Three Novels of Ancient Egypt

The man laughed sarcastically and said, pointing to a nearby building, “You can ask about him at the Inspector's Office.”

Zaya walked toward her goal, an elegant building of modest size, where a military guard stood by the door, blocking her way inside. But when she told him why she had come, he made way for her. She entered a wide room, its sides lined with desks, behind which sat the employees. The walls were filled with shelves stacked with papyrus scrolls. Within the room there was a door standing ajar, toward which the guard directed her with his staff. She passed through it to a smaller chamber, more beautiful and more expensively furnished than the other. In one corner, behind an enormous desk, there was a fat, squat man, distinguished by his outsized head, short, broad nose, full face, jutting jaw, and cheeks inflated like two small water skins. His eyes bulged under heavy lids as he sat with immense conceit, inflicting his supercilious bossiness upon — whoever came to him.

He sensed someone had entered — yet did not raise his eyes nor display any sign of interest until he finished what he had before him. Then he peered at Zaya with bold disdain, asking in an overbearing, vainglorious voice, “What do you want, woman?”

Embarrassed and afraid, Zaya answered weakly, “I have come to look for my husband, sir.”

Again in the same tone, he asked her, “And who is your husband?”

“A laborer, sir.”

He struck his desk with his fist, then said fiercely, his voice ringing out as though in a vault, “And what reason could there be for taking him from his work, and putting us to this trouble?”

Zaya grew more frightened. Confused, she did not even try to respond. The inspector continued to look at her. He noticed her round, bronze-colored face, her warm, honey-hued eyes, and her succulent youth. Hard it was for him to lay the weight of fear over a face as lovely as hers. His conspicuous power was only for show and vanity — his heart was good, his feelings refined. Taking pity on the woman, he said to her, in his usual pompous manner, but as gently as he could manage, “Why are you looking for your husband, madam?”

Sighing in relief, Zaya said calmly, “I have come from On, after I lost my means of livelihood there. I want him to know, sir, that I am now here.”

The inspector gazed at the child that she held in her arms, then asked her in the fashion of high-ranking persons, “Is that really why you came here — or was it to inform him of this child's birth?”

Zaya's cheeks flushed a deep red with shame. The man stared lustfully at her for an instant, before saying, “Fine… from what town is your husband?”

“From On, sir, but he was born in Thebes.”

“And what is his name, madam?”

“Karda son of An, sir.”

The inspector called for a scribe, dictating an order to him in the imperious style that he had earlier relinquished for the sake of Zaya's eyes.

“Karda son of An from On,” he told him.

The scribe — went to search in the record books, pulling out one and unrolling its pages, looking up the sign “k” and the name “Karda.” He then returned to his chief, leaning into his ear and — whispering in a low voice, before going back to his work.

The inspector regained his former demeanor and looked at the — woman's face for some time, before saying quietly, “Madam, I am sorry that I must offer you my condolences for your husband. He died on the field of work and duty.”

When the word “died” struck Zaya's ears, a scream of horror escaped her. Dazed, she paused for a moment, then asked the inspector in agonized entreaty, “Is my husband Karda really dead?”

“Yes, madam,” he answered — with concern. “In these situations, one can only try to endure it.”

“But… how did you know it, sir?”

“This is — what the scribe told me, after he searched through the names of the — workers from On.”

“Isn't it reasonable, sir, that his eyes could have deceived him?” she remonstrated. “Names can be similar.”

The inspector asked for the scroll to be brought to his desk. He looked through it himself, then shook his head regretfully. He glanced at the woman's face, which terror had tinged with the pallor of death. Noting a final glint of denial in the reluctant widow's eyes, he told her, “You must try to bear up, madam — and submit to the will of the gods.”

The faint light of hope was extinguished. Zaya burst into tears, and the inspector demanded a chair for her. “Have courage, my good woman, have courage,” he kept telling her. “This is what the gods have decreed.”

Still, hope loomed before Zaya like a mirage to someone thirsting in the desert.

“Is it not possible, sir, that the deceased was a stranger who bore the same name as my husband?”

“Karda son of An — was the only one to be martyred among the workmen from On,” he said — with certainty.

The — woman moaned meekly and — with pain.

“How awful my luck is, sir — can't the Fates find another target for their arrows other than my poor breast?” she said.

“Don't take it too hard,” he urged.

“I have no other man but him, sir.”