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Charlotte

New York City, 1978

All afternoon, Charlotte considered canceling her meeting with Frederick about her Hathorkare research. After the shock of seeing the broad collar, she was in no state to present such a complicated proposition to her boss. The museum system had very clear hierarchies that could not be circumvented, and without Frederick’s backing, she wouldn’t be able to get her article published. So much rode on this one conversation.

Just before six o’clock, she came upon Frederick outside the door to the staff offices, watching a group of women assembled around the Cerulean Queen.

“Docent drama time.” He nodded in the direction of one of the docents in training who stood nervously beside the sculpture. She had blonde hair heavily sprayed into place as if a gale might blow through at any minute, and opened and closed her mouth like a guppy. “How wrong do you think the poor dear will get it?”

Charlotte didn’t envy her; the rigid pedagogy of the docent program was probably more difficult than graduate school, in many ways. After ten months of intense training in art history, replete with exams, papers, and practice tours, qualified docents became the face of the museum, leading adults and school groups on tours and subjected to frequent peer reviews. Those who slacked off were asked to leave—even though the position was unpaid.

Early in the docent-training course, each applicant was randomly assigned an artifact or artwork and expected to offer up a presentation, no prior research allowed.

“I think she’s actually quaking,” Charlotte said, trying to match Frederick’s bonhomie. “I still don’t understand the point of putting them through this kind of torture.”

“It makes them see the piece with fresh eyes, the way our visitors do.”

“I suppose.”

“This is an Egyptian statue,” the woman began, studying the piece intently, as if the lips might open and tell her what else to say.

“So far, so good,” said Frederick under his breath, giddy with delight.

“It helps that this is the Egyptian wing,” answered Charlotte.

The woman cleared her throat. “It was, unfortunately, not intact when it was discovered.”

“As evidenced by the fact that half her head is missing.” Frederick chuckled. He was in a good mood; maybe, in spite of Charlotte’s unease, this evening would be the perfect time to approach him about her Hathorkare theory.

“How long do they have to present?” asked Charlotte.

“Three minutes.”

A stout woman with gray hair stood planted on the spot like a sphinx, a stopwatch in one hand. As the docent continued speaking, mumbling about the piece being “very old” and “made from polished cerulean,” the educator shook her head. “Go deeper, Priscilla. Really look at it.”

“Um. Back when it was made, it would be displayed in a home. Or maybe a temple or a pyramid—I’m not sure—and the woman who this represents was very beautiful and wealthy.” The trainee continued talking in circles, but was slowly losing momentum, like a toy with a dying battery. She locked eyes with a dark-haired woman in a Chanel suit who stood a few feet away from Charlotte. Another docent in training, Charlotte guessed. The dark-haired woman was mouthing something, trying to help out her friend.

“It’s from the New Kingdom,” said Priscilla proudly.

“She got that last bit right,” said Frederick. “I’m almost impressed.”

“Looks like she has a prompter.” Charlotte gestured with one elbow in the dark-haired woman’s direction.

“I take it back.”

Just as it was becoming too painful for Charlotte to watch the history of her favorite statue get mangled by Priscilla the wannabe docent, the educator pocketed the watch and clapped her hands together. “I’ve heard worse,” she said, “but you have a long way to go, Priscilla. Why would you describe this piece as ‘old’? That’s boring, not to mention redundant.”

Charlotte didn’t wait to hear the answer. “Frederick, I believe your next appointment is with me.”

He stiffened. “Is this about the loan?”

“No. It’s not about the loan.” She swallowed the wave of panic that threatened and reminded herself to breathe. “I have something interesting to show you.”

“In that case, show away.”

In her cubicle, she laid out the photographs from Luxor on her desk in order and launched into her pitch. “It’s common knowledge among historians that Saukemet II ordered the erasures of Hathorkare’s name and image in anger, shortly after he came to power. But I think the timing is off.”

“You do, do you?” Frederick raised his eyebrows in amusement, as if she were a child who was unsuccessfully trying fit a piece into a jigsaw puzzle.

“Yes. Way off. By studying the dates when certain of her temples were dismantled—which, of course, was common at the time—and then reassembled by successive pharaohs, I can prove that the erasures occurred at least twenty years later—which takes all the air out of the revenge theory.”

Frederick studied the photos for a minute before glancing back at Charlotte. He had written his dissertation on Saukemet II and was considered the topmost scholar of the pharaoh’s reign. Just Charlotte’s luck. “Why on earth would he order the erasures, then?” he asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“My theory is that, as an older man, Saukemet II expected his son to become pharaoh after his death. However, the daughter of another royal family enjoyed a more direct line to the dynasty’s founder, which made her a potential threat to Saukemet II’s plans. It didn’t help matters that his predecessor was Hathorkare, whose depictions sometimes contained male traits—like a reddish tint to the skin, a headdress, or a beard—presumably to reinforce the idea that she was as powerful as a man. As far as I can tell, only those types of images of Hathorkare were vandalized. If Saukemet II was so angry at his stepmother, why would he carefully pick and choose which ones to remove?”

“Why indeed?”

“My guess is he didn’t want his subjects to be reminded of Hathorkare’s appropriation of male divinity. Furthermore, the proscription against images of Hathorkare was lifted not long after it had been firmly established that his son—and not the daughter of the rival clan—would inherit the throne, which backs up my theory that he was more concerned about his legacy than some personal grudge against Hathorkare.”

Frederick stared hard at her documentation as she pointed out specific examples of the erasures.

“If I’m right,” she continued, “it means that Hathorkare was not universally reviled, as we’ve long thought. Instead, she should be considered one of the top pharaohs of ancient Egypt in terms of her longevity and her artistic and economic contributions, a woman who successfully ruled both as regent and in her own right, guiding her successor on how to lead a country.”

Frederick didn’t speak for a moment after she finished. “How long have you been working on this?”

She pointed to the thick manila folder on her desk, filled with her references, sources, notes, and journal research. “I started looking into it a few years ago. But I wanted to wait to say anything until I was sure I had it right.”

“That’s a long time to keep secrets.” He ran his hand through his hair and gave a little shake of his head. Frederick didn’t like to be surprised. “Well, I have to admit I’m quite impressed. Your premise would turn history on its ear. After all, it was the Met’s own curators who called her a vixen.”

“Not quite. They called her a ‘vain, ambitious, and unscrupulous woman’ who was unloved by her people and by her successor. These photos prove them wrong. Wrong about the timeline, wrong about the reason for the erasures, and wrong about her character.”

“I’m guessing you want to write a journal article about this?” said Frederick.

Charlotte’s pulse quickened. “I do. I know we have a lot going on with the Tut exhibition, but I think I can get it done by early next year.”

“That won’t work.”

She’d figured he’d push back, and was prepared. “I’ll do it in my spare time, on weekends, at night. I promise it won’t interfere with Tut.”

“It’s not that. It’s a lovely premise, and very modern with women’s lib and all that craziness. Almost a little too on the nose, you might say.”

“I’m dealing with what happened in the past, not what’s going on now.”

“Well, it still won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t have proof. Your theory is all well and good, but it’s just a theory. You need something specific, something that proves why the erasures were executed. Knowing when isn’t enough.”

As much as she hated to admit it, Frederick had a point. Charlotte’s throat tightened as she guessed what was coming next. “I see.”

Frederick tapped the folder with his index finger. “Unfortunately, the only way to present this properly is by going back to Egypt and doing the fieldwork yourself. You’d have to ensure your ‘selective erasure’ theory holds firm, as well as find some proof of motive.”

“But you know I can’t—”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Frederick’s expression toggled back and forth between relief and pity. Relief that his expertise would not be questioned, and pity for Charlotte for being so weak.

But when Charlotte thought of returning to Egypt, her insides recoiled. She couldn’t go back, not after what had happened. Not after the night that she’d screamed so hard her throat had burned for days, making it impossible to speak. Not after Egypt had taken away her soul.