie Stratford, cleaving to the wall, praying that Ramses did not look up.

Julie Stratford passed through a wooden door.

POWDER ROOM

She was confused, uncertain. Suddenly a voice spoke to her; it was a young servant.

“Looking for the ladies’ room, miss? It’s right there.”

“Thank you,” she said, and she went towards it. It was obviously a public room.

Thank God, the powder room was empty. Julie sat down at the last velvet stool before the long dressing table, and merely rested for a moment, her hand covering her eyes.

The thing was out there, the monster, the creation, whatever one could call such a being; and they were locked in this stupid
auditorium listening to music, as if horrors had not been committed, as if they would not be committed again.

But the worst of it was Ramses pushing it to this conclusion between them, holding her hand and telling her that he couldn’t bear to lose her.

And she, she had burst out with it: “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. I wish you had let Henry do his work.”

Had she meant it? He’d hurt her wrist as he held her; it was hurting her now as she cried softly in this quiet room, her softest murmurs echoing off the cold mirrored walls.

“Julie,” he’d said, “it was a horrible thing I did, yes, I know. But I’m speaking now of you and me. You’re alive, you’re whole and beautiful, soul and body united—”

“No, don’t say it,” she’d pleaded.

“Take the elixir, and come with me, forever.”

She had been unable to remain there. She’d broken away and run. And now alone in this room she wept. She tried to quiet her soul; she tried to think, but she could not. She told herself that she must envision her life, years from now, when this seemed a dark adventure that she would confide only to those she dearly loved. She would tell of the mysterious man who had come into her life.… But this was unbearable.

As the door of the powder room opened, she covered her face with her handkerchief, keeping her head down, trying only to be calm; to breathe.

How dreadful to be noticed now, when she wanted to withdraw and go back alone to the hotel. And this other woman who had come in, why in the world was she sitting so close to her, right on the next stool? She turned her head away to the right. She had to get a grip on herself. Get through this night somehow for Elliott, though she was losing faith in the meaning of any sustained direction. She folded the handkerchief, the miserable little ruin of lace and linen now soaked with tears, and blotted her eyes.

Almost by accident she looked up into the mirror. Was she losing her mind! The woman directly on her left was staring at her with great ferocious blue eyes. Why, the woman was scarcely inches from her, and what a creature she was, with all her long rippling black hair pouring down over her naked shoulders and her back.

She turned and faced the woman, drawing back as far as she could on the stool, her hand out to the mirror to brace herself.

“Good Lord!” A shock went through her; she was trembling so violently, she couldn’t hold her hand steady!

“Oh, you are lovely, yes,” said the woman in a low, perfect British accent. “But he has not given you his precious elixir. You’re mortal. There’s no doubt.”

“Who are you!” she gasped.
But she knew
.

“Do you call it by another name?” the woman said, pressing in on her, the strong, beautifully modeled face looming over her, the rippling black hair seeming to eat the very light. “Why has he waked me from my sleep and not given the magic potion to you?”

“Leave me alone!” Julie whispered; violent tremors coursed through her. She tried to rise, but the woman had forced her securely into the corner. In panic, she almost screamed.

“So alive you are nevertheless,” the woman whispered. “Young, delicate, like a flower; so easy to pick.”

Julie sank back against the mirrored wall. If she shoved the woman, could she knock her off balance? It seemed a virtual impossibility; and once again, as she had when Ramses rose from the coffin, she felt she was going to faint.

“It seems monstrous, does it not?” the woman went on in the same clipped British accent. “That I should pluck this flower because what I loved was allowed to die. What have you to do with the loss suffered so long ago? Julie Stratford for Antony. It seems unfair.”

“God help me!” Julie gasped. “God help us both, you and me. Oh, please let me go.”

The woman’s hand flew towards her, grabbing her about the throat; she couldn’t bear it, the fingers closing out her life’s breath; her head struck the mirror behind her, once, twice. She was losing consciousness.

“Why should I not kill you!
You
tell me!” came the seething voice in her ear.

The hand suddenly let her go. Gasping, she fell forward over the dressing table.

“Ramses!” she screamed, the breath rushing out of her. “Ramses!”

The door of the powder room opened; two women stopped dead in their confusion. Beside her, Cleopatra rose from the table and plunged past them, knocking one of them to the side. In a flurry of streaming black hair and shimmering silver cloth she vanished.

Julie fell sobbing to the floor.

People shouting; hurried footsteps. An old woman with soft wrinkled hands was helping her to her feet.

“Have to get to Ramses,” she said. She struggled towards the door. The other women tried to stop her. She should sit down. “Someone get a glass of water!” “No, let me go!”

Finally she reached the door, and forced her way through it, through the small knot of ushers gathered. Ramses came rushing towards her; she collapsed in his arms.

“She was there,” she gasped in his ear. “She spoke to me. She touched me.” She moved her hand to her aching throat. “She ran away when the others came in.”

“What is it, miss?”

“Miss Stratford, what happened?”

“No, I’m all right now.” He almost lifted her off her feet, and carried her away from them.

“Well, all I saw was another woman with her; yes, a tall woman, black hair.”

Into the foyer of the box, he led her, a quiet private space. She tried to clear her vision; Elliott and Samir stood over her suddenly, and the music, the music was a ghastly din pouring through the curtains. Samir filled a glass with champagne for her. How absurd! Champagne.

“Here in the auditorium somewhere. Dear God, she was like a terrible angel! A goddess! Ramses, she knew me, my name. She knew me. She spoke of vengeance for Antony. Ramses, she knew who I was!”

His face was a mask of rage. He started for the door. She grabbed hold of him, knocking the champagne glass over. “No, don’t go! Don’t leave my side!” she whispered. “She could have killed me. She wanted to. But then she couldn’t. Ramses! She’s a living, feeling creature! Oh, God, what have you done, what have
I
done!”

A bell had sounded within the auditorium. People were streaming out into the open spaces. And Alex would be searching for her; and perhaps he would find them.

She could not clear her head; she could not bring herself to move.

She stood on the high iron balcony, above the iron steps that descended to a dark, neglected alleyway, the door open to the lights and the noise to her right. The city was a haze of soft
lamps and rooftops, of shining domes, and towers piercing the deep azure sky. She could not see the Nile from here, but it didn’t matter. The air was cool and sweet; full of the scent of the green trees below.

Suddenly, she heard his voice:

“Your Highness, I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”

“Hold me, Alex,” she whispered. “Hold me in your arms.” She took a deep breath as she felt him close to her, his warm hands on her. Gently he moved her back to sit on the iron steps that went upward to yet another balcony above.

“You’re ill,” he said. “I must get something for you to drink.”

“No, stay close to me,” she said. She knew her voice was barely audible. She stared out at the lights of the city almost desperately. She wanted somehow to cling to this vision of the modern city; to move towards it mentally out of her anguish. It was her only escape. That and the boy beside her, the clean innocent male thing that held her and kissed her.

“What do I do?” she murmured in the old Latin. “Is it grief I feel, or rage? I only know it’s suffering.”

She was torturing him, but she didn’t mean to. Had he understood her words?

“Open your heart to me,” he said earnestly. “I love you, Your Highness. Tell me what’s troubling you. I won’t let anything hurt you. If it’s in my power to stop it, I shall.”

“I believe you, young lord,” she said. “I feel love for you too.”

But what was it she wanted? Would revenge cure the rage that was tearing her apart? Or should she retreat now, taking young Lord Alex with her, and move as far away from her mentor, her creator, as she could? It seemed for one moment the ache in her would consume everything—thought, hope, will. But then she realized something and it was like the sun again, the warm sun.

To love and to hate so fiercely, it was the essence of life itself. And life she had again with all its blessings and all its pain.

The last act was nearing the end. Elliott sat staring dully at the beautiful stage, the doomed lovers suffocating in the tomb, Amneris the princess praying above.

Thank God it was almost finished! Verdi at his finest seemed absolutely ludicrous under these circumstances. As for the ball,
they would pass through it for no more than a moment or two before taking Julie to her room.

Julie was on the verge of collapse. She sat still in the foyer of the box behind him, shivering, clinging to Ramses.

She’d refused to let Ramses leave her; so Elliott and Samir had searched the crowds at the intermissions. They had moved up and down the staircase, looking for the woman whom only Elliott would surely recognize, but whom Samir could spot for her flowing hair and silver gown.

She was nowhere to be found. And it wasn’t surprising. She may well have left the hall altogether after the brief attack. The mystery was: how did she know about Julie! How had she found Julie here!

Another maddening aspect of all this was that they had not found Alex either! But perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. Alex remained somehow miraculously untouched by what had happened. Maybe he could be taken home with no further explanations, yet that seemed too much to expect.

There was no doubt in Elliott’s mind now that Julie would be on that noon train tomorrow with Alex. He himself would remain in Cairo until this thing was seen to the finish. Samir would go back to London with Julie, it had already been decided; for Alex surely couldn’t protect her or comfort her, since he did not know and must not know what was going on.

Samir would stay with Julie in Mayfair until Ramses returned. What good Elliott would be was uncertain. But he would remain. He had to. And Julie had to be taken far, far away.

The last heartrending duet of the opera was at its most poignant. He could not bear it for much longer. He lifted his opera glasses and began scanning the hall. Alex, where the hell are you! He scanned the left side of the dress circle slowly, and then gradually turned to the right.