The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [4]
“Don’t mind him. If he could talk he would tell you he’s sketching you, and doesn’t want you to move.”
“Oh, he can talk; I’ve heard him. Why—”
“He’s an artist,” Andy said. There was a low growl from Michael, who continued to sketch, and Andy went on, “Painter, I should have said. They are real weirdos, these arty types…. Allright, Michelangelo, but I have to call you something; would you prefer ‘artistic’? No, I didn’t think you would…. Anyhow, my own sisterhere happens to be one of them. She’s a sculptor. And don’t call her a sculptress, if you value your life. You wouldn’t think people who work with their hands could get so hung up on words, would you?”
“Everybody is hung up on words,” Jacqueline said. She smiled at Ann, who gave her a faint smile in return, but said nothing. “So Michael and Ann represent the ‘art’ half of the Institute for Art and Archaeology. You and Jean are the archaeologists, Andy?”
“The Institute discriminates against archaeologists,” Andy said. “Jean is a compromise. An art historian.”
“It averages out, over the years,” Jean said earnestly. “They try to keep a balance.”
“She is a compromise in several senses,” José said, smiling at Jean. “She tries to keep the peace among us. It is not always easy.”
“I believe you.” Jacqueline’s emerald eyes inspected him, an appraisal he met with smiling calm. The eyes moved on to examine Michael. Jacqueline’s expression did not change, but Jean couldn’t help wondering what she made of that young eccentric. He was about as aesthetic-looking as a wrestler. His features were heavy and blunt, with one exception, and only a keen observer would have noticed it—his mouth, thin-lipped and almost delicate in configuration. His hands were big, with thick, blunt-tipped fingers—the fingers of an artisan rather than an artist, according to the principles of palmistry. His heavy shoulders and habitual slouch made him look shorter than his actual height of nearly six feet. His shirt resembled the tie-dyed medleys so popular with young Americans, but Michael’s rainbow version was not planned, it simply reflected the colors of his palettes over the past year. The shirt was open, not to the waist, but to a lower region where the band of Michael’s faded jeans happened to have settled.
Jacqueline glanced over her shoulder at the entrance to the café. It gaped dark and forbidding as a cave mouth. There was no sign of life within.
“Where’s our genial host?” she asked. “I could use some coffee at that.”
The concerted burst of laughter from the others made her eyebrows lift.
“Genial is such an appropriate word,” said Andy, the self-appointed spokesman for the group. “Gino hates us all. I’d like to chalk it up to xenophobia, but I think he just doesn’t like us personally.”
“So he makes you wait,” Jacqueline said musingly. She turned suddenly, and in a voice which could have been heard a block away, bellowed, “Senta!”
Everyone jumped except Michael, who was too far out in his own world to hear anything. Like a genie called by an incantation, Gino appeared in the doorway. His heavy black brows were drawn down in a formidable scowl; his unshaven jowls shone. The white apron draped across his paunch was stained with coffee, wine, and other unidentifiable marks. Jean suspected that he had been drawn out by outraged curiosity rather than zeal, but no one stopped to inquire into his motives.
“Un cappuccino, per favore,” Jacqueline said in a soft contralto. The others took advantage of Gino’s speechless rage to give their orders, and after a comprehensive glower Gino vanished.
“Magnifico,” José said admiringly. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“For ten years I was known as the loudest mom on the block,” Jacqueline said complacently. “My children used to come home half an hour early to prevent me from letting out my famous voice.”
“How many children do you have?” Jean asked.
“Two.”
“Well? Aren’t you going to show us their pictures?” Andy asked, glancing at the loaded purse squatting at Jacqueline’s