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wills,” I said piously. Aslimi shot me a look that indicated he was more inclined to put the blame on Emerson than on Allah, but he rallied enough to go through the prescribed gestures of hospitality, offering me coffee or tea and a seat on the mastaba. Then we got down to business. I left the shop an hour and a half later, with several parcels. Bargaining takes quite a long time, and the subtle interrogation at which I excel takes even longer. Since I had time to spare, I stopped at a few more stalls, learning little more than I had from Aslimi, but purchasing a number of items that would be needed in our new home: a set of handsome copper cooking vessels, thirty yards of blue-and-silver Damascus silk, and two elegant carpets, all of which I directed to be sent to the hotel. I found Emerson surrounded by loosely bound volumes and piles of manuscripts and several of the more learned booksellers, with whom he was engaged in heated argument. I had begun to suspect that they enjoyed egging him on, for his views on religion — all varieties of religion — were unorthodox and eloquently expressed. The discussion ended when I appeared, and after an exchange of compliments all round, I led Emerson away. “Why do you do that?” I scolded. “It is very rude to criticize another individual’s religious beliefs, and there is not the slightest possibility that you will convert them.” “Who wants to convert them?” Emerson demanded in surprise. “Islam is as good a religion as any other. I don’t approve of Christianity or Judaism or Buddhism either.” “I am well aware of that, Emerson. I don’t suppose you learned anything of interest?” “It was very interesting. I raised several unanswerable points . . .” He noticed my parcels and took them from me. “What have you got there?” “Don’t unwrap them here,” I cautioned, for Emerson was, in his impetuous fashion, tugging at the strings. “While you were wasting your time debating theology, I went about the business for which we came to the Khan. Aslimi showed me some remarkable things, Emerson. He told me he had never known the supply of merchandise to be so great. He is getting objects from all over Egypt, including Luxor.” “What the devil!” Emerson came to a dead stop in the middle of the road. He began to unwrap the largest parcel, ignoring the camel advancing ponderously toward him. The driver, recognizing Emerson, managed to stop the recalcitrant animal before it ran into my equally recalcitrant spouse. He turned an outraged glare on the camel, which responded with its usual look of utter disgust. I stifled my laughter, for Emerson would not have found anything amusing about his attempt to stare down a camel. Somehow the driver got the beast past Emerson, who had not stirred an inch. I took the parcel from him. “It is not like you to be so careless, Emerson,” I said severely. “Careless with antiquities, I mean. Come out of the middle of the road and let me undo the wrappings enough to give you a peep.” Care was necessary, since there were two objects in the wrappings, both of them breakable — or at least, chippable. The one I showed Emerson was an alabaster disk with a thin band of gold around the rim. “No hieroglyphs,” he muttered. “Beautiful piece of work, though. It’s the lid of a pot or jar.” “A very expensive pot,” I amended. “I have the pot as well — an exquisitely shaped alabaster container, most probably for cosmetics. Now shall we go back to the hotel where we can examine it in private?” “Hmmm, yes, certainly.” Emerson watched me rewrap the lid. “I beg your pardon, my dear. You were quite right to scold me. What else have you got?” “Nothing so exciting as the cosmetic jar,” I said, “but I believe they are all from the same tomb — the one Cyrus told us about.” “So Mohassib didn’t get everything.” Emerson strode along beside me, his hands in his pockets. “How did Aslimi come by these?”