‘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
