The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [33]
After Emerson had got himself under control I asked him to study the effect again and give me his serious opinion. At his request I removed the mustache; he claimed that appendage rendered serious consideration impossible. After circling me two or three times he nodded. “You don’t make a very convincing young gentleman, Peabody. However, the outfit rather becomes you. You might consider wearing it on the dig, it would be much more convenient than those cursed bloomers. They have so many yards of cloth in them, it takes me forever to—”
“There is no time for that, Emerson,” I said, gliding away from the hand he had extended in order to make his point. “Your costume is hanging in the wardrobe.”
With a dramatic flourish I flung the wardrobe door open.
A number of establishments in the sûk sold various versions of native Egyptian robes, for they were popular with tourists. I had to search for some time before I found an ensemble that was not only completely authentic, but particularly suitable to Emerson’s tall frame and individualistic character. Though he denies it, he has a secret penchant for disguises and a certain taste for the theatrical. I fancied this costume would appeal to him, for the embroidered jubba and woven kaftan, the gold-trimmed hezaam and loose trousers might have been worn by a prince of the Touareg—those extremely virile and violent desert raiders who are known to their despairing victims as “The Forgotten of God.” They are also called “The Veiled Ones,” because of the blue veils that provide protection against heat and blowing sand. It was this feature that had determined me to select the costume, for it would serve in lieu of a mask, which I felt sure Emerson would not consent to wear. The headdress, called a khafiya, was a square of cloth bound in place by a rope. It framed the face becomingly and, with the veil, would leave only his eyes exposed.
Emerson studied it in silence. “We will go well together,” I said cheerfully. “My trousers and your skirts.”
The ballroom was decorated in the style of Louis XVI and featured a superb chandelier whose thousands of crystals reflected the lights in a dazzling shimmer. The brilliant and fantastical garb of the guests filled the room with color. There were plenty of ancient Egyptians present, but some of the guests had been more inventive; I saw a Japanese samurai and a bishop of the Eastern Church, complete with miter. My own dress provoked considerable comment, however. I had no lack of partners; and as I circled the floor in the respectful grasp of one gentleman or another, I was delighted at how neatly I could perform the vigorous steps of polkas and schottisches.
Emerson does not dance. From time to time I would catch a glimpse of him wandering around the perimeter of the room, or talking to someone who shared his disinterest in terpsichorean exercise. Then I saw him no more and concluded he had got bored and gone off in search of more congenial company.
I was sitting in one of the little alcoves screened by potted plants, recuperating from my exertions and chatting with Lady Norton, when he appeared again. “Ah, my dear, there you are,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the tall veiled form. “Permit me to present you to—”
I was permitted to say no more. Arms like steel snatched me up out of my chair; stifled, breathless, enveloped in folds of billowing cloth, I was carried rapidly away. I heard a shriek from Lady Norton, and exclamations of surprise and amusement from the other guests—for my abductor’s path led him straight across the ballroom toward the door.
I was not amused. Emerson was not the man to play such a silly trick, and I had known, the moment the person touched me, that the grasp was not that of my spouse. He felt me stiffen, heard the sharp intake of my breath; without slackening his pace he shifted his hold in such a fashion that my face was crushed against his breast and my cry was muffled by folds of fabric.
Astonishment