quite close, and he breathed in her perfume and the
sheer bodily heat she radiated, and he was convinced, then and there, that he
loved her.
“My mother met
my father at Tell Besta, in Egypt,” she said. “It’s in ruins now, but that’s
where our people originally came from.”
“You mean
recent ruins or ancient ruins?”
“Ancient,” she
said. “Even more ancient than the pyramids. Even older than the Sphinx herself.”
He reached over
and opened his cigarette box. “So come from a pretty long line of
what’s-its-names? Ubastis?”
She nodded.
“The city of Tell Besta, where our people used to live, was once called
Bubastis, and it was supposed to have been at its greatest in the days of
Rameses III.”
He lit a True
and blew out smoke. “And you can trace your family back to there?”
She nodded
again.
“And how long
ago was Be–Rameses HT? I’m afraid my ancient Egyptian history isn’t very good.”
She sipped her
drink. “The reign of Rameses III was one thousand three hundred years before
the birth of Christ.”
Gene widened
his eyes. “You’re kidding! You mean you can trace your ancestors back to
thirteen hundred BC? That’s incredible!”
She smiled
gently. “It’s not really. The people in that part of lower Egypt were never
nomadic.
There are many
fellaheen with extraordinary faces that look just like the drawings on the
walls of ancient tombs. But it’s not surprising when you think that they are
direct descendants of the same people who made those tombs, and because there
is a great deal of inbreeding, with cousins marrying cousins, and even brothers
marrying sisters, the facial characteristics have remained constant for
thousands of years.”
Gene sat back.
“You know something,” he said, “I can trace my family back to a Scotsman who
emigrated to Florida in 1825, and I used to be proud of that You make me feel
like I don’t have any lineage at all.”
She lowered her
eyes. “A long lineage is not necessarily a good lineage,” she said, very
quietly.
“You’re telling
me there’s something wrong with tracing your family back so far?”
Lorie looked at
him. “It depends on who, and what your family was. My ancestors were not
particularly liked. The fellaheen used to call them ‘that people.’ I think they
still do.”
“ That people?’
That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It does when
you realize that the fellaheen are masters of the insult and the epithet,” she
said.
“They can curse
you for an hour and never call you the same thing twice. But our people, the
Ubasti, they call nothing but ‘that people,’ and that is the highest expression
of their feelings about us they are capable of devising.”
Gene reached
over and touched her hair. It was soft and fine, but it had a wiry strength all
its own, and in the subdued light of the apartment it took on a golden hue that
reminded him of something he couldn’t quite bring to mind.
“We have the
same kind of feuding in America,” he told her. “Did you ever hear of the
Hatfields and the McCoys?”
“Yes,” she
said, “but it was nothing like that. It had nothing to do with feuding. It was
fear.”
“Fear? Were
your ancestors that bad?”
He was
caressing her cheek now with the back of his fingers, and she fixed her
glittering green eyes on him intently. The pupils had widened in the darkness,
and he never once saw her bunk.
He became aware
of some inner tightening inside her that she was trying hard to conceal, but as
they talked more and more it became increasingly obvious that she was sitting
there with every muscle in her body compressed with latent energy. She’s not
looking at me, she’s watching me, he thought. She’s watching every single
insignificant move I make.
“I shouldn’t
really talk about my ancestors like that,” she told him. “Even if they’ve been
dead for two thousand years, it’s still disloyal.”
“I don’t know,”
he said softly. “You talk like they only
sheer bodily heat she radiated, and he was convinced, then and there, that he
loved her.
“My mother met
my father at Tell Besta, in Egypt,” she said. “It’s in ruins now, but that’s
where our people originally came from.”
“You mean
recent ruins or ancient ruins?”
“Ancient,” she
said. “Even more ancient than the pyramids. Even older than the Sphinx herself.”
He reached over
and opened his cigarette box. “So come from a pretty long line of
what’s-its-names? Ubastis?”
She nodded.
“The city of Tell Besta, where our people used to live, was once called
Bubastis, and it was supposed to have been at its greatest in the days of
Rameses III.”
He lit a True
and blew out smoke. “And you can trace your family back to there?”
She nodded
again.
“And how long
ago was Be–Rameses HT? I’m afraid my ancient Egyptian history isn’t very good.”
She sipped her
drink. “The reign of Rameses III was one thousand three hundred years before
the birth of Christ.”
Gene widened
his eyes. “You’re kidding! You mean you can trace your ancestors back to
thirteen hundred BC? That’s incredible!”
She smiled
gently. “It’s not really. The people in that part of lower Egypt were never
nomadic.
There are many
fellaheen with extraordinary faces that look just like the drawings on the
walls of ancient tombs. But it’s not surprising when you think that they are
direct descendants of the same people who made those tombs, and because there
is a great deal of inbreeding, with cousins marrying cousins, and even brothers
marrying sisters, the facial characteristics have remained constant for
thousands of years.”
Gene sat back.
“You know something,” he said, “I can trace my family back to a Scotsman who
emigrated to Florida in 1825, and I used to be proud of that You make me feel
like I don’t have any lineage at all.”
She lowered her
eyes. “A long lineage is not necessarily a good lineage,” she said, very
quietly.
“You’re telling
me there’s something wrong with tracing your family back so far?”
Lorie looked at
him. “It depends on who, and what your family was. My ancestors were not
particularly liked. The fellaheen used to call them ‘that people.’ I think they
still do.”
“ That people?’
That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It does when
you realize that the fellaheen are masters of the insult and the epithet,” she
said.
“They can curse
you for an hour and never call you the same thing twice. But our people, the
Ubasti, they call nothing but ‘that people,’ and that is the highest expression
of their feelings about us they are capable of devising.”
Gene reached
over and touched her hair. It was soft and fine, but it had a wiry strength all
its own, and in the subdued light of the apartment it took on a golden hue that
reminded him of something he couldn’t quite bring to mind.
“We have the
same kind of feuding in America,” he told her. “Did you ever hear of the
Hatfields and the McCoys?”
“Yes,” she
said, “but it was nothing like that. It had nothing to do with feuding. It was
fear.”
“Fear? Were
your ancestors that bad?”
He was
caressing her cheek now with the back of his fingers, and she fixed her
glittering green eyes on him intently. The pupils had widened in the darkness,
and he never once saw her bunk.
He became aware
of some inner tightening inside her that she was trying hard to conceal, but as
they talked more and more it became increasingly obvious that she was sitting
there with every muscle in her body compressed with latent energy. She’s not
looking at me, she’s watching me, he thought. She’s watching every single
insignificant move I make.
“I shouldn’t
really talk about my ancestors like that,” she told him. “Even if they’ve been
dead for two thousand years, it’s still disloyal.”
“I don’t know,”
he said softly. “You talk like they only
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