Night Train to Memphis

‘It gets in my mouth when I eat.’

In white tie and tails Schmidt looked like a portly penguin. He wandered to the mirror and began preening, straightening his tie and adjusting the ribbon that stretched diagonally across his chest. The ribbon was purple. I’d been with him when he bought it. I had talked him out of buying a medal to hang on it.

I decked myself out in my jewels, including the gold locket and not including the enamelled rose. The locket had never looked tackier. Watching, Schmidt opened his mouth and then decided not to comment. He’s tried several times to buy jewellery for me, and in that area, as in anything to do with art, he has superb taste. He also has more money than he knows what to do with. So why hadn’t I accepted his gifts? Not because I suspected his motives. Schmidt loves me like a daughter and a friend. I suppose it was because I didn’t want our friendship to be contaminated by expensive and one-sided presents.

I can be a damn fool at times.

At the top of the stairs Schmidt offered me his arm and we strutted down them with slow dignity. I knew he was seeing us, not as a cute little fat man and a tall gangly female, but as King Rudolf and Princess Flavia descending to the ballroom between rows of curtsying courtiers. In a sudden burst of affection I squeezed his arm. He squeezed back but he didn’t look at me. He was smiling with regal condescension and matching his steps to the strains of the royal anthem of Ruritania.

I can’t say that intimate dinner party was particularly enjoyable. Whitbread and Schroeder weren’t present; I assumed they were supervising the final arrangements for the reception. Schmidt devoted himself to Mary, whose slim arms and delicate collarbones were exposed by a low-cut, blue chiffon frock that might as well have been printed with dollar signs. She was wearing a parure of sapphires and diamonds – earrings, necklace, and bracelet. The heavy bracelet weighted her narrow wrist.

For once John said very little. He seemed preoccupied; once or twice Mary had to repeat a comment or question before he responded.

Finally Larry looked at his watch. ‘We’d better go in. The guest will be arriving soon.’

The grand salon occupied one entire side of the house. Words fail me when I attempt to describe it. (They fail me because I still don’t know much about Islamic architecture.) The outside wall, the one facing the gardens, was a glorious hodgepodge of stained-glass panels and intricately carved wooden screens. The arches and pillars framing the windows were covered with antique tiles in shades of blue-green and coral.

The objects arranged in niches along two inner walls weren’t Islamic, but ancient Egyptian – a life-sized sandstone head of a pharaoh wearing the double crown, a small painted statue of a slender girl carrying a basket on her head, a wooden panel from a cosmetic box, with a charming painting of an ibis crouching, or squatting, or whatever ibises do. It was a modest collection for a man with Larry’s money and taste. They were all good pieces, but none was what I’d have called outstanding.

I didn’t have time to examine them in detail. Larry drew me to the door, where I stood for the next half hour helping him receive his guests. It was probably the high point of my social life. As I shook hands with the Minister of the Interior and allowed the head of the Egyptian Antiquities Organization to kiss my fingertips I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, wait till Mom hears about this! Even the best of us (which doesn’t include me) is susceptible to snobbery.

Our buddies from the tour were among the last to arrive. Suzi flashed her teeth at Larry and gave me a huge hug. Her diamonds left dents in my chest. Larry passed her on to a minister of something. I greeted Sweet and his silent companion, noted that Louisa’s veils were already slipping, and pressed the flesh with the others. Among them was Feisal, resplendent in black tie and tails. He kissed my hand and winked at me.

‘That’s enough,’ Larry said, when the last of them had gone on. ‘Come and have some champagne. You’ve earned it.’

Almost at once he was captured by some dignitary or other and I retreated to a relatively quiet corner. Sipping my champagne – with caution, since it has an unfortunate effect on me – I surveyed the room. ‘Our’ crowd had gathered together, except for Suzi, who had found herself a general. Or maybe a colonel, I didn’t know the significance of the insignia. He had several square acres of ribbons on his chest, and he seemed to be as fascinated by Suzi as she was by him. I spotted Ed, strategically situated by the windows opening onto the lawn, his eyes ceaselessly scanning the crowd. His tux had been cut by a good tailor, but it bulged in several places. At first I couldn’t locate Schmidt. Then I saw him coming towards me, accompanied by a youngish man with a broad, open face that inspired a sudden wave of violent homesickness. My home town is full of people with faces like that. He had to be from Minnesota.

He had been born in Duluth, but that didn’t emerge until later in the conversation. Schmidt introduced him as Dr Paul Whitney, the director of Chicago House, the Luxor-based branch of the Oriental Institute.

‘Skip the titles,’ Paul said, with a broad smile. (Oh, those lovely big teeth! Only inMinnesota . . .) ‘The place is swarming with doctors. Quite an occasion, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what the occasion is,’ I admitted. ‘Larry said something about a surprise, but . . .’

‘It’s not that much of a surprise. We’re a hopeless bunch of gossips here in Luxor. Larry is handing this place over to the Antiquities Organization and endowing it as a research institute specializing in conservation.’

He took a glass from the tray a waiter had offered. So did I. What the heck, two glasses wouldn’t hurt me.

‘A most kind and generous action,’ said Schmidt. ‘I hope, my young friend Paul, that you are not out of joint in the nose concerning this.’

It took Paul a few seconds to figure that one out. Then he laughed. ‘It’s certainly a more impressive set-up than ours. The Epigraphic Survey began in the twenties, and although we’ve tried to keep up-to-date, it isn’t easy to get funding. There have been many new technological developments in archaeology, and the equipment costs a bundle. Everything here is state-of-the-art, from the computer set-up to the laboratories. But no, our noses aren’t out of joint. Quite the contrary. We’re in the conservation business too, recording the monuments before they are destroyed.’

Schmidt asked a couple of questions about the Temple of Medinet Habu, which had been one of the Survey’s major projects, and in which I had only a vague interest. Actually, to be honest, I had no interest whatever. Seeing my wandering eye, Paul amiably changed the subject.

‘If you have the time, Vicky, we’d be delighted to have you visit our humble establishment. Our library is one of the best in the country, should you care to use it.’

I expressed my appreciation, adding that between Feisal, Alice, and Perry I had already been stuffed full of information I’d probably forget within two weeks.

‘They’re all first-rate,’ Paul agreed. ‘Only the best for a fancy tour like yours. Oh, that reminds me – there is someone among your crowd I’m anxious to meet. You both know Mr Tregarth, I’m sure. Can you point him out to me?’

‘We will do better,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘We will present you. He is an old . . . er, hmm. We have become good friends during the voyage. Now where . . . Ah, there he is talking with the Minister of the Interior.’

If I’d needed anything else to complete my state of demoralization, that last sentence would have done it. The Interior Ministry controls, among other offices, that of State Security.

As we approached, the stout, coffee-coloured gentleman with whom John had been conversing gave him a friendly slap on the back and turned away. John saw us coming. Eyebrow raised in polite inquiry, he awaited us.

Paul introduced himself; he was too eager to wait for Schmidt. ‘This is indeed a pleasure, Mr Tregarth. The Director wrote to you, but I’m delighted to be able to express our appreciation in person.’

‘Appreciation,’ said somebody. Me, in fact.

John lowered his eyes modestly but not before I had seen the wicked glint in them.

‘Mr Tregarth was instrumental in restoring to the Oriental Institute an artifact that had been stolen,’ Paul explained. ‘One of his employees bought it, accepting the fraudulent documentation the seller presented, but when Mr Tregarth saw it he recognized the piece and contacted us.’

‘How much did he take you for?’ I inquired. Two glasses of champagne had been too many.

John’s face lengthened into a look of noble suffering, but the glint was still there, and it was still directed at me. Paul said, shocked, ‘Only what he had paid for the piece, which was minimal. He wouldn’t even accept a finder’s fee.’