Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [116]
I must say it was an education to watch him work. He didn’t use much of the black stuff, whatever it was – just enough to darken his eyebrows and touch up those long lashes. He tanned easily; I had seen other Egyptians with skin as fair as his. Once the turban was in place, the difference in his appearance was astounding. It was partly a matter of expression – tight lips, out-thrust chin, lowering brows.
‘What about your beautiful, beautiful blue eyes?’ I asked.
His response was automatic – ‘“I’ll never love brown eyes again – ”’ and then he laughed shortly. ‘A truer word was never spoken. As for my beautiful blue eyes, I don’t intend to stand still long enough for anyone to gaze deeply into them. Now what are we going to do about you?’
‘Maybe Granny could lend me a robe and a veil.’
John shook his head. ‘You’re too tall to pass as an Egyptian female. It’s male attire for you, I’m afraid. Your bonnie blue eyes are beyond my modest skill – ’
‘“You told me more lies than the stars in the . . .” Sorry. Don’t take it personally. Country music does have a thing about blue eyes, doesn’t it?’
Feisal was staring at us as if we had lost our minds. He was probably right. John had that effect on me.
‘So far the score is tied,’ said John. ‘As I was saying, we’ve got to do something about your hair.’
‘Cut it off,’ I said, reaching for the scissors. ‘Then Feisal can wind me a turban too.’
John took the scissors from me. ‘Sit down. I’ll do it.’
‘I should have known you numbered barbering among your varied skills.’
His hands moved slowly from the crown of my head to the base of my sknll, smoothing the tangled masses of hair and gathering them together. There was a long pause before he said, ‘I’ve a better idea. A spot of cosmic cleansing wouldn’t do you any harm.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I tried to turn, but he closed his fingers around the impromptu ponytail and gave it a hard tug.
‘Communing with the universe, awakening the collective consciousness of the world,’ John chanted. ‘You’re not quite grubby enough for a New Ager, but that’s easy to fix.’
When he finished fixing it, I was a dirty blonde with a long lank ponytail and a distinct four o’clock shadow. The dirt and the beard came from the garden, the single gold earring from Granny, and the collarless long-sleeved shirt from Feisal. Entering into the spirit of the thing, I demanded a crystal and a pair of cutoffs.
‘We’ll pick up some mystic insignia at one of the bazaars,’ John said. ‘These types go in for scarabs and ankh signs and such. The shorts are out. Your knees aren’t knobby enough.’
‘You might have expressed it in more flattering terms,’ I said.
‘Your legs, my darling, are masterpieces of sculptural elegance,’ John said agreeably. ‘Those appendages would grace an Aphrodite or a young Diana. Never could such marvels of slender rounded beauty be taken for those of a man. Your form, in short, is rare and divine.’
‘“Philadelphia Lawyer,”’ I said.
John raised one finger and made an invisible mark on the air. ‘One point for you.’
Feisal’s friend was a shy, retiring chap. As soon as we left the house in response to his signal on the horn, he slid out of the driver’s seat of the car and walked away without looking back. If he wanted to make certain neither John or I could identify him, he succeeded.
As for the car, I had seen its likes before – in junkyards or abandoned in vacant lots. If it had been in good condition it would have ranked as a vintage vehicle; those tailfins had to be thirty years out of date.
‘Good God,’ John said, staring. ‘Is this the best he could do? We won’t get twenty miles in this wreck.’
‘I hope you won’t think me rude,’ said Feisal, ‘if I remind you that you are in no position to be fastidious, and that you sound like a typical supercilious twit of a tourist. We underprivileged Third World types