Richard Harvey looked down at the corpulent bulk of Henrietta Olson’s abdomen. The upper and lower sheets had been separated to expose the area of the gall bladder. The rest of Henrietta’s body was covered to preserve her dignity.
“Now, Mrs. Olson, please point to where you felt the pain,” said Richard.
A hand snaked out from beneath the sheets. With her index finger Henrietta indented her belly just under the right rib cage.
“And also back here, Doctor,” said Henrietta, rolling over on her right side and jabbing her finger in the middle of her back. “Right about here,” said Henrietta, poking Richard with her finger at the level of his kidney.
Richard rolled his eyes so that only Nancy Jacobs, his office nurse, could see, but she shook her head, feeling that Richard was being unusually short with his patients.
Richard looked up at the clock. He knew he had three more patients to see before lunch. Although his three-year-old practice of internal medicine was doing amazingly well and he liked his work, some days were a little trying. Problems relating to smoking and obesity comprised ninety percent of his cases. It was a far cry from the intellectual intensity of his residency at the general. And now, on top of this problem, was the situation with Erica. It made concentrating on problems like Henrietta’s gall bladder almost impossible.
There was a quick knock, and Sally Marinski, the receptionist, poked her head in. “Doctor, your call is on one.” Richard’s face brightened. He’d asked Sally to ring up Janice Baron, Erica’s mother.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Olson,” said Richard. “I must take this call. I’ll be right back.” He motioned for Nancy to stay.
Closing the door to his office, Richard picked up the phone and pressed the connecting button.
“Hello, Janice.”
“Richard, Erica hasn’t written yet.”
“Thanks a lot. I know she hasn’t written yet. The reason I called is to tell you I’m really going crazy. I want to know what you think I should do.”
“I don’t think you have a lot of choices right now, Richard. You’re just going to have to wait until Erica gets back.”
“Why do you think she went?” asked Richard.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never understood this Egypt thing, right from the time she announced that she was going to major in it. If her father hadn’t died, he would have been able to talk some sense into her.”
Richard paused before speaking. “I mean, I’m glad she has interests, but a hobby should not threaten the rest of your life.”
“I agree, Richard.”
There was another pause, and Richard absentmindedly toyed with his desk set. He had a question for Janice, but he was afraid to ask.
“What do you think of me going to Egypt?” he said finally.
There was a silence.
“Janice?” said Richard, wondering if the connection had been broken.
“ Egypt! Richard, you can’t leave your office like that.”
“It would be difficult, but if it’s necessary, I can do it. I can get coverage.”
“Well… maybe it’s a good idea. But I don’t know. Erica has always had a mind of her own. Did you talk to her about going?”
“No, we never discussed it. I think she just assumed I couldn’t leave right now.”
“Maybe it would show her that you care,” said Janice thoughtfully.
“Know that I care! My God, she knows I put a down payment on that house in Newton.”
“Well, that may not be exactly what Erica has in mind, Richard. I do think that the problem is that you dragged your feet too long, so maybe going to Egypt is a good idea.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do, but thanks, Janice.”
Richard replaced the receiver and looked on his blotter at the patient list for the afternoon. It was going to be a long day.
Erica leaned back as the two attentive waiters cleared away their dishes. Yvon had been so crisp and short with them that Erica had almost been embarrassed, but it was obvious that Yvon was accustomed to efficient servants with whom, the less said, the better. They had dined sumptuously by candlelight on spicy local dishes that Yvon had ordered with great authority. The restaurant was romantically although inappropriately called the Casino de Monte Bello, and it was situated on the crest of the Mukattam Hills. From where Erica was sitting on the veranda she could look east into the rugged Arabian mountains that ran across the Arabian peninsula to China. To the north she could see the spreading veins of the delta as the Nile fanned out searching for the Mediterranean, and to the south she could see the river coming from the heart of Africa like a flat, shiny snake. But by far the most impressive vista was to the west, where the minarets and domes of Cairo thrust their heads through the mist that covered the city. Stars were emerging in the darkening silver sky just like the lights of the city below. Erica was obsessed with images of the Arabian Nights. The city projected an exotic, sensuous, and mysterious quality that forced the sordid events of the day to recede.
“Cairo has a very powerful bitter charm,” said Yvon. His face was lost in the shadows until the ember of his cigarette became fiery red as he inhaled, illuminating his sharply cut features. “It has such an unbelievable history. The corruption, the brutalities, the continuity of violence, are so fantastic, so grotesque as to defy comprehension.”
“Has it changed much?” asked Erica, thinking of Abdul Hamdi.
“Less than people think. The corruption is a way of life. The poverty is the same.”
“And bribery?” asked Erica.
“That hasn’t changed at all,” said Yvon, carefully tapping his cigarette over the ashtray.
Erica took a sip of wine. “You’ve convinced me not to go to the police. I really have no idea if I could identify the killers of Mr. Hamdi, and the last thing I want to do is get caught up in a morass of Asian intrigue.”
“It’s the smartest thing you can do. Believe me.”
“But it still bothers me. I can’t help but feel I’m shirking my responsibility as a human being. I mean, to see a murder and then not do anything. But you think that my not going to the police will help your crusade against the black market?”
“Absolutely. If the authorities find out about this Seti statue before I can locate it, then any chance of its helping me penetrate the black market will be lost.” Yvon reached over and reassuringly squeezed her hand.
“While you’re trying to find the statue, will you try to find out who killed Abdul Hamdi?” Erica asked.
“Of course,” said Yvon. “But don’t misunderstand me. My motive is the statue and controlling the black market. I don’t fool myself into thinking I will be able to influence moral attitudes here in Egypt. But if I do find the killers, I will alert the authorities. Will that help assuage your conscience?”
“It will,” said Erica.
Immediately below, lights came on, illuminating the citadel. The castle fascinated Erica, evoking images of the Crusades.
“One thing you said this afternoon surprised me,” she said, turning to Yvon. “You mentioned the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs.’ Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense.”
Yvon smiled, but allowed the waiter to serve the aromatic Arabic coffee before speaking. “Curse of the Pharaohs! Let’s say I don’t dismiss such ideas totally. The ancient Egyptians spent great efforts on preserving their dead. They were renowned for their interest in the occult, and they were experts with all sorts of poisons. Alors…” Yvon sipped his coffee. “Many of the people dealing with treasures from pharaonic tombs have died mysteriously. There’s no doubt about that.”
“The scientific community has a lot of doubt,” said Erica.
“Certainly the press has been quick to exaggerate various stories, but there have been some very curious deaths related to Tutankhamen’s tomb, starting with Lord Carnarvon himself. There has to be something to it; how much, I do not know. The reason I mentioned the curse was that it seems two merchants who were good ‘leads,’ as you say, were killed just prior to my meeting with them. Coincidence? Probably.”