Ramses bears a cartouche of his royal name, which was translated as Ozymandias and inspired the poem by Shelley. Nearby are the Osiris pillars and a hypostyle—”
“Next,” Caron said from behind us.
“Medinet Habu was built by Ramses III. It’s a mortuarytemple linked to the Theban necropolis. Ramses III was considered the last great pharaoh. He was murdered by his wives.”
“Does it have a hypostyle hall, too?” demanded Caron. “I spent hours and hours looking at pillars yesterday. Frankly, when you’ve seen one pillar, you’ve seen them all. I thought we were going to—”
Peter held up his hand. “Enough. Thank you for the very informative synopsis, Inez. We’ll save those sites for another day. Let’s go on to the Valley of the Kings, Bakr.”
“Yes, very good, sir.” Bakr swung the van back into the trickle of traffic.
Inez was staring straight ahead, rigid with indignation. Behind us, Alexander muttered something to Caron that elicited a giggle. The last thing I needed was for Caron and Inez to squabble for the next two and a half weeks. Alexander was likely to be the incendiary spark, although I couldn’t blame him for his sophisticated charm. I decided that I needed to have a word with him, if only to remind him that he was entirely too old to flirt with seventeen-year-old girls. If he ignored me, I would have no option except to tell Peter to thrash him soundly for his impertinence (or however the Brits phrase it).
Peter leaned toward me. “They’ll work it out,” he said softly. “Remember when you were that age and some handsome older guy flattered you?”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
“Care to elaborate?”
I took a guidebook out of my bag and opened it to the chapter on the Valley of the Kings. Although reading in a car often makes me queasy, I was not at all inclined to continue a discussion about episodes in my past. Some of them were worthy of interment in a tomb that rivaled King Tut’s.
Bakr found a space in a parking lot clogged with tour buses and cars. After I’d made sure we were all equipped with sunglasses, sunblock, hats, and water bottles, we walked up a road to a strip of open-air shops selling sunglasses, sunblock, hats, water bottles—and an endless arrayof souvenirs. Local craftsmen had been driven away by purveyors of T-shirts, camera film, postcards, flimsy clothing, amateurish paintings, and colorful plastic figurines of ancient Egyptian gods and goddesses.
I was fingering a carpet of dubious origin when Caron grabbed my arm and dragged me aside.
“Why didn’t you tell me that guy—Alexander—was coming with us?” she whispered hotly.
“I didn’t think about it,” I admitted. “Last night at the cocktail party he asked if he might accompany us.”
“Look at me! My shorts are baggy and my shirt looks like it came from a yard sale. I didn’t even bother to dry my hair this morning, since we were going to be out in the sun all day. And Inez might as well be a shill at a sideshow attraction at some stupid county fair, trying to lure people inside to see a two-headed snake! I am so humiliated I Could Die.”
“Then we’re at the right place.”
“You are So Not Funny!” she snapped, then stomped away.
I caught up with Peter, who was defending himself from an eager merchant with a rack of glittery jewelry. Peter and I exchanged amused looks, then headed for a kiosk to buy tickets to enter the Valley of the Kings. Caron, I noticed, had retreated to the shade of an awning to apply lip gloss, while Alexander and Inez chatted nearby.
We rode in a faux trolley car up the hill to a concrete-block building. Soldiers stood in the shade, impassively watching mundane tourists and openly leering at scantily clad women. I studied the valley, no more than fifty to sixty feet across and defined by steep mountainsides lined with what I supposed were goat paths. It was hard to believe that over the millennia flash floods had carved this foreboding
“Next,” Caron said from behind us.
“Medinet Habu was built by Ramses III. It’s a mortuarytemple linked to the Theban necropolis. Ramses III was considered the last great pharaoh. He was murdered by his wives.”
“Does it have a hypostyle hall, too?” demanded Caron. “I spent hours and hours looking at pillars yesterday. Frankly, when you’ve seen one pillar, you’ve seen them all. I thought we were going to—”
Peter held up his hand. “Enough. Thank you for the very informative synopsis, Inez. We’ll save those sites for another day. Let’s go on to the Valley of the Kings, Bakr.”
“Yes, very good, sir.” Bakr swung the van back into the trickle of traffic.
Inez was staring straight ahead, rigid with indignation. Behind us, Alexander muttered something to Caron that elicited a giggle. The last thing I needed was for Caron and Inez to squabble for the next two and a half weeks. Alexander was likely to be the incendiary spark, although I couldn’t blame him for his sophisticated charm. I decided that I needed to have a word with him, if only to remind him that he was entirely too old to flirt with seventeen-year-old girls. If he ignored me, I would have no option except to tell Peter to thrash him soundly for his impertinence (or however the Brits phrase it).
Peter leaned toward me. “They’ll work it out,” he said softly. “Remember when you were that age and some handsome older guy flattered you?”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
“Care to elaborate?”
I took a guidebook out of my bag and opened it to the chapter on the Valley of the Kings. Although reading in a car often makes me queasy, I was not at all inclined to continue a discussion about episodes in my past. Some of them were worthy of interment in a tomb that rivaled King Tut’s.
Bakr found a space in a parking lot clogged with tour buses and cars. After I’d made sure we were all equipped with sunglasses, sunblock, hats, and water bottles, we walked up a road to a strip of open-air shops selling sunglasses, sunblock, hats, water bottles—and an endless arrayof souvenirs. Local craftsmen had been driven away by purveyors of T-shirts, camera film, postcards, flimsy clothing, amateurish paintings, and colorful plastic figurines of ancient Egyptian gods and goddesses.
I was fingering a carpet of dubious origin when Caron grabbed my arm and dragged me aside.
“Why didn’t you tell me that guy—Alexander—was coming with us?” she whispered hotly.
“I didn’t think about it,” I admitted. “Last night at the cocktail party he asked if he might accompany us.”
“Look at me! My shorts are baggy and my shirt looks like it came from a yard sale. I didn’t even bother to dry my hair this morning, since we were going to be out in the sun all day. And Inez might as well be a shill at a sideshow attraction at some stupid county fair, trying to lure people inside to see a two-headed snake! I am so humiliated I Could Die.”
“Then we’re at the right place.”
“You are So Not Funny!” she snapped, then stomped away.
I caught up with Peter, who was defending himself from an eager merchant with a rack of glittery jewelry. Peter and I exchanged amused looks, then headed for a kiosk to buy tickets to enter the Valley of the Kings. Caron, I noticed, had retreated to the shade of an awning to apply lip gloss, while Alexander and Inez chatted nearby.
We rode in a faux trolley car up the hill to a concrete-block building. Soldiers stood in the shade, impassively watching mundane tourists and openly leering at scantily clad women. I studied the valley, no more than fifty to sixty feet across and defined by steep mountainsides lined with what I supposed were goat paths. It was hard to believe that over the millennia flash floods had carved this foreboding
Similar Books
