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He went into the bedroom. A high old-fashioned Victorian bed stood against the far right wall, its white mosquito netting catching the flood of sunlight from the open blinds of the window.
A dressing table stood just to the left of the window. And an armoire stood farther away in the left corner, its mirrored doors open, revealing a row of wool jackets and coats.
A small portable gramophone with a horn stood on the dressing table. Beside it were a set of gramophone records in a cardboard case. "Learn English," said the bold lettering. There was another dance hall record. An ashtray. Several magazines and a half-full bottle of Scotch.
He could see a proper bathroom through a far door on the right side of the bed. Copper tub there; towels.
He went the other direction, through a door into another chamber which formed the north wall of the courtyard, with all its blinds shut. Here the dark beauty kept her tawdry dancing costumes and junk jewelry. But one cabinet was bursting with frilly Western dresses as well. There were Western shoes, and frilly umbrellas and a couple of impossible wide-brimmed hats.
But what good were these clothes when the wounded thing needed to be hidden from prying eyes? He found the usual Moslem robes folded neatly on a bottom shelf. So he could give her fresh covering--that is, if Malenka would allow him to buy these clothes.
He paused in the doorway to catch his breath. He stared at the regal bed in the sunlight, the netting flowing down from a circular tester, much like a crown above. The moment seemed trancelike, elastic. Images of Henry's death flashed before his eyes. Yet he felt nothing. Nothing--except perhaps for a cold horror that took away the very will to live.
Will to live. He had the vial in his pocket. He had a few drops of the precious fluid!
That, too, did not affect him; did not dispel his languor. The maid dead in the museum; Henry dead in the courtyard. The thing lying out there in the sun!
He could not reason. Why bother to try? He had to reach Ramses, of that much he was certain. But where was Ramses? What had the bullets done to him? Was he being held by the men who had dragged him away?
But first, the woman, he had to bring her in and hide her so that Henry's body could be taken away.
She might well attack the men who came to get Henry. And one glimpse of her might do them even more harm.
Limping out to the courtyard, he tried to clear his head. He and Ramses were not enemies. They were confederates now. And perhaps ... But then he had no spirit for such dreams and ambitions anymore--only what must be done now.
He took a few cautious steps towards the woman asleep on the tiled patio floor.
The midday sun was burning hot, and suddenly he feared for her because of it. He shaded his eyes as he looked at her: for surely he could not be seeing what he thought he saw.
She moaned uneasily; she was suffering--but a woman of great and exceptional beauty lay there!
A large patch of white bone gleamed through her raven hair, true, and a small bi
t of bare cartilage showed in her jaw. Indeed, her right hand still had two fingers which were bones only, blood trickling from the gristle in the joints. And the wound in her chest was still there, gaping, revealing a stretch of white rib, overlaid with a thin membrane full of tiny red veins.
But the face had assumed its full human contour! High colour bloomed in the beautifully moulded cheeks. The mouth was exquisitely shaped and ruddy. And the flesh had over all a lovely even olive tone.
Her nipples were a dark rose colour, her breasts plump and firm.
What was happening? Did the elixir take time to work?
Timidly he drew closer. The heat pounded upon him. His head began to swim. Struggling once again not to lose consciousness, he groped for the pillar behind him and steadied himself, eyes still fixed on the woman who now opened her pale hazel eyes.
She stirred, lifting her right hand and staring at it again. Surely she felt what was happening to her. In fact, it seemed the wounds hurt her. Gasping, she touched the bleeding edge of open flesh on her hand.
But if she understood that she was actually healing, she gave no sign. She let her arm drop limply and once again she closed her eyes. She cried again, softly.
"Ramses," she said as if in half sleep.
"Come with me," Elliott spoke to her softly in Latin. "Come inside, to a proper bed."
Dully she looked at him.
"The warm sun is there too," he said. And no sooner had he said these words than he realized. It was the sun that was healing her! He had seen it working on her hand as they came through the streets. It was the only part exposed save for her eyes, and they too had been healing.
And it had been the sun that waked Ramses. That was the meaning of all the strange language on the coffin, that the sun must not be allowed into the tomb.
But there was no time to ponder it or question it. She had sat up; the rags had fallen away from her naked breasts completely, and her face, looking up at him, was beautifully angular, cheeks softly shadowed, eyes full of cold light.
