“Tell him that Ramesses is a very famous pharaoh. Everyone in England has heard of him.”
“He knows that. Ramesses is not his real name,” the young man explained. “His real name is Copt. Very old fashioned—too difficult to pronounce. Everyone knows him as Ramesses.”
“Copt?” wondered Kit.
“We are Copts, yes,” Khefri explained. “Christians.”
“Ah.” Kit nodded. “Please thank your father for allowing me into his home. I am honoured.”
This was done under Ramesses’ benevolent smile. He spoke to his son, who translated, “May the peace of God be with you while you sojourn in our land.”
“Shukran,” replied Kit.
The village patriarch beckoned his son and guest to follow him up to the rooftop, where Kit was given a prime place in the little pavilion—a simple structure of cloth and boards on three sides and covered with palm fronds to keep off the sun. Rugs had been spread and cushions arranged for reclining.
While the elder man busied himself with lighting a small charcoal fire in a brass bowl, Kit leaned back and watched the stars come out. In a little while, when the coals in the bowl were glowing, one of the daughters brought out a hookah or, as Kit knew it, a hubble-bubble pipe, and a small packet of some unidentified substance that would be smoked. The father prepared the pipe and, giving it a few draughts to get it going, passed the hose and nozzle to Kit, indicating that he should have a puff.
Not wishing to offend his host, Kit took an exploratory draw on the tube and was rewarded with a mouthful of cool, curiously menthol-flavoured smoke, on which he promptly choked—to the roaring delight of his host. “Thanks,” gasped Kit. “That was . . . nice.”
Khefri took a draught and passed the hose back to his father, who then proceeded to puff away happily while plying his guest with questions as interpreted by his son. How was the health of the king? Did Kit think the king would come to Egypt? How many horses did Kit own? Did he live in a castle? Was it true that it rained in England every day? Had he ever met the king?
To these and many more, Kit gave simple, good-natured answers, albeit some of his replies were decidedly vague since he was not certain which king was on the throne. Nevertheless, his forthright responses seemed to satisfy his inquisitive host, who smoked away like a happy sultan. All the same, Kit was grateful when the meal arrived in big brass bowls—a spicy stew of mutton and aubergines with lentils, apricots, and pine nuts. This was served alongside fine, yellow couscous and eaten with the fingers. The men dipped into a communal dish, while the women and girls flitted around filling drinking cups with the local beer—a watery, sour brew that went down astonishingly well. They continually replaced the torn bread with new warm loaves.
When the men finished, the women made their meal of the remains. Kit was yawning and thinking seriously about bunching up a few cushions and closing his eyes when the entertainment for the evening arrived: four men, two with drums, one with a lute-like instrument, and one with a rattle. The musicians had been engaged solely for Kit’s benefit—an honour befitting the guest of the head man of the village—and there proceeded a lively, thumping ruckus that drove all thoughts of sleep from Kit’s weary head. A few of the neighbours showed up to lend a hand, and dancing broke out. Much to Kit’s chagrin, he was pulled into the festivities and forced to stomp about with the men while the women clapped in time to the music and laughed.
It was late—much later than he wished—when the musicians finally laid aside their instruments. They were all treated to jars of beer and then, paying their respects to their host, departed. Ramesses rose and with the pomp of a proper pharaoh wished his guest a good night.
Kit thanked him for a wonderful evening. “I don’t know when I have had a more enjoyable time,” he said, meaning every word.
“Sala’am,” said Ramesses as he disappeared down the steps, still humming a tune the musicians had played.
“You will sleep here tonight,” Khefri told him. “There is a cloth if you get cold.”
“I am sure I will be just fine.”
“I will come for you in the morning. We will leave at sunrise.”
“I’ll be ready,” declared Kit. “Good night—and, Khefri, thanks. Thanks for everything. It was just what I needed.”