Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [38]
When questions were invited, I asked a lot. They were all stupid questions, the only kind I was capable of asking about that subject. He answered glibly and with assurance – if that proved anything. Unfortunately he decided my interest was so intense and my ignorance so abysmal that I deserved special coaching, and I didn’t manage to shake him off until after lunch, by which time I knew more about the nesting habits of wigeons than I wanted to know – and I still wasn’t sure whether he was on the level or not.
The sound of music struck my ears when I got off the elevator. Someone was playing the piano, and playing quite well. It was a stormy, violent piece of music – Chopin’s ‘Revolutionary Etude.’
He had his back to me and the music covered the sound of my footsteps. I couldn’t resist. I moved close and spoke.
‘How nice. You’re playing our song.’
His hands came down on the keyboard with a crash and he bent his head. I couldn’t see his face, but his ear was bright crimson. After a moment he said under his breath, ‘Don’t do that!’
‘Where’s your dear little wife?’ I inquired.
He looked directly at me. His face was still flushed and his expression was so savage I stepped back. ‘Drop it, Vicky. Leave me alone.’
There were a number of other people in the saloon, including an elderly German couple from Hamburg, Suzi Umphenour, and Sweet and Bright, their heads bent over a chessboard.
Recovering, I said softly, ‘You don’t have to be so rude. Or do you?’
Several heads turned in our direction. John’s hands went back to the keyboard, covering his next words with a series of emphatic but rather ragged arpeggios. ‘Apparently I must. Subtle hints are wasted on you. Excuse me.’
He stopped playing and rose. I took the hint. As I walked away I heard a spatter of applause and the Frau from Hamburg called out in English, ‘Beautiful! Will you be performing for us at the cabaret?’
John answered in German. ‘Valen Dank, gnädige Frau, aber nein.’ In the same language, pitched so I could hear, he added, ‘I try never to perform in public’
The phone woke me at the unholy hour of 6 a.m. next morning. It was my wake-up call. I grunted an acknowledgment into the phone and reached out a languid hand for the button that would summon my room steward. I was going to miss this kind of service when I got home and was wakened at about the same hour by Clara sitting on my face and Caesar licking any part of me he could reach. Neither of them would bring me coffee.
The response was slower than usual, and when I answered the tactful tap at the door it wasn’t Ali. This man was darker-skinned and older and not so pretty.
‘Madame wishes breakfast?’ he inquired.
‘Where’s Ali?’
The fellow’s eyes shifted. ‘I am here instead, madame. Mahmud is my name. What is it the lady wishes?’
I didn’t pursue the matter. Maybe it was Ali’s day off. I had just finished showering when Mahmud came back; slinging on my robe, I told him to take the tray onto the balcony.
The boat rocked gently at its moorings. We had reached El Till, as promised, and at seven-fifteen would disembark to visit the site of Amarna. My room faced west, so all I could see was the river and the opposite bank. It was a beautiful morning, as usual. I wouldn’t need a jacket today. Already the breeze felt warm.
When we assembled in the lobby, Feisal began shouting directions. He seemed a little on edge that morning and reminded us twice, rather sharply, that we were to stay with the group and not wander off alone.
‘That doesn’t apply to me, of course,’ said Perry, edging up to me. ‘If there’s anything particular you want to see – ’
‘It sounds to me as if the regular tour covers as much as I want to see.’
And that was the truth. It was going to be a long, hot, tiring day. We were to spend the morning visiting part of the ruins of the city and a few of the nobles’ tombs. We would then return to the boat for an early lunch, and the weaker vessels would stay