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With his forefinger he pushed one toward Erica.
    She picked it up and examined it. It was made of a porous material, its top exquisitely carved in the form of the familiar dung beetle revered by the ancient Egyptians. Turning it over, Erica was surprised to see the cartouche of a pharaoh, Seti I. The hieroglyphic carving was absolutely beautiful.
    â€œIt is a spectacular piece,” said Erica, replacing it on the counter.
    â€œSo you wouldn’t mind having that antique?”
    â€œNot at all. How much is it?”
    â€œIt is yours. It is a present.”
    â€œI can’t accept such a gift. Why do you want to give me a present?”
    â€œIt is an Arabic custom. But let me warn you, it is not authentic.”
    Surprised, Erica lifted the scarab to the light. Her initial impression did not change. “I think it is real.”
    â€œNo. I know it is not real because my son made it.”
    â€œIt’s extraordinary,” said Erica, looking again at the hieroglyphics.
    â€œMy son is very good. He copied the hieroglyphics from a real piece.”
    â€œWhat is it made of?”
    â€œAncient bone. There are enormous caches ofbroken-up mummies in Luxor and Aswan in the ancient public catacombs. My son uses the bone to carve the scarabs. To make the cut surface look old and worn, we feed them to our turkeys. One pass through a turkey gives it a truly venerable appearance.”
    Erica swallowed, fleetingly sickened by contemplating the scarab’s biological journey. But intellectual interest quickly overcame her physical response, and she turned the scarab over and over in her fingers. “I admit, I was fooled, and would be again.”
    â€œDon’t be upset. Several of these have been taken to Paris, where the curators think they know everything, and they were tested.”
    â€œProbably carbon-dated,” interjected Erica.
    â€œWhatever. Anyway, they were declared truly ancient. Well, obviously the bone was ancient. Now my son’s scarabs are in museums around the world.”
    A cynical laugh escaped from Erica. She knew she was dealing with an expert.
    â€œMy name is Abdul Hamdi, so please call me Abdul. What is your name?”
    â€œOh, I beg your pardon. Erica Baron.” She placed the scarab on the counter.
    â€œErica, I would be pleased if you joined me for some mint tea.”
    Abdul put the other pieces back into their places, then drew aside the heavy red-brown drapes. Erica had enjoyed talking with Abdul, but she hesitated a moment before picking up her bag and advancing toward the opening. The back room was about the same size as the front part of the shop, but it appeared to have no doors or windows. The walls and floor were covered with Oriental carpets, giving the area the appearance of a tent. In the center of the room were cushions, a low table, and a water pipe.
    â€œOne moment,” said Abdul. The curtain fell back into place, leaving Erica to stare at several large objects that were completely draped with cloth. She could hear the crackling noises of the beads in the front entrance, and muffled shouts as Abdul ordered tea.
    â€œPlease sit down,” Abdul said when he returned, indicating the large cushions on the floor. “It is not often I have the pleasure of entertaining a lady so beautiful and so knowledgeable. Tell me, my dear, where are you from in America?”
    â€œOriginally I’m from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica somewhat nervously. “But I live in Boston now, or actually Cambridge, which is right next to Boston.” Erica’s eyes slowly moved around the small room. The single incandescent bulb hanging in the center gave the deep reds of the Oriental carpets an incredibly rich softness, like red velvet.
    â€œBoston, yes. It must be beautiful in Boston. I have a friend there. We write occasionally. Actually, my son writes. I cannot write in English. I have a letter from him here.” Abdul rummaged through a