Chapter 30
Clay and Marcelle crossed Fifth Avenue and strolled along the carriage path to the Met’s south entrance.
They ascended the steps, taking in the panorama of Central Park with trees erupting in lush green leaves and the distant rhythmic clip-clop of horse-drawn cabs.
A jolt of temporal dislocation hit Clay as he tried to reconcile this bustling scene with the modern entrance that he was familiar with in his own time.
The noise, the smells, and the very quality of the light all felt surreal.
“This is all enclosed now.” Marcelle stretched her arms to take in the steps and the arches. “The restaurant is right about there.”
“It’s kind of nice, though, right? Getting a different perspective should make us appreciate the advancements the world will make before our time. We now know what the Met looked like over a hundred years ago. Maybe we’ll appreciate the building and the collections more than we did.”
“Come on, let’s visit the museum and appreciate the past.” He took her arm and led her into a large, boxy room with display cases.
“We need a map or something.” He crossed the room to a desk where a man sold copies of The Bulletin of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
He bought a copy and took it back to her.
“Let’s sit, look through it, and figure out where to go.
” He spotted a vacant bench and directed her there.
Sitting this close was an act of self-destruction.
Marcelle’s scent—a faint hint of vanilla mixed with coconut and caramel—was doing a number on his sanity.
His heart pulsated against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He shifted on the wooden bench, suddenly too hard, too small.
He crossed his legs, hoping to hide his arousal while he thumbed through the Bulletin.
When he reached the part about the Eighteenth Dynasty, he said, “I’ll speed-read and give you a synopsis. ”
“That’s dense material. Go for it. I’ll people-watch.”
Concentrating on dense material would refocus his mind and body. After several minutes, he said, “This is what we need to know.”
Marcelle nodded. “Let’s hear it.”
“Hatshepsut founded the temple at Deir el-Bahri, where archaeologists uncovered two hundred ninety-nine scarabs in three deposits. They’d inscribed one of her many titles on each scarab: Queen Hatshepsut, The Horus, Mighty of Souts, the Favorite of the Two Goddesses, Fresh in Years, the Golden Horus, Divine of diadems, Sovereign of Upper and Lower Egypt, the Beautiful God, Mistress of the Two Lands, the King’s Daughter, Divine Consort, Great Royal Wife, Princess of the Two Lands; and on and on. ”
“How many titles does a queen need?”
Clay chuckled. “I can imagine Violet having a list of titles to match Hatshepsut, and if they weren’t legitimate, she’d make some up.”
“You think she’s that vain?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? You’ve spent time with her. What do you think?”
“She doesn’t care about the opinions of others. Only hers. She’s in a world of her own with a purpose we might never know. Forget Violet. Back to Hatshepsut. What’s her story?”
“Forewarning—I’m going to condense several pages of text that include generations of incest, which Egyptians believed maintained the purity of the royal bloodline.
“The story starts with King Thutmose I, who died about 1514 B.C. His wife, Ahmose, was the eldest daughter of his predecessor. Ahmose survived her husband, as did her daughter, Hatshepsut, and a stepson, Thutmose II, who was the king’s son and one of Ahmose’s sisters’ sons.
The king’s real heir was Hatshepsut, but she was a female.
“Since only a man could perform the duties of a king, the Egyptians created a way out. They married Hatshepsut to her half-brother, Thutmose II. He was ostensibly pharaoh, but the regency was in the hands of Queen Hatshepsut.
“By the time Thutmose II died, a concubine in the royal harem had borne a son, Thutmose III. Hatshepsut continued to manage Egypt as the Great Royal Wife of Thutmose II. As long as her infant daughter and stepson remained minors, she was an absolute ruler.
“Hatshepsut believed that since she was Thutmose I’s heiress, she should be the absolute ruler by right. After five years of being queen, she declared herself king, which was pointless since Thutmose III was alive. She could have had Thutmose III killed, but she didn’t.
“So, she began an ambitious temple-building program, marking her reign with significant artistic and architectural achievements. She left the kingdom better than she found it. She planned to move Thutmose I’s body to a new tomb in the Valley of the Kings so that, when she died, they would lie side by side in twin sarcophagi.
“Eventually, Thutmose III grew up, knowing he would be the sole ruler of Egypt. When Hatshepsut’s reign ended—”
“Did Thutmose knock her off?”
“It just says that when Hatshepsut’s reign ended, Thutmose III became the sole ruler.
He ordered the destruction of all her statues and portraits.
The Met’s archaeologists found a large hole in the south side of the temple avenue where they dumped her portraits and statues, which included fragments of at least five kneeling statues of her in red and black granite. ”
“Is there a picture of her in the Bulletin?”
“I didn’t see one. We can go to the exhibit and look at the statues the archaeologists pieced together.
” Something about it was too perfect, as if history was hiding in plain sight, and that left a bitter taste in his mouth.
A knot tightened in his gut as he absorbed the details of the ambitious queen’s rule.
Clay took Marcelle’s hand, and they strolled down a hallway lined with hanging tapestries, paintings, and statues on pedestals.
Each time she stopped and studied a dramatic sculpture, a lock of her hair brushed her cheek, and a wave of vanilla engulfed him.
He burned to touch more of her than just her hand.
“When’d you learn to speed-read?” she asked. “It comes in handy on days like today.”
Her question jerked him out of his head.
“Archibald taught me. He reads at least two books every day. It’s important to him, and he encouraged me to appreciate books.
He’d give me a reading list every summer.
When I finished a book on the list, we discussed the author’s approach, strengths, and weaknesses.
He forced me to think and analyze the material.
While I was learning to speed-read, his approach also taught me how to retain information.
I believe that’s why I love investigative journalism. ”
“That has to be linked to the quest for knowledge, uncovering hidden truths, and holding power accountable.”
“I love the way you think.”
She smiled, obviously pleased with the compliment. “That must mean you see me as more than a trumpet player?”
“That part of you is becoming smaller as the inquisitive, humorous, caring you becomes larger. You are much more than your trumpet.”
“I’ve often wondered if I was becoming too much of my instrument and needed to find an identity away from it. Bastien’s saxophone takes a lot of time, but his business takes even more. I don’t know how he’ll handle a serious relationship once he goes home.”
“We make room for what’s important.” Now was the perfect opportunity to ask about the job offer—and Clay searched for the right words, gave up, and just blurted out, “I know the job in Richmond is a big decision, but I wondered if you’d given any more thought to the position.”
She chewed her lower lip. “Honestly, mentioning the job offer reminds me of how much I’ve missed and worried about Bastien.
If I move to Richmond, I can see him more often, except that he travels so much.
But truthfully, I’m ready for a change. That’s why I applied without telling him. And you and Remy will be there. Right?”
“I’m building a house at Mallory Plantation. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Are you going to quit writing for The New York Times?”
“Not right now, and if you move to Richmond, I’ll have another reason to stop traveling so much.”
She clasped her hands and did a cute thumb dance while she stood there, eyes darting about the room. “I want to talk to Bastien about it before I commit.”
Was she anxious about his reaction? “What will he say?”
“It’ll surprise him because I’ve worked so hard to get where I am. He might think I’m giving up on a dream.”
That was Clay’s reaction, too. “Are you?”
She stilled her hands. “It might seem that way on the surface, but can’t you have a dream, accomplish it, and then move on to another one?”
“I think most people are so happy when they land a dream job, they can’t imagine giving it up and moving on.”
“Just because you can’t imagine it doesn’t mean that change can’t be perfect for you. Look at what you’re doing. I’m sure writing for The New York Times was a dream job. And now you’re going to do another dream job.”
“But I plan to write fiction, which requires research and investigation. I’ll be working for myself instead of a company. You’re giving up two passions, playing and teaching, to be the musical director of the Richmond Symphony.”
“It’ll be a pleasant break. If I decide to teach again, there are plenty of colleges and universities in and around Richmond.” They walked silently for a few minutes, looking at the paintings and tapestries, until she stopped and pointed. “Let’s go see the Stieglitz photographic exhibit.”
“I saw your photographs of Bastien in your townhome. You’ve got a good eye, too.”
“Coming from you, that means a lot. When you sketch, you see things I don’t notice.”
The only sounds in the gallery were their own quiet footsteps and the distant hum of the city outside. Clay and Marcelle meandered through the tranquil space, savoring the rare solitude. She tugged at his sleeve, pulling him toward a stark black-and-white print.