Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu

by Alexander Marmer

  Seth stayed on his phone, telling all of his contacts to be on the lookout for Anna and her American accomplice. After hopelessly circling, Asim decided that his beloved chief needed to know what was happening. He needed to ask his advice about any possible clues that would lead them to the whereabouts of Schulze’s daughter.

  It was then that he picked up his cell phone and discovered the battery was dead. To add insult to injury, the car was running on empty and they needed to find a petrol station. After finding one and filling his car, Seth asked the attendant where the nearest cell phone store was located. It was on one of the main streets leading out of the neighborhood, and they found it easily.

  The day that had started out so promising was ending on the worst note possible imaginable. The thirty-year-old Medjay warrior had never experienced this kind of failure in his entire life; especially all packed into one single day.

  Greatly discouraged, the Medjay warrior entered the cell phone store. Before he knew it, the cellphone storeowner was screaming at him. Looking back on the matter, Asim realized that the storeowner had misunderstood his actions. The owner thought the Medjay was stealing one of the latest iPhone models from him. In reality, Asim had taken the cellphone battery out and inserted it into his phone, attempting to phone his great chief. Moments later, the bewildered Medjay warrior was being confronted by a street mob lead by the cellphone storeowner. The situation rapidly escalated with the uncontrolled street mob stalking and chasing him down the street. Seth was in his car, waiting for Asim to return. When he saw the frenzied mob on the street pursuing Asim, he simply took off. Asim’s glorious life filled with adventures would have ended on the streets of Berlin’s Turkish neighborhood by lynching. In the country of Turkey itself, the punishment for stealing was the severing of the thief’s hand. It was only the American’s unforeseen Good Samaritan gesture of spiriting him away from the street mob that saved the Medjay. He barely escaped. Even though Asim’s life was spared, this changed nothing between them in Asim’s point of view. The American may have saved Asim’s life, but he was still the enemy merely because he accompanied the German engineer’s daughter, and the ancient sacred stele was still missing.

  Seth’s obnoxious voice brought Asim back to Russia. The cab they were following was stopped next to a high-rise building. Seth and the Medjay watched with barely contained excitement when Schulze’s daughter, accompanied by her American friend, climbed out and walked inside the Holiday Inn Suschevskiy hotel. Continuing with his elaborate story, Seth told the taxi driver that they wanted to prolong the surprise. Seth directed him to wait not far from the entrance and to be on lookout for his colleagues when they exited the hotel.

  Chapter 31

  Voronezhskaya Street, Building 4, Moscow, Russia

  Saturday, September 23

  4:15 p.m.

  Anna rang the doorbell again.

  “Maybe he doesn’t live here anymore,” Michael said.

  “What should we do?” Anna asked nervously.

  “We don’t even have his phone number.”

  “You know what, let’s wait awhile …” Suddenly they heard someone approaching the other side of the apartment door. A female voice speaking in Russian could be heard. As they waited, the pleasant voice slowly got closer and closer.

  Just as Anna started to reach inside her bag for her iPhone with its indispensable language app, the door slowly opened up, stopped by a metal chain. An elderly, heavyset woman stood in the gap sporting a brightly striped kitchen apron with fresh drops of water on it. She spoke, her words spilling out in a cacophony of syllables and sounds.

  Anna and Michael looked at each other silently. Anna spoke in English, breaking the silence, “Excuse me, do you speak English or German?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered the old woman, proudly speaking in English with a British accent. “I was an English teacher for twenty-five years.”

  Anna and Michael smiled broadly as the old lady carefully examined her visitors through the small opening.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Anna Schulze, and I’m from Germany.” She turned her face slightly and gestured toward Michael, “And this is Michael Doyle, and he is an American.”

  “Hello Miss Schulze and Mister Doyle,” the elderly woman greeted them politely as she nodded.

  “Please, you can call us Michael and Anna,” said Michael.

  The woman smiled and asked politely, “How can I help you?”

  “We are looking for Mister Kirilov. Do you know him by any chance?” Anna’s heart stopped beating while awaiting the old woman’s response. This was the moment of truth: if the lady standing in front of them, barricaded by the chain holding the front door, did not know Kirilov, then it pretty much meant the end of their journey. Anna even shut her eyes tightly in anticipation of the old woman’s response.

  “You are asking me if I know Mister Kirilov,” the woman answered slowly, a smirk on her face. “I’m married to him, so you could say I know him a little,” she laughed mischievously.

  Michael looked at Anna with a huge grin on his face. Anna suddenly realized her heart was beating again. Thank God we are in the right place, she thought with utter relief.

  “Is your husband at home?” asked Michael.

  “No,” she answered right away, shaking her head.

  Michael’s stomach sank. Trying not to lose hope, he asked, “Do you know when he is coming home?”

  “Oh, sure,” the old lady responded cheerfully. “Anatoly should be back soon.” Both Michael and Anna audibly sighed with relief. “What kind of business do you have with my husband?” she asked them curiously.

  “It’s about the Great Pyramid,” Michael replied.

  “I should have known,” she said, sighing deeply. “Please come inside. Here, let me unlock the door,” she apologized, briefly closing the door. They could hear a rattling sound as she unhooked and removed the chain. The door swung open, “Come in, come in my dears,” she gestured to her guests.

  Anna and Michael stepped inside the hallway as the old lady closed the door behind them. “My name is Svetlana Aleksandrovna.” She paused, smiling at them, “of course, it would be easier for you to call me Svetlana.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Svetlana,” said Anna.

  “Yes,” Michael added, “thank you so much for having us.”

  “Here,” Svetlana gestured toward a row of hooks on the wall and a soft bench, “you may hang up your coats here. I need to ask you to remove your shoes as well. I have some house slippers you may use.”

  Michael and Anna dutifully hung up their coats and umbrella. Then they sat down and removed their shoes. Although it felt a bit strange to be putting on someone else’s slippers, it appeared that Svetlana had them ready and waiting for visitors. The Russian tradition of taking off street shoes when they enter private residencies has gone on for centuries. Svetlana stood to the side, patiently waiting for her guests to do her bidding.

  Michael had gotten the impression that the pyramid business was definitely not Svetlana’s favorite subject. “I’m sorry, the Great Pyramid is probably not your favorite topic,” said Michael as he stood up.

  “Well, if the person you love the most devotes all of his free time on something located in a foreign land more than five thousands kilometers away, rather than his wife, then I suppose you can say that topic is definitely not my favorite.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Please, don’t apologize, after so many years I am used to it,” Svetlana answered with a warm smile and the wave of her hand. “Wait until my husband comes home, he will be thrilled.” Turning to Anna, Svetlana asked reproachfully, “Did he drag you into this too?”

  “Oh no, I kind of dragged myself into this,” Anna said apologetically.

  “Oh. All right. Now, please follow me to the living room.” Svetlana led them into the next room. She added,
“It’s not big, but it’s cozy.” She stopped and pointed to the sofa, “Please, have a seat and make yourself at home.”

  Anna and Michael sat on the worn brown couch.

  “For many years we used to have lots of visitors coming to our apartment inquiring about the Great Pyramid. But lately no one ever comes,” she paused for a second. “So, I think it will be a pleasant surprise for my husband to see you two here,” she said quietly. “If you need anything please let me know. I’ll be in the kitchen,” Svetlana walked slowly out of the living room.

  Michael got up from the couch and looked around the room while Anna checked her phone. The living room was furnished with twentieth century Soviet furniture. In one corner was a large Soviet-made TV resting on a wooden table. In the other corner was a large desk covered with papers. The main centerpiece of the living room was a dressing table accompanied by not one, but three large vertical mirrors. Michael positioned the two side mirrors slightly away from each other and saw multiple images of his own reflection appear at the same time. After a few mesmerizing minutes of gazing at his images, he forced himself to look away and look at the dresser top.

  There were several framed photographs displayed. One of them depicted a World War II veteran well into his 80s dressed in a military parade uniform, his chest full of war medals and ribbons. The second photograph was in black-and-white and depicted a group of World War II era soldiers gathered next to a bunker built into a hillside. The third photograph depicted a dark-haired man in his twenties tightly grasping a set of rifles as he stood next to a group of captured German soldiers with their hands bound amid the snowy hills. The last photograph was in black and white as well and depicted a young couple. The man was the same dark-haired man from the previous image. Next to him was an attractive young lady with her hair pulled back into a bun. She had fine facial features with a small nose and a generous, sensual mouth. As Michael looked closer, he recognized the young woman as their hostess, Svetlana, who was busy at the moment washing dishes in the kitchen.

  Michael called to Anna and pointed to the photograph.

  “Oh! That’s Svetlana when she was young,” Anna said, smiling at picture.

  “That’s definitely her,” Michael nodded in agreement “and that’s gotta be Kirilov,” he pointed to the man standing next to her.

  As soon as he uttered that phrase, the duo heard the sound of keys rattling in the front door lock. The door opened up and somebody walked inside the apartment. A deep, male voice called out in Russian. Michael and Anna could hear the man removing his overcoat and hanging it up. Then he was sitting down and changing his shoes to slippers. As he stepped into the living room, Michael recognized the man as the veteran with the chest full of war medals in the photograph on the dressing table.

  Svetlana stepped out of the hidden kitchen and greeted her husband. Speaking rapidly in Russian to the old heavyset man, Svetlana pointed at Michael and Anna, who nodded politely. Behind his thick old-fashioned glasses, the man’s eyes widened in surprise at his visitors as she continued to speak. He was balding with very short grayish hair; the left side of his head had a deep dent. He wore a striped brown suit jacket over a light-blue checkered dress shirt and a dark-blue tie in a Windsor knot. The sight of this elderly man was calming. His eyes shone with intelligence and confidence. The man addressed Anna and Michael in Russian.

  “Tolya, they are Americans and don’t speak Russian,” Svetlana smirked at her husband.

  “Oh! Hello, I’m Anatoly Kirilov,” he said, speaking with a British accent just like his wife. “And you are?” he asked, arching his brows and looking directly at Michael.

  “I’m Michael Doyle and this is Anna Schulze,” Michael replied, shaking the man’s hand. “You speak English well,” said Michael.

  “I had to learn,” answered Kirilov, winking and grinning at his wife.

  “Mister Kirilov,” Michael continued, pointing at the dressing table, “These are great photographs.”

  Kirilov grabbed one of the black-and-white photographs. “That’s us in pre-war Moscow. It was taken two days after we got married and one month before the German troops attacked the Soviet Union back in 1941,” he said, sighing.

  “Wow,” exclaimed Anna, looking at both of them with surprise and admiration, “you’ve been married for so many years!”

  “And what wonderful and exciting years they have been,” Svetlana added passionately.

  “Except, of course, the year … when I died, remember?” said Kirilov.

  “Oh yes,” Svetlana sighed deeply. “How can I ever forget that?”

  Michael suddenly grasped the meaning of Kirilov’s last phrase, “Wait a second. What do you mean by when I died?”

  “I still have his death certificate,” Kirilov’s wife answered. “It was mailed to me back in 1943. The letter said my husband ‘was killed in the battle of Stalingrad for the Soviet Motherland displaying courage and heroism. He was buried in a mass grave,’” she recited it from memory, her voice shaking.

  Kirilov put his arm around her shoulders, attempting to comfort her.

  “I’m still here,” he pronounced quietly to her.

  Svetlana retrieved a handkerchief from her apron pocket and gently wiped her eyes. She looked up at her guests with a smile, “Well, I will leave you here since I have much to do in the kitchen. Would anyone like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” said Anna as Michael nodded in agreement.

  “It will be ready in a few minutes,” Svetlana walked back into the kitchen.

  “As you can see it’s still a painful subject for my wife,” said Kirilov as soon as his wife’s steps faded away “she thought she had lost me.”

  “Mr. Kirilov,” said Michael in low voice “can you tell us what happened there?”

  “Oh sure,” said Kirilov, “if you are really interested in war stories.”

  “Absolutely,” said Michael. “I was a soldier myself and fought in the Iraqi War in the 2003 invasion. So it’s a very interesting subject.”

  “Well, I don’t know much about the Iraqi war, but the battle of Stalingrad,” Kirilov started his story, “was one of the bloodiest battles of the twentieth century. This battle decided the fate of the entire Second World War. For the Soviet Union, it was a great moral victory and it showed that we could beat the Germans. The first day was the worst. After crossing the River Volga, we were attacked. We were constantly advancing and retreating, advancing and retreating. I was wounded three times. Death was everywhere. But then, later on, we got used to it: if someone got killed, well, everybody gets killed. If you got wounded, well, you were lucky. If I was to survive, then somebody in heaven liked me,” Kirilov chuckled.

  “How did you get used to seeing death constantly?” Anna asked quietly.

  “Well, my dear, human beings can get used to anything,” Kirilov replied. He paused for a moment and then added, “That’s our nature.”

  Anna just shook her head, thinking of the carnage that brought about such morbid thinking.

  “In November of 1942,” Kirilov continued, “Our bunker got hit by a shell. Only two of the twelve of us survived. For two hours we sat in the rubble, waiting. Then we started digging ourselves out using our knives and canteen holders. Just when we had almost dug ourselves out, we got hit again. I lost consciousness. Luckily there were some troops passing through and I was pulled out by one of the soldiers. I was bleeding badly as well and was taken to a field hospital. I had no way of contacting Svetlana. In about three weeks’ time my wound had healed, and I was attached to another unit. Meanwhile, the remaining soldiers from my previous unit had returned to the bunker and were digging it out so they could bury the dead and use the bunker again. They found my rucksack. Not giving it a second thought, they assumed that I was dead and a death certificate was sent to my wife.”

  Anna was moved, “That could’ve killed her.”

&
nbsp; “Well, it almost did, “continued Kirilov, “three months later, we won the battle of Stalingrad and captured thousands of German troops. It was then that I was finally able to send a note to Svetlana. I was stunned when I received the news from her that she was mourning my death. Even worse, she had arranged a funeral for me several months before. I was very happy to reassure her that I was alive and well. After Stalingrad, I participated in the liberation of Belarus, Ukraine and Poland. I was in Berlin when the war ended in May of 1945. Along with many of the Red Army soldiers, I left graffiti on the Reichstag wall in Berlin.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a story,” said Michael, his eyes wide.

  “A German bullet is still lodged inside my brain,” Kirilov suddenly added.

  Both Michael and Anna looked at him in horror.

  “No doctor is willing to take the risk to operate, but it’s okay,” chuckled Kirilov, “the bullet and I have bonded well together after so many years.”

  Kirilov’s wife Svetlana walked into the living room carrying a tray with cups of coffee, milk and sugar.

  “My wife told me that you two are interested in the Great Pyramid.” There was a visible brightness in his eyes; this topic was his favorite.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Anna.

  Kirilov sat at the desk as his wife set down the tray and disappeared back into the kitchen. Anna and Michael took their previous seats on the couch.

  “Mister Kirilov,” Anna began, “my father somehow knew you. I found your name inside his notebook.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Kirilov. “What is his name?”

  “Günther Schulze.”

  “Hmmmm … um … Schulze?”

  “He was German,” added Anna.

  “I see now. I’m sorry if I said anything bad about Germany in my war stories.”

  “Mr. Kirilov, I found your story fascinating. You fought bravely for your motherland and I admire that,” she said respectfully.