Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [77]
“I’m sure that’s true,” I reassured him. “Can we go?”
He looked so relieved that I wasn’t going to make a fuss that I thought he was going to hug me. Fortunately he restrained himself. “Of course. I wish you a wonderful trip through our country. I hope this has not tainted your experience.”
“Not at all.”
* * *
On the way out of the valley, we stopped at an alabaster factory, or what Anni referred to as a factory. In fact, it was a small one-story building made of cinder blocks. Covering one wall, a garish painting of questionable artistic merit depicted a plane and several oddly proportioned people.
“The painting indicates the owner is very devout and has made the trip to Mecca,” said Anni as the bus rolled to a stop. “Moreover, it indicates his success in the community because he was able to make the trip by airplane.”
A few paces from the bus, several men sat on cinder blocks in the dust. They talked and laughed with each other until we drew near, then fell silent, eyes lowered. The owner came out and greeted us, gave a brief history of alabaster, and then had one of the men hold up a half-completed piece destined to become a vase. The yellow dusty lump of rock was not what I expected at all.
“This is hand-carved alabaster,” the owner said, holding it up so that the light filtered through the stone. “You see how fine and translucent it is. The unevenness of the surface is how you can tell it was made by hand. This,” he said, holding up another vase, of similar size, “was made by a machine. Both are very beautiful,” he added quickly, “but very different.”
We looked at the two vases. I could tell the hand-carved piece was supposed to be more highly prized, more authentic, but for once in my life I wasn’t drawn to the most expensive item in the shop. The machine-made vase was smooth and polished, the grain of the stone visible, the translucent quality far stronger. I was so disappointed in myself. It was like seeing an authentic Picasso next to a Monet print and secretly preferring the print.
Inside, the shop was bright and airy, walls lined with shelves holding every possible form in alabaster. Carvings of Egyptian cats, of Anubis, of the Eye of Horus. Small pyramids, large pyramids, and dozens of canopic jars topped with scarab beetles or falcon heads. The Peterson boys were frozen in front of one item, pointing and giggling until their mother actually slapped the backs of both red heads and shooed them away. Curious, I went to look. A huge alabaster phallus lay on a wooden stand. Ben Carpenter caught sight of it and rushed over to get Lydia. They both burst into giggles.
Jerry Morrison ambled over, curious. Taking one look at it, he caught my eye and said, “Yeah. That’s about the right size.”
I snorted, and Lydia shot him a look of deep loathing, but Ben gave a grin. “I don’t know, mate. Australians are a good deal larger than that little thing.”
“It’s big enough to knock both of you upside the head. Men!” Lydia said, appealing to me.
“I know.”
I joined Kyla, who was looking at some small bowls. She glanced up at me. “These would be perfect for ice cream. I wonder if you can put them in the dishwasher.”
“I doubt it. They’re really soft stone.”
“Well, I’m going to ask that guy over there.” She gestured to one of the salesmen.
“Somehow, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy that runs his alabaster through the rinse cycle.”
She looked at him, a young man who seemed a little overwhelmed by all of us swarming around the floor. He had one hand near his nose as if he was thinking about going for the gold. “Hmm, you might be right. I’ll ask Anni.”
DJ called to Nimmi in a loud voice from across the room and pointed out a set of four large canopic jars. She joined him and looked down at the little collection doubtfully.
“But they are perfect. Look how large they are,” he was saying.
I frowned. “Look, there he goes again. He’s going to buy those.”
Kyla glanced over at him. “What is he going to do with all that junk? And those jars are just morbid. I know they haven’t actually been