Anne Rice: The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

"But why," Elliott asked, "should Lawrence do mat?"

Silence.

Elliott knew Lawrence better than Randolph knew him. Elliott and Lawrence. No one really knew the whole story, except the two men themselves. At Oxford years ago, in a carefree world, they had been lovers, and the year after they'd finished, they had spent a winter together south of Cairo in a houseboat on the Nile. Inevitably the world had separated them. Elliott had married Edith Christian, an American heiress. Lawrence had built Stratford Shipping into an empire.

But their friendship had never faltered. They had spent countless holidays in Egypt together. They could still argue all night long about history, ruins, archaeological discoveries, poetry, what have you. Elliott had been the only one who really understood when Lawrence retired and went to Egypt. Elliott had envied Lawrence. And there had been the first bitterness between them. In the small hours, when die wine flowed, Lawrence had called Elliott a coward, for spending his remaining years in London in a world he did not value; a world which gave him no joy. Elliott had criticized Lawrence for being blind and stupid. After all, Lawrence was rich beyond Elliott's wildest dreams; and Lawrence was a widower with a clever and independent daughter. Elliott had a wife and son who needed him day in and day out to regulate the successes of their wholly respectable and conventional lives.

"All I mean to say," Randolph pressed, "is that if Lawrence would express his wish about this marriage ..."

"And the small matter of the twenty thousand pounds?" Elliott asked suddenly. The tone was soft, polite, but the question was unforgivably rude. Nevertheless he persisted. "Edith will be back from France in a week and she's certain to notice that the necklace is missing. You know, she always does."

Randolph didn't answer.

Elliott laughed softly, but not at Randolph, not even at himself. And certainly not at Edith, who had only a little more money now than Elliott did and most of it in plate and jewels.

Perhaps Elliott laughed because the music made him giddy; or something about the vision of Julie Stratford, dancing down there with Alex, touched his heart. Or perhaps because of late he had lost the ability to speak any longer in euphemisms and half-truths. It was gone along with his physical stamina, and the sense of well-being he had enjoyed throughout his youth.

Now his joints hurt more and more with every passing winter; and he could not walk half a mile any longer in the country without suffering a severe pain in his chest. He did not mind having white hair at fifty-five, perhaps because he knew he looked rather good with it. But it bruised him secretly and deeply to have to use a cane wherever he went. These were all mere shadows, however, of what was yet to come.

Old age, weakness, dependence. Pray that Alex was happily married to the Stratford millions, and not before too long!

He felt restless, suddenly; dissatisfied. The soft swooshing music annoyed him; sick to death of Strauss, actually. But it was something keener.

He wanted to explain it suddenly to Randolph, that he, Elliott, had made some crucial mistake a long time ago. Something to do with those long nights in Egypt, when he and Lawrence would walk through the black streets of Cairo together, or rail at each other drunkenly in the little saloon of the boat. Lawrence had somehow managed to live his life along heroic proportions; he had accomplished things of which others were simply incapable. Elliott had moved with the current. Lawrence had escaped to Egypt, back to the desert, the temples, to those clear star-filled nights.

God, how he missed Lawrence. In the last three years they had exchanged only a handful of letters, but the old understanding would never grow dim.

"Henry took some papers with him," Randolph said, "small matter of family stock." He glanced about warily, too warily. Elliott was going to laugh again.

"If it goes as I hope," Randolph continued, "I'll pay you everything I owe you, and the marriage will take place within six months, I give you my word." Elliott smiled.

"Randolph, the marriage may or may not happen; it may or may not solve things for both of us-" "Don't say mat, old boy."

"But I must have that twenty thousand pounds before Edith comes home,"

"Precisely, Elliott, precisely."

"You know, you might say no to your son once hi a while." A deep sigh came from Randolph. Elliott didn't press it. He knew as well as anyone did that Henry's deterioration was no joke any longer; it had nothing to do with sowing wild oats, or going through a rough period. There was something thoroughly rotten in Henry Stratford and there always'had been. There was very little that was rotten in Randolph. And so it was a tragedy; and Elliott, who loved his own son, Alex, excessively, had only sympathy for Randolph on that score.

More assurances; a positive din of assurance. You'll get your twenty thousand pounds. But Elliott wasn't listening. He was watching the dancers again-his good and gentle son whispering passionately to Julie, whose face wore that look of determination that flattered her for reasons that Elliott could never fully understand.

Some women must smile to be beautiful. Some women must weep. But with Julie, the real radiance shone only when she was serious-perhaps because her eyes were too softly brown otherwise, her mouth too guileless, her porcelain cheeks too smooth.

Fired with determination, she was a vision. And Alex, for all his breeding, and all his proffered passion, seemed no more than **a partner" for her; one of a thousand elegant young men who might have guided her across the marble floor.

* * *

It was the "Morning Papers Waltz" and Julie loved it; she had always loved it. There came back to her now a faint memory of dancing once to the "Morning Papers Waltz" with her father. Was ft when they had first brought home the gramophone, and they had danced all through the Egyptian room and the library and the drawing rooms-she and Father-until the light came through the shutters, and he had said:

"Oh, my dear, no more. No more."

Now the music made her drowsy and almost sad. And Alex kept talking to her, telling her in one way or another that he loved her, and mere was that panic inside her, that fear of speaking harsh or cold words.

"And if you want to live in Egypt," Alex said breathlessly, "and dig for mummies with your father, well then, we'll go to Egypt. We'll go straight after the wedding. And if you want to inarch for the vote, well then, I shall march at your side."

"Oh, yes," Julie answered, "that's what you say now, and I know you mean it with all your heart, but Alex, I'm just not ready. I cannot."

She couldn't bear to see him so deadly earnest. She couldn't bear to see him hurt. If only there were a little wickedness in Alex; just a little bit of meanness as there was in everyone else. His good looks would nave been improved by a little meanness. Tall, lean and brown-haired, he was too angelic. His quick dark eyes revealed his entire soul too easily. At twenty-five, he was an eager and innocent boy.

' "What do you want with a suffragette for a wife?'' she asked. "With an explorer? You know I could very well be an explorer, or an archaeologist. I wish I was in Egypt with Father right now."

"Dearest, we'll go there. Only marry me before we go."

He leaned forward as if he meant to lass her. And she moved back a step, the waltz carrying them almost recklessly fast, so that for a moment she felt light-headed and almost as if she were truly in love.

"What can I do to win you, Julie?" he whispered in her ear. "I'll bring the Great Pyramids to London."

"Alex, you won me a long time ago," she said, smiling. But that was a lie, wasn't it? There was something truly terrible about this moment-about the music with its lovely compelling rhythm, and the desperate look on Alex's face.