Read Online Murder on the Silk Road by Stefanie Matteson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stefanie Matteson
Ads: Link
girls.”
After the travelers had washed their faces, they were offered dripping slices of luscious melon to quench their thirst. The combination of the pretty girls and the exotic setting created the most romantic of atmospheres, as if they had just arrived at the oasis by camel caravan instead of by minibus. Charlotte thought of the I Ching ’s prediction that she would be traveling to “an exotic foreign country.” It didn’t get any more exotic than this.
Following the melon break, the service workers showed them to the guest house complex, which Charlotte thought delightful, at least by contrast with the drab, Stalinist-era, concrete-block hotels which they were used to. It consisted of half-a-dozen single-story, tile-roofed buildings made of mud brick that had been plastered and whitewashed. The buildings were set amid a network of courtyards shaded by grape arbors and fruit trees, and linked by paths lined with zinnias and dahlias, which were, like most of the flowers planted in China, red. Charlotte’s room was simple: plain stucco walls, a tile floor, twin beds covered with pink chenille bedspreads. It reminded her of a roadside motel, but without the bathrooms. For washing up, there was a white-enameled basin painted with gaudy flowers, and a kettle of hot water. After Charlotte had seen her room, a service worker showed her to the toilet facilities. Each of the buildings had a w.c. at one end, of the typical Chinese hole-in-the-ground variety. But there was only one bathhouse for the complex. A sign on the door said that the water was turned on only between the hours of eight and ten in the evening. Charlotte turned on a tap in one of the sinks. Nothing came out. “Primitive but charming” was exactly right.
She was doing her best to wash up in her wash basin a few minutes later when there was a knock on her door. It was Victor, letting her know that dinner would be served in twenty minutes in the dining hall.
Charlotte and Marsha arrived a few minutes early, and took seats at one of the tables, which, in typical Chinese style, was set for eight. They were joined a few minutes later by Bert and Dogie, who explained that Lisa was taking a nap. Bert took the chair next to Marsha. After forty-odd hours on the train, the attraction between them appeared to be blossoming into a full-fledged romance. With them was a Professor Peng, whom Bert introduced as the director of the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology. He and Bert were old friends, having worked together on several digs in other parts of the world. Peng (the Chinese rarely used their given names) had also just arrived, but by airplane rather than by train. He would be representing the Chinese in their negotiations, and would also be heading up the Chinese delegation to the expedition. He was a genial-looking man in his forties, with walnut-brown skin that was stretched tightly across his face, and smile lines radiating from the corners of his eyes.
They had just completed introductions when they were joined by another man. He was tall and fat, with a ruddy complexion, wire-rimmed glasses, and a picturesque handlebar mustache. Unlike Bert and Dogie, whose idea of sartorial elegance was limited to blue jeans and Western shirts, the newcomer was a men’s fashion magazine image of the Western explorer in Central Asia: khaki Bermuda shorts, a fashionably rumpled linen safari shirt, and a red paisley silk scarf tied casually around his neck. But he wore them well. Add a monocle and a bush hat, and he might have been Teddy Roosevelt.
“Larry!” Bert exclaimed, as the new arrival clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I wondered when you were going to turn up.” Rising, he shook Larry’s hand warmly and then introduced him to the others.
His name was Larry Fiske, and he was another member of Bert’s team, a paleontologist from Yale. He had already been in Dunhuang for a week, and was staying at his camp out in the desert.
“We just arrived a little
After the travelers had washed their faces, they were offered dripping slices of luscious melon to quench their thirst. The combination of the pretty girls and the exotic setting created the most romantic of atmospheres, as if they had just arrived at the oasis by camel caravan instead of by minibus. Charlotte thought of the I Ching ’s prediction that she would be traveling to “an exotic foreign country.” It didn’t get any more exotic than this.
Following the melon break, the service workers showed them to the guest house complex, which Charlotte thought delightful, at least by contrast with the drab, Stalinist-era, concrete-block hotels which they were used to. It consisted of half-a-dozen single-story, tile-roofed buildings made of mud brick that had been plastered and whitewashed. The buildings were set amid a network of courtyards shaded by grape arbors and fruit trees, and linked by paths lined with zinnias and dahlias, which were, like most of the flowers planted in China, red. Charlotte’s room was simple: plain stucco walls, a tile floor, twin beds covered with pink chenille bedspreads. It reminded her of a roadside motel, but without the bathrooms. For washing up, there was a white-enameled basin painted with gaudy flowers, and a kettle of hot water. After Charlotte had seen her room, a service worker showed her to the toilet facilities. Each of the buildings had a w.c. at one end, of the typical Chinese hole-in-the-ground variety. But there was only one bathhouse for the complex. A sign on the door said that the water was turned on only between the hours of eight and ten in the evening. Charlotte turned on a tap in one of the sinks. Nothing came out. “Primitive but charming” was exactly right.
She was doing her best to wash up in her wash basin a few minutes later when there was a knock on her door. It was Victor, letting her know that dinner would be served in twenty minutes in the dining hall.
Charlotte and Marsha arrived a few minutes early, and took seats at one of the tables, which, in typical Chinese style, was set for eight. They were joined a few minutes later by Bert and Dogie, who explained that Lisa was taking a nap. Bert took the chair next to Marsha. After forty-odd hours on the train, the attraction between them appeared to be blossoming into a full-fledged romance. With them was a Professor Peng, whom Bert introduced as the director of the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology. He and Bert were old friends, having worked together on several digs in other parts of the world. Peng (the Chinese rarely used their given names) had also just arrived, but by airplane rather than by train. He would be representing the Chinese in their negotiations, and would also be heading up the Chinese delegation to the expedition. He was a genial-looking man in his forties, with walnut-brown skin that was stretched tightly across his face, and smile lines radiating from the corners of his eyes.
They had just completed introductions when they were joined by another man. He was tall and fat, with a ruddy complexion, wire-rimmed glasses, and a picturesque handlebar mustache. Unlike Bert and Dogie, whose idea of sartorial elegance was limited to blue jeans and Western shirts, the newcomer was a men’s fashion magazine image of the Western explorer in Central Asia: khaki Bermuda shorts, a fashionably rumpled linen safari shirt, and a red paisley silk scarf tied casually around his neck. But he wore them well. Add a monocle and a bush hat, and he might have been Teddy Roosevelt.
“Larry!” Bert exclaimed, as the new arrival clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I wondered when you were going to turn up.” Rising, he shook Larry’s hand warmly and then introduced him to the others.
His name was Larry Fiske, and he was another member of Bert’s team, a paleontologist from Yale. He had already been in Dunhuang for a week, and was staying at his camp out in the desert.
“We just arrived a little
Similar Books
