The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [10]
“Good evening,” Jacqueline Kirby said. “You look like an underdone biscuit. How are you?”
“Fine.” The word came out as an unconvincing croak, and Jean cleared her throat. “I’m just hungry. I’ve been working for…What day is it?”
“Friday. I know you’ve been working; I’ve been watching you.” There was more envy than commiseration in Jacqueline’s voice. “I could do it too, when I was your age. That and a lot of other things that are no longer within my capabilities…. Want a ride home? Or are you going directly to Andy’s?”
“I feel fine,” Jean repeated vaguely. She was thinking about the last paragraph she had written. Then, belatedly, a fact penetrated the lingering fog of scholarship.
“Andy’s? Andy’s party! For his father…Has he gone?”
“Who? Where?”
“Andy. He was in his office all afternoon.”
“He left at five, to get ready for the party.”
“Yes, the party.” Jean shook herself. “Lord, I am shot! I’ve got to hurry. Gosh. I look like…What time is it?”
“Calm down. The party doesn’t start till nine, which means it won’t get interesting until about ten. You have plenty of time to repair the ravages of hard labor.”
“What about you?” Jean shook her head. “I seem to be saying the most stupid things tonight. I mean, you look fine the way you are. You don’t need—”
“At my age there isn’t much I can do anyway,” Jacqueline said sadly. “Still, I suppose I should make an effort…. Do you want a ride or don’tyou?”
Jean looked at her, saw the twinkle in her eye, and relaxed.
“Thank you. I would, if it isn’t out of your way. I didn’t know you had a car.”
“You’ve missed a lot the last few days. While you were in your fog, my friend Frau Hilman went off on vacation, leaving me her car and her apartment.”
“It’s nice to have friends.”
“She also left me her Persian cat, her pink poodle, and a tank of assorted and delicate tropical fish. By the time I dredge the cat out of the fish tank and chop the poodle’s daily gourmet dinner, I begin to wonder whether I made such a good deal.”
They emerged from the building into the balmy dusk of a Roman night, and Jean took a deep, restorative breath.
“The car’s down this way,” Jacqueline said. She hesitated, and then said, almost reluctantly, “Would you like to come back with me and have scrambled eggs or something? There’s also a shower. I’m not trying to sound like a TV commercial for soap, but I’ve lived in student lodgings myself, and I know about those little washbasins in the corner of the room, the kind with two cold water taps.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Jean said.
“Oh, nice is the word for me,” Jacqueline agreed sarcastically. She turned the key in the ignition and was rewarded by a peculiar grinding noise. Looking flustered, she made movements with her feet; the noise subsided into a dull roar. “I hate this car,” she muttered. “I hate driving in Rome.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Masochism. In New England we call it self-discipline, but it’s the same thing.” The car jerked out into traffic, and Jacqueline relaxed a trifle. “Luckily, the Institute and the apartment are both on this side of the river. If I had to fight my way through that maze of streets in the old city, I’d chicken out.”
“Are you sure you want me to come?” Jean asked.
“Why not?”
It was not a particularly gracious reply, but the tone reassured Jean.
“Could we stop by my place and let me get a clean outfit? I live just off the Via di San Pancrazio.”
“Sure.”
It took Jean approximately three minutes to go up to her room and come back. Her chauffeur regarded her with respect.
“That was fast.”
“I’ve only got one clean dress.”
They retraced their route, getting lost only once. At this point Jacqueline commented pungently, and it was Jean’s turn to look at her with respect.
“You don’t sound like a librarian,” she said.
“I’m on