Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [40]
‘And Nefertari and Ti and all the other beautiful romantic queens of Egypt. He has succumbed to the legends and the portraits, all of which, one may reasonably assume, bore only a distant resemblance to their subjects.’
Sweet nodded sympathetically. ‘It is not difficult to understand why a shy, sensitive man, a lover of beauty and of art, would prefer a dream to reality.’
‘Or why a man might prefer a woman who has been dead for four thousand years to certain of the living specimens,’ said John.
‘Why, John, how cynical!’ Sweet exclaimed.
Mary had heard; her lips tightened and colour darkened her cheeks.
The trailer stopped and we climbed out. A hot breeze whipped the ends of my scarf across my face.
We were at the foot of the cliffs. High above I could see the entrances to the tombs. Once visitors had had to scramble up the steep, dangerous slope at the base of the rocks, but the need for tourist dollars and pounds, marks and yen had prompted the building of easier paths and several flights of steps. Straight ahead the trek began with a flight of long shallow stairs. Some of our party had already started up.
Perched on one of the steps was a figure wearing a pair of enormous sunglasses and the biggest, snowiest pith helmet I had ever beheld. He was surrounded by a pride of mewing cats and he was feeding them scraps which he took from the innumerable pockets of his khaki jacket. His comments, addressed to the cats, came to my ears like the tolling of a funeral bell.
‘Do not push; it is rude. There is plenty for all. Ach, you are a bad Mutti; let the little ones eat first.’
Behind me a voice said hollowly, ‘I don’t deserve this. Admittedly I have not led a wholly exemplary life, but no one deserves this. Even Jack the Ripper or Attila the Hun . . .’
My sentiments exactly. I couldn’t say so because my vocal cords were paralyzed. Please, God, I thought, let me be suffering from sunstroke or schizophrenia or something harmless like that.
Schmidt looked up. His bushy white moustache flapped and his cute little pink mouth opened in a broad grin.
‘Excuse me,’ John said, shoving me aside. He set off with that deceptively leisurely stride that could cover ground faster than a run. Intent on me, Schmidt didn’t notice him at first; when he did, a look of rapture spread over his face. John reached him before he could bellow out a greeting and bent over him.
‘Isn’t that adorable?’ The speaker was Mary. I had recovered enough to turn my head.
‘Adorable,’ I repeated, in the same doom-ridden voice John had employed.
‘That dear old gentleman feeding the cats.’ Mary slipped her arm in mine. ‘I should have thought of bringing some scraps; all the animals here are so neglected, so hungry.’ She let out a fond little laugh. Her eyes were shining as she looked at John, who had seated himself on the step next to Schmidt. John was doing the talking; Schmidt listened, open-mouthed.
‘John is so tenderhearted,’ Mary went on. ‘He loves cats.’
That was news to me. John certainly didn’t love Clara, who had disliked him on sight. She was an astute judge of character.
The cute little pussycats had given him an excuse to have a private and vital conversation with Schmidt, though. By the time we reached my boss, John had gone on ahead and Schmidt had finished serving breakfast to the pride. He heaved himself to his feet and let out the shriek the sight of John had aborted.
‘Vicky! Grüss Gott, good morning, hello! I am so glad to see you!’
‘What are you doing here, Schmidt?’ I inquired. My voice was very calm.
‘It was Fate, no less. I will tell you all about it later.’ Schmidt glanced at Mary and then back at me. His grin faded and he blinked rapidly. John must have told him. He’d have had to, in order to forestall any embarrassing references to former acquaintanceships. I wished to God I knew what other confidences had passed between the two.
I introduced Mary. Schmidt didn’t say much; he was very gallant with her, though, studying