O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [113]
My hair, too, was in a sorry state, but I eventually combed it back into a sleek knot and examined myself critically in the mottled glass Holmes had brought to my cubicle along with frock, stockings, shoes, hairpins, earrings, and all the accoutrements of female preparation. He knew the routine, give him that: he’d even thought to include a small bottle of expensive scent, which I used rather more liberally than was my wont. Cold water does not actually cleanse.
Still, I thought I might pass, if I did not forget myself and drop to my haunches or let loose with a florid Arabic curse. The frock was of an outdated fashion, perhaps more appropriate here than in London, with a high neck, long sleeves, and low hem. It was a nicely made garment, in a dark maroon fabric with touches of white that clung and moved and distracted the eye from the tint of my skin, which no amount of rice powder would lighten.
I examined my reflection and had to wonder uneasily if Holmes had intended for me to look quite so… exotic. The young woman looking back at me seemed, shall I say, sensuous—loose, even, like some Eurasian temptress in a bad novel. On the whole, I thought perhaps the effect was accidental; had he been deliberately aiming at the effect, he would probably have included a bottle of hair-rinse to make my blonde hair colour seem artificial.
A selection of gloves arrived, and shortly thereafter Ali and Mahmoud came up the stairs. They stood in the doorway, frankly staring at me, but I absolutely refused to blush. Instead, I turned to them for their opinion.
“What do you think, the white gloves or the lacy ones?”
Ali just gawped. Mahmoud examined the two choices, and his lips twitched. I chose the long lacy ones, which, as they were more difficult to get on and off, might excusably be retained during dinner.
With no more self-consciousness than a pair of cats the two men watched me complete my toilette, tug the gloves into place, and check my hairpins. Finally Ali said, “There is a motorcar in the road.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” I asked in irritation, catching up the evening cloak and pushing past them to reach the external stairway—it was dark now, and outside there would be less chance of observers to remark on the inn’s bizarre guest. I was picking my cautious way down the stairs when I heard Mahmoud’s voice from above me.
“Is your hair the colour that is called ‘strawberry blonde’?” he asked.
I stopped. “I suppose so,” I answered. When no other enquiries followed, I shrugged my shoulders and continued down the stairs, but before I reached the cobbles, a strange noise filled the dirty little yard: a man’s voice, a tenor, singing. It took a moment for the words to register, by which time a second voice, a baritone, had joined in. “ ‘I danced with the girl with the strawberry curls,’ ” they sang, “ ‘and the band played on…’ ” The old tune followed me out the gates, and as I was being handed into the car by the driver the words dissolved into laughter. I shook my head. It was like living with a pair of adolescent boys. And Holmes was at times no better.
We drove out through the gap in the city wall next to the Jaffa Gate, the hole cut in 1898 to enable the Kaiser to ride his white horse into the city. I had seen a photograph somewhere of the occasion, the German emperor dressed in white silk, preceded by brass bands and Arab horsemen, with his ladies following behind in the comfort of their touring car. Once inside, of course, there would have been no place for the motorcar or the bands to go—our inn was at the very farthest reaches of automotive traffic, short of a motorcycle, in this labyrinthine city. Symbolism, however, especially in Jerusalem, is all—which explained as well the contrasting entrance Allenby had chosen to make nineteen years later when he seized the city