Joe smiled at her cross face. He thought he might come to like Miss Coblenz after all.
Betty too was impressed. ‘When I get you to myself, James Lindsay,’ she thought, ‘I shall tell you your little entertainment misfired!’ All the same, she had admired the American girl’s reaction. If Lily had had a rifle to hand, she’d have led the charge through the door to deal with the problem. ‘If I were ever stuck on a covered wagon rolling across the prairie (and that’s probably what the Coblenz family were doing a generation or two back!) I’d be jolly pleased to find Lily Coblenz at my elbow,’ she decided.
She leaned forward and addressed the company. ‘Well, I don’t know about anyone else but my nerves could do with a bit of soothing!’ (Not true – James had forewarned his pregnant wife of what was to come and sticking his tongue out had been the signal – but she felt that Lily had been made to feel foolish and this distressed her.) ‘So shall we have the sweet things brought on? We have some candied fruits, some fresh fruit and even ice cream – there’s quite a bit more to come.’
She was interrupted by a steward who came in gingerly carrying a small dish. He approached Betty and spoke diffidently to her. ‘Oh, my!’ Betty exclaimed. ‘Humble apologies from the kitchens. The cook almost forgot the most important dish of the evening. Lily’s golden pheasant! Apparently he’s had a little difficulty with it but he’s done his best and here it is. Not much of it, I’m afraid. Now who would like a helping? Does anyone have room to do justice to this delicacy?’
Betty asked eagerly but without much hope. The amounts of food consumed had been enormous and even that stuffed shirt Burroughs had unbent sufficiently to help himself to several of the dishes as soon as he had ascertained that, in fact, hardly any of them contained curry. Eyes slid away from hers and focused on plates, fingers fluttered in a dismissive way, even Lily shook her head. Pathan good manners came to the rescue and Zeman said cheerfully enough that he would be delighted to taste the pheasant. Gratefully Betty passed the dish and he managed to scrape up quite a convincing helping of pheasant fragments. Lily looked pleased. Betty, to keep her countenance and to flatter Lily, also took a helping, as small as she could decently contrive, and pronounced it delicious. It certainly was. She would commend the cook tomorrow on the inventive way he’d dealt with such unpromising material. The sauce was creamy – yoghurt? – and subtly spiced, the meat distinctly chewy but full of flavour. How wonderful it was to have recovered her appetite! She would actually welcome a dish of ice cream to round off the meal.
With the savoury dishes cleared away and the cloth bright with fresh and candied fruits and glass pitchers of pomegranate juice and a rank of champagne bottles, James announced the next diversion. A group of musicians were to play and sing folk songs. Five Khattaks entered with pipes and drum and stringed instruments. Wearing their native costume they strode lithely into the hall, black shining hair bobbing on their shoulders. They settled themselves on the dais at the end of the hall and began to play and sing in the soft, liquid accent of the southern hill tribes. Lily was enchanted. This, too, was what she’d come for. Eyes shining, she listened to every word, nodding her head gently in rhythm.
They became aware of one short song in particular – nothing more than a couplet – endlessly repeated. Lily’s lips moved with the song. When the singers paused to take a glass of sherbet, she turned to Zeman and announced with some satisfaction, ‘That last song – I’ve learned the words! Listen! I can sing in Pushtu!’
She began in a clear voice and with what sounded to Betty like a very convincing accent to repeat the two lines.
Before she was half-way through Grace leaned forward and spoke to her firmly. ‘That’ll do, Lily.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lily wanted to know. ‘I was doing all right, wasn’t I? Why can’t I sing?’
James put his hand over his mouth. The musicians were barely suppressing laughter and Zeman had a problem too. The austere Iskander looked disapprovingly on.
‘Because that song is frightfully rude and no woman should be heard repeating the words, especially when there are Pathan gentlemen present,’ Grace hissed and at this point Zeman rose discreetly to his feet and went to talk to the musicians.
Lily persisted. ‘Well, how tantalizing! Now you just have to tell me! You must – or I’ll start singing it again!’
Grace eyed her with malicious amusement. ‘You have to believe me, Lily.’ She paused for a moment in thought and then said deliberately, ‘Oh, very well. You did ask. But do wait until you’re back in Chicago before you repeat it.’ She moved around the table and slipped into Zeman’s vacated place, moving his sherbet glass aside the better to lean over to Lily’s ear. Speaking softly, her voice was only just audible. ‘It’s a very old song called “Zakhme Dhil” which means “The Wounded Heart”. The singer is saying,
‘Over the river lives a boy with a bottom like a peach,
But, alas, I cannot swim!’
Lily looked at her with incomprehension. At last she said, ‘But the singer’s a man.’
‘You’re very quick,’ said Grace. ‘And that, of course, is the whole point!’
Lily sank further into confusion. Betty Lindsay began to fear her party was about to implode but was too fascinated by the exchange to reach for the polite distraction etiquette demanded of a hostess.
‘I don’t get it,’ Lily said finally.
‘Then perhaps they don’t have it in Chicago,’ said Grace. ‘I see I must explain. Amongst the Pathan, as with many warrior races – Spartans, Zulus, British Public Schoolboys for example… ’ Her voice sank until it was inaudible to Betty but, much amused, she could guess the progress of the information being imparted by the deepening flush of crimson on Lily’s face and the widening of her eyes.
The lesson over, Grace returned to her place and selected a candied peach, looking very pleased with herself. Lily gulped and began surreptitiously to examine the musicians under lowered eyelashes. When Zeman returned and took his seat next to her again, Lily’s back became even more rigid and she turned in earnest conversation to Joe. Joe seemed to be having great difficulty in keeping his face in control but responded warmly in an effort to cover Lily’s embarrassment.
After an interval the musicians began again, their songs, possibly at the suggestion of Zeman, taking on a plaintive and romantic mood. Cups of green tea were handed out and Betty watched, intrigued, as Iskander took a small silver box from his pocket and proceeded to sprinkle some of the contents on to his tea. Lily also was fascinated.
‘What is that stuff, Iskander?’ she wanted to know.
‘Flakes of white cardamom, Miss Coblenz.’
‘An excellent carminative,’ said Grace. ‘Frightfully good for the digestion. You should all try it.’
Lily held out her cup for a sprinkling of the spice from Iskander’s hand and sniffed the fragrant brew, her eyes over the rim smiling her appreciation. Zeman watched her in some disquiet. He held out his cup and invited Iskander in florid language to favour him with the wherewithal to calm a stomach so full of good things after such a generous and delicious meal.
‘Oh, Lord!’ thought Betty. ‘What comes next? Burps? Do Pathans do burps?’
Her thoughts were interrupted by, of all people, Edgar Burroughs. Almost silent until now, he had been steadily eating his way, Betty had noticed, through a good number of the dishes. At last he had a useful contribution to make to the general chatter. ‘If it’s stomach settling you’re after, you fellows,’ he said, addressing, rather uncomfortably, the two Pathans, ‘you couldn’t do better than these. Swear by them!’ He produced a packet of bismuth tablets and passed them to Zeman. Politely concealing his surprise, Zeman took a pill and swallowed it with expressions of gratitude. Everyone else politely refused and handed them back to Burroughs who now felt free to avail himself of his favourite relief without the subterfuge of palming one into his mouth under the pretence of coughing.