A dark flush spread over Larry’s face. He looked down and shuffled his feet like a bashful schoolboy. ‘Your praise means a great deal to me,’ he mumbled.
I was afraid Schmidt might take advantage of Larry’s emotional state to start hinting about certain other things he could do for the art lovers of the world, so I changed the subject.
‘What happened to her mummy?’
‘One of the unlabelled mummies in the Deir el Bahri cache is believed to be hers,’ Larry said. ‘I question the identification.’
‘On what basis?’ Schmidt asked interestedly.
‘It’s a rather complicated question.’
‘Ach, ja, I recall reading about it.’ Schmidt leaned against the rail, his eyes bright with interest. Schmidt is interested in practically everything, and as I have said, he
remembers practically everything he has ever read. ‘There is a papyrus – Amherst, I believe – dating from the twelfth century
B.C.
, which describes the
confessions of tomb robbers of Thebes. So many of the royal tombs had been robbed that priests gathered up the royal mummies, or their battered remains, and hid them in a secret place. This cache
was found in the 1880s, after it, in turn, had been looted by local thieves. Some of the mummies were unidentified and none were in their original coffins – ’
‘You are very well informed,’ Larry said curtly. He turned, arms on the rail, looking out across the river.
I would have taken the hint, but Schmidt went gaily on. ‘A few years ago the University of Michigan undertook a complete X-ray examination of the royal mummies. There were some peculiar
discoveries. For instance, the small wrapped mummy found with the body of a high priestess was not, as had been believed, that of her stillborn child, but a baboon! One of the little old queens was
bald and had – what do you call it – teeth that stuck out – ’
‘Brotzeit, Schmidt,’ I interrupted. ‘Specifically, teatime. Why don’t you get us a good table near the buffet before the others come out?’
The prospect of food can distract Schmidt from just about anything. He went bustling off.
‘Are you having tea?’ I asked Larry.
He shook his head. ‘I’m saving myself for the banquet this evening. Come to think of it, I ought to get a costume of some sort together. If you’ll excuse me . . .’
I joined Schmidt. ‘They are still setting out the food,’ he complained. ‘There was no hurry. Why – ’
‘A gentle hint, Schmidt: if you want to win Larry’s heart, don’t talk to him about mummies. Especially the mummies of beautiful Egyptian queens.’
‘Ah.’ Schmidt thought it over. ‘Ah! Vielen Dank, Vicky, I should have realized. A romantic he is, nicht? He dreams of the lovely images, the paintings and the
statues.’
‘That’s my guess. Even at their best, mummies aren’t romantic’
‘Mmmm, yes. That is why he does not want to believe the little old lady, who is bald and sticking out of tooth like her descendant, is his dream queen. The head was broken from the badly
damaged body – ’
I let out a croak of protest. ‘Schmidt, I’m no romantic, but I am just about to eat. Knock it off, will you?’
I realized I was still holding the cigarette. I was about to return it to the packet when a lighter went off, so close to the end of my nose that I shied back.
‘May we join you?’ Mary asked.
Schmidt leaped to his feet and held a chair for her. I sucked on the damned cigarette, womanfully suppressing a cough. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘A pleasure,’ said John.
I didn’t doubt it.
‘We were talking about Tetisheri,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Vicky did not want to hear about her mummy.’
‘Mary dotes on dead bodies,’ said John.
‘Oh, darling, don’t tease!’ Mary’s pretty mouth quirked with distaste.
Over the past days her skin had darkened from cream to pale gold, without so much as a hint of homely sunburn. She wore a white silk shirt with a scarf of burgundy and gold knotted loosely
around her throat. The Greek earrings would have suited the ensemble better than the diamonds she was wearing – a carat and a half each, if I was any judge (and I am). At that they were
smaller than the stone in the ring on her third finger. It overwhelmed the simple gold band next to it.
Schmidt was beginning to catch on to the idea that very few people enjoy talking about mummies. ‘You prefer the charming little statuette of the lady that is in the British Museum?’
he said with a twinkle and a chuckle.
Mary glanced shyly at John. ‘I’m afraid I don’t – ’
‘There is no need to apologize,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘A lovely young woman should not trouble her head with antiquities.’
‘Thanks, Schmidt,’ I said.
‘In your case it is different,’ Schmidt said calmly.
I decided not to pursue that point, but I admit it was partly pique that inspired my next comment. ‘I’ve always loved that little statue. I was crushed when they decided it was . . .
it was . . .’
‘A forgery.’ Schmidt, oblivious to undercurrents, finished the sentence.
I tore my eyes away from John’s face. He had raised one eyebrow, a trick of his I particularly dislike, and a faint smile curved his lips.
‘What does it matter, if it is beautiful?’ he asked. ‘A respected authority on Egyptian art said it was the most appealing and charming of the sculptures of that period. Has it
lost artistic merit?’
‘Ah, but you miss the point; my friend,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘The authenticity of the work . . .’
I was only too familiar with the arguments pro and con, including John’s arguments. I’d heard them before, when I was about to blow the whistle on him and his scheme for substituting
forgeries for valuable antique jewellery. They had been superb copies, almost indistinguishable from the originals. But one example of the counter-argument had dangled from Mary’s dainty
earlobes the night before. I lusted after those Greek earrings, and I wouldn’t have felt the same about copies, however accurate.
Mary reached for John’s hand. The movement stretched the silk of her blouse across her arm; the fabric was so thin I could see the golden tan of her skin through it. I could see the dark
spots too. There were several of them, spaced regularly. Not the sort of bruise you’d get from bumping into a piece of furniture or a door. More like the marks of fingers.
II
Schmidt had taken a fancy to Mary, and vice versa. Who could blame her? He is awfully sweet, especially when he puts himself out to be gallant. John didn’t want to
leave us either. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. General aggravation, maybe. It certainly aggravated me when he turned Schmidt’s attention from antiquities to country music. One
question was enough. Schmidt was delighted to expand on the subject
‘Yes, yes, it is a most interesting type. I am indebted to Vicky for introducing me to it. I am thinking of taking up the guitar.’
‘It would be better than listening to you sing,’ I said rudely.
Schmidt had become impervious to my insults. He thinks I’m just teasing. (And maybe he’s right.) ‘You sing, then. The one about the pillow that is dying.’
‘A moribund pillow?’ John’s eyes were as blue and innocent as forget-me-nots. ‘I must hear that one.’
We ended up in the lounge, gathered cosily around the piano. Schmidt plays a little, enough to pick out tunes. He gave us all three verses of ‘The Sinner’s Death,’ including
the dying pillow. (‘A slight error in the reference of the adjective,’ as John described it.)
There are a lot of bluegrass songs about prisoners and chain gangs and sinners. Schmidt set out to prove he knew them all. A sensitive man might have found that theme a trifle awkward, but not
John. His sense of humour is offbeat at best, but that day he was in a particularly strange mood. He kept egging Schmidt on. What Mary was thinking I could only imagine. She certainly was not
amused.
The lounge had emptied rapidly as soon as Schmidt began singing. Since I didn’t want to leave Schmidt alone – especially with John – I remained. In order to demonstrate my cool
I even joined in on a couple of choruses. I am rather proud of my ability to slide from one note to the next. I was giving my all to ‘Little Rosewood Casket’ when I realized that
Schmidt had dropped out (he always breaks down during ‘Little Rosewood Casket’) and that John was singing harmony in a flat, nasal tenor that bore a suspicious resemblance to the voice
of the great Sara Carter.
That brought me back to earth with a painful thud. We had sung – a weird medley of Bach, German pop tunes, and Christmas carols – to keep awake the night a blizzard trapped us in the
abandoned church. It was the most memorable night we had spent together, and I include other occasions which were memorable for quite different reasons. It was the night of all nights I
didn’t want to remember.
The lyrics didn’t help either. ‘Take his letters and his locket, Place them gently on my heart . . .’ I broke off in the middle of a glissando. ‘We’d better go and
dress for dinner, Schmidt. It’s getting late.’
‘One more,’ John pleaded, looking soulfully at me from under his lashes.
‘Yes, there is time. Let me think. Ah! Here is one you may not have heard, it is the latest hit of the famous Road Sisters.’
The song was ‘You’re a Detour on the Highway to Heaven.’ A sample will suffice, I believe.
‘When mama lay a-dyin’ on the flatbed, She told me not to truck with gals like you; But you were just one more roadside attraction, And I went joy-ridin’ jest for the
view.’
I cut Schmidt off after three verses and three choruses.
John’s face was rapt. ‘My God,’ he said reverently. ‘That’s magnificent. It’s even better than the one about Jesus and the goal posts of life. How does it go
again? “Your curves made me lose my direction . . .”’
‘Schmidt,’ I said, through clenched teeth.
‘Yes, Vicky, we will go.’ Rising, he took John’s arm. ‘“Mein’ hand from the steering wheel strayed . . .”’
They went off arm in arm, voices clashing in duet. It was the most outrageous noise I have ever heard, and I have stepped on the tail of a cat or two in my time.
I caught Mary’s eye.
‘He’s like that sometimes,’ she said, with a stiff, apologetic little smile. ‘So whimsical.’
‘Whimsical’ wasn’t the word I would have chosen.
III
Getting Schmidt ready for the grand dinner and costume party was almost as bad as decking a bride out for the wedding. (Yes, I’ve been a bridesmaid. Twice.) It
didn’t take me long to dress. Schmidt, that sly little rascal, had presented me with three ghastly garments he had bought from the guys in the boats; one was too short, one was too tight, and
the third was both, and all three were covered with multicolored sequins. I had already decided I wasn’t going to appear in public in any of the three. I put on the simple
blue-and-white-stripe robe I had bought at The Suq and studied the effect. It might not be glamorous, but it was very comfortable and very simple: two rectangles stitched together at the shoulders
and down the sides, with open spaces left for the insertion of the arms. Blue braid outlined the neck opening and a perpendicular slit down the front.
I slung on all my fake gold jewellery and, after considering the question for longer than it merited (‘Take his letters and his locket . . .’) I fastened around my neck the chain
that held the golden rose. Too many people had access to my room and that ornament was unusual enough and valuable enough to arouse speculation. I tucked the pendant firmly down into my bra so it
could not be seen or dislodged, and proceeded to Schmidt’s room.
When he opened the door his pink mouth sagged in disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you wear one of your beautiful new gowns? That is too plain, too large. It is ugly!’
I could have been equally insulting about his contributions to my wardrobe, but my mother always told me it isn’t nice to criticize presents people give you. ‘I’m saving the
others so I can dazzle Gerda. Hurry up, Schmidt. Were you waiting for me to button you up?’
‘There are no buttons to button,’ said Schmidt, unamused. ‘I have not decided what to wear. The gold-trimmed or the silver? Or this, with red and green?’
‘I thought you’d decided on the gold.’
‘I had. But now I think the silver. Ah, I have it! You will wear the gold and I the silver.’
‘Nobody is going to believe we’re twins, Schmidt.’
Schmidt condescended to giggle. He was determined, though, so I gave in. He retired modestly to the bathroom with his ensemble while I changed. It took me about forty seconds, after which I sat
and cooled my heels for another ten minutes. Finally I yelled, ‘What the hell are you doing, Schmidt?’
The door opened. If I hadn’t been sitting down I would have fallen to the floor.
Flowing robes and a headcloth that frames the face and hides a gent’s bald spot make a very becoming, not to say sexy, outfit; even short chubby guys look dignified. The only trouble was
Schmidt had dyed his moustache black.
That simple statement cannot convey how ridiculous he looked. Schmidt has a fair complexion. It was now pink with sunburn. His eyebrows were still bushy and still white. The moustache was . . .
well, let’s say it was a serious mistake.
Did I say so? I did not. I said, ‘Ach, du Lieber! As we say in Minnesota, Schmidt, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’
Schmidt told me I looked gorgeous too, but he wanted me to let my hair down. I declined. He was still arguing about it when I opened the door, just in time to see his neighbours emerging from
their room.
Mary looked about sixteen in another version of the basic caftan. Hers was pale yellow. It had little ribbons dangling from the bodice. The sleeves were elbow-length and the fabric was cotton,
heavy and opaque. Nothing showed through it.
I’d expected John would let himself go – he specialized in disguises and he was something of a ham – but he wasn’t even wearing a tux. Bareheaded, in his shirt sleeves
and a pair of wrinkled khaki pants, he looked as scruffy as John was capable of looking.
The boots gave me the clue. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘You’re disguised as an honest, hard-working field archaeologist. Very original.’
John was the only one who caught the veiled insult. He grinned, and Schmidt exclaimed, ‘Sehr gut! But you need a pith helmet, Ss . . . John. Have you not got one? Take mine. No, I insist,
it will complete the ensemble.’