“Do you know Pierre Thibodaux?” She pointed to the podium, where a tall, dark-haired man was being led away from a small group of museum officials. He motioned to his colleagues with a raised finger and stepped into the adjacent corridor.

“Only by reputation. New guy in town.” Thibodaux had replaced Philippe de Montebello as director of the Met less than three years ago.

“He’s taken all the meetings with our advance crew himself. This show is his baby. Brilliant, mercurial, handsome. You’ve got to meet him-”

“Ladies, you can’t be leaning against the building, y’all hear me?” a security guard said.

We walked out of the narrow opening and searched for another quiet nook.

“Let’s get out of this wing so we can have a normal conversation. There are as many living, breathing jackals in here tonight as there are limestone ones standing sentry over all the Egyptian galleries. I somehow think poor Augustus didn’t foresee when he built these monuments that they would become the most prized cocktail space in Manhattan.”

I could tell that Nina was annoyed with me, as she tried to follow me back down the steps.

“Who’s Augustus? What the hell are you talking about? The temple is Egyptian, right?”

I had been coming to the Met since my earliest childhood, and knew most of the permanent exhibits pretty well. “Half right. It was built near Aswan, but by a Roman emperor who ruled that region at the time. Augustus had it erected in honor of two young sons of a Nubian chieftain who drowned in the Nile. I hate to dampen your enthusiasm, Nina. I’ve just been around too much death today not to wonder why we find it appropriate to organize our festivities in and around the tombs of all these ancient cultures. Wouldn’t people find it offensive to have the next cocktail party at Arlington Cemetery?”