The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [225]
John had only been in Budapest two days, sleeping on his brother’s floor, meandering alone through the city with a new and already out-of-date map, occasionally being introduced halfheartedly to Scott’s friends. John had only just met this group, but even he suspected that Charles had no envy of Mark’s research. Gábor had essentially just told the Canadian that he had zero interest in his life’s work, had just allowed himself the luxury of saying the obvious: To a venture capitalist, Mark’s scholarly, slobbery obsessions with the past were laughable. And Mark had even begun to laugh.
Mark grew distracted by a waitress passing close to the table. Scott reminded him, “It’s your turn. We’re going counterclockwise.” And Mark made a small gesture of having his attention brought back to the game despite himself, a little play of candor that struck John as amateurish compared to the maestro’s opening.
“You know,” Mark said in a Canadian-accented singsong, apparently somewhat surprised to hear himself admit it, “I’m actually beginning to warm up to those boots,” referring to the knee-high open-toe lace-up white-vinyl go-go boots that graced the feet of all Gerbeaud waitresses, women from eighteen to sixty-five, who were also condemned to yellow miniskirts and white lace aprons. All five of the Westerners were baffled that people a few months into post-Communism wouldn’t pull down their mandatory go-go boots with the same liberating fervor they had demonstrated in pulling down their tyrannical government. In any event, even the dullest novice to the game would have realized that a man writing a popular history of nostalgia, who had seen cheerleaders and style-free Canadians wearing boots just like that all his life, was probably not going to “warm up” to the look in this context.
And yet there was Emily Oliver wagging her head back and forth, trying to decide whether to believe him. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and was examining Mark with visible mental energy, even said, “Hmmm.” Finally, she seemed to realize (quite transparently) that she was being quite transparent, and she went to some effort to compose her features. Everyone watched this transformation, and they all smiled with her in their communal struggle not to laugh.
“You are a master of deception, my girl.”
“Stop it, you! You came up with this weirdo game, so excuse me if I need a little practice. Normal people were raised to tell the truth, you know.” She set her jaw, inhaled, and prepared herself to lie.
And John Price fell in love, five-fifteen one Friday evening in May 1990.
Emily cocked one eyebrow in an unwitting parody of conspiracy and confessed, “I struggle with serious depression all the time. I mean, very dark periods, where I feel totally hopeless.”
After a momentary hush, frank hilarity burst from Mark and Scott. Even Charles smiled broadly, though he tried to show the game more respect. Emily herself was forced to look at her lap. “I’ll get the hang of this,” she said. “You watch.”
John, however, was not laughing. He was watching his life unfold at last. He was watching a woman incapable of lying, and he told himself this was one of life’s rare treasures. He saw that Emily—as her lie revealed—had never known neurotic depression and therefore lived close to the surface of life, found the soggy and eternally multiplying layers of self-consciousness and identity an easy burden to strip away. He felt a strange contraction of the muscles around his eyes, and he scraped his lower teeth against his upper lip.
John did not savor the moment for long as, with a winning smile, Scott took his turn: “I’m really glad John tracked me down here in Budapest.” Emily nodded happily at the warm fraternal sentiment. Mark and Charles looked at their hands. “Really. Like a dream come true.”
A gloomy waitress passed tantalizingly close to the table, and John made a hopeful wave