The shop was reminiscent of Antica Abdul, but with significantly more artifacts. Erica went over the more impressive specimens, isolating the real from the fake. The proprietor, a heavyset man named David Jouran, initially hovered over her, but then retreated behind his counter.
Out of dozens of allegedly prehistoric pots, Erica found only two she thought were real, and they were ordinary. She held one up. “How much?”
“Fifty pounds,” said Jouran. “The one next to that is ten pounds.”
Erica looked at the other pot. It had beautiful decorations. Too beautiful: they were spirals, but going in the wrong direction. Erica knew that predynastic pottery frequently had spirals, but they were all counterclockwise spirals. The spirals on the present pot were all clockwise. “I’m only interested in antiques. Actually, I find very few genuine pieces in here. I’m hoping to find something special.” She put down the fake pot and walked over to the counter. “I’ve been sent here to buy some particularly good antiques, preferably from the New Kingdom. I’m prepared to pay. Do you have anything to show me?”
David Jouran regarded Erica for a few moments without answering. Then he bent over, opened a small cabinet, and heaved a scarred granite head of Ramses II onto the counter. The nose was gone and the chin was cracked.
Erica shook her head. “No,” she said, looking around. “Is that the best you have?”
“For now.” Jouran put the broken statue away.
“Well, let me leave my name,” said Erica, writing on a slip of paper. “I’m staying at the Winter Palace. If you hear of any special pieces, get in touch with me.” She paused, half-expecting the man to show her something else, but he just shrugged, and after an awkward silence she left.
It was a similar story in the next five shops she entered. No one showed her anything extraordinary. The best piece she saw was a glazed ushabti figurine from the time of Queen Hatshepsut. In each shop she left her name, but she didn’t feel very hopeful. Finally she gave up and walked to the ferry landing.
It cost only a few cents to cross to the West Bank on the old boat, which was crowded with camera-toting tourists. As soon as they landed, the group was set upon by an enormous band of taxi drivers, would-be guides, and scarab salesmen. Erica boarded a dilapidated bus with a “Valley of the Kings” painted haphazardly on a piece of cardboard. When all the ferry passengers had been absorbed in one way or another, the bus left the landing.
Erica was beside herself with excitement. Beyond the flat green cultivated fields, which ended abruptly at the desert’s edge, stood the stark Theban cliffs. At their base Erica could see some of the famous monuments, like the graceful temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahri. Immediately to the right of Hatshepsut’s temple was a small village called Qurna, built into the sloping hillside. The mud-brick buildings were set in the desert beyond the irrigated fields. Most were a light tan not too dissimilar from the color of the sandstone cliffs. A few buildings were whitewashed and stood out sharply, particularly a small mosque with a stubby minaret. In among the buildings were openings cut into the bedrock. These were doorways into the myriad of ancient crypts. The people of Qurna lived among the tombs of the nobles. Many attempts had been made to relocate the villagers, but the people had tenaciously resisted.
The bus careened around a sharp turn and then bore right at a fork. Erica caught a fleeting glimpse of the mortuary temple of Seti I. There was so much to see.
The desert began with a remarkably sharp demarcation line. Desolate rock and sand without a single growing plant replaced the verdant sugarcane fields. The road ran straight until it reached the mountains; then it became serpentine, leading into a progressively narrow valley. The ovenlike heat was intense and there was no wind to relieve the feeling of oppression.
After passing a tiny rock guard station, the bus pulled up in a large parking area already filled with other buses and taxis. Despite the 100-plus temperature, the area was dense with tourists. On a small rise to the left, a concession stand was doing swift business.
Erica donned a khaki-colored hat she’d bought as protection against the sun. It was hard for her to believe that she had finally arrived in the Valley of the Kings, the site of the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen. The valley was hemmed in by jagged mountains and dominated by a sharp, triangular peak that looked like a natural pyramid. Sheer rock faces of brown limestone dropped down into the valley and met the neat tracks lined with little stones that radiated from the parking area. At the juncture of the cliffs and the paths were the black openings of the tombs of the kings.
Although most of the passengers on the bus had repaired to the concession stand for cool drinks, Erica hurried to the entrance of Seti I’s tomb. She knew that it was the largest and most spectacular in the valley, and she wanted to visit it first, to see if she could find the name Nenephta.
Catching her breath, she stepped over the threshold into the past. Although she had known the decorations were well-preserved, once she saw them herself, their pristine hues surprised her. The paint looked as freshly applied as yesterday. She walked slowly through the entrance corridor, then down another stairway, her eyes glued to the wall decorations. There were images of Seti in the company of the entire pantheon of Egyptian deities. On the ceiling were huge vultures with stylistically outstretched wings. Voluminous hieroglyphic texts of the Book of the Dead separated the images.
Erica had to wait for a large tour group before she could pass a wooden bridge spanning a deep shaft. Looking into the depths of the well, Erica wondered if it had been constructed to thwart tomb robbers. Beyond it was a gallery supported by four robust pillars. Then there was another stairway, which had been sealed and carefully hidden in ancient times.
As she had descended ever deeper into the tomb, Erica marveled at the herculean effort it had taken to hand-carve the rock. By the time she had descended the fourth stairway and was several hundred yards into the mountain, she noticed that the air was considerably harder to breathe. She wondered what it had been like for the struggling ancient workmen. There was no ventilation despite the continuous stream of gawking visitors, and the low oxygen gave Erica a feeling of suffocation. She did not suffer from claustrophobia but was not fond of being closed in and had to consciously suppress her misgivings.
Once in the burial chamber, Erica tried to ignore her labored breathing and craned her neck to admire the astronomical motifs on the vaulted ceiling. She also noted one of the tunnels dug in relatively recent times by an individual who was certain he knew the location of additional secret rooms. Nothing had been found.
Although she was growing more and more anxious in the confines of the tomb, she convinced herself she should visit a small side room where there was a well-known representation of the sky goddess Nut, in the form of a cow. She navigated through the tourists to the doorway, but looking into the room, she could see that it was practically filled with people and decided to forgo seeing Nut. Turning suddenly, she bumped into a man entering the room behind her.
“I beg your pardon,” said Erica.
The man flashed a smile before turning and walking back into the burial chamber. Another group of tourists entered, and Erica found herself forced against her will into the small room. Desperately she tried to calm herself, but the man who had blocked her way unnerved her. She’d seen him before-black hair, black suit, and a crooked smile revealing a pointed front tooth that she remembered from the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.