Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

  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.’

  Most of the other men had been unable to resist the chance to dress up. Only Ed Whitbread and the urologist-birder wore ordinary dinner jackets. Sweet and Bright sported enormous matching turbans, Herr Hamburger had a red fez set at a rakish angle, and Larry wore long robes of subdued brown. The women looked like a flock of bright birds. Suzi had crammed herself into the gold sequins, Louisa into one of the gaudy embroidered gowns. That would have been bad enough, since the seams were visibly straining, but she had topped it with a construction she must have made herself – a copy of the tall crown Nefertiti wears in most of her portraits. It looks great on Nefertiti. She has a long slim neck and no moustache.

  We all milled around, admiring one another’s outfits and exchanging compliments, and had a few drinks, and then were summoned to the banquet. I was getting sick and tired of the newlyweds and I didn’t feel up to watching Schmidt eat, so I approached Sweet and Bright and asked if I could join them.

  My other reason for wanting to join them was foiled by Suzi, who decided to make the fourth at our table. Apparently she had set her cap for Bright; I decided he must be richer than he (or Sweet, rather) had implied. She didn’t succeed in getting him to talk, but he grinned and nodded a lot, and kept trying to tear his eyes from her décolletage. It was, I had to admit, a remarkable sight.

  I tried once to introduce an interesting subject, but when I mentioned Ali, Sweet frowned and shook his head. ‘Yes, I had heard. It is very sad. Too sad to think about on such an evening. Have you tried the couscous, Vicky? Delicious!’

  I tried the couscous. I don’t remember what else I ate; it was all delicious, but I couldn’t remember the names even if I had been paying attention. As I wandered to and from the groaning board I caught glimpses of Schmidt, enjoying himself as only Schmidt can.

  After dinner we retired to the lounge for coffee and entertainment. Almost everyone was a little tight by that time, and they entered into the contest for best costume with childish delight. Suzi tried to belly dance and Louisa struck a pose, arms raised and bent, à la Steve Martin imitating King Tut. The prize for best men’s costume went to, of all people, Larry’s secretary, who had apparently been persuaded to take the evening off. He looked very authentic in Arab costume, with dark glasses and an Ibn Saud moustache under his checked headcloth.

  Our little musical ensemble had traded in their Western instruments for drums and pipes. They gave us a brief concert, and then Hamid, the master of ceremonies, made an announcement. We were in for a treat, it appeared. He would say no more, except that the dancer we were about to see ordinarily did not perform in public. This was a gracious gesture, a tribute to a particularly distinguished group of visitors.

  Feisal walked out onto the floor.

  I had never seen him in other than Western clothing. His robe was plain, light grey in colour. He looked gorgeous just standing still. Then the band struck up, if that is an appropriate phrase, and he started to dance.

  I knew belly dancing was a bastard form, and that the classic form of the art is performed only by men. If you think a man dancing alone looks effeminate, you haven’t seen Baryshnikov or any of the other great premiers danseurs. In a completely different way, and in a completely different idiom, Feisal had the same power. I can’t describe what he did. It involved movements of arms and body and head, sometimes graceful and gliding, sometimes forceful, almost abrupt. By the time he finished, every woman in the room was dry-mouthed and I was thinking things I would call sexist if a man had been thinking them about me.

  Feisal stood still for a moment, acknowledging the applause with a slight inclination of his head. Then he held out his hands and gave us a brilliant smile. ‘Come, who will join me?’

  Suzi was the first onto the floor. They glided around for a while; at least Feisal glided, holding her out at arm’s length, only their hands touching. Graceful she was not, but she enjoyed herself hugely, flashing teeth almost as white as Feisal’s, emitting peals of laughter when she tripped over her own feet. Sweet and Bright were the next to try it; they circled solemnly, waving their arms. The effect was not at all the same.

  I decided I needed a cup of coffee. As I approached the dance floor, Feisal passed Suzi neatly off to Bright and caught my hand.

  ‘All the ladies in turn,’ he called, towing me onto the floor.

  There wasn’t much I could do; he had a grip like a steel trap. I tried to be like a good sport, but I could feel my face turning red. I’ve always been self-conscious about my height. Even when they are clumsy, little women manage to look cute. Tall women just look clumsy, period.

  ‘You are very graceful,’ Feisal murmured, steadying me as I stumbled.

  ‘And you are very much a liar. I’ll get you for this, Feisal.’ He laughed, throwing his head back. His throat was smooth and brown, corded with muscle. ‘Have you been avoiding me? I have seen nothing of you.’

  ‘You’ve been busy. Oops. Sorry.’

  ‘Relax, don’t fight me. You would do well if you were not so afraid.’

  As double entendres go it wasn’t awfully subtle, especially when it was accompanied by a languishing look from those thick-lashed dark eyes. I laughed, and stumbled again. Feisal smiled. ‘Sorry. One gets into the habit. I have been busy, and social encounters on board ship present certain difficulties. We’ll have some free time in Luxor; may I show you something of the city?’

  ‘This is a hell of a time to ask for a date,’ I said, trying not to trip over my own feet.

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘I will. Now can I sit down?’

  ‘Yes, certainly. It’s time I gave Nefertiti a whirl. Doesn’t she look frightful?’

  I shouldn’t have been out of breath, but I was. I decided what I needed was fresh air and time to regain my composure. As I headed for the open doors and the deck, I beheld an amusing little pantomime. Mary was on her feet, gesturing animatedly. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, the music was too loud, but it was obvious she was trying to persuade John to dance with her. He kept shaking his head. She caught his hand and tugged at him, her face bright with laughter. He smiled and went on shaking his head. Schmidt had also been watching them. Ladies’ man that he was, he sashayed up to Mary and offered his hand. They were heading for the dance floor when I went out.

  There were no dark corners on that deck, but I found a spot between two lamps that was relatively shadowy and leaned against the rail. It was a glorious night; the breeze cooled my flushed cheeks, and the moon, three quarters full, cast a silvery path across the water. Lights from a village on the west bank sparkled through the trees and more stars than I could ever recall seeing brightened the sky. Romantic as all hell, that’s what it was, and there I stood, alone in the moonlight, wondering which of the handsome men on board was planning to cut my throat, and when.

  Feisal might be genuinely interested in my wonderful self. Tall blondes are popular in Italy and points east. He might also be an agent of the Egyptian security police. I’d have been quite happy to believe either and even happier to believe both.

  He’d kept his distance until this evening. Had that been deliberate – a precaution, to prevent others from suspecting his real role? Proposing a rendezvous in Luxor might have been a way of reassuring me. It was all quite logical and completely unproven.

  He walked like the fog, on little cat feet, so lightly I didn’t hear him till he was right behind me. When I turned it was too late to get away. My back was against the rail and his arms, raised and ready, told me I wouldn’t get far if I tried to run. The moon was behind him; it glimmered in his hair but his face was in shadow.

  His hands gripped my upper arms and pulled me towards him. He was so quick, and it was such an unexpected, damn-fool gesture, I didn’t react in time. I tried to raise my knee, but his body pressed mine against the rail, and my fists never made it as far as his face, they were caught between my breast and his as his arm went around my shoulders and pulled me close.

 
‘If you’re thinking of screaming, I’d strongly advise against it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Damn you,’ I whispered. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Someone will see – ’

  He said something, in a voice so low and uneven I couldn’t make out the words, as his free hand slid into the open neck of my robe. Screaming was no longer an option. There wasn’t enough air in my lungs. The last of my breath mingled with his as his lips forced mine apart. I couldn’t free them; his fingers had moved from my breast to twist through my hair, and the pressure of his mouth held my head in the hard cradle of his hand. I knew – I had thought I knew – the strength of his hands and arms and lean body, but never before had he used it like this, uncontrolled and mindlessly demanding. Not against me . . .

  He let me go so abruptly that only the rail behind me kept me from falling, and stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. I felt like a swimmer who has been underwater too long – ears ringing, legs straining, muscles limp. Gasping and shaking, I hung on to the rail until I got my breath back. I can swear in several languages, but I couldn’t think of any word in any of them that would be bad enough. ‘How long have you been married – two weeks?’

  He turned slightly, lifting his shoulders in a shrug, but when he replied his voice was harsh and unsteady. ‘Monogamy is so dull. Why should I confine myself to one woman?’

  ‘She’s young and pretty and madly in love – ’

  ‘And wealthy,’ John said. ‘You don’t suppose I paid for those vulgar diamonds, do you?’

  Every negative emotion I had ever felt for him – anger, contempt, hatred, loathing – boiled up in a sudden flood. My Scandinavian ancestors were prone to berserker rages, but this was the first time I’d ever experienced one. I hauled my arm back and let fly.

  It wasn’t often I could catch John off guard, but I succeeded this time. The flat of my hand connected with a sound like that of a large dry branch snapping. The impact sent pain darting clear up my arm to my shoulder.