Chapter OneCharlotte
New York City, 1978
The staff meeting of the Metropolitan Museum’s Department of Egyptian Art was supposed to start at ten, which meant associate curator Charlotte Cross arrived at nine to prepare her colleagues for battle.
The department had never been so busy. Two months ago, Charlotte had overseen the opening of the Temple of Dendur, which had been plucked from the banks of the Nile (with the blessing of the Egyptian government) and reconstructed at the Met in a special exhibit hall featuring a slanted wall of glass overlooking Central Park. Next month, the King Tutankhamun exhibition—which had been touring America to great acclaim for the past couple of years—was scheduled to have its final stop at the Met. The prospect of millions of visitors descending upon the museum had put pressure on everyone, including Charlotte’s boss, Frederick, who much preferred wooing donors to dealing with departmental logistics.
The Met was closed on Mondays, but only to visitors. For the employees, much of the behind-the-scenes work was accomplished on the first day of the workweek: handlers moved paintings from one gallery to another, the curatorial team might oversee the installation of a new exhibition, technicians performed condition checks of antiquities, while lampers wandered from gallery to gallery, necks craned, searching for blown-out lightbulbs. Monday was Charlotte’s favorite day, when the museum felt like a private playground, the staff free to roam about without being accosted for directions to the nearest bathroom.
She started in the gallery that housed the ten-foot-high, four-thousand-year-old Colossal Seated Statue of a Pharaoh. The figure depicted was all muscle and power, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Even though his face and one arm were damaged, he looked as if he were about to declare something important: an act of war, or maybe a death sentence.
A group of handlers were already gathered around the statue. Joseph, a budding sculptor who led the team, looked up expectantly as Charlotte approached. “Morning, boss.”
Charlotte nodded. “I wanted to give you the heads-up that Frederick is considering moving this piece to the Temple of Dendur gallery.”
They all moaned in unison. “This old guy’s been in the same spot since the 1930s,” said Joseph. “He’s way too fragile.”
“That was my first impression as well,” answered Charlotte. “But I was thinking about it last night, and there might be a way.” They talked through the procedure, which would involve a mechanical hoist and several carefully placed padded blankets and straps, until the team’s uneasiness abated. Luckily, the Met’s staff were the best in the business, as professional as they were serious, and Charlotte knew they’d leave nothing to chance.
In the Old Kingdom gallery, Charlotte pulled aside a technician. “Denise, I’m still concerned about the humidity in here. Can you talk to Steve in the conservation department today and see if silicone gel will
help absorb the moisture?”
“That’s a great idea. Will do.”
Just before ten, Charlotte finished her circuit and headed to the spacious plaza in front of the Temple of Dendur, where Frederick stood among a group that included the more junior assistant curators, as well as handlers, technicians, and conservators.
“There’s so much to cover, I don’t even know where to begin.” Frederick ran one hand through his thick mane of hair and gave his head a tiny shake, a nervous habit that meant he was about to lose it. “The humidity in the vitrines must be better controlled. I don’t know how many times I’ve said it, but if any of these loaned antiquities get damaged on our watch, one of you will be to blame. I will not allow the Met to become the laughingstock of the country. Denise? Do you hear me?”
“I do, sir,” answered Denise in a strong alto. “I’ve already spoken with Steve in the conservation department. He thinks silicone gel will help, and we’ll have it taken care of by tomorrow morning.”
“Oh. Okay.” Frederick sniffed. “What about the updated budget information for the exhibition? I need to see where we stand.”
An administrative staffer threw Charlotte a grateful glance before speaking up. “It’s on your desk.”
“Huh.” Frederick paused, the ends of his mouth turned down, as if he found his staff’s industriousness slightly disappointing. He scanned the crowd before settling his gaze on Joseph, who immediately snapped to attention. “Joseph. I’m going to tell you something that you will not like. Not at all. Are you ready?”
Joseph nodded.
“The Colossal Seated Statue of a Pharaoh is to be moved into the Temple of Dendur for the duration of the King Tut exhibition.”
Joseph replied without missing a beat. “Yes, sir. We can do that.”
“Really?” Frederick’s voice rose in pitch. “I mean, it hasn’t been moved in ages. You really think you can handle it?”
“Sure thing.”
“Okay, then. Glad to hear it.” Frederick sounded like he was trying to convince himself of the fact.
The mood in the room relaxed noticeably. So far, so good.
“Charlotte, have you proofed the King Tut catalog yet?”
Frederick had insisted on writing the copy himself for the exhibition catalog, which meant Charlotte had spent most of last week editing it so that readers unfamiliar with terms like “cartouche” and “New Kingdom” wouldn’t end up befuddled. “It’s on your desk, and I’ve integrated Mr. Lavigne’s notes as well.”
“You got notes from the director already? Well, then, I suppose all is in order. Oh, wait, I almost forgot.” He snapped his fingers. “One of our donors suggested we should sell King Tut scarves as part of the merchandising. Nancy, look into that and get me samples by next week.”
Nancy was Frederick’s assistant, a tough divorcée from Queens who usually managed
her boss with a firm hand. But merchandise was not part of her job description, as Frederick well knew.
“Scarves?” she repeated. “You must be confusing me with someone else. I don’t do the souvenirs.”
“Not my problem,” he snapped before breaking out in a wide smile. “That’s all, folks.” Frederick clapped his hands twice and trotted away, his mood obviously lighter now that he’d ruined at least one person’s day.
Charlotte approached Nancy, who was barely concealing an eye roll. “Reach out to Wendy Metcalf, she’s the merchandise planner in the Met Store who handles textiles and women’s apparel,” said Charlotte. “Tell her I sent you.”
“Will do. Frederick’s lucky to have you, Charlotte Cross. I was just about to tell him where he could stick his scarves.”
Charlotte had been working at the Met Museum her entire career, except for a brief stint in Egypt when she was a young woman. While her colleagues had climbed the ranks and been appointed head curators at other museums, she was still an associate, her career stalled out, and for the past fifteen years, her job had basically consisted of cleaning up after Frederick. He liked to consider himself a “concept guy,” which meant all the details fell to her. But it also gave her a chance to reconfigure his concepts so that they appealed to the museum’s visitors and could be smoothly executed by the staff. All the responsibility and none of the accolades. Sometimes she felt more like the protector of Frederick’s legacy than associate curator, but she adored the people she worked with and loved being surrounded by some of the most precious antiquities in the world.
Still, in recent months, Charlotte had been thinking more and more about her own legacy. A few years ago, without sharing her plans with anyone, she’d begun to investigate a bold theory about an ancient Egyptian ruler who modern historians had largely dismissed. And now, in the wake of hundreds of hours of painstaking research, Charlotte had something up her sleeve that she hoped would change everything. After a decade and a half of living in Frederick’s shadow, Charlotte might finally have a chance to shine. ...
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