For me, the border between art and life is not fixed—it flows with the Nile as it nourishes the black and red lands—the Sahara and Libyan deserts.
I’m Marcus Allenby an antiquities dealer. I collect the artifacts of ancient Egypt. Nothing gives me more pleasure than unpacking the treasures of the Pharaohs—and nothing gives me more pain than having to part with them to earn a living.
In my Gramercy Park manse, I house some of my most prized treasures in a priceless reliquary—a rare 19th century French vitrine veneered in gemstone grade Lapis. It seems appropriate for the treasures of the Pharaohs to be housed in a glass showcase the colors of Egypt—gold pyrite and deep blue.
“You have some exquisite pieces here, Marcus—I envy you.”
Jerrod Mason, the Curator of Antiquities for the Smithsonian, was admiring my collection.
“I take that as high praise coming from you, my friend.”
We were sitting in my front room sipping Shiraz and regaling each other with tales that only an archeologist and a collector of ancient treasures would enjoy.
“That wesekh would only befit a woman the status of Nefertiti.”
He was alluding to the gold collar often associated with Egyptian queens, composed of gold cylinders and precious stones strung in horizontal layers around a central choker. It would certainly grace the neck of the beautiful wife of Pharaoh Akhenaton.
“It is a stunning piece of workmanship,” I agreed.
He stood up and walked over to the vitrine and gazed in awe at the contents.
“Do you have any idea concerning the provenance of these finds? They all seem to be similar as if owned by the same woman—You have necklaces, anklets, bracelets, mirrors, make-up pots—surely the accouterments of a woman of high status.”
“Undoubtedly. Whoever she was, she was a woman of means and indisputably of high estate.”
Jerrod shook his head sadly, “Vanity, vanity,” he whispered, “thy name is woman.”
“An interesting collation of Ecclesiastes and Hamlet,” I smiled.
He raised his glass to toast my witticism.
“It’s not exact though,” he mused.
“What isn’t?” I asked curiously.
“Shakespeare never wrote, vanity thy name is woman—the line was, frailty, thy name is woman.”
“Oh well,” I said, lifting my glass, “Same difference.”
He looked bemused.
“That’s a very telling statement, Marcus. I often wondered how you managed to enter your forties as a bachelor—and now, I think I have my answer.”
I smirked, “I sense a tease here.”
Jerrod, however, was not teasing—in fact, he seemed quite in earnest.
“No, really Old Man, a number of us have been concerned about you. Don’t you think it’s time you settled down?”
I dismissed the notion with a wave of my wine glass.
“You married fellows enjoy the settled life so much—it must grieve you to see one of your companions free.”
Jerrod wasn’t humoring me. “No, seriously, Marcus—ever since your break-up with Cyn, you’ve seemed at sixes and sevens. Maybe it’s time for you to get back into the game.”
“What?” I retorted, “and ruin a good thing? Not a chance.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Well, can’t blame a fellow for asking.” He reached for his coat, “and now I must wend my way home to Gloria and leave you to Nefertiti and her jewels.”
“Say hello to your lovely wife,” I said at the door, “and tell her not to worry about me. I’ll survive.”
He colored slightly, embarrassed I saw through his ruse—but then, brightened, “I told her you were fine. Now I’ve fulfilled my duty.”
“Amen,” I said sketching a mock bow.
He chuckled in grudging admiration and then was gone—off into the night, home to his winsome wife, leaving me alone to finish the Shiraz and gaze at my lovely treasures.
The cost of doing business, I sighed to myself and wondered if I would ever find a woman who could appreciate and perhaps even wear my lovely treasures.