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small chest by the cushions, producing a typed letter addressed to Abdul Hamdi, Luxor, Egypt. “Perhaps you know him?”
    â€œBoston is a very big city . . .” began Erica before she caught sight of the return address: Dr. Herbert Lowery, her boss. “You know Dr. Lowery?” she asked incredulously.
    â€œI’ve met him twice and we write occasionally. He was very interested in a head of Ramses II that I had about a year ago. A wonderful man. Very clever.”
    â€œIndeed,” said Erica, amazed that Abdul would be corresponding with such an eminent figure as Dr. Herbert Lowery, chairman of the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. It made her considerably more at ease.
    As if sensing Erica’s thoughts, Abdul fished several other letters from his little cedar chest. “Here are letters from Dubois, at the Louvre, and Caufield, at the British Museum.”
    The beads clacked in the outer room. Abdul reached back and drew the curtains aside, speaking a few words of Arabic. A young boy in a once-white galabia and bare feet slipped noiselessly into the room. He was carrying one of those trays supported by a tripod. Silently he placed the glasses with metal holders next to the waterpipe. He did not look up from his task. Abdul dropped a few coins onto the boy’s tray and held the curtains back for the boy to leave. Turning back to Erica, he smiled and stirred his tea.
    â€œIs this safe for me to drink?” asked Erica, fingering her glass.
    â€œSafe?” Abdul was surprised.
    â€œI’ve been warned so much about drinking water here in Egypt.”
    â€œAh, you mean for your digestion. Yes, it is completely safe. The water boils constantly in the tea shop. Enjoy. This is a hot, parched land. It is an Arabic custom to drink tea or coffee with your friends.”
    They sipped in silence. Erica was pleasantly surprised by the taste, and by the tingling freshness the drink left in her mouth.
    â€œTell me, Erica . . .” said Abdul, breaking the silence. He pronounced her name in a strange way, placing the accent on the second syllable. “Provided, of course, you do not object to my asking. Tell me why you have become an Egyptologist.”
    Erica looked down into her tea. The flecks of mint slowly swirled in the warm fluid. She was accustomed to the question. She had heard it a thousand times, especially from her mother, who never could understand why a beautiful young Jewish girl who “had everything” would choose to study Egyptology and not education. Her mother had tried to change her mind, first by gentle conversation (“What are my friends going to think?”), then by forcible debate (“You’ll never be able to support yourself!”), finally by threatening to withdraw financial support. It was all in vain. Erica continued her studies, possibly in part because of her mother’s opposition, but mostly because she loved everything about the field of Egyptology.
    It was true she did not think in practical terms of what kind of job would be waiting for her when she finished, and it was also true that she “lucked out” by being hired by the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, when most of her fellow students were still unemployed with littleimmediate hope in sight. Nonetheless she loved the study of ancient Egypt. There was something about the remoteness and the mystery, combined with incredible wealth and value of the material already discovered, that fascinated her. She was particularly fond of the love poetry, which made the ancient people come alive. It was through the poems that Erica could feel the emotion spanning the millennia, reducing the meaning of time and making her wonder if society had progressed at all.
    Looking up at Abdul, Erica finally said, “I studied Egyptology because it fascinated me. When I was a little girl and my family took a trip to New York City, the only thing I