“Of course not; I was looking at him from an anthropometric perspective.”
“Oh boy,” John said.
“Oh boy, what?”
“Oh boy, I’m about to get bullshitted.”
“How can you say that?” said Gideon, keeping his face straight with an effort. “I was just going to point out that he’s a classic model of Nordic subrace characteristics: extremely dolicocephalic—cranial index of no more than seventy-five; leptorrhine nasal index. Why, look at the compressed alae and malars. Just look at those gonial angles!”
“See? I can always tell when it’s coming. So, if he’s not Russian, what is he?”
“Swedish, or maybe from the Norwegian uplands, or even northern Germany or England. But definitely not Russian.”
“What would he look like if he was Russian?”
“If he were Russian, he might be one of several anthropomorphic types, or a composite. First, he—”
“I’m already sorry I asked,” muttered John.
“—could be an East Baltic brachycephal, or he might be a Dinaric acrocephalic brachycephal, or an Armenoid—” Gideon couldn’t help bursting into laughter at John’s disgusted expression. “You’re not doubting me, are you?”
“Doc, I never know whether you’re kidding when you do that. Jesus Christ, acrybrachyphallic…”
Gideon finished his beer and wiped his lips with the cloth napkin; he was feeling much better. “Anyway,” he said, “I’d still bet that guy’s a Scandinavian.”
“But—”
“What’s the difference, anyway? You don’t have to be a Russian to be a Russian spy. And he could come from Scandinavian parents but be a Russian himself. No way to tell that from cranial conformation. But how can you be thinking about spies on a day like this in a place like this?”
“That isn’t the point. You just finished telling me—”
“In any event, it’s moot.” Gideon gestured with his head, and they both watched the tall young man walking away from them toward El Retiro Park, his head still buried in the guidebook.
John sighed in mock exasperation. “You know, you’re the only guy in the whole world I never win any arguments with.”
“That’s because I am a Ph.D. and therefore know all kinds of smart stuff.”
John nodded soberly and sighed again, like a man resigned to his fate. “I think I’m ready for the Prado now.”
John was a good sport about it, but it was obvious that the endless galleries severely tested his endurance. He expressed considerably more appreciation for several of the women visitors than for any of the works of art, and was always a few steps ahead of Gideon, pulling him on to the next painting, the next room. Gideon quickly gave up on John’s art education and concentrated on enjoying the paintings himself.
After three hours in the museum, he had had enough. Promising the long-suffering John no more than a ten- minute detour, he led them back to the Velazquez rooms for one more look at
“Now
“Are you saying he’s Russian?”
“Maybe. More like Balkan—Rumanian, Yugoslavian, Bulgarian…”
John looked keenly at the man, watching him move slowly to a second portrait of the ungainly Philip and bend close to examine the ornate frame.
“Don’t get excited, John. What would an agent be doing here?”
“It’s not that. I just think you’re wrong. I say he’s English.”
“English! That guy doesn’t have an English gene in his entire body. He’s pure Balkan.”
“A famous professor once told me there’s no pure anything.”
“So much for famous professors,” Gideon said.
“How much do you want to bet?”
A disapproving guard approached with outstretched palms and frowning brow.
“I’ll bet you dinner at the Zum Ritter when we get back to Heidelberg,” Gideon said in a whisper.
“You’re on,” John said. “I say he’s English; you say he’s Rumanian or something. What if he’s neither, or both?”
“If he’s not eastern European, or his family isn’t, I’ll buy. But how are we supposed to find out?”
“Let’s go ask him.”
Gideon, shy with strangers, quailed slightly. “You can’t just walk up to him and ask him where he’s from.”
