‘Your project strikes me more as a humanitarian one than the sort of job you’d normally go for with your expertise.’
A wave of sadness seemed to pass over his face.
‘I… The village really needs it, and many more villages do, too,’ he answered. ‘We should exchange numbers, if that’s alright with you, Mina,’ he said politely.
‘Of course. Here’s my card.’
‘I don’t have one, but I’ll just write down my contact details the old fashioned way.’
‘An engineer without a business card?’ she teased.
‘We simply don’t have enough funds to publish such drivel!’
The head of department was fuming. He could not believe a woman was telling him what his department should or should not publish, ‘With both departments running on half our usual staff we need to focus on what is most pressing. Even a tourist such as yourself should understand the difference between primary and secondary concerns,’ he concluded.
Mina tried to fit in another word, but Professor Almeini cut her short. He turned to the head of department, ‘Some books of a decidedly theoretical nature may have to wait until the more pressing archaeological reports are published. But we must be aware of the current changes in thought processes in our field, or…’ his gaze hardened as he looked at his adversary, ‘we may lose track complete of what we’re supposed to pursue as scholars. Don’t you think?’
‘Of course Professor, of course.’ The diminutive head of department was a mediocre scholar but an astute politician. ‘I think this is as good a time as any to conclude this meeting. I will see you all in three months time. My secretary will send out a reminder two weeks before the meeting.’
He stood up, ignoring Mina and said goodbye to his colleagues. Mina had not felt like a woman for quite some time and it felt good to be recognised as one again, even in a negative context. When she first arrived in Mosul she had expected to be relegated to some horrid basement office and that being the only woman in the department, no-one would speak to her. A friend working in Pakistan had told her that every time there was a conference or committee meeting, the female scholars went to a different room from the men. But things could not have been more different. She wondered at first if she enjoyed her special treatment because of her connection with Columbia University, or her being half-American, but after a while she understood that being a woman was irrelevant to most scholars around her. She was a scholar herself, a third gender of sorts. Of course to some chauvinists like the head of department, there was no such thing as a third gender. She was a woman, nothing more, and nothing could be less.
‘What a horrid man,’ Mina muttered, as she walked out of the meeting room with Professor Almeini.
‘Mina, Mina. You’re so hot-headed. I wonder if you are at all suited for the world of academia and its little games of power, precedence and give-and-take.’
‘I just want what is best for the department,’ she answered passionately.
‘I know,’ he said, smiling. Then, with an air of innocence he asked, ‘what did you think of Jack?’
‘His project is quite thrilling,’ she answered. ‘Although similar projects are carried out in other countries, if this one works, it would be a first here and might even show the doubters in government that studying our past can benefit our present.’
‘I like him,’ said Almeini, ‘he’s bright and his heart’s in the right place. There’s more to this young man than meets the eye.’
Chapter 4
Hassan’s clay tablet was on her coffee table. Mina felt a pang of guilt for having brought the ancient artefact back from the office but she often had her best ideas in the comfort of her own home. Sipping her favourite drink, a sweet mix of Bailey’s and coffee, she ran through a couple of hypotheses. She brought in a brighter desk lamp, set it up next to the table, turned it on, and studied the tablet from every angle. One idea she had, however strange it seemed might answer the riddle. What if there was something inside the clay that made it heavier? She knew of tablets that had been found within clay casings, like envelopes. Granted they weren’t usually covered in writing but if they were, they acted as seals to be opened by the recipient. Of course there were always exceptions. She could have it x-rayed. But that would require huge amounts of administrative paperwork, and she would have to wait weeks or even months before seeing any results.
Dispirited, she fiddled with the tablet. Suddenly it slipped between her fingers and hit the table. Horrified, she picked it up immediately to check for any damage. One of the corners had broken off. She looked at its cross-section but it seemed completely normal. There was nothing inside the tablet. She felt so embarrassed, both for dropping the tablet and for her mad conjectures. Maybe Nigel was right, and it was time she returned to the US.
Mina stayed in bed, wide awake, for a few hours. Finally, at one a.m., she got out of bed, turned on the light and took a long, hard look at the tablet. She went into her study and picked out the smallest chisel she could find. Sitting down by the coffee table, she took a deep breath and tried chipping off another piece from the tablet. The sound was not that of chipping clay. There was something inside. She felt like an excited child about to rip open her birthday presents.
An hour later, she was soaking a slim and shiny tablet of black stone in warm soapy water. It was possibly basalt, and was roughly 22cm long and 15cm wide, snapped at the bottom in a diagonal break. She rinsed it carefully and dabbed it all over with cotton wool. One side was entirely covered in the most delicate cuneiform lettering she had ever seen. Mina was in a state of shock. She headed to her study and found her Akkadian and Sumerian dictionaries and grammar books.
After a few hours of work, she sat back in awe. Before her eyes was a version of the eleventh chapter of the Epic of Gilgamesh, written in Akkadian! The Epic was the most famous Mesopotamian literary text, and possibly the most ancient epic in the world. It dated back four thousand years. In its final form, also called Standard Akkadian Epic of Gilgamesh, edited by the incantation priest S.n-lēqi-unninni sometime between 1300–1100 B.C.E., it ran on twelve tablets. The eleventh tablet was famous for recounting the story of the primordial flood. She went back to her study, picked up an English translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh and reread the story of the flood. She then looked over her translation of the tablet. It presented a strange version of the story: some passages from the usual narrative were missing and others seemed more detailed or contained new information. For instance, there were far more measurements of the ark than in the standard flood tablet. And the narration broke off during the construction of the ark, so all the descriptions of the actual flood and its aftermath, the famous scenes of Utnapishtim sending out birds to see if the waters had receded, were missing.
She sat back on her couch, thinking about the parallels between this Sumerian myth and the Biblical account of the flood and the story of Noah’s Ark. The similarities had first been pointed out by an English scholar in the 19th century. She thought of the hundreds of scholars who, since then, had pondered the differences and similarities between the two accounts. She knew one thing for certain: the tablet she was holding displayed the only version of its kind in stone.
She could of course email the proper linguists and scholarly authorities, after all, she was not a specialist in epic textual analysis. But if she kept this tablet to herself and published a proper translation and commentary, it could be her making as an academic. She would have to explain how she got hold of it in the first place, and why it was encased in a fake clay tablet, but it would be worth it. The more she reread her rough translation the more she noticed how many odd elements there were in this text. A small detail suddenly caught her eye. Why had she not noticed this earlier? The beginning of the text conformed to other versions:
Gilgamesh spoke to Utnapishtim, the Faraway:
‘I have been looking at you,
but your appearance is not strange – you are like me!
You yourself are
not different – you are like me!
My mind was resolved to fight with you,
but my arm lies useless over you.
Tell me, how is it that you stand in the Assembly of the Gods,
and have found life?’
‘Utnapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying:
‘I will reveal to you, Gilgamesh, a thing that is hidden, a secret of the Gods I will tell you!
But then from here something had changed. Unlike the canonical Sumerian version in which the Gods are angry because the humans make too much noise and they decide to kill them all, this text was referring to humans having turned evil. Very much like the Biblical version. But this was impossible! The text couldn’t have been inspired by the Hebrew bible as it was far more ancient. Plus she had never heard of such a typically Jewish moralistic view in an Akkadian version of the Flood. Furthermore, most stone or metal tablets were found in the foundations of temples. But this tablet was no foundation stone.
Who could she talk to about this? She could not confront Professor Almeini and explain that she had destroyed a clay tablet to get to the stone tablet. Gradually it dawned on her that by destroying the clay casing she had put herself in jeopardy. She could not talk about her find to anyone in her field. Of course, it was a fake clay tablet, whose only purpose was to conceal the stone tablet beneath, but it was still an ancient fake. In her eagerness, she had acted like an irresponsible child, against all the ethical and scientific methodology instilled in her over years of studying. She had committed the oldest sin the book: breaking something to understand it. This discovery, far from making her famous, could even turn out to be her undoing. Nurdin, the janitor, knew she had an unusual tablet, and it was only a matter of time before everyone would know she had a new unpublished tablet at the department. What a mess. She suddenly felt overcome by a wave of nausea and exhaustion.
Chapter 5
December 3rd, 2004
‘Five more to go’ thought Mina, stretching. She was correcting essays in her office, but from time to time she would glance at the thin stone tablet peeking out of her handbag. She was still unsure what to do about it. Why had it been encased in an ancient fake clay tablet? Obviously to conceal its importance, to make it look like any of the tens of thousands of clay tablets produced at the time. She could not understand what was so special about the stone tablet that would require such a sophisticated disguise. Moreover, the tablet was incomplete, yet still someone had found it necessary to conceal it.
What she really needed to do was speak to an independent scholar who would understand the importance of the find without questioning the particular context of the discovery. There was someone she remembered from a seminar she had attended at Harvard years ago. He was an old scholar in Hebraic studies who specialised in the philological history of Noah and his counterpart in the Sumerian tradition. He had an unusual name. She remembered thinking it sounded almost Japanese. What was his name? Shobai, Moshe Shobai. That was it.
With a bit of luck she might still have his contact details. She turned on her laptop, drumming her fingers on the table, cursing her old computer for being so slow.
‘Bingo!’ She still had his email address. He worked for a Jewish foundation in London, The Key to Tradition. She remembered that it was ‘A very well-funded institution,’ a colleague at the seminar had told her in hushed tones. She emailed a short summary of the translation to the old man with a few notes reminding him who she was and what the problem was with the tablet. Hopefully he would get back to her soon. As she sifted through her emails, she noticed one from Nigel. Anxiously, she opened it.
Dear Mina,
I’m sorry to be the one to give you this news. Your travel grant application was turned down. I don’t think it has anything to do with your qualities as a scholar. There were many other high-calibre applicants and only two grants were offered this year. Don’t hesitate to re-apply next year. You may be luckier next time…’
She couldn’t read anymore. She slumped in her chair, crushed by the consequences of this news. She wouldn’t be able to pursue her research on Benjamin of Tudela in Safed. She had been so looking forward to it. She wondered if the result would have been different had she remained in New York as a full-time PhD student. But she hadn’t. It was idle thinking.
The next step was to call Hassan and ask where she could find the old labourer who had brought him the tablet. Hassan would be curious about this. Could she trust him with such sensitive information? She would think about what to do when it came to it. First she needed to ensure that he would keep his mouth shut.
‘Hassan?’
‘Morning Madam Mina’ answered the young man, sheepishly. ‘I’ve just made up my mind to come and see Professor Almeini, to apologise for my behaviour over the last month.’
‘That’s great news. Listen, could you come to see me first? I need to talk over a few things with you.’
‘Alright I’ll come before lunch.’
She still had a few hours ahead of her to focus on research. Hopefully no-one would disturb her. She picked up her notes on Benjamin of Tudela. She was so disappointed not to have obtained the funds to travel to Safed. She would have loved to research the strange discrepancies in his stories. She’d left out a few details in her account of Tudela’s manuscript when she’d spoken to Nigel. More importantly, she couldn’t tell him about her intuitions as he clearly didn’t seem to care. But like all researchers who spend a lot of time reading and deciphering every aspect of an author’s work, she could almost sense what Tudela had left out in his accounts.
She refocused on Tudela, and on his travels in Palestine. She sensed he had intentionally withheld information in his account of Safed. There was a mystery here that she needed to unravel.
It was almost lunch time. Where was Hassan? The phone rang. ‘Ah’ she thought, ‘he’s calling to say he can’t come’. But it was Jack.
‘Hi there Mina,’ he said in a cheerful voice.
‘Hi Jack,’ she answered, pleasantly surprised by the phone call. ‘Was the search successful?’
‘Yes, very. That’s why I’m calling. Would you like to come over to the village tomorrow and see how your and the professor’s deductions have created a lifeline for this village? We should hit the water source tomorrow, early afternoon.’
‘That’s great.’
‘So will you come?’ he asked again.
‘Well…’
The department secretary put her head round the door and mouthed that the professor wanted to see her when she had a moment. Mina put her hand over the receiver and said she would be with him as soon as she could. She resumed her conversation with Jack as soon as the secretary left.
‘Ok Jack, I’ll see if I can leave the office tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Could you ask the Prof to join us too? I haven’t been able to reach him all morning.’
‘I’ll do that. See you tomorrow.’
‘Oh, Mina?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t leave Mosul much after lunchtime. There are loads of checkpoints on the road, but it’s still dangerous. Parts of Mosul feel like the Wild West these days.’
‘Thanks. I’ll remind Professor Almeini about that,’ she said ironically.
Mina was pleased Jack had called her and she was looking forward to seeing his work, but before long she was worrying again. What if Nurdin, the restorer-turned-janitor had told the professor about the tablet, or worse, Hassan had met him before seeing her? She felt miserable not being able to discuss her discovery with Professor Almeini. He had been so good to her and this is how she repaid his kindness. She heard a familiar voice in the corridor. It was Hassan. Mina hesitated for a second, then stepped out into the corridor. She beckoned to the young man to follow her into her office.
‘Have you seen Professor Almeini?’
‘Ah yes. I’m sorry. You asked me to come first to see you but I bumped into him, so I decided to talk to him there and then.’
‘Oh dear.
’
‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing. Did you happen to tell him about the tablet you gave me?’ She asked, avoiding his gaze.
Hassan was surprised by her tone. She was usually so direct but now she seemed changed, as if she was hiding something.
‘No. We spoke of the courses I’d have to take and the readings I had to catch up with.’
She looked him straight in the eyes and said, ‘I need to ask you two things. First, would you mind not telling anyone about the tablet you gave me until… until it’s published?’
Hassan could tell she wasn’t being entirely straightforward, but he couldn’t work out what she was being so cagey about.
‘OK Madam. And the second thing?’
‘Where did you say the labourer found it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he answered.
‘That’s really frustrating. You know how important context is in archaeology!’
‘I can find out where the labourer lives if that’s any help,’ said Hassan.
She breathed a little easier. ‘Yes that would be useful.’
Hassan felt compelled to question her. ‘Madam Mina?’
‘Yes Hassan?’
‘…What’s going on?’ he asked.
This clever young man had returned from enemy territory to the difficult path of an honest, hard-working student. She owed him a straightforward answer. Somewhere inside her she also felt the need to share this find with someone, and who better than Hassan? She needed to come clean.
The 13th Tablet Page 4