I peer around the massive potted palm tree on Shepheard’s terrace down Ibrahim Pasha Street. “He’s finally gone,” I say to Howard.
Papa had lingered and lingered over breakfast, putting off his morning meeting with Allenby. Reminiscing over his first stay at Shepheard’s and his happy times at the Turf and Gezirah Sporting Clubs, my father shared story after story with us. Almost as if he was saying goodbye to Egypt. I don’t allow myself to think about that. Howard and I have too much to do today to be waylaid by emotion.
“Are you ready?” I ask him.
He pats the leather satchel at his side. “I’ve got the items ready.”
I, on the other hand, purposely left my scarab in the hotel room. I don’t want some merchant accusing me of taking it from his shop, if it’s seen in my possession. And anyway, it isn’t as though it’s brought me much luck lately.
I take a final sip of tea, and then we grab one of the carriages waiting outside Shepheard’s. We pass by Ezbekiyya Gardens, weaving down the thoroughfare through the busy morning foot traffic along the sidewalk toward the souk, Khan el-Khalili. Thinking back on one of those first overheard conversations at the High Commission Residency, I wonder about the names for the face coverings on the Egyptian women we pass. Are the women wearinghabaraor burqa or a niqab? Ishouldknow. I’ve spent too much time in Egypt of the past and not enough immersing myself in Egypt of the present: to really understand and honor one, I need to better understand and honorthe other. In some ways, I’ve been as narrow in my focus as those Englishwomen at that Residency ball.
We pass through a stone archway connecting two traditionally Arabic buildings and cross from new Cairo into the Old. Following Howard’s expert lead, I hop out of the carriage and zigzag through the narrow alleyways bustling with stalls and shops until we reach a dead end that’s familiar from my very first day in Cairo. What would Brograve make of this excursion? If he’s the man I hope he is, he’d be meandering through this souk right alongside Howard and me, in this last-ditch effort to find out any scrap of information about Hatshepsut.
I assume we’re going to enter the same nameless store we did on that day three seasons ago, but Howard stops before we reach it. When I glance at him, he answers my unspoken question. “I want Mamouk to hear about our presence before we enter his establishment. It will build anticipation and, perhaps, his willingness to show us items he might not otherwise.”
We stop at two stalls and three proper stores—if a windowless nook carved into the first floor of a tilting stone building can be called a store—hawking an array of so-called artifacts. Most of the items on offer are obvious reproductions, although I do spot two or three genuine antiquities for sale in each place. None has any association with Hatshepsut, of course.
Each proprietor greets Howard by name and with enthusiasm. Inevitably, they ask if he has anything to show them. Silently, I watch him pull small vases and faience figures out of his bag, those same items he offered to sell to help fund the dig. As he talks quietly with the men, I think about our awkward exchange in which I described my plan to extractanydetails about Hatshepsut that these dealers might have, as a desperate attempt to make our excavation bear fruit. When I explained that it would require him sharing his own items with the storeowners as a way to foster frank discussions—to prompt them to share details about the more illicit objects that might have passed through their hands—he had hesitated. He didn’t disclose why, but he didn’t need to. I knew he didn’t want me to see that he’d been assembling artifacts that didnotcome from any ofour excavations. When he finally agreed, I realized that Howard had lifted the veil on an otherwise secret part of his existence. He disclosed this to me only for the sake of our ongoing quest for Hatshepsut—and to preserve the future of our excavation. I try to remember this as I study his row of ancient artifacts lined up on the shopkeepers’ counters, just as I remind myself that, until quite recently, these sorts of sales were common and accepted. In fact, the practice is so widespread that the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, an elegant, enormous structure opened in 1902 in Tahrir Square, has a shop that sells antiquities, some of questionable provenance.
By the time we step into the cool darkness of Mamouk’s store, the shopkeeper is waiting for us. “Mr. Carter, why didn’t you come to me first? You know I always have the best items on offer. And the best prices for your own objects,” he says in accented but very understandable English, and I see that Howard had indeed been wise to start elsewhere.
Howard flinches at this remark. I suppose it’s uncomfortable for him to have the scope of his work selling ancient objects revealed to me, and, in truth, I’d hoped that his antiquities dealing had been limited to a few items here and there—for Papa and institutions. Instead, I push this thought from my mind, and introduce myself to Mamouk.
As the two men undergo an elaborate ritual of greeting, I wander around the store. Mamouk carries more authentic objets and fewer imitations than the other purveyors. I hope this foray works and that we find some hitherto unknown artifact that leads us to Hatshepsut. And I hope it will be worth the risk Howard took in sharing this part of his life with me. I’m certain this hasn’t been an easy decision for him.
When I hear the click of the latch on Howard’s leather bag, I know it’s my cue to rejoin him. I stand by his side as he reveals his items to Mamouk, one by one. The bright-eyed shopkeeper is interested, anyone can see that, but downplays his eagerness. I assume it’s all part of the haggling game.
Then, as we’d rehearsed, Howard replaces the final item in his bag and fastens it shut. I watch Mamouk’s mouth open in protest, andthis is my cue to ask him in French, “Do you have anything else to show us?”
This query in French, by a woman no less, unsettles Mamouk, as Howard anticipated. “All that I have is displayed,” he answers in French, gesturing around the store.
I give him a small smile, then press him. “An important shopkeeper like yourself doesn’t have a back room with objects for the more discerning buyer? I understand that all the best stores do.”
Mamouk’s eyes narrow. He studies me and then Howard. After a long pause, Mamouk gestures for us to follow him through a heavily brocaded red curtain behind his counter. The scent of cooking and spices permeates the dim space, and I wonder if Mamouk’s living space is back here somewhere. If not here, perhaps upstairs or in an adjoining room?
Mamouk lights two oil lanterns, handing one each to me and Howard. The back room doesn’t exactly flood with light, but we can better see the objects sitting on the makeshift shelves lining the walls. We study each item in turn, bringing our lamps as close as we dare, and I imagine many an Egypt-mad aristocrat would revel in these artifacts. But not us. Nothing has a discernible hieroglyphic or stylistic mark that would be indicative of Hatshepsut’s reign or even one of the Thutmoside line, her ancestor and descendants.
“Anything?” I whisper to Howard.
“No,” he answers in a low voice. “Plenty of late-era New Kingdom pottery and statue shards, but nothing tied to our pharaoh.”
“Can I ask directly?”
“There’s nothing to lose at this point,” Howard says. He hadn’t wanted to lead with our actual quest, as it might have prompted Mamouk to hold out in the hopes that dragging the process out might yield a higher price for him.
“Anything related to Hatshepsut?” I ask Mamouk.
He tilts his head quizzically, and then chuckles. Why is he laughing? Is the request for something from a female pharaoh that outrageous?
“Hatshepsut? Those Metropolitan Museum diggers at the temple may have found artifacts beyond what they are reconstructing at the site, but they keep everything for themselves.”
“Not even rumors of discoveries? Even an account of what the Metropolitan Museum’s men have discovered would be helpful,” I ask, feeling a desperation rise within me.
“Those museum men will ruin archaeology for us all.” Mamouk shakes his head, and his deep brown eyes are doleful. “If you want to discover an object belonging to Hatshepsut, you’ll have to dig it up yourselves.”
Chapter Forty-Six
MARCH 2, 1922
