by Robin Cook
“Safer!” A white-uniformed policeman, wearing a blue badge that said TOURIST POLICE in bold authoritative letters, pushed his way into the street toward Erica. The child melted into the crowd. The jeering boys vanished. “May I be of assistance?” he said with a distinctive English accent. “You look like you might be lost.”
“I’m looking for the Khan el Khalili bazaar,” said Erica.
“Tout à droite,” said the policeman, gesturing ahead. Then he thumped his forehead with his palm. “Excuse. It is the heat. I’ve been mixing my languages. Straight ahead, as you’d say. This is El Muski street, and ahead you will cross the main thoroughfare of Shari Port Said. Then the Khan el Khalili bazaar will be on your left. I wish you good shopping, but remember to bargain. Here in Egypt it is a sport.”
Erica thanked him and pushed on through the crowd. The minute he was gone, the jeering boys miraculously reappeared and the innumerable street vendors accosted her with their wares. She passed an open-air butcher shop hung with a long row of recently slaughtered lambs, flayed except for the heads, and covered with splotches of pink ink representing government stamps. The carcasses were hung upside down, their unseeing eyes making her flinch and the smell of the offal forcing her lunch into her throat. The stench quickly merged with the decadent smell of overripe mangoes from a neighboring fruit cart and the odor of fresh donkey dung in the street. A few paces beyond, there was the reviving sharpness of herbs and spices and the aroma of freshly brewed Arabic coffee.
The dust from the densely packed narrow street rose and filtered the sun, bleaching the strip of cloudless sky a faint, faraway blue. The sand-colored buildings on each side of the street were shuttered against the blanket of afternoon heat.
As Erica advanced deeper into the bazaar, listening to the sound of ancient wooden wheels on granite cobblestones, she felt herself slipping back in time to medieval Cairo. She sensed the chaos, the poverty, and the harshness of life. She was simultaneously frightened and excited by the throbbing raw fertility, the universal mysteries which are so carefully camouflaged and hidden by Western culture. It was life stripped naked yet mitigated by human emotion; fate was greeted with resignation and even laughter.
“Cigarette?” demanded a boy of about ten. He was dressed in a gray shirt and baggy pants. One of his friends pushed him from behind so that he stumbled closer to Erica. “Cigarette?” he asked again, launching into a kind of Arabic jig and pretending to smoke a make-believe cigarette in exaggerated mime. A tailor, busy ironing with a charcoal-filled iron, grinned, and a row of men smoking intricately embossed water pipes stared at Erica with piercing, unblinking eyes.
Erica was sorry she had worn such obviously foreign clothes. Her cotton slacks and a simple knit blouse made it clear she was a tourist. The other women in Western clothes that Erica had seen had on dresses, not pants, and most of the women in the bazaar still wore the traditional black meliyas. Even Erica’s body was different from the local women’s. Although she was several pounds heavier than she would have liked, she was a good deal slimmer than Egyptian women. And her face was far more delicate than the round, heavy features crowding the bazaar. She had wide gray-green eyes, luxuriant chestnut hair, and a finely sculptured mouth with a full lower lip that gave her a faintly pouting expression. She knew she was pretty when she worked at it, and when she did, men responded.
Now, picking her way through the crowded bazaar, she regretted she had tried to look attractive. Her attire advertised that she was not protected by local street morality, and even more important, she was alone. She was the perfect catalyst for the fantasies of all the men who watched her.
Clutching her tote bag closer to her side, Erica hurried along as the street narrowed again to cluttered byways jammed with people engaged in every conceivable type of manufacture and commerce. Overhead, carpets and cloth stretched between the buildings to cover the market area, keeping out the sun but increasing the noise and the dust. Erica hesitated again, watching the widely varied faces. The fellahin were heavyboned, with wide mouths and thick lips, dressed in the traditional galabias and skull-caps. The bedouin were the pure Arabs, with sharp features and slim, wiry bodies. The Nubians were ebony, with tremendously powerful and muscular torsos, often naked to the waist.
The surge of the crowds pushed Erica forward and carried her deeper into the Khan el Khalili. She found herself pressed up against a wide variety of people. Someone pinched her backside, but when she turned around, she couldn’t be sure who had done it. She had a following now of five or six persistent boys. She was being hounded like a rabbit in a hunt.
Erica’s goal in the bazaar had been the goldsmith section, where she wanted to buy gifts. But her resolve waned, particularly when someone’s dirty fingers ran through her hair. She’d had enough. She wanted to return to the hotel. Her passion for Egypt involved the ancient civilization with its art and mysteries. Modern urban Egypt was a little overpowering when taken in all at once. Erica wanted to get out to the monuments, like Saqqara, and above all she wanted to get to Upper Egypt, to the countryside. She knew that was going to be as she dreamed it.
At the next corner she turned to the right, stepping around a donkey that was either dead or dying. It didn’t move, and no one paid the poor beast any attention. Having studied a map of the city prior to leaving the Hilton, she guessed she should reach the square in front of the El Azhar mosque if she continued heading southeast. Pushing her way between a clump of shoppers bargaining over scrawny pigeons in reed cages, Erica broke into a jog. She could see a minaret ahead, and a sunlit square.
Suddenly Erica stopped dead in her tracks. The boy who had demanded a cigarette and who was still following her now crashed into her, but bounced off unnoticed. Erica’s eyes were riveted to a window display. There in front of her was a piece of pottery in the shape of a shallow urn. It was a morsel of ancient Egypt shining in the middle of modern squalor. Its lip was slightly chipped, but otherwise the pot was unbroken. Even the clay eyelets apparently made to hang the pot were still intact. Aware that the bazaar was filled with fakes, highly priced to attract tourists, Erica still was stunned by the bowl’s apparent authenticity. The usual fakes were carved mummiform statues. This was a splendid example of predynastic Egyptian pottery, as good as the best she had seen where she was currently employed, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. If it were real, it would be more than six thousand years old.
Stepping back in the alleyway, Erica looked at the freshly painted sign over the window. Above were the curious squiggles of Arabic script. Below was printed Antica Abdul. The doorway to the left of the window was curtained by a dense row of heavily beaded strings. A tug on her tote bag by one of her hecklers was all the encouragement Erica needed to enter the shop.
The hundreds of colored beads made sharp, crackling noises as they fell back into place behind her. The shop was small, about ten feet wide and twice that deep, and surprisingly cool. The walls stuccoed and whitewashed, the floor covered with multiple worn Oriental carpets. An L-shaped glass-topped counter dominated most of the room.
Since no one came forward to help her, Erica hiked up the strap of her bag and bent over to look more closely at the amazing piece of pottery that she had seen through the window. It was a light tan, with delicately painted decorations in a shade somewhere between brown and magenta. Crumpled Arabic newspaper had been stuffed inside.
The heavy red-brown curtains in the back of the shop parted, and the proprietor, Abdul Hamdi, emerged, shuffling up to the counter. Erica glanced at the man and immediately relaxed. He was about sixty-five and had a pleasant gentleness of movement and expression.
“I’m very interested in this urn,” she said. “Would it be possible for me to examine it more closely?”
“Of course,” said Abdul, coming out from behind the counter. He picked up the pot and u
nceremoniously put it into Erica’s trembling hands. “Bring it over to the counter if you’d like.” He switched on an unadorned light bulb.
Erica gingerly put the urn on the counter and removed her tote from her shoulder. Then she picked up the pot again, slowly turning it in her fingertips to examine the decorations. Besides purely ornamental designs, there were dancers, antelopes, and crude boats. “How much is this?” Erica looked very carefully at the drawings.
“Two hundred pounds,” said Abdul, lowering his voice as if it were a secret. There was a twinkle in his eye.
“Two hundred pounds!” echoed Erica while converting currencies in her mind. That was about three hundred dollars. She decided to bargain a little while trying to determine if the pot were a fake. “I can only afford one hundred pounds.”
“One hundred eighty is my best offer,” said Abdul, as if making a supreme sacrifice.
“I suppose I could go to one hundred twenty,” said Erica, continuing to study the markings.
“Okay, for you . . .” He paused and touched her arm. She did not mind. “You are American?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I like Americans. Much better than Russians. For you I will do something very special. I will take a loss on this piece. I need the money because this shop is very new. So for you, one hundred and sixty pounds.” Abdul reached over and took the pot from Erica and placed it on the table. “A marvelous piece, my best. It is my last offer.”
Erica looked at Abdul. He had the heavy features of the fellahin. She noticed that under the worn jacket of his Western suit he was wearing a brown galabia.
Turning the pot over, Erica looked at the spiral drawing on the bottom and let her slightly moist thumb gently rub over the painted design. Some of the burnt-sienna pigment came off. At that moment Erica knew the pot was a fake. It was very cleverly made, but definitely not an antique.
Feeling extremely uncomfortable, Erica put the pot back on the counter and picked up her tote bag. “Well, thank you very much,” she said, avoiding looking at Abdul.
“I do have others,” said Abdul, opening a tall wooden cabinet against the wall. His Levantine instincts had responded to Erica’s initial enthusiasm, and the same instincts sensed a sudden change. He was confused but did not want to lose a customer without a fight. “Perhaps you might like this one.” He took a similar piece of pottery from the cabinet and placed it on the counter.
Erica did not want to precipitate a confrontation by telling the seemingly kind old man that he was trying to cheat her. Reluctantly she picked up the second pot. It was more oval than the first and sat on a narrower base. The designs were all left-hand spirals.
“I have many examples of this kind of pottery,” continued Abdul, setting out five other pots.
While his back was to Erica she licked her forefinger and rubbed it across the design on the second pot. The pigment did not budge.
“How much is this one?” asked Erica, trying to conceal her excitement. It was conceivable the pot in her hand was six thousand years old.
“They are all different prices according to the workmanship and the condition,” said Abdul evasively. “Why not look at them all and pick one that you like. Then we can talk about prices.”
Carefully examining each pot in turn, Erica isolated two probable authentic antiques out of seven. “I like these two,” she said, her confidence returning. For once her Egyptology expertise had a practical value. She wished Richard were there.
Abdul looked at the two pots, then at Erica. “These are not the most beautiful. Why do you prefer them to the others?”
Erica looked at Abdul and hesitated. Then she said defiantly, “Because the others are fakes.”
Abdul’s face was expressionless. Slowly a twinkle appeared in his eyes and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Finally he broke into laughter, bringing tears to his eyes. Erica found herself grinning.
“Tell me . . .” said Abdul with difficulty. He had to control his laughter before continuing. “Tell me how you know these are fakes.” He pointed toward the pots Erica had put aside.
“The easiest way possible. There is no stability to the pigment of the designs. The paint comes off on a wet finger. That never happens to an antique.”
Wetting his finger, Abdul tested the pigment. His finger was smudged with burnt sienna. “You are absolutely right.” He repeated the test on the two antiques. “The fooler is made the fool. Such is life.”
“How much are these two real antique pots?” asked Erica.
“They are not for sale. Someday, perhaps, but not now.”
Taped to the underside of the glass countertop was an official-looking document with government stamps from the Department of Antiquities. Antica Abdul was a fully licensed antique shop. Next to the license was a printed paper saying that written guarantees on antiquities would be supplied on request. “What do you do when a customer wants a guarantee?” asked Erica.
“I give it to them. For the tourist it makes no difference. They are happy with their souvenir. They never check.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“No, it does not bother me. Righteousness is a luxury of the wealthy. The merchant always tries to get the highest price for his wares, for himself and his family. The tourists who come in here want souvenirs. If they want authentic antiquities they know something about them. It is their responsibility. How is it that you know about pigment on ancient pottery?”
“I am an Egyptologist.”
“You are an Egyptologist! Allah be praised! Why would a beautiful woman like yourself want to be an Egyptologist? Ah, the world has passed by Abdul Hamdi. I am indeed getting old. So you have been to Egypt before?”
“No, this is my first trip. I wanted to come before, but it was too expensive. It’s been a dream of mine for some time.”
“Well, I pray that you will enjoy it. You are planning to go to Upper Egypt? To Luxor?”
“Of course.”
“I will give you the address of my son’s antique shop.”
“So he can sell me some fake pottery?” said Erica with a smile.
“No, no, but he can show you some nice things. I too have some wonderful things. What do you think of this?” Abdul lifted a mummiform figure from the cabinet and set it on the counter. It was made of wood covered with plaster and exquisitely painted. A row of hieroglyphic writing ran down the front.
“It is a fake,” said Erica quickly.
“No,” said Abdul, alarmed.
“The hieroglyphics are not real. It says nothing. It is a meaningless row of signs.”
“You can read the mysterious writing as well?”
“That is my specialty, especially writing from the time of the New Kingdom.”
Abdul turned the statue around, looking at the hieroglyphics. “I paid plenty for this piece. I’m certain it is real.”
“Perhaps the statue is real, but the writing is not. Maybe the writing was added in an attempt to make the piece appear even more valuable.” Erica attempted to wipe off some of the black color on the statue. “The pigment seems stable.”
“Well, let me show you something else.” Abdul reached within the glass-topped cabinet and extracted a small cardboard box. Removing the top of the box, he selected a number of scarabs and placed them in a row on the cabinet. With his forefinger he pushed one toward Erica.
She picked it up and examined it. It was made of a porous material, its top exquisitely carved in the form of the familiar dung beetle revered by the ancient Egyptians. Turning it over, Erica was surprised to see the cartouche of a pharaoh, Seti I. The hieroglyphic carving was absolutely beautiful.
“It is a spectacular piece,” said Erica, replacing it on the counter.
“So you wouldn’t mind having that antique?”
“Not at all. How much is it?”
“It is yours. It is a present.”
“I can’t accept such a gift. Why do you want to give me a present?”
“It is an Arabic custom. But let me warn you, it is not authentic.”
Surprised, Erica lifted the scarab to the light. Her initial impression did not change. “I think it is real.”
“No. I know it is not real because my son made it.”
“It’s extraordinary,” said Erica, looking again at the hieroglyphics.
“My son is very good. He copied the hieroglyphics from a real piece.”
“What is it made of?”
“Ancient bone. There are enormous caches of broken-up mummies in Luxor and Aswan in the ancient public catacombs. My son uses the bone to carve the scarabs. To make the cut surface look old and worn, we feed them to our turkeys. One pass through a turkey gives it a truly venerable appearance.”
Erica swallowed, fleetingly sickened by contemplating the scarab’s biological journey. But intellectual interest quickly overcame her physical response, and she turned the scarab over and over in her fingers. “I admit, I was fooled, and would be again.”
“Don’t be upset. Several of these have been taken to Paris, where the curators think they know everything, and they were tested.”
“Probably carbon-dated,” interjected Erica.
“Whatever. Anyway, they were declared truly ancient. Well, obviously the bone was ancient. Now my son’s scarabs are in museums around the world.”
A cynical laugh escaped from Erica. She knew she was dealing with an expert.
“My name is Abdul Hamdi, so please call me Abdul. What is your name?”
