Anne Rice: The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

Father, will see you at the opera or at the ball afterwards. Sorry to be so mysterious, but have met the most entrancing female companion. Alex.

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 Aida," 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 comer. 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 me 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.