Crocodile on the Sandbank - Elizabeth Peters [44]
For the next two days everything went smoothly. At least I thought it did. Later I discovered that there had been ominous signs, if anyone of intelligence had been watching for them. Unfortunately I was not. I was totally preoccupied with my—that is, with Emerson’s pavement.
His notion of tapioca and water was good, but I improved on it, adding a teaspoonful of starch and two of bismuth to each quart of water. He had been correct about the impossibility of using an ordinary brush to apply the mixture. I had used my right hand, my left hand—and was almost ready to remove shoes and stockings in order to use my toes—when Evelyn intervened.
She had been copying the painting, and was doing splendidly. I was amazed at her skill; she caught not only the shapes and colors, but the vital, indefinable spirit underlying the mind of the ancient artist. Even Emerson was moved to admiring grunts when she showed him her first day’s work. She spent the second morning at the task, and then went up for a rest, leaving me at work. Having covered the edges of the painting, I had set some of the workers to building walkways across the pavement; the supports rested on blank spaces where pillars had once stood, so there was no defacement of the painting, but I had to watch the men closely. They thought the process utterly ridiculous, and would have dragged planks across the fragile surface if I had not supervised them every moment.
They had finished the job and I was lying flat across the walk working on a new section when Evelyn’s voice reached me. Glancing up, I was surprised to see that the sun was declining. My last useful finger was beginning to bleed, so I decided to stop; bloodstains would have been impossible to remove from the painting. I crawled back along the boards. When I reached the edge, Evelyn grasped me by the shoulders and tried to shake me.
“Amelia, this must stop! Look at your hands! Look at your complexion! And your dress, and your hair, and—”
“It does seem to be rather hard on one’s wardrobe,” I admitted, gazing down at my crumpled, dusty, tapioca-spotted gown. “What is wrong with my complexion, and my hair, and—”
Making exasperated noises, Evelyn escorted me back to the tomb, and put a mirror in my hands.
I looked like a Red Indian witch. Although the wooden shelter had protected me from the direct rays of the sun, even reflected sunlight has power in this climate. My hair hung in dusty elf-locks around my red face.
I let Evelyn freshen me and lead me out to our little balcony. Walter was waiting for us, and Michael promptly appeared cool drinks. This evening was an occasion, for Emerson was to join us for the first time. He had made a remarkable recovery; once he grasped the situation he applied himself to recuperation with the grim intensity I might have expected. I had agreed that he might dress and join us for dinner, provided he wrapped up well against the cool of evening.
He had acrimoniously refused any assistance in dressing. Now he made a ceremonious appearance, waving Walter aside; and I stared.
I knew the beard was gone, but I had not seen him since the operation. I had overheard part of the procedure that morning. It was impossible not to overhear it; Emerson’s shouts of rage were audible a mile away, and Walter had to raise his voice in order to be heard.
“Excessive hair drains the strength,” I had heard him explain, in a voice choked with laughter. “Hold his arms, Michael; I am afraid I may inadvertently