The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [20]
Having carried my exhausted beauty upstairs and kissed her off to slumber, pulling her bedclothes up to her carved ivory chin, I re-descended and danced with Inge and the Partners’ wives, some of whom found the close contact of a bona-fide Egyptian explorer rather too heady a draught for their natural Boston modesty, and more than once I felt the firm, caressing need to remind the ladies of the proper hand positions for certain popular dances.
After midnight, the party spilled out of Finneran’s ballroom and across Arlington Street. (An image to cherish forever: my future father-in-law, self-described “gentle as a lamb,” kicking with grunts of exertion and boyish joy the prone figure of a man who had, as the party crossed into the Public Garden, attempted to grab Finneran’s pocket watch on the run. The regretful robber called out for help from the police. “Here we are, son, not to worry,” immediately cried four members of the Boston constabulary whom Finneran had at the party to protect himself from any liquor-control inspection. And with a quiet “Thank you, officers,” Finneran retreated and allowed the bobbies to deliver their more professional beating to the cutpurse, interrupting them just once, in order to withdraw from his whimpering assailant’s pocket enough money to cover “the polishing of my blood-spattered boots, you hooligan.”)
CCF had had tents and roasting spits brought out to the Public Garden; the visible aromas of roast suckling pig rose towards the slender blue-grey clouds, and guests circled the waitresses in their skimpy Egyptian servant-girl costumes, grabbing—depending on their ruling appetite—at the waitresses’ trays or their buttocks, while other, alcoholically calmer revellers wandered down to the duck pond to commandeer the public pedal boats shaped as gigantic swans, or—in rolled shirtsleeves and sheer slip dresses—waded into the cool water, falling into each other’s slick, goose-pimpled arms.
I stood aside, content in my natural role as an observant explorer, released, for the moment, from my duties as guest of honour, and I was happy, so very happy, when from my left, in the shadow between low-drooping willows that swayed like giant, green jellyfish, I heard my name gruffly called. Under a dome of willow branches, as fully enclosed as if we were circus dwarves waiting for a cue to emerge from under the bearded lady’s close, musty hoopskirt, I found myself pleasantly hypnotised by the perfect, pulsing orange circle of Finneran’s cigar end, illuminating at its brightest a few filaments of blue smoke (and presumably my own face), but nothing else. “Wanted to wish you good luck,” said my invisible patron, and the orange circle faded to a coiled spring of dully glowing grey. “We’ve all taken our measure of you. Don’t let us down.” Orange circle swells and recedes, swells and recedes. “I never will, CC.” “I’ll always do what’s best for my Margaret, you know, father and mother both to that little girl.” “Of course, CC, of course.” “Happy to have you in the family.” “Many thanks.” “She picked you and I approved. I picked you and she approved. Doesn’t matter which, you know.” “Of course, CC.” Orange circle glows bright and fades. “Don’t know about you English gentry, but family in our country’s a serious issue.” “Of course, CC.” Orange circle. Pause. “Keep that in mind is all.” “Of course, CC.” “People counting on you, Ralph. Lot of people. Lot riding on you. Lot of trust in you.” All of which was CCF’s shy preamble to presenting me with this large wooden humidor inlaid with swirling black ornamentation and filled with cigars, each chosen specially by Boston’s finest tobacconist and banded with the black label with silver monogram: CCF. And the