46
At 6:30 that evening, William Smithback Jr. stood on the sidewalk of Museum Drive, looking up at the brilliantly lit facade of the New York Museum of Natural History. A broad velvet carpet had been unrolled down the great granite steps. A seething crowd of rubberneckers and journalists was held back by velvet ropes and phalanxes of museum guards, while one limousine after another rolled up, disgorging movie stars, city officials, kings and queens of high finance, society matrons, gaunt vacant-eyed fashion models du jour, managing partners, university presidents, and senators—a stupendous parade of money, power, and influence.
The great and powerful ascended the museum steps in a measured flow of black, white, and glitter, looking neither left nor right, heading through the pillared facade and vast bronze doors into a great blaze of light—while the rabble, held back by velvet and brass, gaped, squealed, and photographed. Above, a four-story banner draped over the museum’s neoclassical facade billowed in a light breeze. It depicted a gigantic Eye of Horus with words in faux Egyptian script written underneath:
Smithback adjusted the silk tie of his tuxedo and smoothed his lapels. Having arrived in a cab instead of a limo, he had been forced to get out a block shy of the museum and had pushed his way through the crowd until he’d arrived at the ropes. He showed his invitation to a suspicious guard, who called over another, and after several minutes of confabulation they grudgingly allowed him through—right in the perfumed wake of Wanda Meursault, the actress who had made such a fuss at the Sacred Images opening. Smithback considered how distressing it must have been when she lost out in her bid for Best Actress at the recent Academy Awards. With a thrill of pleasure, he marched in the parade of power and passed through the shining gates.
This was going to be the mother of all openings.
The velvet carpet led across the Great Rotunda, with its brace of mounted dinosaurs, through the magnificent African Hall, and from there wound its way through half a dozen musty halls and half-forgotten corridors to arrive at a set of elevators, where the crowd had backed up. It was quite a distance from the entrance, Smithback thought as he waited in line for the next elevator—but the Tomb of Senef was located in the very bowels of the museum, about as far from the front entrance as you could get. He adjusted the knot of his tie. The hike might just pump a little blood through some of these dried-out old husks, he thought. Do them good.
A chime announced the arrival of the next car and he filed in with the rest of them, packed in like black and white sardines, waiting for the elevator to make the crawl to the basement. The doors opened again at last and they were greeted with another blaze of light, the swirling sounds of an orchestra, and beyond, the great Egyptian Hall itself, its nineteenth-century murals beautifully restored. Along the walls, gold, jewels, and faience glittered from every case, while exquisitely laid tea tables and dining tables, flickering with thousands of candles, covered the marble floors. Most important, Smithback thought as his eye roved about, were the long tables along the walls groaning with smoked sturgeon and salmon, crusty homemade breads, huge platters of hand-cut San Daniele prosciutto, silver tubs of pearly-gray sevruga and beluga caviar. Massive silver cauldrons heaped with shaved ice stood at either end, bristling with bottles of Veuve Clicquot like so many batteries of artillery, waiting to be fired and poured.
And these, Smithback thought, were merely the hors d’oeuvres—the dinner was yet to come. He rubbed his hands together, savoring the splendid sight and looking about for his wife, Nora, whom he had hardly seen in the past week, and shivering slightly at the thought of other, more intimate pleasures to be enjoyed later, once this party—and this whole hectic and dreadful week—had finally come to a close.
He was contemplating which of the food tables to assault first when he felt an arm slip through his from behind.
“Nora!” He turned to embrace her. She was dressed in a sleek black gown, tastefully embroidered with silver thread. “You look ravishing!”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” Nora reached up and smoothed his unrepentant cowlick, which promptly sprang up again, defying gravity. “My handsome overgrown boy.”
“My Egyptian queen. How’s your neck feeling, by the way?”
“It’s fine, and please stop asking.”
“This is amazing. Oh, God, what a spread.” Smithback looked around. “And to think—you’re the curator. This is your show.”
“I had nothing to do with the party.” She glanced over at the entrance to the Tomb of Senef, closed and draped with a red ribbon, waiting to be cut. “My show’s in there.”