Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [80]
For once John said very little. He seemed preoccupied; once or twice Mary had to repeat a comment or question before he responded.
Finally Larry looked at his watch. ‘We’d better go in. The guest will be arriving soon.’
The grand salon occupied one entire side of the house. Words fail me when I attempt to describe it. (They fail me because I still don’t know much about Islamic architecture.) The outside wall, the one facing the gardens, was a glorious hodgepodge of stained-glass panels and intricately carved wooden screens. The arches and pillars framing the windows were covered with antique tiles in shades of blue-green and coral.
The objects arranged in niches along two inner walls weren’t Islamic, but ancient Egyptian – a life-sized sandstone head of a pharaoh wearing the double crown, a small painted statue of a slender girl carrying a basket on her head, a wooden panel from a cosmetic box, with a charming painting of an ibis crouching, or squatting, or whatever ibises do. It was a modest collection for a man with Larry’s money and taste. They were all good pieces, but none was what I’d have called outstanding.
I didn’t have time to examine them in detail. Larry drew me to the door, where I stood for the next half hour helping him receive his guests. It was probably the high point of my social life. As I shook hands with the Minister of the Interior and allowed the head of the Egyptian Antiquities Organization to kiss my fingertips I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, wait till Mom hears about this! Even the best of us (which doesn’t include me) is susceptible to snobbery.
Our buddies from the tour were among the last to arrive. Suzi flashed her teeth at Larry and gave me a huge hug. Her diamonds left dents in my chest. Larry passed her on to a minister of something. I greeted Sweet and his silent companion, noted that Louisa’s veils were already slipping, and pressed the flesh with the others. Among them was Feisal, resplendent in black tie and tails. He kissed my hand and winked at me.
‘That’s enough,’ Larry said, when the last of them had gone on. ‘Come and have some champagne. You’ve earned it.’
Almost at once he was captured by some dignitary or other and I retreated to a relatively quiet corner. Sipping my champagne – with caution, since it has an unfortunate effect on me – I surveyed the room. ‘Our’ crowd had gathered together, except for Suzi, who had found herself a general. Or maybe a colonel, I didn’t know the significance of the insignia. He had several square acres of ribbons on his chest, and he seemed to be as fascinated by Suzi as she was by him. I spotted Ed, strategically situated by the windows opening onto the lawn, his eyes ceaselessly scanning the crowd. His tux had been cut by a good tailor, but it bulged in several places. At first I couldn’t locate Schmidt. Then I saw him coming towards me, accompanied by a youngish man with a broad, open face that inspired a sudden wave of violent homesickness. My home town is full of people with faces like that. He had to be from Minnesota.
He had been born in Duluth, but that didn’t emerge until later in the conversation. Schmidt introduced him as Dr Paul Whitney, the director of Chicago House, the Luxor-based branch of the Oriental Institute.
‘Skip the titles,’ Paul said, with a broad smile. (Oh, those lovely big teeth! Only inMinnesota . . .) ‘The place is swarming with doctors. Quite an occasion, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what the occasion is,’ I admitted. ‘Larry said something about a surprise, but . . .’
‘It’s not that much of a surprise. We’re a hopeless bunch of gossips here in Luxor. Larry is handing this place over to the Antiquities Organization and endowing it as a research institute specializing in conservation.’
He took a glass from the tray a waiter had offered. So did I. What the heck, two glasses wouldn’t hurt