The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [8]
“Me too,” Dana said. “I’m not in the mood to discuss virginity today. Going back to the library, José?”
One by one they got to their feet, collecting their belongings, settling their destinations. Albert continued to talk. Jean knew he would trail them, talking, all the way back to the Institute. Clutching his briefcase to his ample chest, he started to rise.
Jacqueline turned.
“You cannot come,” she announced, in the same voice that had electrified Gino. “I don’t want to talk to you any more today. Stay here. We will talk another day. Good-bye.”
She put her hand on Albert’s shoulder and shoved him down into his chair. He was sitting there, his mouth ajar, as the others fled.
Jean found herself walking with Jacqueline. After a moment she realized that someone was singing softly. It took several more moments to decide that the sound was in fact coming from the bland, dignified person at her side; it was that ditty beloved of the young radical, “The Times They Are a-Changing.”
“‘The battle outside rages,’” crooned Jacqueline. Catching Jean’s look, she broke off and inquired suavely, “Am I embarrassing you?”
“Why should I be embarrassed?”
“My daughter always was. Between the ages of twelve and seventeen she never walked beside me in public.”
“You didn’t sing all the time, did you?” asked Jean, willing, by now, to believe it.
“No, but she never knew when I was going to burst out. It was worst at Christmas. I love Christmas carols.”
“And Bob Dylan?”
“And Salvation Army hymns, German lieder, and song hits of the nineteen forties. I know all the words. I know,” said Jacqueline proudly, “more totally useless things than anyone you’ll ever meet.”
“Not everything you know is useless. You disposed of Albert beautifully.” Jean glanced at her companion’s rather bony profile, saw an encouraging gleam of humor in the one visible green eye, and said, without premeditation, “I can’t figure you out. How many people are you?”
“You can’t be that young,” said Jacqueline contemptuously. “Don’t you know that every human being is at least a dozen different people? I’m indulging myself this summer, and letting them all hang out, as Michael would say. When I’m working I’m not so visibly schizophrenic.”
Having reached the gates of the Institute, the group stopped to reorganize itself. Turning, Jean realized that José, walking behind them, had been listening to the conversation. His dark eyes were intent on Jacqueline.
“You have just voiced a great truth,” he said.
“About schizophrenia?” Jacqueline didn’t smile.
“About the complexity of personality. Half the trouble in human relations arises from expecting human beings to conform to a single one-dimensional image. We are all hydra-headed monsters. But most people never learn that.”
With an abrupt nod he strode off, his long black skirts flapping. Ted ran to join him, tossing a casual word of farewell over his shoulder. The others lingered.
“Stick around, Jake,” Andy invited. “We may need you, if Albert materializes again.”
“I,” said Jacqueline, ignoring the nickname, “am lunching with your hereditary enemy, the distinguished librarian of the Institute. She hates to be kept waiting, and I am already late.”
“She’s a friend of yours?” Andy demanded incredulously.
Jacqueline’s lips quivered.
“She sees only one of my numerous images. It matches hers—dignified, prim, and passionately interested in the deficiencies of the Dewey Decimal System.”
“Andy is supposed to be passionately interested in the archaeology of Rome,” Ann said firmly. “Come on, boy. Dad is arriving next week, and your report to the fellowship committee had better be finished by then.”
“Damnably true,” Andy admitted, with a groan. “And if the résumé isn’t turned in I won’t get my fellowship renewed, and then dear old Dad will murder me.”
“Your father is coming?” Dana’s eyes widened. “Wow! I’ve got to meet him, Andy. He’s the most glamorous figure in our field.”
“And glamorous archaeologists are rare,” Jean said drily. “He’s a brilliant scholar—”
“Brilliant, hell. He’s got dash—panache.