Ahmed’s housekeeper had prepared a feast and served it in the living room. Erica’s favorite was ful, a dip made of beans, lentils, and eggplant. It was covered with sesame oil and subtly seasoned with garlic, peanuts, and caraway. Ahmed was surprised she’d not had it before. The main course was fowl, which Erica thought was cornish hen. Ahmed explained it was hamama, or pigeon. It had been grilled over charcoal.

Within his home Ahmed relaxed and conversation became easy. He asked Erica hundreds of questions about growing up in Ohio. She felt a little self-conscious when she described her Jewish background, and was surprised that it made no difference to Ahmed. He explained that in Egypt the confrontation was a political issue and involved Israel, not Jews. People did not think of them as synonymous.

Ahmed was particularly interested in Erica’s apartment in Cambridge, and he had her describe all sorts of trivial details. Only when she had finished did he tell her he had gone to Harvard. As the meal progressed, she found him reserved but not secretive. He was willing to talk about himself if asked. He had a wonderful way of speaking, with a slight English accent from his days at Oxford, where he had gotten his doctorate. He was a sensitive man, and after Erica asked if he had dated any American girls, he told her about Pamela, with such feeling that Erica felt tears welling in her eyes. Then he shocked her with the ending. He had left Boston for England and just cut off the relationship.

“You mean you never corresponded?” asked Erica with disbelief.

“Never,” said Ahmed quietly.

“But why?” pleaded Erica. She loved happy endings and abhorred unhappy ones.

“I knew that I had to come back here, to my country,” said Ahmed, looking away. “I was needed here. I was expected to run the antiquities service. At that time, there was no room for romance.”

“Have you ever seen Pamela again?”

“No.”

Erica took a sip of her tea. The story about Pamela awakened uncomfortable feelings about men and abandonment. Ahmed did not seem the type. She wanted to change the subject. “Did any of your family visit you in Massachusetts?”

“No…” Ahmed paused, then added, “Actually, my uncle did come to the States just before I left.”

“No one visited, and you didn’t go home for three years?”

“That’s right. It’s a bit far, going from Egypt to Boston.”

“Weren’t you lonely and homesick?”

“Terribly, until Pamela.”

“Did your uncle meet Pamela?”

Ahmed exploded. He threw his teacup against the wall, and it shattered in a hundred pieces. Erica was stunned.

The Arab dropped his head in his hands, and she could hear his heavy breathing. An awkward silence prevailed, as Erica sat torn between fear and empathy. She wondered about Pamela and the uncle. What had happened that could still evoke such passion?

“Forgive me,” Ahmed said, his head still bowed.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” said Erica putting down her teacup. “Perhaps I’d better return to my hotel.”

“No, don’t go, please,” said Ahmed, lifting his head. His face was flushed. “It isn’t your fault. It’s just that I’ve been under a certain strain. Don’t go. Please.” Ahmed jumped up to refresh Erica’s tea and got another cup for himself. Then, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he brought out some antiquities that the department had recently confiscated.

Erica admired them, especially a beautifully carved wooden figure. She began to feel more comfortable. “Have any articles from Seti I been confiscated from the black market?” She carefully put the pieces on a nearby table.

Ahmed looked at her for several minutes, thinking. “No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no real reason, except that I visited Seti’s temple at Abydos today. By the way, are you familiar with a problem they have there with a cobra?”

“Cobras are a potential problem at all the sites, especially in Aswan. I suppose we really should warn the tourists. But it isn’t a problem at the more popular sites. It can’t compare with our difficulties with the black market. Only four years ago there was a major looting of carved blocks from the Temple of Hathor at Dendera, in broad daylight!”

Erica nodded her understanding. “If nothing else, this trip has underlined for me the destructive power of the black market. In fact, along with my translation work, I’ve decided to try to do something about it.”

Ahmed looked up suddenly. “It’s a dangerous business. I don’t recommend it at all. To give you an idea, about two years ago a young idealistic American fellow came over here from Yale with similar goals. He disappeared without a trace.”

“Well,” said Erica, “I’m no hero. I just have some very tame ideas. I wanted to ask if you knew the location of Abdul Hamdi’s son’s antique shop here in Luxor.”

Ahmed averted his face. The spectacle of Tewfik Hamdi’s tortured body flashed in his mind. When he turned back to Erica, his face was strained. “Tewfik Hamdi, like his father, has recently been murdered. There is some trouble going on which I do not understand, but which my department and the police are investigating. You have already had your share of difficulties, so I implore you to concentrate on your translation work.”

Erica was stunned by the news of Tewfik Hamdi. Another murder! She tried to think of what that could mean, but by now her long day had begun to take its toll. Ahmed noticed her fatigue and offered to accompany her to her hotel, to which Erica readily agreed. They reached the hotel before eleven, and after thanking Ahmed for his hospitality, Erica retired, carefully locking herself within her room.

She undressed slowly, anticipating bed. While removing her makeup, she thought about Ahmed. His intensity impressed her, and despite his outburst, she’d thoroughly enjoyed the evening. With her bedtime ritual accomplished, she crawled beneath the sheets. Just before sleep overcame her, she thought about Ahmed and Pamela; she wondered… But her last thought was a name from the ancient past: Nenephta.

Day 5

The excitement of being in Luxor woke Erica before sunrise. She ordered breakfast from room service and had it served on the balcony. With the breakfast came a telegram from Yvon: ARRIVING NEW WINTER PALACE HOTEL TODAY STOP WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU TONIGHT.

Erica was surprised. She had been so sure the telegram was going to be from Richard. And after spending the evening with Ahmed, she was confused. It was incredible to think that only last year she had been anxiously hoping Richard would propose. Now she found herself attracted to three very different men at the same time. Although it was reassuring for Erica that she could be responsive, which had been a worry when her relationship with Richard began to crack, the present situation was also unnerving. She drank the rest of her coffee in one gulp and decided to put all emotional issues out of her head. Pushing back from the table, she returned to her room and prepared for the day.

Emptying her tote bag, she repacked it with the box lunch she’d ordered at the suggestion of the hotel, the flashlight, the matches and cigarettes, and Abdul Hamdi’s 1929 Baedeker. The loose cover and other assorted papers were put on the bureau. Before she turned away, Erica again saw the name on the cover: Nasef Malmud, 180 Shari el Tahrir, Cairo. Her connection with Abdul Hamdi had not been completely severed by Tewfik’s murder! She would look up Nasef Malmud when she returned to Cairo. Carefully, she put the cover in her bag.

It was a short walk from the Winter Palace Hotel to the antiquities shops on Shari Lukanda. Some were still not open, despite the fact that there already were a number of brightly clad tourists in evidence. Erica chose one randomly and entered.