The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [65]
By midafternoon they had finished most of the work, including the manufacture of what seemed to Jean’s weary fingers to be thousands of dainty little hors d’oeuvres. She was preparing to collapse when Jacqueline reminded her that they had done nothing about costumes.
Jean’s response was profane.
“I have to have one,” Jacqueline pointed out. “It was my idea, after all.”
“I can’t imagine what made you think of such a thing,” Jean groaned. “Can’t we do something with a bed sheet? A nice toga, maybe.”
“Not with Lise’s sheets we can’t. Have you ever tried to turn a bed sheet into anything resembling human garb of any period? I have been concocting Hallowe’en costumes for longer than you’ve been alive, and believe me, the easiest thing to do is go to the nearest five-and-ten and buy one. Come along.”
Still protesting, Jean was carried off. In a local branch of CIM, the most popular Roman department store, they found a section devoted to folk art and souvenirs. Jean looked dubiously at a shelf of pillows which said “Arrivederci Roma.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“You can be a gondolier,” Jacqueline said, picking up a straw hat with a bright crimson streamer down the back. “You’ve got blue slacks; all you need is the hat and one of those red-and-white striped jerseys.”
“Okay, I’ll take anything. What about you? You could be the Virgin.” Jean indicated a counter where cloth was sold. “Ten yards of that blue…”
“I’ve done that. In fourth grade, in the Christmas play. I’m afraid the part doesn’t suit me any longer.”
“How about Lady Godiva? It’s a shame to waste that hair. Or Rapunzel.”
“It’s a pity,” Jacqueline said regretfully, “that only saints, fairy-tale heroines, and the cast of Hair wear their tresses long and flowing. Oh, the hell with it. Let’s get some cheesecloth and I’ll drape a toga, or the female equivalent. Lise must have some books that show how to do it.”
There were books, but they showed only the finished product, and by the time the two had Jacqueline’s palla—the female equivalent—draped to their satisfaction, they were both helpless with laughter. The effect was good, though, and Jacqueline’s red-gold coronet made her look quite imperial. They were trying to decide which empress she ought to be when the buzzer sounded. The first guests had arrived.
There were three of them; the Scovilles had come en famille. Professor Scoville, wearing a raincoat and a sheepish expression, demanded a room in which to change. When he reappeared, Andy caught Jean’s eye and gave her a broad wink. Scoville, as predicted, had come as an Egyptian Pharaoh. The wide jeweled collar showed off his broad chest and shoulders, and the short tunic bared legs which, if rather hairy, were neither spindly nor shapeless.
Ann and Andy had come as their namesakes, the famous Raggedy twins. Jean fancied that even in Rome, which is accustomed to fantastic garb, they must have aroused considerable attention on the way over. That wouldn’t bother Andy, but Jean wondered how he had persuaded his sister to appear in public with Raggedy Ann’s bright-painted face.
“With our hair it was inevitable,” Andy explained, rumpling his sister’s bright mop. “We don’t even need wigs.”
The others came before long, and it was amusing to see what costumes they had chosen. Michael had taken Andy’s cheerful insult literally; his beard was heavy anyway and by letting it go he had achieved a desperately unkempt look. He carried a half-empty jug of wine and seemed to feel that that was all he needed for a complete disguise.
José was Montezuma, complete with (imitation) feathered cape. He refused to explain where he had procured the costume, but it was magnificent. Ted, who had dug out a doublet and tights from a friend’s amateur theatrical collection, promptly decided that he was Cortes. With a borrowed eyebrow pencil he drew himself a black Spanish