Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [42]
“You were the one who uncovered it,” I reminded him. “What are you planning to do to protect it?”
“I’ve had a wooden shelter built, but that is only a small part of the problem. The question is, what preservative can we apply that won’t damage the paint? It is crumbled to powder; an ordinary brush simply smears the surface. And the varnishes that have been used in such cases are atrocious; they darken and crack…”
“But you, of course, have found a solution,” I said.
“A solution is precisely what it is. A mixture of weak tapioca and water, brushed on the painting—”
“You said brushing marred the paint.”
Emerson looked as dignified as a man can look under such adverse circumstances.
“I brush it on with the edge of my finger.”
I stared at him with reluctant admiration.
“You are determined, I’ll say that for you.”
“It is slow work; I have to do it myself, I can’t trust any of the workmen. I have only covered part of it.” He groaned feelingly. “I tell you, woman, I must get up and see to my pavement.”
“I’ll see to your pavement,” I said. “Stay in bed or you will have a relapse and be ill for weeks. Even you must see that that would be foolish.”
I did not wait for an answer, it would only have been rude. I started along the ledge. Evelyn caught my sleeve.
“Amelia, where are you going?”
“To see Mr. Emerson’s pavement, of course. Have you ever known me to break my word?”
“No, but … Do you not think you might assume a more appropriate costume?”
In some surprise I glanced down. I had forgotten I was wearing my dressing gown and slippers.
“Perhaps you are right, Evelyn.”
As the reader has no doubt realized, female fashion has never interested me. However, while in London, I had learned of the Rational Dress League, and had had a dress made in that style. It was of slate-colored India cloth, with a plain, almost mannish bodice and a few simple frills at the cuffs as its only ornament. But the daring feature of this costume was the divided skirt. The two legs were so full that they resembled an ordinary kilted skirt and did not give me nearly the freedom of action I desired, but they were a good deal more practical than the so-called walking dresses then in vogue. I had kept this garment at the very bottom of my trunk; in Cairo, I had not had quite the courage to wear it. Now I took it out, shook out the creases, and put it on.
As I scrambled down the rocky, hot path, I appreciated the divided skirt; but I still yearned for trousers. At the foot of the slope I found Walter arguing with the cook, a morose-looking individual with only one functional eye. I never did make out what the argument was about, but I settled it, and saw the chicken, which the cook had been waving under Walter’s nose, plucked and in the pot before I proceeded. Walter offered to accompany me, but I sent him back to his brother. Emerson needed a watchdog; I did not.
I found the place where the workers were employed and introduced myself to the foreman, Abdullah. He was a stately figure of a man, almost six feet tall; his flowing snowy robes, long gray beard and voluminous headcloth gave him the look of a biblical patriarch. He was not a native of one of the local villages, but came from Upper Egypt and had worked with Emerson before.
Abdullah directed me to the pavement, which was some distance away. It was easy to find, however, because of the low wooden roof that had been erected over it.
There was a great stretch of it—twenty feet across by perhaps fifteen feet long—miraculously, magnificently preserved. The colors were as fresh as if they had just been applied—exquisite blues, glowing reds, and cool greens, with touches of white and deep blue-black to emphasize details. Birds flew with outstretched wings in luxuriant gardens where flowers bloomed. Young animals, calves and kids, frolicked amid the undergrowth, kicking up their heels. I could almost hear them bellowing and bleating with the sheer joy of living.