Pharaoh (6 page)

Husseini indicated with a nod that he knew him.

Blake went on, ‘He’s a smart kid, working on his PhD with me, on a grant from the Egyptian government. He’s completely bilingual and he made all my contacts for me. He talked with the old fellahin of El Qurna, distributed a little money here and there where it counted, obviously keeping a small percentage for himself, until he really chanced upon some important information. An old collection dating back to the golden age had turned up and the underground antiquities smugglers were said to have a number of pieces ready to sell. So at this point I stepped in. Italian designer suit, drove up in a rented luxury car and made an appointment, passing myself off as a possible fence.’

‘Why?’ asked Husseini.

‘Selim had seen a Polaroid of one of the pieces that was up for sale and he sketched it for me. I thought I recognized one of the finds described by Breasted in the folder that I’d seen in Minneapolis: a gilded bronze bracelet set with amber, hematite and carnelian. What’s more, there were also papyri in the lot. It was reasonable to suppose that the papyrus I was looking for could have been one of them, since there’d been no word of it since Breasted’s times. My gut feeling told me that I’d had a stroke of luck that I would never even have dreamed of. Anyway, it was worth a try.’

Husseini shook his head. ‘I don’t get it, Blake. A piece suddenly shows up after some eighty years just while you’re looking for it. Didn’t that make you suspicious?’

‘Well, that’s not exactly how it was. There was no way I could be sure that the papyrus I was looking for was in the lot. I wasn’t even sure that the bracelet Selim had drawn from a photo was the same one that Breasted had described.’

Hussein looked at him, confused. ‘But then—’

‘The plot thickens, servant of Allah,’ interrupted Blake, ‘true to script. But to tell you the rest I need something stronger to drink. Too much to ask?’

‘Afraid so. But I can give you another cigarette. A little nicotine will keep you going.’

So Blake took a deep drag on the cigarette and continued. ‘I had met an official from our embassy in Cairo. Olsen had introduced us, in case I needed a hand in contacting the Egyptian authorities or the Minister of Antiquities. One evening he called me at the Oriental Institute’s guest facilities to set up an appointment at the Cairo Marriot. It was his favourite hangout, because they serve hamburgers, steaks and French fries. Waiters in cowboy hats, you get the picture.

‘He told me to watch out because he knew there were other people – powerful, dangerous people – trying to get their hands on that lot. He wouldn’t say who they were, but he did say they were people who didn’t take kindly to competition. He was warning me as a sort of a favour, like saying, “Watch it. That stuff’s too hot, so stay away.” But for me it was a fantastic confirmation of what I was hoping for. If there were other powerful people or institutions interested in those finds, it meant that there had to be something tremendously important there, like – for example – the Breasted papyrus.’

‘Right,’ agreed Husseini. ‘So how did you imagine you could slip it out from under their noses?’

‘Well, I may have been presumptuous, but I was also well organized. If the game had been fair I would have won.’

‘Sure, tell me about it. They alerted the Egyptian police to you, and you were found with compromising material on you, or in your room or your car.’

‘Yeah, more or less. But it went well to start with. The dealer knew his stuff. He showed me the pieces one by one, and described them in the correct historical terms, but he was really interested in getting rid of the jewellery, especially the bracelet, a necklace and a ring, all from the Nineteenth Dynasty. He had also brought objects which were less important but from the same time period: two more bracelets and a pendant, along with scarabs, ankhs and ushtabi figures.

‘When I brought up the papyri he started asking questions. He must have been aware of the interest this find had stirred up. When I managed to convince him that there wasn’t anyone behind me, he softened a little and showed me the photograph. I swear that I nearly had a heart attack. It was my papyrus, no question about it. I knew the sequence and the style of the ideograms in the first line by heart and I’d read the description in Breasted’s papers time after time. I had no doubts.

‘I tried as hard as I could to disguise my excitement and I asked him if he could give me the photograph. That would have been a victory in itself. I would have been able to read the whole text.’

‘Did he agree?’

‘No. He hesitated and then put it back in the inside pocket of his jacket. He said something like, “I’d better not. If it were found on you or in your house it might cause trouble.” He said that he’d have to discuss my offer with the person he was working for, and that he would call me. That was the last I saw of him. Because that was when the police rushed in. He disappeared in the confusion and I was trapped there with all that stuff on the table in front of me. The rest is history.’

Husseini seemed to be reflecting on the story in silence. He turned to look at Blake: ‘Was it dark when the police burst in?’ he asked.

‘Well, the place was a big underground warehouse at Khan el Khalili, packed with all kinds of goods and poorly lit by a couple of light bulbs. Anyone who knew his way around would have been able to get away, but I didn’t know where to turn and, anyway, I had no intention of running.’

‘Who do you think informed the Egyptian police?’

Blake shrugged. ‘My mysterious competitors?’

‘Yes, that’s likely. Especially if they thought they’d find that papyrus. Most likely they’d bribed the police commander and he was acting on their instructions.’

‘I was arrested, listed as
persona non grata
and expelled from the country.’

‘And you were lucky. Any idea what an Egyptian prison is like?’

‘Yeah, I got a good idea in the four, five days I spent there. And yet, if I could, I’d head straight back there, even now.’

Husseini looked at him with a mixture of admiration and pity. ‘You didn’t get enough, did you? Listen to me. You’d better forget all about it because next time you won’t get a second chance. It’s just too dangerous: fences, thieves, drug barons, people who don’t forgive and forget. You wouldn’t come out alive.’

‘Not that the idea frightens me much any more.’

‘You’ll change your mind. Mark my words, one day you’ll wake up and you’ll want to start all over again . . .’

Blake shook his head. ‘Start what?’

‘Anything. As long as we’re alive, we’re alive. What about the papyrus?’

‘Haven’t heard anything more about it. When I got back here I was overwhelmed by the consequences. The loss of my job, my wife . . .’

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Now as in “right now”?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ll find my way back to the car and go home. I’ve got a little place not too far from here. By the ballpark. I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I don’t know . . .’ said Husseini. ‘I don’t think there’s much I can do for you. I’m just an assistant professor and I don’t have tenure but, if you like, you can tell Olsen when he comes back that I’m willing to give you a hand if I can.’

‘Thank you, Husseini. You’ve already helped me. And we’ve never even been . . . friendly.’

‘That’s normal. You can’t have relationships with all of your colleagues.’

‘Well, it’s late. Time for me to go.’

‘Listen, it’s no problem for me. If you like you can sleep here on the couch. It’s pretty comfortable.’

‘No, thanks. I really appreciate you taking me in like this but . . . I should be going now. Thanks again. You know, if you’d like to come out to my place, it’s not as nice as here but there’s always something to drink and . . . Well, I’ll give you the address. It’s in Bridgeport . . . If you feel like it, you know.’

‘Count on it,’ said Husseini.

Blake went to a table to write out the address and noticed a photograph of a little boy of maybe five, and a phrase in Arabic that said:
In memory of Said. Dad.
He would have liked to ask about the little boy, but instead he just scribbled down his address, put on his coat and went to the door. It was still snowing.

‘Listen, can I ask you one last question?’ asked Husseini.

‘Sure.’

‘Where does the name William Blake come from? It’s like being called Harun al Rashid or Dante Alighieri or Thomas Jefferson.’

‘Just chance. I’ve never liked being called Bill, because Bill Blake is awful.’

‘I see. Well, goodbye, then. I’ll come and visit, and you can come here whenever you like, if you feel like talking.’

Blake waved briefly and trudged off through the deep snow. Husseini watched him as he passed from one ring of light to the next under the street lights, until he disappeared in the dark.

He closed the door and returned to the living room. He lit another cigarette and sat in the dim light, thinking about William Blake and the papyrus of the Exodus.

At eleven he switched on CNN. The crisis in the Middle East was old news, but he liked seeing the places anyway: the horrible roads of Gaza, the ruined buildings, the piles of filth. It reminded him of his childhood: the friends he’d played with in the streets, the scents of tea and saffron in the bazaar, the taste of unripe figs, the smell of dust and youth. But at the same time he found unutterable pleasure in living in this comfortable American apartment with a salary in dollars and a girlfriend, warm and uninhibited, a secretary at the university who came by two or three times a week and never set any limits in bed.

The telephone rang as he was getting ready to go to sleep. He thought that William Blake must have changed his mind and decided to spend the night in his apartment instead of facing the long trip through snow and icy wind.

He picked up the receiver and was about to say, ‘Hi, Blake, changed your mind?’ but the voice on the other side froze his blood.

‘
Salaam alekum
, Abu Ghaj. It’s been a long time . . .’

Husseini recognized the voice. There was only one person in the world who would call him by that name. For a moment he was speechless, but then he forced himself to react and said, ‘I thought that phase of my life was over a long time ago. I’ve got my life here, my work—’

‘There are promises that we must remain faithful to our whole lives, Abu Ghaj, and there’s a past from which no one can escape. Aren’t you aware of what is happening in our country?’

‘Of course I am,’ said Husseini. ‘But I’ve already paid all I can. I’ve played my part.’

The voice on the other end fell silent and Husseini could hear a train passing in the background. Maybe he was calling from a phone booth near the El or was in the lobby of the station.

‘I have to meet you as soon as possible. Now, actually.’

‘Now . . . I can’t. There’s someone here with me,’ improvised Husseini.

‘The secretary, huh? Send her home.’

He even knew that, then. Husseini stammered, ‘No, really, I can’t. I—’

‘Then you come here. In half an hour, at the Shedd Aquarium parking lot. I have a grey Buick La Sabre with Wisconsin plates. I’d advise you to be there.’ He hung up.

Husseini felt his world cave in on him. How was this possible? He’d left the organization after years of fierce battles and furious gunfights. He thought he’d paid his debt to the cause in full. Why this call? He would have given anything not to go. On the other hand he knew very well, from personal experience, that they were not people who fooled around. Least of all Abu Ahmid, the man whose voice he had heard and whom he knew only by his
nom-de-guerre
.

He sighed, turned off the TV and put on a fur-lined parka and gloves. He switched off the lights and closed the door behind him. His car was parked down the block. He scraped the ice and snow off the windscreen and left for his appointment.

The snow was falling hard and fine, blown by an icy wind from the east. He left the neo-Gothic buildings of the university campus on his left and drove up 57th Street to Lake Shore Drive, which was nearly deserted at that hour.

The spectacular scenery of the city centre loomed up before him: the serried ranks of the glass and steel giants, lights sparkling against the grey sky. The top of the Sears Tower was lost in low cloud and the beacon at its tip throbbed inside the foggy mass like lightning in a storm. The John Hancock stretched its colossal antennae into the clouds like the arms of a Titan condemned to hold up the sky for all eternity. The other towers, some encrusted with gilded ornaments on ribs of black stone, others bright with anodized metal and fluorescent plastic, fanned open at the sides of the street like enormous stage settings in the magic atmosphere of falling snow.

He passed slowly alongside the Field Museum, its Doric columns bathed in a green light that made them look like bronze. On his right was the long peninsula, with the Shedd Aquarium at one end and the stone drum of the planetarium at the other. He drove with care, leaving deep grooves in the white blanket, following tracks already covered by the snow that continued to fall incessantly in the glow of his headlights, in the continuous alternating rhythm of the windscreen wipers.