Although the old man had not turned, he must have sensed Erica’s presence, because he soon bent over, kissed the page, and got up to face her.
She had no idea how to greet a holy man of Islam, so she improvised. She bowed her head slightly then spoke. “I would like to ask you about a man, an old man.”
The imam studied Erica with dark sunken eyes, then motioned her to follow. They crossed the small courtyard and entered the doorway Erica had seen. It led to a small austere room with a pallet in one end and a small table at the other. He indicated a chair for Erica and sat down himself.
“Why do you want to locate someone in Qurna?” asked the imam. “We are suspicious of strangers here.”
“I’m an Egyptologist and I wanted to find one of Howard Carter’s foremen to see if he were still alive. His name was Sarwat Raman. He lived in Qurna.”
“Yes, I know,” said the imam.
Erica felt a twinge of hope until the imam went on.
“He died some twenty years ago. He was one of the faithful. The carpets in this mosque came from his generosity.”
“I see,” said Erica with obvious disappointment. She stood up. “Well, it was a good idea. Thank you for your help.”
“He was a good man,” said the imam.
Erica nodded and walked back out into the blinding sunlight, wondering how she was going to get a taxi back to the ferry landing. As she was about to leave the courtyard, the imam called out.
Erica turned. He was standing in the doorway to his room. “Raman’s widow is still alive. Would you care to speak with her?”
“Would she be willing to talk with me?” asked Erica.
“I’m sure of it,” called the imam. “She worked as Carter’s housekeeper and speaks better English than I do.”
As Erica followed the imam higher up the hillside, she wondered how anyone could wear such heavy robes in the heat. Even as lightly dressed as she was, the small of her back was damp with perspiration. The imam led her to a whitewashed house set higher than the others in the southwestern part of the village. Immediately behind the house the cliffs rose up dramatically. To the right of the house Erica could see the beginning of a trail etched from the face of the cliff, which she guessed led to the Valley of the Kings.
The whitewashed facade of the house was covered with faded childlike paintings of railroad cars, boats, and camels. “Raman recorded his pilgrimage to Mecca,” explained the imam, knocking on the door.
In the courtyard next to the house was one of the platforms Erica had seen earlier. She asked the imam what it was.
“People sometimes sleep outside in the summer months. They use these platforms to avoid scorpions and cobras.”
Erica felt gooseflesh rise on her back.
A very old woman opened the door. Recognizing the imam, she smiled. They spoke in Arabic. When the conversation concluded, she turned her heavily lined face to Erica.
“Welcome,” she said with a strong English accent, opening the door wider for Erica to enter. The imam excused himself and left.
Like the small mosque, the house was surprisingly cool. Belying the crude exterior, the interior was charming. There was a wood floor covered with a bright Oriental carpet. The furniture was simple but well made, the walls plastered and painted. On three walls there were numerous framed photographs. On the fourth a long-handled shovel with an engraved blade.
The old woman introduced herself as Aida Raman. She told Erica proudly that she was going to be eighty years old come April. With true Arabic hospitality she brought out a cool fruit drink, explaining that it had been made from boiled water so that Erica need not fear germs.
Erica liked the woman. She had sparse dark hair brushed back from her round face and was cheerfully attired in a loose-fitting cotton dress printed with brightly colored feathers. Around her left wrist she wore an orange plastic bracelet. She smiled frequently, revealing that she had only two teeth, both on the bottom.
Erica explained that she was an Egyptologist, and Aida was obviously pleased to talk about Howard Carter. She told Erica how she had adored the man even though he was a little strange and very lonely. She recalled how much Howard Carter loved his canary and how sad he was when it had been eaten by a cobra.
As Erica sipped her drink, she found herself enthralled by the stories. It was obvious that Aida was enjoying their meeting just as much as she was.
“Do you remember the day when Tutankhamen’s tomb was opened?” asked Erica.
“Oh, yes,” said Aida. “That was the most wonderful day. My husband became a happy man. Very soon after that, Carter agreed to help Sarwat obtain the right to run the concession stand in the valley. My husband had guessed that the tourists would soon come by the millions to see the tomb Howard Carter had found. And he was right. He continued to help with the tomb, but he spent most of his effort on building the rest house. In fact, he built it almost all by himself, even though he had to work at night . . . .”
Erica allowed Aida to ramble on for a moment, then asked, “Do you remember everything that happened the day the tomb was opened?”
“Of course,” said Aida, a little surprised at the interruption.
“Did your husband ever say anything about a papyrus?”
The old woman’s eyes instantly clouded. Her mouth moved, but there was no sound. Erica felt a surge of excitement. She held her breath, watching the old woman’s strange response.
Finally Aida spoke. “Are you from the government?”
“No,” answered Erica.
“What makes you ask such a question? Everyone knows what was found. There are books.”
Putting her drink down on the table, Erica explained to Aida the curious discrepancy between Carnarvon’s letter to Sir Wallis Budge and the fact that Carter’s notes listed no papyrus. She was not from the government, she added reassuringly. Her interest was purely academic.
“No,” said Aida after an uncomfortable pause. “There was no papyrus. My husband would never take a papyrus from the tomb.”
“Aida,” said Erica softly, “I never said your husband took a papyrus.”
“You did. You said my husband—”
“No. I just asked if he ever said anything about a papyrus. I’m not accusing him.”
“My husband was a good man. He had a good name.”
“Indeed. Carter was a demanding individual. Your husband had to be the best. No one is challenging your husband’s good name.”
There was another long pause. Finally Aida turned back to Erica. “My husband has been dead for over twenty years. He told me never to mention the papyrus. And I haven’t, even after he died. But no one has mentioned it to me either. That’s why it shocked me so much when you said it. In a way, it’s a relief to tell someone. You won’t tell the authorities?”
“No, I won’t,” said Erica. “It is up to you. So there was a papyrus and your husband took it from the tomb?”
“Yes,” said Aida. “Many years ago.”
Erica now had an idea what had happened. Raman had gotten the papyrus and sold it. It was going to be hard to trace. “How did your husband get the papyrus out of the tomb?”
“He told me he picked it up that first day when he saw it in the tomb. Everyone was so excited about the treasures. He thought it was some kind of curse, and he was afraid that they would stop the project if anyone knew. Lord Carnarvon was very interested in the occult.”
Erica tried to imagine the events of that hectic day. Carter must have initially missed seeing the papyrus in his haste to check the integrity of the wall into the burial chamber, and the others had been dazzled by the splendor of the artifacts.
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“Was the papyrus a curse?” asked Erica.
“No. My husband said it wasn’t. He never showed it to any of the Egyptologists. Instead he copied small sections and asked the experts to translate them. Finally he put it all together. But he said it wasn’t a curse.”
“Did he say what it was?” asked Erica.
“No. He just said it was written in the days of the pharaohs by a clever man who wanted to record that Tutankhamen had helped Seti I.”
Erica’s heart leaped. The papyrus associated Tutankhamen with Seti I, as had the inscription on the statue.
“Do you have any idea what happened to the papyrus? Did your husband sell it?”
“No. He didn’t sell it,” said Aida. “I have it.”
The blood drained from Erica’s face. While she sat immobilized, Aida shuffled over to the shovel mounted on the wall.
“Howard Carter presented this shovel to my husband,” said Aida. She pulled the wooden shaft from the engraved metal blade. There was a hollow in the end of the handle. “This papyrus has not been touched for fifty years,” continued Aida as she struggled to extract the crumbling document. She unrolled it on the table, using the two pieces of the shovel as paperweights.
Slowly rising to her feet, Erica let her eyes feast on the hieroglyphic text. It was an official document with seals of state. Immediately Erica could pick out the cartouches of Seti I and Tutankhamen.
“May I photograph it?” asked Erica, almost afraid to breathe.
“As long as my husband’s name is not blackened,” said Aida.
“I can promise you that,” said Erica, fumbling with her Polaroid. “I won’t do anything without your permission.” She took several photos and made sure they were good enough to work from. “Thank you,” she said when she was finished. “Now, let’s put the papyrus back, but please be careful. This might be very valuable, and it could make the Raman name famous.”
“I’m more concerned about my husband’s reputation,” said Aida. “Besides, the family name dies with me. We had two sons, but both were killed in the wars.”
“Did your husband have anything else from Tutankhamen’s tomb?” asked Erica.
“Oh, no!” said Aida.
“Okay,” said Erica, “I will translate the papyrus and tell you what it says so you can decide what you want to do with it. I won’t say anything to the authorities. That will be up to you. But for now, don’t show it to anyone else.” Erica was already jealous of her discovery.
Emerging from Aida Raman’s house, she debated on how best to return to the hotel. The thought of walking five miles to the ferry landing oppressed her, and she decided to risk the trail behind Aida Raman’s house and walk to the Valley of the Kings. There she could surely get a taxi.
Although it was a hot and tiring climb to the ridge, the view was spectacular. The village of Qurna was directly below her. Just beyond the village was the stately ruin of Queen Hatshepsut’s temple, nestled against the mountains. Erica continued to the crest and looked down. The entire green valley was spread out in front of her, with the Nile snaking its way through the center. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Erica turned to the west. Directly ahead was the Valley of the Kings. From her vantage point Erica could look beyond the valley at the endless rust-red peaks of the Theban mountains as they merged with the mighty Sahara. She had a feeling of overwhelming loneliness.
Descending into the valley was comparatively easy, though Erica had to be careful about the loose ground on the steeper parts of the trail. The route merged with another path coming from the ruined Village of Truth, where Erica knew the ancient necropolis workers had lived. By the time she reached the floor of the valley, she was very warm and tremendously thirsty. Despite her wish to return to the hotel and get to work translating the papyrus, she walked toward the crowded concession stand for a drink. Climbing the steps of the building, she couldn’t help but think of Sarwat Raman.
It was an amazing story indeed. The Arab had stolen a papyrus because he was afraid it would spell out an ancient curse. He had been worried that such a curse would stop the excavation!
Erica purchased a Pepsi-Cola and found an empty chair on the veranda. She glanced around the structure of the rest house. It was made of local stone. Erica marveled that Raman had built it. She wished she could have met the man. There was one question in particular she would have liked to ask. Why hadn’t Raman found some way to return the papyrus after he learned it did not represent a curse? Obviously he did not want to sell it. The only explanation Erica could think of was that he had been afraid of the consequences. She took a large swallow of the Pepsi and pulled out one of the precious photos of the papyrus. The directives suggested it was to be read in the usual fashion, from lower right upward. She stumbled over a proper name at the beginning, almost not believing her eyes. Slowly she pronounced it to herself: “Nenephta . . . . My God!”
Noticing a group of tourists boarding a bus, Erica thought that perhaps she could get a ride to the ferry landing with them. She put the photos back into her tote bag and quickly looked for the ladies’ room. A waiter told her the rest rooms were under the concession stand, but after finding the entrance, she was discouraged by the acrid smell of urine. She decided she could wait until she got back to the hotel. She ran down to the bus as the last passengers were getting on.
LUXOR 6:15 P.M.
Standing at the edge of her balcony, Erica stretched her arms over her head and sighed with relief. She had finished translating the papyrus. It had not been difficult, although she was not sure she understood the meaning.
Looking out over the Nile, she watched a large luxury liner glide by. After her immersion in antiquity with the papyrus, the modern vessel looked out of place. It was like having a flying saucer land in the Boston Commons.
Erica went back to the glass-topped table she’d been working at, picked up the translation, and read it over:
I, Nenephta, chief architect for the Living God (may he live forever), Pharaoh, King of our two lands, the great Seti I, do reverently atone for the disturbance of the eternal rest of the boy king Tutankhamen within these humble walls and with these scant provisions for all eternity. The unspeakable sacrilege of the attempted plunder of Pharaoh Tutankhamen’s tomb by the stonecutter Emeni, whom we have rightfully impaled and whose remains we have scattered on the western desert for the jackals, has served a noble end. The stonecutter Emeni has opened my eyes to understand the ways of the greedy and unjust. Thus I, chief architect, now know the way to ensure eternal safety of the Living God (may he live forever), Pharaoh, King of our two lands, the great Seti I. Imhotep, architect for the Living God Zoser and builder of the Step Pyramid, and Neferhotep, architect for the Living God Khufu and builder of the Great Pyramid, used the way in their monuments, but without full understanding. Accordingly the eternal rest of the Living God Zoser and the Living God Khufu was disturbed and destroyed in the first dark period. But I, Nenephta, chief architect, understand the way, and the greed of the tomb robber. So it will be done, and the boy king Pharaoh Tutankhamen’s tomb is resealed on this day.
Year 10 of Son of Re, Pharaoh Seti I, second month of Germination, day 12.
Erica put the page down on the table. The word she’d had the most problem with was “way.” The hieroglyphic signs had suggested “method” or “pattern” or even “trick,” but the word “way” made the most sense syntactically. But what it meant eluded her.
Translating the papyrus gave Erica a great feeling of accomplishment. It also made the life of ancient Egypt come amazingly alive, and she smiled at Nenephta’s arrogance. Despite his supposed understanding of the greed of the tomb robber and the “way,” Seti’s magnificent tomb had been plundered within a hundred years of its closure, while
the humble tomb of Tutankhamen had remained undisturbed for another three thousand years.
Picking up the translation again, Erica reread the section mentioning Zoser and Khufu. Suddenly she was sorry she’d not visited the Great Pyramid. At the time, she’d felt comfortably abstemious not rushing to the pyramids of Giza like all the other tourists. Now she wished she had. How could Neferhotep have used the way in constructing the Great Pyramid, but without full understanding? Erica stared off at the distant mountains. With all the mysterious meanings attributed to the shape and size of the Great Pyramid, Erica had uncovered another, more ancient one. Even in Nenephta’s time, the Great Pyramid was an ancient structure. In fact, thought Erica, Nenephta probably did not know much more about the Great Pyramid than she did. She decided to visit it. Perhaps by standing in its shadow or by walking within its depths she might comprehend what Nenephta meant by the word “way.”
Erica checked the time. She could easily make the seven-thirty sleeper to Cairo. With feverish excitement she packed her canvas tote bag with her Polaroid, the Baedeker, the flashlight, jeans, and clean underwear. Then she took a quick bath.
Before leaving the hotel she called Ahmed and told him she was going back to Cairo for a day or so because she had an insatiable desire to see the Great Pyramid of Khufu.
Ahmed was instantly suspicious. “There is so much to see here in Luxor. Can’t it wait?”
“No. All of a sudden I have to see it.”
“Are you going to see Yvon de Margeau?”
“Maybe,” said Erica evasively. She wondered if Ahmed could be jealous. “Is there something you’d like me to tell him?” She knew she was baiting him.