A Nose for Adventure

by Richard Scrimger

  So what? Norberto has never heard of you. Awooooo!

  “Fascinating!” Professor Malchus reaches out to touch the sarcophagus. His hand trembles. “There’s so much I want to know. So much I want to ask you.”

  The table moans in agreement.

  – Sure, sure. But first, Norberto – I mean, Anubis – has a message for you.

  “For me?” The professor chokes.

  – Well, actually, no. Not for you. I have a message for a … Mrs. Miller.

  “Gladys!” screams the purple lady. “It’s for you!” She sounds like a kid sister answering the telephone.

  A soft cry from our side of the table. Frieda’s mom. She’s sitting with her back to the door. I recognize her because of the tall rounded hat.

  “Me?” she whispers. Frieda’s mom all right. But she sure doesn’t sound like she did a half hour ago.

  Beside me, Frieda goes very still. She’s not smiling now.

  – Yes, you.

  Before Norbert can say any more, Sally sneezes. And again.

  – Better get rid of the smoke. It’s driving me crazy.

  “The incense is not traditional?” asks Professor Malchus.

  – No. Can’t stand it. The music can go too.

  “But there are pictures. I’ve seen them, on tomb walls. The hieroglyphics are very clear. Do you mean that those braziers in the pictures aren’t burning incense? That it’s … something else?”

  – Marshmallows, says Norbert shortly.

  Professor Malchus shakes his head, as if he hasn’t heard right.

  Mrs. Miller picks up the brass vase with the burning sticks in it and rushes out of the room. Sally yawns. There’s a collective in-drawing of breath.

  I turn to Frieda. “Your mother’s name is Gladys?” She nods.

  Mrs. Miller returns without the brass vase. The weird music disappears too.

  – Much better, says Norbert.

  She bows towards him. A dramatic woman, six feet tall, robed in black. “Pardon our ignorance, Norberto. We didn’t know.”

  – That’s okay. Don’t grovel, Glinda. I hate groveling.

  “Sorry, Norberto. My name is Gladys, by the way. Not Glinda. Gladys Miller. I was Gladys Simons until I married Phil. Do you know Phil? He’s a state representative.”

  – know ten thousand Phils, says Norbert dismissively.

  Sally gets up on her front paws and stares in our direction.

  – Gladys Miller, this message is for you. Are you listening? Are you prepared to heed the messenger of Anubis?

  “I am,” says Gladys.

  The doorbell rings.

  – The message of Anubis is simple. Treasure your child.

  “My … do you mean Frieda?” Mrs. Miller doesn’t sound dramatic anymore; just puzzled.

  – I mean Frieda. She is your greatest claim to fame. You are a mother. You and your Phil have the honor to be the parents of … Frieda.

  “You’re saying you know Frieda? Does Anubis know her?”

  – All of us on the other side know Frieda, and esteem her highly. Her fame stretches around time the way an elastic stretches around ajar to keep the waxed paper on.

  “Huh?”

  – It’s a line from a country and western song. Forget it, Glenda.

  “Gladys.”

  – Whatever. Oh, and by the way, would you mind taking off that stupid hat?

  Her eyes widen. “Frieda is back from Canada today … Norberto. I think she’s….” Mrs. Miller turns in her chair. Sees us all. “Oh, there you are,” she says to Frieda.

  Frieda doesn’t say anything.

  – Take off the hat! Do as I say, woman!

  I open my mouth to burst out laughing, but at that moment a bolt of lightning flashes nearby. A crack of thunder rocks the house. The lights flicker. And I don’t feel like laughing.

  Frieda’s mom has her hat off in a jiffy. Underneath, her hair is short and yellow.

  – Now, give your daughter a hug.

  The doorbell rings again, insistently. Gladys and Frieda stare at each other.

  – Don’t be afraid of her, says Norbert.

  Frieda’s eyes narrow. “Afraid?” she says. “Mother, are you … afraid of me?” Her mother looks away.

  Thunder outside, very close. I hear Beatrice’s voice from the front door. “You can’t do that!” she says.

  Professor Malchus moves closer to the sarcophagus. His hand is in his jacket pocket. He peers closely. “Oh, Norberto,” he begins, in a low voice.

  – Do you mind, there, mop-head? says Norbert. A little privacy, hey? This is a single room.

  The professor mutters something inaudible.

  – What was that? Build what? Oh, the pyramids. Sure. My Uncle Nathan helped. You should hear him talk about Cheops. What a blowhard!

  “Cheops!” Unable to contain himself, the professor almost shouts the word. His eyes are huge and round. “You know about his … about the Great….”

  Before he finishes the question, a man and a woman enter the room. He’s tired and old, and so are his clothes. She’s sharp, and so are hers. Behind them walks a young man with muscles. His clothes are blue. All blue. He’s a policeman. He stops by the double doors with his arms folded.

  The woman’s eyes are sharp enough to peel fruit. She stares at the professor, at Frieda’s mom, at us kids. Her gaze makes me feel like a skinned apple.

  The older man takes out a wallet and flips it open. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I’m Special Agent Libby, Customs and Excise. This is Lieutenant Aylmer, NYPD liaison. The man by the door is Officer Culverhouse.”

  No one says anything. Special Agent Libby flips the wallet closed, puts it back in his pocket, and smiles at the professor. “Hello, Earless,” he says.

  “Whom are you addressing, sir?” The professor’s expression is exactly right: puzzled and apologetic.

  Libby takes out a sheet of paper and reads from it: “Simon Peter Malchus, also known as Professor Malchus, Brother Malchus, Dr. Malchus, and, once, Detective Sergeant Malchus – tut-tut, impersonating a police officer.” The special agent smiles broadly. “Known to intimates as Earless after a regrettable incident in his youth – a knife fight under the shadow of the Great Pyramid.”

  Frieda and I stare at each other. Earless will be happy to see him. I shiver, thinking back to the scene in the alley with Slouchy.

  “Born Biddeford, Maine. Master’s degree in Egyptology from NYU. Noted collector of art and artifacts. Dealer in same. Convicted smuggler.” He stops. “Nice varied profile here, Earless.”

  Earless

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t see why you’re here. My name is Malchus, that’s true. Not a common name – but not unique. You’ve got me mixed up with this Peter Malchus. Some kind of a clerical error.”

  The special agent smiles. “Perhaps.” Then, suddenly, he takes two strides forward and grabs the professor by the hair. “Do you mind?” he says, lifting his hand.

  I gasp. Frieda gasps. The rest of the Tutankhamen Society gasps.

  The professor has no outer ear. Just a little rim of cartilage. The side of his head is flat. He sighs. “I don’t think that proves anything.”

  “No, Earless, it doesn’t prove anything, but I think it’s a good indicator, don’t you? You happen to be missing most of one ear, and your name happens to be Malchus. And you happen to be addressing the Tutankhamen Society in a posh house here on the Upper West Side. You might even have mentioned your most recent acquisition. A good luck charm, supposedly representing the weeping Horus.”

  The professor sniffs disdainfully. “You may choose to call it a good luck charm, sir. The correct term is Ushabti.”

  Horus? Frieda’s hand reaches up instinctively to touch her earrings.

  Some members of the society are looking perturbed. Is the professor sweating? I can’t tell. He sounds calm and cultured, like an advertisement for tonic water.

  The sharp-eyed lieutenan
t takes over now. “Ladies and gentlemen, Malchus here really knows his Ancient Egypt. He’s a bit of a fanatic on the subject of the pyramids. But he’s a fraud. He’s not a real professor. He’s an avid collector and a smuggler and a criminal, and we’ve been on his trail – and this Ushabti Horus – for months.” She points at the sarcophagus. “Very nice piece. Middle Kingdom, Earless? Maybe Eighteenth Dynasty?”

  The professor sniffs again. “As anyone here in the room could tell you, Lieutenant Aylmer, the Middle Kingdom ended long before the Eighteenth Dynasty,” he says.

  The lieutenant doesn’t seem embarrassed – in fact she looks pleased – and then it occurs to me that she’s got the professor to answer to the name Earless. And, you know, it’s getting harder to think of him as the “professor” and easier to think of him as Earless.

  Special Agent Libby tells us how the Ushabti moved from Egypt to New York. A complicated story. My favorite part was when it was carried through the streets of Antwerp by a schoolgirl who thought it was a box of chocolates. And talk about thorough: Libby even knows the schoolgirl’s name. He tries to check his facts – “Then, by boat from Belgium to Canada, right, Earless?” – but the professor doesn’t say anything. “And finally, today, to New York by plane. And we’re executing a search and seizure warrant on the 37th Street gallery right now.”

  Earless looks up. Libby smiles at him. “Yes, if there’s anything incriminating at Amphora Jones, we’ll find it.”

  “Excuse me!” cries the fat man who fainted before. He’s alert now. “Are you saying that New York galleries like Amphora Jones are dealing in stolen property? That Professor Malchus’ Ushabti is not really his to sell?

  “Do you have the Ushabti, sir?” Agent Libby asks eagerly. “Did you see it? We have every link in the chain of evidence, except proof of the artifact in Malchus’ hands.”

  The fat man shakes his head. His jowls wobble. “He was going to show it to us when … Norberto interrupted.”

  The special agent frowns.

  “I have a question,” says the purple lady. “Before the police arrived, we all witnessed a truly strange encounter. A messenger of a god was in this room, sir.”

  The law enforcement agents look at one another.

  “I just want to know if Professor Malchus thinks it was real, or if that, too, was a part of his scheme,” she adds.

  I understand what Lieutenant Aylmer meant about Earless being a fanatic. His eyes are round and dark, and as wide-open as bear traps. I feel I can’t look away. The eyes seem to absorb the light, as if it can’t get away either. Fanatic’s eyes.

  He has all our attention. “In my opinion, the encounter was real. We were fortunate. I never thought I would have the privilege of conversation with an immortal.”

  “Huh?” says Libby.

  “The messenger of Anubis is in this room. He promised to tell me about the building of the pyramids, knowledge I would give anything – anything – to have.”

  The Tutankhamen Society nods collectively. They believe Earless. I’d be tempted to believe him myself, if I didn’t know that the immortal he’s talking about is a dog with an alien from Jupiter in its nose.

  Agent Libby doesn’t believe him. He blinks. “Sure, Earless,” he says. “You can tell it all to the judge. Encounter with a god’s messenger. Diminished capacity might be a good defence, at that.”

  “Norberto understands me,” says Earless. “Norberto will direct me. My faith is sure.”

  And, at that precise moment, a gigantic peal of thunder rocks the house. The lights go out.

  “Nobody move!” cries Libby from the middle of the darkness.

  I don’t move, but someone does. I hear a clatter and clash, and a squeaky voice saying – Hey, beat it! Go on, now! Get him, Sally!

  The lights come on a few seconds later.

  The police officer – Culverhouse – is still standing by the doors. Sally is on the floor, shaking herself.

  Earless is gone.

  The next quarter of an hour is very busy. Lieutenant Aylmer races after Earless. Special Agent Libby shouts alternately into a walkie-talkie and a cell phone. Officer Culverhouse, looking embarrassed, starts asking everyone their names and addresses, and writing down the information in a notebook. He even asks us.

  “Cobourg?” he says to me. “Where’s that?” I tell him. He asks me to wait around. “Agent Libby may want to talk to you himself,” he adds.

  Bird’s address is harder to pinpoint. He takes Culverhouse to a window and gestures.

  “What’ll we tell them?” I ask Frieda. She has her eyes shut, hugging the dog.

  “About what?”

  “You know. About the kidnapping. About Slouchy and Skinny and Veronica.”

  “Oh.” She opens her eyes, frowns. “I don’t know. I’m not thinking about that. I just can’t get over what Norbert said. Do you think my mom is afraid of me? Is that why she doesn’t pay any attention to me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  The Tutankhamen Society is finally allowed to leave. Everyone looks upset on their way out the door. No one thanks Frieda’s mom for a lovely time. Now it’s only us and the law. Beatrice is making coffee in the kitchen. Mrs. Miller shudders when she notices Frieda playing with Sally.

  “You know, I’ve never really liked dogs,” she says.

  “Where’d this one come from?” asks Agent Libby.

  “I don’t know. I’m … afraid to ask.”

  “But it is yours, isn’t it?”

  “I …” Sally races around Frieda’s wheelchair like an out-of-control satellite, whirling off from under the marble table, then coming back and racing around the other way.

  “Isn’t it your dog, ma’am?”

  Sally jumps up on her hind legs to put her front paws on the arms of Frieda’s chair. For a second she looks like something out of a book on Ancient Egypt. It’s her ears, so wide and pointed, and her long body. For a second she looks like a dog-headed human. Like – Anubis.

  Mrs. Miller covers her eyes. And nods.

  “Sure it is,” says Frieda, grabbing Sally by both ears and wagging her head up and down. Sally slips back onto all fours. “Aren’t you, sweetie?” Sally yawns.

  Libby’s walkie-talkie crackles. He answers it at once. “Did you get him?” he asks.

  Apparently not. The special agent sighs. The pinches and folds of his cheeks look like wrinkles in a bedsheet.

  Frieda takes us to her room. It’s a big one, with two windows. Neat as a pin. No papers or unlabeled computer discs lying around. No sign of her dirty clothes. No chairs, not even in front of the desk. Bird goes over to the nearer window and stares out. I sit on the tightly made-up bed.

  “What’ll I tell the police?” I say. “They’re going to ask how I came here. It’s all going to come out. What’ll I say, Frieda? What’ll we both say?”

  “I don’t know.” She doesn’t look at me. She has eyes only for Sally, curled up beside me on the bed. Norbert coughs.

  – You might just tell the truth, he says.

  Bird looks around, smiles, then goes back to the window.

  “But … I promised the slouchy guy I wouldn’t tell. I promised.”

  Norbert snorts.

  – I just want to know if this is the same boy who promised his mother that he would tidy his room every day “Do you promise, Alan?” she asked, and you said, “Yes, Mom, I promise.”

  I don’t say anything.

  – The same boy who promised a certain girl in Cobourg … now, what was her name?

  “Hey, shut up!” I say.

  – Promises, promises, says Norbert.

  Frieda looks over. She’s blushing. I’m blushing too. Sally yawns. It looks like she’s sticking out her tongue at me.

  I join Bird at the window. Frieda rolls herself over to the bed to stroke Sally. “You’re my dog, now. Do you hear, Sally?”

  The dog whines.

  “We’ll have to take you to the vet’s,” she says. “And get you a
proper collar. This one is too rough.”

  Sally gets down from the bed and whines again.

  “Oh, dear. Maybe she has to go to the bathroom,” Frieda says.

  We all stare at the dog.

  – She’s hungry, says Norbert. And thirsty

  “You sure she doesn’t want to go outside?” I ask. My friend Miranda – that’s the certain girl Norbert was talking about – has a dog named Gracie who has to go outside so often that her doggie door never shuts. Miranda’s dad is a kind of scientist; he wonders if it’s theoretically possible for Gracie, on her way back inside, to collide with herself going out again.

  – No, she’s fine, says Norbert. That’s why she was in the bathtub thing. She’s hungry, I tell you.

  “What?” says Frieda. “Sally pooped in my mother’s prize sarcophagus?”

  – Hey, I didn’t choose the spot. It was Sally’s idea.

  “Norbert!” I say.

  – Don’t look at me. I’m civilized. I’ve got indoor plumbing here.

  Sally is still whining.

  “Food’s in the kitchen,” says Bird, sensibly.

  Sally likes leftover stew, we discover. Also, cheese biscuits and ladyfingers and bread crusts. And peanut butter. And raw broccoli. Not a picky eater. I want to offer her some weird smelly meat spread we find in the fridge, but Frieda says no.

  – Thank you, says Norbert.

  Through the open door of the kitchen we hear Mrs. Miller’s voice. She’s in the library with Special Agent Libby.

  “It’s hard to believe,” she says. “Professor Malchus is such a gentleman. And so knowledgeable. We were all looking forward to seeing his new Ushabti. He was convinced it had a pyramid connection.”

  “So he did have it with him. Did he show you?”

  “We didn’t get that far,” she said. “He described it for us. Horus – he’s the hawk-faced Sky god, you know – is shown weeping. A very rare form.”

  “Hawkface,” I say out loud. “Remember, Frieda?”

  Frieda looks at me. It’s the look my friend Victor gives me during math class. Well, duh, says the look.

  – You know, he left something in the sarcophagus, says Norbert. He dropped it in when the police came in the room, and then tried to get it back on his way out. He spoke to me very nicely. I think he really believes in Norberto.