Page 22 of What the River Knows

My uncle rubbed his temples, weariness etched into every line that crossed his brow in deep grooves. “Don’t start with that. You’re deliberately missing the point I’m trying to make.”

“Eh, bien. What is it that you want?” Monsieur Maspero asked.

“Gentlemen,” Tío Ricardo began after inhaling deeply. “I’m asking that you put my brother-in-law Abdullah in charge of the Antiquities Service. He deserves a seat at the table.”

“But that’smyjob,” Monsieur Maspero sputtered.

“He’s hardly qualified, Mr. Marqués,” Sir Evelyn said coldly. “When was the last time your team discovered anything? Every season you and Abdullah turn up empty-handed. You’ll forgive me if I’m hardly inspired.”

“If we didn’t allow a legal way for objects to be excavated and removed from Egypt, then we’d have a rampant return of illegal auctions,” Monsieur Maspero mused. “You must admit that my tenure has already seen a marked decrease in objects leaving the country. We must all learn to bend a little, I think.”

“Ask my brother-in-law how he feels and then perhaps I’d be inclined to listen to you,” Tío Ricardo said. “You know as well as I do that it’s impossible to ascertain how many objects leave Egypt’s borders since so many are stolen. And youyourselfhave granted permits to the Egypt Exploration Fund.”

“They mustaskbefore taking anything out of the country,” Monsieur Maspero said, outrage dawning. “It’s all under the supervision of the Antiquities Service.”

Which begged the question, did the Antiquities Service employ any Egyptians? I glanced at Tío Ricardo and his clenched jaw. He was a teapot, filled with boiling water, and nearly ready to whistle. It ought to be Abdullah sitting here, arguing the point. But I understood my uncle’s earlier words, his frustration that Abdullah wasn’t even allowed a seat at the table.

“Have you forgotten what you do for a living, Mr. Marqués?” Sir Evelyn asked. “You’re a treasure hunter like all the rest of them, and a terrible one at that. Bleeding money every month. I’ve heard of how you and Abdullah run your excavation sites, paying your workers exorbitant sums—”

Tío Ricardo sneered. “You mean a living wage?No oneworks for me for free—”

“—You’re a fool dressed up as an archaeologist,” Sir Evelyn said, his voice bellowing above my uncle’s.

Monsieur Maspero let out a noise of protest. Mr. Hayes narrowed his eyes into dangerous slits. His knuckles brushed the handle of the knife near his dinner plate. I shifted in my chair, my heart thundering wildly. I stared at my uncle, at the stubborn line of his jaw, his clenched hands. Despite my earlier frustration, despite him not wanting me in Egypt at all, my admiration of him grew. I agreed with his words, and even with the ones he hadn’t said.

Everyone deserved a living wage. No human ought to be treated as if their work didn’t matter, or their choices, or their dreams.

“You’re not a fool,” I whispered to him.

Tío Ricardo glanced down at me, partly in surprise, as if he’d forgotten I was sitting next to him, practically bumping elbows.

“Afool,” Sir Evelyn said again, and this time, his words were aimed at me.

I glared at him, my fingers reaching for my glass. I wanted to throw it in his face.

“Whitford,” Tío Ricardo warned in an urgent hush.

Mr. Hayes released his hold on the knife and instead lifted his drink and emptied it in one long swallow. He leaned back against his seat, hands folded calmly across his flat belly, a serene expression settling over his countenance, as if he hadn’t been contemplating murder one second ago.

Someone approached our table, an older Egyptian with a regal bearing and a shrewd gaze. My uncle noticed where I was looking and glanced over his shoulder, then immediately stood to greet the man. Mr. Hayes followed suit, but Sir Evelyn and Monsieur Maspero remained seated. I didn’t know the proper etiquette, and so I remained in my seat, too.

“Judge Youssef Pasha,” Tío Ricardo said smiling hugely. Then he lowered his voice and said something only the judge could hear. They exchanged more words and then my uncle and Mr. Hayes returned to their seats. The mood at the table soured further. Sir Evelyn’s face had turned tomato red.

“That man is a nationalist,” Sir Evelyn said stiffly.

“I’m aware,” Tío Ricardo said cheerfully. “He’s an avid reader of the newspaper run by Mostafa Pasha.”

“Those are the people you are spending time with?” Sir Evelyn asked. “I’d tread carefully, Ricardo. You don’t want to find yourself on the wrong side.”

“Are you talking of war, Sir Evelyn?” Mr. Hayes spat.

I blinked in astonishment. Until now, he had seemed content enough to let Tío Ricardo take the lead in the conversation. Fury radiated off Mr. Hayes’s tense shoulders.

My uncle reached across me and laid a hand on Mr. Hayes’s arm. “Sir Evelyn would prefer we all behave like Tewfiq Pasha, I’m sure.”

Tewfiq Pasha, the son of Ismail Pasha. I knew little of the present khedive, except that he supported Sir Evelyn’s atrocious policies, dismantling whatever progress his father had made in Egypt. I recalled Papá lamenting the man’s meek submission to British policy.

Sir Evelyn threw down his linen napkin and stood. “I’m done with this conversation. And if I were you, Mr. Marqués, I’d be careful with your ideas. You might not have permission to dig anywhere in Egypt, isn’t that right, Monsieur Maspero?”

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