“Just trying to get you to smile,” she replied, lob-bing a package of mints at him.
Her plan worked. When he started laughing, she picked the camera back up, aimed it at him, and shot.
Snap … snap…
After that, he began to loosen up. Within a few minutes, he began to like it. He even posed a few times, jumping up on the counter and making funny faces behind the cash register. Nasir couldn’t remember ever acting so crazy before. It felt good. Then he had an idea.
“Okay, give me the camera, please,” he said, holding out his hand.
Mackenzie raised her eyebrows suspiciously. “Why?”
“I want to take one of you. If you can hide one in your wallet, so can I.”
She grinned wide and her face turned red like a tomato. Nasir loved to see her blush. Without hesitation, she handed him the camera and began to get herself ready. He aimed the lens in her direction and watched her in the small viewscreen. She was combing her silky yellow hair with her fingers and licking her lips to make them shine. He watched her longer than necessary, pretending to frame the shot. But really it was a good excuse to stare. He couldn’t help himself — she was so beautiful.
When she was ready, she placed one hand on her hip, flipped her hair off her shoulder, and smiled. She held that pose perfectly still. Nasir zoomed in, then zoomed back out. He was stalling, holding her image in his hands, forcing her to wait. As his finger hovered over the shutter button, he realized something about the girl on the other end of the lens. Even though he was holding the camera, Nasir suddenly felt exposed — but in the best way possible. Mackenzie saw him — really saw him, understood him, and believed in him in a way that nobody else ever had before. With all the lies circling around his life, she was the truest thing he had going. He would never let her go — no matter what his parents said.
His eyes rose from the viewscreen and met hers. He wanted to tell her what he was feeling, but didn’t know where to start. His mouth dropped open, the words formed on his tongue, but in the end, nothing came out. Mackenzie shifted her weight from one foot to the other and cleared her throat impatiently.
“Okay … I’m ready, Nasir,” she mumbled, lips still frozen in their smile.
His eyes shifted back to the screen. He pushed the shutter button.
Snap.
And greedily took another and another.
Snap … snap…
When they had filled the memory card, they chose their favourite shots and Mackenzie left to print them at a nearby camera shop. Nasir waited impatiently for her to return. The idea of hiding her picture in his wallet and looking at her face whenever he wanted was thrilling.
It didn’t stay in his wallet for long, however. That night after his parents and little sisters had gone to bed, he brought it out. The room was dark, but as his eyes adjusted to the light he could make out her face and her glowing white skin. When he finally felt himself drifting off, he slipped it carefully under his pillow to keep it safe.
He dreamed great dreams of their future together.
Chapter 21
It happened on the sixteenth of January — the day we skipped school and Marla thought it would be a kick to go shopping in the Arab souk.
That was the day that changed everything.
“So, are you sure it’s safe to be there on our own?” I asked as we bounced up and down in our seats on the bus to the Old City. Over the past few months the two of us had been all over Jerusalem and I’d long ago given up any qualms about dying a violent death at the hands of a terrorist. But today I just couldn’t get those early words of warning from Dad’s professor friend out of my head.
You’re in the Middle East, now— a long way from North America. There are people and places in this city that can be dangerous for young girls on their own.
But Marla didn’t seem worried at all. “Of course it’s safe,” she assured me. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but Dad was with me.”
“Don’t worry, it’s no big deal as long as we stick together. Trust me, it’ll be fun. We’ll get some good bargains.”
Still, I was nervous. I couldn’t shake a nagging feeling that this was a mistake.
We arrived and began making our way through the winding streets of the market. Marla knew exactly what she was looking for.
“Today I want to get a purse, a pair of sandals, and some new earrings,” she declared as we poked around in the stores. “What about you?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just look around.”
As we walked, Marla gave me some tips on how to haggle for the best prices.
“It’s like an art form here, so pay attention. Never look too interested in anything. And never ever ever accept the asking price,” she warned. “The asking price is only for fools and suckers. Counter with half and always be prepared to walk away.”
Wow, she was fierce!
We stopped at several shops while she bargained with the sellers for the best price. I watched over and over again as both sides passed their offers back and forth — like tennis players in a professional match. Each transaction seemed to follow a similar formula — a cycle of haggling (where friendly banter was followed by discussion of price, which was quickly followed by hurt looks and gasps of indignation) repeated several times until a deal was finally reached.
By the time we were preparing to leave the souk an hour later, Marla got everything she wanted. But I still hadn’t found anything to buy.
“So, aren’t you going to get anything?” she asked, looking a little disappointed that I wasn’t keeping up.
I picked up a beaded necklace from a nearby stall, held it up to my neck for a second, then put it back down. It’s not like I didn’t have any money. Actually, since I stopped buying gum every day I’d been able to save a little. I just didn’t know if I was ready to be broke again so soon.
“I don’t know.” I frowned. “Dad’s fiftieth birthday is coming up next week, so maybe something for him. Or maybe a little present for Nasir.”
She smirked at the mention of his name. “What about buying yourself a veil?” she asked. “He’d love it, I’m sure.”
I walked past her, pretending not to hear. As much as I loved Marla, it seemed like the more time I spent with Nasir, the nastier she got. It was so ironic! After all this time I finally had a boyfriend of my own and I had nobody to talk about it with.
Then it dawned on me: an idea so far out, so ridiculously absurd, I knew deep down it had to be true.
Oh my God — she’s jealous!
That had to be it. Just as I was about to call her on it, a man stepped out of a doorway and cleared his throat. He had close-set eyes and a high forehead that made his face appear unusually long. His nose was slightly bulbous and underneath it sat a bushy moustache that was in desperate need of a trim. Although he was smiling, he had a look of emptiness in his eyes that immediately put me on my guard.
“Ahem. Good afternoon, ladies. Are you doing some sightseeing?” he asked in a raspy voice that was thick with accent. “Maybe I can offer you some directions.”
I could tell right away the man’s accent wasn’t the usual Middle Eastern variety — it definitely sounded different. European, maybe?
“No thanks,” Marla replied politely, grabbing my hand. “We’re not sightseeing, we’re here to shop.”
The man stepped forward and spoke again, his smile widening.
“Shopping? For that junk?” he asked, gesturing towards the neighbouring stores. “Perhaps you’d be interested in a real souvenir.” He turned slightly and cocked his thumb towards the small, brightly lit shop behind him. “Why don’t you come take a look? I’ve got all kinds of treasures for sale.”
I didn’t know what to do. This guy looked creepy to me. But obviously Marla didn’t share my concerns. The word “treasure” must have caught her attention.
“Um, okay,” she replied, dropping my hand and walking p
ast me into the shop. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed suit. I could feel the man’s eyes following us as we poked around his store, watching us in silence as we browsed the packed shelves. But despite his promise, he appeared to be selling the exact same kind of stuff as every other shop in the souk: prayer beads, rugs, sequined scarves, silver chalices, candles, ceramic mugs, chess sets, leather sandals, cheap watches, and an assortment of batteries — definitely no treasures.
Just as I was about to grab Marla and leave, the man started talking again.
“Are you girls from America?” he asked, leaning against the wall and stroking his moustache.
Marla picked up a small stuffed camel and nodded. “I am … but she’s from Canada.”
His smile widened further. “Look, I don’t normally do this,” he said, walking towards the cash register, “but perhaps you might be interested in something like this.”
We watched as he reached behind the counter and pulled out a small white box. He opened it up to reveal a little ceramic bowl sitting on a nest of straw. I leaned closer to get a better look. It was small and chipped and fragile-looking. I could tell instantly that it was old — really old.
“A genuine Israeli artefact. It’s authentic, from before the time of Jesus Christ,” he said, holding the box as gingerly as one might hold a freshly laid egg.
My heart jumped with excitement. We’d found so many broken shards on our dig in Tiberias, but never an entire piece like this. It was perfect.
“Oh gosh, Dad would love something like that,” I whispered to Marla.
Then, without thinking twice, I reached for my wallet.
“How much?”
He kept smiling. “A special price for you: eight hundred shekels.”
I gasped. That was more than my allowance for like, two whole months. I was about to say thank you and walk away when I remembered the first part of Marla’s advice.
Never accept the asking price. The asking price is only for fools and suckers.
I screwed up my courage, took a deep breath, and shook my head, “no.”
“That’s too much. I’ll give you four hundred,” I heard myself say.
His smile widened even more. Boy, he had big teeth!
All the better to eat you with, called out a little voice in the back of my head.
“I’m sorry, young lady, but this bowl is a piece of history,” he said. “It’s worth much more than that.”
“And how do we know that?” Marla piped up beside me. “Do you have some kind of proof?”
“Proof?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows. “For proof you must go to a museum. But their bowls are not for sale. This one is.”
He turned his attention back to me.
“Look, I think you’re a nice girl. For this genuine Israeli artefact I can give you a special price of seven hundred shekels.”
I wavered, unsure what to do next. Should I offer him six hundred? Or should I follow my instincts and walk away? That’s when Marla nudged me hard with her elbow. “Stand your ground,” she hissed in my ear.
“Sorry, four hundred shekels. Take it or leave it,” I repeated, trying to sound like I didn’t care. But I did. I really wanted to get this bowl for Dad. “Is it a deal?”
I bit my lip and waited for his answer. For a split second the man’s smile disintegrated and his empty eyes narrowed into slits. In that instant, I swear he looked like a snake ready to strike. A small spasm of fear pinched my chest and the little voice in my head called out, run! But a moment later the look was gone and his smile was back again. This time, however, I could tell he was forcing it. With a quick snap of his wrist, he closed the lid of the box and handed it to me.
“You drive a hard bargain. The bowl is yours.”
My mouth dropped open from shock. That wasn’t nearly as hard as I’d thought it would be!
There was only one problem: I definitely didn’t have four hundred shekels on me. I did a quick mental calculation of how much I needed.
“Marla, I’m a little short,” I whispered. “Can I borrow some sheks? I’ll pay you back.”
“Sure,” she said, passing me her wallet. “Take what you need.”
I was grateful for the loan, and yet I couldn’t help wondering if she would have been so generous if the present had been for Nasir.
I walked out of that shop with my head held high. I was proud of myself for haggling so successfully my very first time.
Dad’s going to love this! I thought as I tucked the box carefully into my backpack.
Little did I know what a huge mess of trouble I’d just bargained for myself!
Chapter 22
Have you ever planned a surprise for somebody? A surprise so big and exciting that you could barely hold it in? Well, I was so excited to give Dad his present that I walked around for the next few days thinking I was going to burst with anticipation. It took all my willpower to hold it in and wait til the morning of his birthday.
“Happy fiftieth, Dad,” I said, taking the box out from behind my back and sliding it across the breakfast table towards him. He looked up from his newspaper in surprise.
“What’s this, Mack?”
“A present, silly. Did you think I’d forget?”
“No, honey,” he said, putting down the paper. “I just … well, honestly, I just know that I haven’t exactly been your favourite person lately.”
I didn’t know what to say — we both knew it was true. Instead of trying to deny it, I reached over and pushed the present a little bit closer. “Just open it,” I said, squirming in my seat. I couldn’t wait another minute to see his reaction.
“Okay, okay,” he conceded, smiling as he began tearing away at the wrapping paper.
That was another thing Dad and I had in common: we were both present-rippers. Mom, on the other hand, had been a present-peeler. You know, the careful type who took an insane amount of time un-fastening the tape and trying to save the paper. For what, I’ll never know. It always ended up in the recycling bin, anyway.
Much to my satisfaction, it only took Dad a matter of seconds to unwrap the gift. But when he pulled back the lid of the box and looked inside, it was me who got the surprise.
“Wow! This is great, Mack!” he chuckled, lifting the bowl out and putting it down next to his coffee cup. “What a nice reproduction. Where’d you get it?”
It took me a couple of seconds to understand exactly what he meant.
“No, it’s not a reproduction, Dad. I got it in the souk. The man who sold it to me said it was authentic, from the Bronze Age or something.”
Much to my horror he laughed again, this time even harder. “Oh no, Mack! And you believed him?”
You know that feeling you get on an elevator when you start to rise and your stomach drops down to your feet? Well, that’s how I felt: like my guts had just fallen into my shoes. That was the moment I realized something had gone horribly wrong.
Sensing my distress, Dad stopped laughing and reached over to pat my hand.
“Oh gosh, I should have warned you about the rip-off artists in the souk, honey,” he said, his voice suddenly sympathetic. “I’ve heard they’ll say anything to make a buck! And a young, naive girl must have seemed like the perfect target. How much did you pay for this?”
I didn’t want to tell him. All I could think about was the month of allowance that was gone forever. Little by little, an icky, tingly heat was beginning to make its way across my chest and up my neck.
“Ugh! I’m such a loser!” I moaned, burrowing my face in my hands.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mack. It’s a very convincing copy — only a professional like me would have been able to tell that it wasn’t real.”
He plucked the bowl off the table and turned it over in his hands.
“Look here, the people who made this knew what they were doing. See … It’s been fragmented in just the right places to look authentic, and over here the paint has been faded and chipped to make it appear as thoug
h it was buried in the ground, and the surface of the pottery appears pebbled and worn as if … as if …”
Dad’s voice trailed off into a whisper and his eyes narrowed. Reaching across the table for his glasses, he popped them on and brought the bowl closer for a better look. A moment later, his smile melted away and a look of anger seized his features.
“Dear God!” I heard him gasp under his breath. “It’s real!”
I couldn’t help grinning. For the tiniest of seconds I felt happy — even a little bit triumphant. I wasn’t tricked after all!
But the next instant my joy gave way to shock as I watched Dad place the bowl carefully back into its nest of straw, jump up from the table, and start yelling.
“It’s real, Mack! God damn it! It’s real! ”
He started pacing around the room, shaking his head in fury. I sat there, dumbfounded. If the bowl was real, why was he so mad? A moment later he gave me the answer.
“I can’t believe my own daughter would buy a black-market artefact!” he bellowed. “Didn’t you learn anything during our excavation of Tiberias? These things are national treasures! Nobody, nobody is allowed to own them! And certainly nobody is allowed to sell them!”
My mouth fell open with shock as I tried to think of something to say. I couldn’t remember a time that I’d ever seen Dad so angry at me.
“Who sold this to you?” he demanded, slamming his hand down on the table.
“I … I … I don’t know!” I stammered, cowering down in my chair. “It was a man in the souk.”
“A man in the souk!” he repeated. “What man? Did you get his name? Did he have a store?”
I shut my eyes and tried to think back to the incident. “Yes, there was a store, but I’m sorry, Dad, I don’t remember where it was.”
He sighed heavily and raked his fingers through his bushy mop of hair. I could tell he was trying hard to regain his self-control. He took another deep breath and sat back down. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, but I could still hear the tremble of rage behind his words.
“Listen, Mack, do you realize that this country has a huge black-market trade in antiquities?”
Mackenzie, Lost and Found Page 9
