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Dorian escaped briefly to the oubliette, trying to gather his senses to deal with this oddly cheerful, cooperative version of Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach. He was inquisitive as a child — little wonder, when he was trying to reconstruct a lifetime of memories — but he had obviously not forgotten the investigative skills that made him Iron Klaus.
The problem was, if the Earl took advantage of his love now, he would risk losing him completely when his memory returned.
He had to remember not to flirt!
Somewhere in Eberbach was something that responded to Eroica. He had seen it before, very rarely, and loved to tease that part of the Major any time it temporarily surfaced.
But only when his love was in his right mind, and able to maintain any defenses he still needed. Eberbach was himself capable of flirting — but only if he didn't know that was what he was doing. The way he had set up their voyage on the Hallelujah Express was one gigantic tease, and his constant "Don't touch me!" was as obvious as any teenage girl's. He wanted to be touched, but somewhere in his stoic German upbringing he had obviously been taught that he must not give in to such cravings.
Eventually, the Earl was certain, the Major would realize that he could make his own decisions about that just as he did about his outrageous hairstyle. He was determined to be available when the realization came.
Meanwhile, after stopping to wash his hands in the hottest water he could stand, he rejoined Eberbach at their campsite.
The Major was obviously feeling better. He was up, and now dressed in jeans and one of his ubiquitous white shirts, with the wool cardigan over it. That was all he needed in the warmth of the pool cavern; the long underwear brought for the outdoor climb still lay folded where Eroica had left it.
Eberbach was soaking some of the dried beans the Earl had brought from the storage room, but when Eroica joined him he said, "Those will be for tomorrow. I'll cook some of the jerky with them to flavor them."
"There's some salted meat in the storage room," said Eroica. "That might be better. Do you have any idea how to make buns or tortillas or any kind of bread?"
"Ramrod rolls," the Major responded. "Only we don't have anything to serve as the ramrod, or any way to make a fire."
"There was other stuff in the storeroom. Oil lamps and oil. Can we cook on something like that?"
"I think I can cook on just about anything. Some of it's from my military experience, or maybe camping as a boy. And some of it is vague memories of helping in a big kitchen somewhere. Let's go see what we've got in the way of utensils and something to cook on."
But when they moved through the chapel, Eberbach stopped before the golden mosaic. "That's ... you!" he whispered. "Dorian ... I don't think I believe such things, but when you said you don't have to work for a living ... ?"
The Earl laughed. "It's not because I'm a god whose worshipers bring him everything he needs! Besides," he added, turning the Major toward the other mosaic, "if I am, then so are you."
Eberbach frowned at the silver mosaic. "Are you saying ... I look like that?"
"It could be a photograph."
"What are we really doing here?"
"Had to see it, didn't we? And now we have a mission: to make sure the Peruvian government protects this place from thieves who want to take those mosaics and sell them to the highest bidder."
"That would be sacrilege," said Eberbach.
"That's what you said before," Eroica told him.
"Before I lost my memory."
"Yes."
"I appear to be consistent."
"Actually, you're very complex. Much moreso than you let most people know."
"I let you know?"
"I'm consistently persistent."
Eberbach chuckled. If it had been one of their rare moments of camaraderie before his amnesia, the comment might have elicited a reluctant little smile. Then he asked, "Do you have a title?"
"A title?"
"The Brits still use them. You act like an aristocrat, that self-deprecation combined with total self-confidence."
"Whew! You are good. Dorian Red Gloria, Earl of Gloria, at your service."
"Huh! No wonder you can't cook."
Eroica bit back a retort that the Major was proud of his own Hapsburg ancestry even though as a good German he no longer used his title. So he just laughed and said, "You cook, and I'll do the washing up."
Eberbach found utensils at the back of the storeroom, and some racks that would hold pots over the oil lamps. It took them two trips to carry everything he picked out, and by that time he was pale and trembling again. Eroica made him lie down and drink tea laced with honey while he measured out the food and water according to instructions. Then the Major proved that he was indeed a good camp cook, turning out some flat little cakes as good as anything the Earl had ever seen made without leavening. They ate them with wedges of cheese.
Afterward, Eberbach counted the packets of Nescafé and said, "I'd better save these for breakfasts. It's strange — I've had enough to eat and drink, but I feel as if I'm missing something."
Eroica said nothing, knowing that what the Major craved was a cigarette. It was foolish, he supposed, but he had hidden them after discovering that Eberbach had lost his memory. He figured that what he couldn't remember he wouldn't miss. In all probability a doctor would have told the Major to lay off smoking anyway — wasn't that what they told everyone? — and if he was over nicotine withdrawal by the time he remembered that he smoked, perhaps he wouldn't go back to it.
Oddly, since falling in love with a man with a three-pack-a-day habit, Eroica had nearly quit smoking himself.
"You should rest some more," said the Earl. "Take a nap while I do the washing up."
"All right. But I want to shower later. Do you think it's safe to take the bandage off and wash my hair? It's starting to itch."
"That's good," said Eroica. "It's healing. I'll take a look at it later. Meanwhile, get some rest."
Forward to Part Eight
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