The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [6]
“Who is Albert?” Jacqueline asked. “Another of the group?”
“No, I told you it was a mystic number. The Seven Sinners.”
“Why sinners?”
“The name is Andy’s invention,” Ted explained. “He thinks it is funny. He has a primitive sense of humor.”
“But we’re all sinners,” Andy declared. “All miserable sinners, in a sinful world. Right, José?”
The priest raised his eyes heavenward and sighed loudly. Andy went on,
“Albert is one of our crosses. We bear him patiently because we are trying to improve ourselves. Albert was sent to us so we could practice on him. If we ever learn to love Albert, we can love anything.”
Jacqueline adjusted her glasses, which had a tendency to slip, and stared at the plodding figure.
“What’s wrong with him? Or are you just anti-Moslem?”
“He is not a Moslem,” Ted said coolly. “As usual, Andy is inaccurate. He is a Maronite—a Lebanese Christian. And we have Andy to thank for his charming presence among us—another sin on Andy’s extensive list. They were boyhood friends in Beirut.”
“Friends, hell,” Andy protested. “His old man and my old man taught at the American University years ago, and we went to the same school. Don’t hassle me, Ted; Albert would have forced himself on us even if he’d never seen any of us before. That’s the kind of creep he is.”
No one replied. The newcomer was now upon them.
Jean had to admit that Albert was not only ugly, he was unprepossessing. The two qualities are not necessarily synonymous. Physical ugliness can be appealing, even attractive. She had seen homelier men than Albert—though not many. He had not a single redeeming feature.
His scanty forehead was half hidden by greasy locks of black hair. His face was deeply pitted with the scars of acne. In order to accommodate his protruding front teeth his upper lip had stretched to an unbelievable degree; in profile his face looked anthropoid, chinless and loose-lipped. He was also fat—not chubby or plump, but flabbily obese. Like Michael he wore his belt around his hips instead of his waist, but while gravity pulled Michael’s belt down his lean body, Albert’s immense paunch eliminated his waist-line altogether. He had small, squinting eyes, which were buried, when he smiled, between his fat cheeks and his overhanging brows. The worn leather briefcase he carried wherever he went seemed to drag one shoulder down, so that he walked with an odd lurch.
Yet it was not Albert’s looks that made him repulsive; it was his manner. He exuded spiritual malaise like a bad smell. Consciously Jean felt sorry for him, but when he dragged a chair next to hers and patted her on the knee with a pudgy paw, she had to force herself to smile back at him instead of pulling away as from a leper.
One of Albert’s maddening, yet pathetic, qualities was his unawareness of how he affected people. His face shone greasily as he greeted them. Tenderly he stowed his briefcase under his chair. The squinting eyes inspected them, lingering longest on Jean and on Dana—who responded with a curl of her lip—and then discovered Jacqueline.
“Albert Gébara,” he announced, giving the first name the French pronunciation.
“How do you do? I’m Jacqueline Kirby.”
“Not a student,” said Albert, eyeing her. “Too old, eh? Madame ou mademoiselle Kirby? Docteur; peutêtre?”
“Just Jacqueline.”
“Mais non, ce n’est pas bien de parler à une dame d’un certain âge—”
Andy groaned.
“Our tactful Albert. Look, you crétin, don’t you know it isn’t polite to refer to a lady’s age? And for God’s sake speak English. You can if you want to. Sort of…It’s rude to use a language the people you’re with don’t understand.”
Albert’s beady eyes remained fixed on Jacqueline.
“Mais vous comprenez français, vous comprenez fort bien ce que je vous dis—”
“Un peu,” Jacqueline admitted cautiously.
“Alors. Madame Kirby? Madame la professeur? Madame la—”
“No,” Jacqueline said. “I’m not a teacher. I’m a librarian.”
“Une bibliothécaire.” Albert nodded with satisfaction. He got up, taking his chair and his briefcase with him, and