I could have been equally insulting about his contributions to my wardrobe, but my mother always told me it isn’t nice to criticize presents people give you. ‘I’m saving the others so I can dazzle Gerda. Hurry up, Schmidt. Were you waiting for me to button you up?’

‘There are no buttons to button,’ said Schmidt, unamused. ‘I have not decided what to wear. The gold-trimmed or the silver? Or this, with red and green?’

‘I thought you’d decided on the gold.’

‘I had. But now I think the silver. Ah, I have it! You will wear the gold and I the silver.’

‘Nobody is going to believe we’re twins, Schmidt.’

Schmidt condescended to giggle. He was determined, though, so I gave in. He retired modestly to the bathroom with his ensemble while I changed. It took me about forty seconds, after which I sat and cooled my heels for another ten minutes. Finally I yelled, ‘What the hell are you doing, Schmidt?’

The door opened. If I hadn’t been sitting down I would have fallen to the floor.

Flowing robes and a headcloth that frames the face and hides a gent’s bald spot make a very becoming, not to say sexy, outfit; even short chubby guys look dignified. The only trouble was Schmidt had dyed his moustache black.

That simple statement cannot convey how ridiculous he looked. Schmidt has a fair complexion. It was now pink with sunburn. His eyebrows were still bushy and still white. The moustache was . . . well, let’s say it was a serious mistake.

Did I say so? I did not. I said, ‘Ach, du Lieber! As we say in Minnesota, Schmidt, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’

Schmidt told me I looked gorgeous too, but he wanted me to let my hair down. I declined. He was still arguing about it when I opened the door, just in time to see his neighbours emerging from their room.

Mary looked about sixteen in another version of the basic caftan. Hers was pale yellow. It had little ribbons dangling from the bodice. The sleeves were elbow-length and the fabric was cotton, heavy and opaque. Nothing showed through it.

I’d expected John would let himself go – he specialized in disguises and he was something of a ham – but he wasn’t even wearing a tux. Bareheaded, in his shirt sleeves and a pair of wrinkled khaki pants, he looked as scruffy as John was capable of looking.

The boots gave me the clue. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘You’re disguised as an honest, hard-working field archaeologist. Very original.’

John was the only one who caught the veiled insult. He grinned, and Schmidt exclaimed, ‘Sehr gut! But you need a pith helmet, Ss . . . John. Have you not got one? Take mine. No, I insist, it will complete the ensemble.’