The Mystery of Queen Nefertiti

by C T Cassana

  “Really?” said Miss Rotherwick, visibly flattered. “Exaggerations, my dear, exaggerations. But let me see this poem of yours.”

  Lisa handed her the paper on which she had copied out the poem in Latin and the translation that her brother had done.

  While she read it, Charlie observed Miss Rotherwick closely. She would have been around sixty years old. She wasn’t excessively gray-haired or wrinkled, but her hairstyle and her manner of dress made her look older. She was a handsome woman, but her expression was grim and serious, giving her a somewhat unpleasant look. Her way of speaking was at once tremendously well-mannered and extraordinarily stern; she could not be said to be impolite, but she seemed a little distant. In short, she looked to Charlie like a real old prune.

  “Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Miss Rotherwick, shaking her head. “I think you need to work harder on your Latin. This translation is plagued with errors.”

  “Oh, really?” responded Lisa, blushing a little.

  “It’s my fault, Miss Rotherwick,” interrupted Charlie. “I asked Lisa to let me do it this once.”

  “Oh! That is marvelous,” replied the woman with a surprised expression. “What studious children! However, if you wish to learn Latin, you must first study the basics.”

  Miss Rotherwick read the poem aloud in a notably solemn tone. She then offered an explanation that was rather more detailed than Lisa and Charlie would have liked on the use of the genitive and the vocative, and other aspects of vital importance in Latin grammar, while she corrected Lisa’s translation. Finally, just when Charlie began to feel a burning desire to rush out in search of his mother, Miss Rotherwick read out what she had scribbled down on the paper.

  “What but just before was a dream

  has now become a highway.

  Only the wise, the brave,

  and those who possess the truth

  are worthy of finding the path of the light.

  When you hear the song of the lord of the night,

  find the flower of the goddess of the rainbow,

  and her sister, the first flower of spring.

  Together they will lead you

  to a place where you will not see your reflection,

  but a brilliant flash

  shall guide you so that, with the key,

  you may sail along the river upstream.”

  “You are amazing!” exclaimed Lisa.

  “Thank you, my dear,” replied Miss Rotherwick, visibly pleased by the acclaim of her small audience. “And who did you say is the author? I only recognize the first line, which is a quote from Martial, although here it says ‘dream’ when in reality it is ‘pathway’. The rest, I must admit, is a little odd and rather complicated for your age. I don’t remember having seen it before, and I have read nearly all of the classics.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the author’s name,” said Lisa. “Anyway, you wouldn’t know where we might find our mother, would you?”

  “I’ll call her right now,” answered the woman. “The poor dear is terribly busy with the Queen Nefertiti exhibition.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” remarked Lisa.

  “It’s all been a ghastly headache,” said Miss Rotherwick in a sorrowful tone. “It was going to be the big event of the year for the museum, but now it seems that it is all going to the dogs.”

  “Gosh, maybe we’ve come at a bad moment, if she’s so busy with the exhibition,” said the girl. “Could you just tell her we’ll see her at home? I wouldn’t want to bother her.”

  “Very well, my dear. I’ll tell her,” replied Miss Rotherwick.

  Lisa took Charlie by the arm and led him swiftly down the hallway.

  “Where are we going?” asked her bewildered brother. “Aren’t we going to wait for Mum?”

  “Wait for Mum? Are you mad? We have no time to lose!” exclaimed Lisa, quickening her pace all the more.

  “But what’s going on?” asked Charlie, struggling to keep up with his sister’s quick step.

  “Today is Friday, and Mum and Dad will be going to the movies.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you get it, runt?” said Lisa, without slowing down.

  “You promised never to call me that again.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Today we have the perfect opportunity to look for the treasure. Mrs. Davis will be coming to look after us, and as usual she’ll be glued to the telly all night, and won’t even get off the couch until Mum and Dad get back.”

  “So why are we running then? She won’t have arrived yet.”

  “Exactly!” said Lisa, stopping suddenly and turning to look at him. “You were right, that poem contains clues, riddles that we have to work out. If I look them up on the Internet, maybe I can find the answer, but as you know, ever since the ‘incident’, Dad only lets me use his computer when he or Mum are home. So stop asking so many questions and hurry up.”

  Charlie saw the sparkle of determination in his sister’s eyes. Nothing could stop her now, so he decided simply to shut his mouth and try to keep up with her. Within a few minutes they had reached their house.

  Before going inside, Lisa stopped in front of the door.

  “Alright, this is what we’ll do,” she said, bringing her mouth close to Charlie’s ear so that nobody else could hear.

  . . .

  Marcus hated electronic devices. He always said that learning to use them took too much time and effort, and by the time you had worked it out, the device in question was obsolete and you had to learn to use another one. Virtually the only electronics that he had incorporated into his daily routine were his laptop, his cell phone and an MP3 reader to listen to music. Whenever Maggie wanted to tease him, she would add the electric shaver her husband used every morning to the list of modern devices he’d mastered.

  As far as computers and the Internet were concerned, Marcus recognized their advantages and used them more than he liked to admit, but he couldn’t help but feel a certain aversion to them and to the rate at which they were changing the world. Marcus had enjoyed a happy childhood in the country, always out in the open air surrounded by animals and playing with whatever his natural environment afforded him. It saddened him to see that his children, especially Lisa, had an excessive dependence on new technologies.

  Reluctantly and with considerable resistance, he finally agreed that his daughter could have a smart phone, her own computer, and use the Internet with reasonable supervision. Maggie tried to make him understand that Lisa belonged to a generation for whom technology dominated everything and that it made no sense trying to isolate her from it; instead, they should be giving her parameters for its correct use.

  But everything changed when Lisa became embroiled in an unfortunate episode of harassment against another girl at her school. Although they had not participated directly, Lisa and her friends were aware of what was going on and followed the escalating persecution of the girl as if it were a harmless soap opera. Their morbid curiosity to see how things got worse overcame their awareness that the situation was cruel and unjust and would end up turning violent sooner or later.

  When the truth came out and Marcus discovered that his daughter had been following all the gossip, abuse and slander against her schoolmate on her cell phone and on a well-known teen chat room as if it were all just a bit of fun, he was furious. Although she was not directly responsible for the attacks, he deemed her both an accomplice and an accessory, and concluded that both the smart phone and the computer had afforded his daughter the opportunity to act as an anonymous and hypocritical participant. Consequently, he decided to deprive her of both devices indefinitely, until she had demonstrated that she was sufficiently responsible to use them without getting into trouble herself or creating trouble for others. From that moment on, she could only use the computer under strict parental supervision and her state-of-the-art smart phone was replaced by an obsolete cell phone, which only allowed her to make calls and send text messages.

  Lisa meanwhile came up with the i
nnocent term “the incident” to refer to what had happened, in an effort to conceal an unspeakable feeling of shame for her participation in the episode.

  What she didn’t realize was that as long as she continued to use this euphemism, in her father’s eyes she was as guilty as she had been on the day it all began.

  . . .

  Horatio Conwell always kept the two promises he had made to Sir Robert on the night that he had tried to give him the chest for the second time.

  Every Thursday he arrived punctually at his friend’s house for his weekly visit, to share amazing stories which he embellished with amusing anecdotes that made his host laugh out loud.

  Sir Robert listened to his dear friend’s tales with great enthusiasm; however, as if he were afraid to have his suspicions confirmed, he never asked him whether he had ever been caught up in a difficult or compromising situation. Yet he couldn’t help but feel greatly relieved each time Horatio arrived safe and sound for their Thursday night dinner.

  The professor, for his part, didn’t want to worry his friend unnecessarily, and so he never told him of the dangers he had to face; nor did he mention the rumors he had heard about mysterious men whom he believed had powers like his, but whose behavior was neither as honorable nor as peaceful.

  Nevertheless, Horatio did his best to keep the other promise he had made to Sir Robert, being careful always to watch his back. He never spoke to any other person about the wondrous object he possessed, even when Sir Robert died and he felt hemmed in by his loneliness.

  Horatio Conwell was fully aware that he held a power in his hands that was greater than anyone could possibly imagine.

  And that any man, even the most mild-mannered, would be tempted to do anything in order to possess it.

  CHAPTER V: What Kind of Treasure Is That?!

  Charlie and Lisa went straight to the library. Incredibly, Marcus was not working at his desk.

  “Dad?” the girl called out.

  “I’m in here,” replied her father from the kitchen.

  “Have you finished working?” asked Lisa by way of greeting. “Can I use your computer?”

  “Where is your mother?” asked Marcus without answering her question. “I thought she’d be coming back with you.”

  “We came back early,” explained Charlie. “We didn’t want to bother her.”

  “Can I use your computer?” Lisa asked again.

  “I’ve already turned it off. Tomorrow I’ll let you use it for a bit.”

  Lisa was about to press the matter when Charlie interrupted her.

  “Dad, when are we going to start planting in the garden?” he asked.

  Lisa shot him an annoyed look; if he distracted their father she wouldn’t be able to talk him into letting them use the computer.

  “It’s still a little early, Charlie. It’s only January,” said Marcus, his eyes on the hot dogs he was preparing for their dinner.

  “And when will the first flowers come out?” the boy asked.

  Lisa smiled; she was beginning to understand her brother’s strategy.

  “Well, we won’t have flowers until spring,” said Marcus.

  “And what is the first flower of spring, Dad?” asked Charlie. “That dimwit Jimmy Stevenson says it’s his mother’s roses, but I think there are others that come out earlier.”

  “Traditionally they say that the primrose is the first flower of spring, but I think there are others that bloom earlier, although I doubt Jimmy’s roses would be among them.”

  “We could plant one that’s really pretty... oh, what’s it called?” said Lisa, pulling an expression as if she were trying to recall something. “A flower that a goddess really liked...”

  “What goddess?” asked Marcus.

  “One who went around in a rainbow,” answered Lisa, feigning an absent-minded look.

  Just as Marcus was about to reply, the doorbell rang for nearly ten seconds without stopping, as if somebody was trying to crush the button outside. Mrs. Davis had arrived. Marcus raced out to answer the door.

  “Children, we’ll continue with our flower conversation tomorrow,” he said on his return, followed by a small, rotund woman. “For now, I’ll leave you with Mrs. Davis. I’m going to pick up Mum at the museum and we’ll go straight onto the cinema from there.”

  He gave each of them a farewell kiss on the cheek.

  . . .

  As Lisa had predicted, Mrs. Davis sat down in front of the television as soon as the children had finished dinner. As usual, she commandeered the remote control of the only TV set in the house, to ensure they would watch her favorite program: a contest in which popular figures with no previous dancing experience competed to win the title of best dancer on the show.

  Lisa and Charlie usually stayed to watch it with her for a while, but that night, to their babysitter’s surprise and despite the fact that the competition was a real nail-biter, the children went to the library to read instead.

  They both sat down on the old leather couch. Lisa took out the sheet of paper on which Miss Rotherwick had written her translation and in pencil she wrote “primrose” to the right of the words “the first flower of spring.” They spent some time reading the poem in silence, neither one coming up with any other contribution toward solving the mystery.

  As if in search of inspiration, Charlie looked around the room and his gaze fell on the portrait of Horatio Conwell.

  “That guy gives me the creeps,” he said. “I feel like every time I see him he’s looking at me differently.”

  Lisa raised her eyes to look at the painting.

  “What the...?!” is all she managed to say.

  Then she froze as she stared at the canvas.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed.

  Charlie looked at her face, trying to work out what was wrong with her, but she went on staring at the portrait with a stunned look.

  “What’s wrong? Or have you lost the ability to speak?”

  “Look at the painting, Charlie,” she replied at last.

  The boy looked at the painting again. His gaze fell right on the professor’s eyes, which seemed to be mocking him once more.

  “I really can’t stand that guy,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Look at it closely. Forget about the professor and look at the details. Don’t you find anything strange?”

  “The only thing I find strange is that it’s still hanging here.”

  “Luckily for us!” exclaimed the girl. “Look, he’s wearing your ring!”

  “You’re right!” said Charlie, raising his own hand toward the professor’s hand in the portrait. “And the strangest thing is that it fits him but it’s tight on me. You see? I wasn’t joking. The ring shrank when I put it on.”

  Lisa took a few steps back to look at the whole painting.

  “This is amazing!” she said after a moment. “We’ve got everything right here under our noses! Everything in the poem is there in the painting: the river, the owl, who must be the lord of the night... Look at the flowers the professor is holding in his hand. I’ll bet one of them is a primrose.”

  Charlie fixed his gaze on the canvas. Until then, he had only ever paid attention to the grumpy old professor, and had never noticed that the portrait was indeed quite odd. Behind Horatio were some mountains and a river with a boat sailing on it. There was also an owl on a branch, holding a mirror in one talon and, in the other, a key very much like the one he found in the envelope together with the ring. The professor was wearing a black cape from which his hands emerged. In one hand he held an hourglass, and in the other were two flowers, one yellow and the other purple.

  Charlie stood speechless next to his sister. Indeed, all of the objects mentioned in the poem and the ones he had found in the envelope were represented in the painting, but he had no idea why.

  “Of course!” exclaimed Lisa. “They must be symbols; they all have to have a meaning.”

  She went over to one of the bookcases and looked through the books th
ere.

  “Here it is,” she said, pulling one off the shelf. “Signs and Symbols: Meaning and Use Throughout History.”

  She sat down at Marcus’ desk and began looking up each object, noting down its meaning on the same sheet on which Miss Rotherwick had written her translation. Suddenly Mrs. Davis appeared; obviously, the contest had cut to a commercial break.

  “What are you up to, children?” she asked. “It’s time for you to get to bed.”

  “Mrs. Davis!” exclaimed Charlie when he saw her. “How’s the contest going?”

  “Oh, it’s getting really exciting!” answered the woman, forgetting the order she had just given. “Jenny Bridges worked so hard all week and prepared a fantastic number, but the poor thing tripped over as soon as she started...”

  “What a shame!” said Charlie. “I’m sure the jury will overlook it. She’s the keenest contestant on the show. Is she still losing weight?”

  “Six pounds this week!” replied Mrs. Davis, with obvious admiration for her favorite contestant. “She has such will power, she does.”

  “She sure does!” agreed Charlie. “And what about that snooty contestant, Monnie Hudson? Has she danced yet?”

  “Not yet, no,” answered the woman. “With any luck she’ll fall over too, and tear her dress, the show-off!”

  “Isn’t that the show’s theme song?” asked the boy, as if straining to hear the sound coming from the living room. “I think it’s back on...”

  “Oh, I’d better go!” responded the woman, who turned around at once and rushed from the room.

  “We’ll go to bed right away!” called Charlie as he watched her leave.

  When they were alone again, Lisa let out a laugh.

  “Nicely managed,” she said between chuckles. “That was quite the distraction tactic.”

  “Bah! Simple psychology,” he replied, feigning modesty.

  Lisa turned her attention back to the book. They had to make the most of the time they had, because it wouldn’t be long before the next commercial break. Charlie, meanwhile, began studying the portrait of the professor closely.

  “It really is quite weird,” he said. “A sailboat going upriver instead of down, the sand in the hourglass falling upwards instead of downwards... Whoever painted this clearly never heard of the Law of Gravity.”