Lust in the Dust

 

 

My story starts in Egypt. I was deciphering the hieroglyphs on the walls on a 5000-year-old tomb just off the Valley of the Kings. I was having trouble with women. One woman, a minor wife of a scribe, either had ten other husbands, was running a house of ill repute or worked as a temple maiden. The painters had her as a dark skinned, sloe-eyed beauty with long golden earrings. Her sarcophagus was in the next room with a twelve-hundred pound granite lid. Needless to say, I hadn't removed the lid.

My other trouble was Nancy, a tanned skinned, dark-eyed unattractive woman with cheap Egyptian scarab earrings made in China. She thought they were thousands of years old from the Ramses dynasties. She is on loan to me from another dig. I'm sure they wanted to get rid of her. She can't tell a cartouche of Cleopatra from graffiti. I was on my hands and knees cleaning a cartouche. It was either husband or patron, I wasn’t sure which, when Nancy leaned close to me.

"Who is she? Do you think she is still in her sarcophagus? What's her husband's name? What's that bird mean? What's in those vases?"

 She used her whiskbroom to flick 5000-year-old dust my way. I coughed slightly hoping there were no ancient viruses lying around.

"I don't know her name. She may not have been married." I saw no need to answer all her questions. "We'll find everything out in due time." She is driving me insane. She is leaning on me so hard I have to lean against her to keep from falling over.

"Does she love her husband?" She pointed at a row of cartouches. "Are these love words?"

I glanced at the cartouches. I had deciphered them last week. "No, not love words. They are either her husbands or patrons who enjoyed her favors."

"What do you mean? Enjoyed her favors?"

What is wrong with this woman? Why is she so close? "What I mean is that this woman may have entertained the high priests of the temple." Will she understand that?

"Entertain? She was a singer or dancer?"

 She is both dense and bad looking. No wonder the dig loaned her out. I kept working on the line of cartouches. A high priest was describing how irresistible she was. Her eyes were like the moon. Her lips like the sun at sunset. Her body was like a young gazelle. Her odor drove him crazy from ten feet away. "She was a temple maiden." I hesitated a moment to see if she understood. She didn't. "In other words, she was the temple prostitute. Her job was to keep the priests happy."

She stood and moved a few meters away from me. I think I finally got through to her.

"A prostitute. I don't believe it." She walked to another row of cartouches. "How did she do it?" She paused a moment. "I mean how did she keep the men happy?"

I think she understands now. I stood to give my knees a break. I pointed to a line of cartouches I finished before she arrived. "Those cartouches describe how she prepared herself. The different oils she used, the facial rouges, eye shadows and the like. She used a full range of cosmetics and drugs to enhance her beauty."

I stretched and walked a bit to restore my circulation. She walked to the wall where I had pointed.

"What drugs? I didn't know they had drugs back then. What do these cartouches say?"

I walked over to the wall. I may as well humor her and take a break. I've been working too hard. "These three describe the body oils she used. The next describe where the oils came from and how they were mixed. This one is how her eye shadow was made. Here is her hair oil. All are mixtures of animal and plant oils with some solid matter mixed in." That should satisfy her. She should have had at least five college courses on reading ancient Egyptians hieroglyphs before she's allowed to participate in a dig. Why is she touching that cartouche?

"What does this one say? It seems to be shaped like a vase."

I wonder if she will understand. "It and the next two describe the aphrodisiacs she used to entice the men. The first is for older men. The second is for younger men and the third is for the hard to entice men. The main ingredients are ground beetles, crocodile skin and various oils. The stuff is in the three vases at the foot of her sarcophagus." That ought to keep her feeble mind busy for a while. It's getting late. I've got to finish this cartouche.

There, I'm finished for today. Where is she? It's time to leave. There she is. She's dirty looking. What has she smeared on her body? She must have fallen in a dust pile. Let me stand up and look at her better.

Nancy walked toward him and held out her hand.

Her eyes are so beautiful. She smells like the roses from the pharaoh's private garden. She is so intelligent. How could I ever survive without her? "Darling, I love you so. Don't ever leave me."

Splash

Splash    A Spousal Abuse Tale

 

          "A splash, dammit. I said I wanted a splash of vermouth." He handed the martini glass back to his wife. "Make me another. A splash of vermouth is all I want. Did you hear that? Just a splash. I want an extra-dry martini. Do you understand? You are wasting a lot of my good gin."

          She handled the glass carefully with both hands and retreated to the kitchen. She put fresh ice cubes in the mixing glass. Carefully she measured an ounce and a quarter of gin in the shot glass. She tossed it over the cubes and gingerly picked up the vermouth bottle. Trembling slightly she measured an eighth of an ounce. She stared at it measuring glass for a second and then threw the contents into the mixing glass. She picked up the long handled spoon from the sink and began to stir briskly.

          "Enough, enough!" her husband yelled from the living room. "Quit stirring for God's sake. You are bruising the gin. How many times do you have to be told?" He paused for a moment listening for sounds from the kitchen. "My first wife made an excellent martini after only a few days of instructions. You have been screwing up my martinis for six months. Hurry up with that martini. My throat is dry." He whispered to himself. "My throat needs an extra-dry superb Bombay martini."

           She quickly discarded the old martini into the sink. Picking up the strainer, she strained the martini from the mixing glass into the martini glass. She picked it up and started to the living room.

"Remember, I want a lemon peel, not an olive."

 She stopped, reversed her steps to the kitchen counter. She used her fingers to pick out the olive and throw in the trashcan. She dropped a lemon peel into the martini. She started to the living room.

          "Did you run the lemon peel around the rim of the glass?"

          She turned around and went back to the counter. She wiped her nose with her finger, fished the peel from the martini, ran it around the rim, squeezed the peel and dropped it into the martini.

          "I'm thirsty. My throat is like parchment." He kept his eyes on the football game. "What are you doing? It can't take that much sense to make a decent martini. Hurry, it will soon be halftime."

          She stood beside his chair, her hand wrapped around the glass.

          "Don't ever hold my martini like that. The heat from your hand warms the gin." He took the martini and held it at eye level. "I want my martinis well chilled, not lukewarm. Do you think you can remember that? My first wife brought it to me on an antique tray along with a few cocktail napkins." He swirled the liquid gently, then brought it up to his nose. He closed his eyes and sniffed. A frown appeared. "I think I detected the odor of an olive."
He looked at his wife and took the tiniest sip. His face wrinkled into a grimace. "I did! Why did you put an olive in my martini? You know I hate the taste of olives. My first wife didn’t even keep olives in the house." He paused and handed the drink back to his wife. "Do it right this time. I'm getting awfully dry."

          She took the glass and walked back to the kitchen. She placed the glass in the sink and got a new martini glass from the cupboard. She put ice in it to get a nice chill. She rinsed the mixing glass, added ice cubes, measured an ounce and quarter of gin, poured it in, added a splash of vermouth and stirred gently for four seconds. She threw the chilling ice into the sink, poured the well-chilled martini into the glass, and rubbed a fresh lemon peel around the rim. She placed the martini in a small plastic tray. She stared a few seconds admiring her handiwork. Nodding her head and smiling, she carried the drink to her husband.

          A slight grin formed as he took the martini from the tray. He went through the usual ritual; visual inspection, aroma inspection and then the swirling of the liquid. He looked at the drink for a few seconds and then began the final inspection; taste.

          He took a very short sip, just enough to wet his tongue. He frowned and took a second, longer sip. "You've screwed up again. You are supposed to use Bombay gin, not that cheap domestic junk made in Baltimore." He handed back the drink with a disgusted look. "My first wife used nothing but the best Bombay Sapphire gin. Try one more time. If it's a failure, I'm going to the nearest bar. Remember, just a splash. Don't ruin the taste of the Bombay gin."

          She opened the Bombay bottle. She got a fresh glass, put ice cubes in it, put cubes in the mixing glass, measured the Bombay gin, poured it in, measured the vermouth, poured it in, tiptoed to her cabinets and retrieved a small brown bottle hidden behind a support. She held the bottle close and stared at the skull and crossbones.

          "Just a splash," she whispered.

 

871 words 2/23/05

double trash

Published by mail to remember how.

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Using Opera's revolutionary e-mail client: http://www.opera.com/m2/

practice trash

more trash on 4/11/05 to remember how to do this