‘You brought me something special the other day.’
’What, the tablet, Madam?’
‘Can I entrust you with something? You must swear that not a word of this conversation will leave the room.’
He looked straight at her. ‘Yes, you can. You know you can. I swear not to tell a living soul.’ He felt a wave of pride that Mina was about to confide in him.
‘You remember how heavy the tablet was?’ she asked the young man.
‘Yes.’
‘There was something inside it.’
‘Inside… you… you broke it?’
She blushed. ‘Well. I think you should have a look at what I found.’
She pulled out the shiny black tablet from her handbag and placed it on the desk. Hassan’s eyes widened in awe. ‘What is it?’
‘Hassan, this is probably the strangest account of The Flood that I know of.’
‘You mean, stranger than the fact it was encased in clay?’
‘Do you know Hassan, I’m glad you’re back.’
He beamed with pride.
‘Yes. Why would this have been hidden to start with? There must be something in the text… some secret information.’
‘Now you’ve been reading too many mystery novels.’
‘Why not? What else is strange about it?’
She described odd features of the tablet, pointing out to her wide-eyed student the various complex mathematical equations in place of the usual elementary Ark measurements, and the unexpectedly Jewish-sounding moralistic explanation of the Flood.
‘This could be one of the most important finds in Mosul in decades,’ Hassan stammered, clearly astonished.
‘I know,’ she answered, lost in her own thoughts.
‘And to think I just handed it to you like that,’ he said, looking utterly defeated.
‘Yup,’ she giggled. ‘You could have made a fortune. Instead,’ she added, ‘you’ll be famous.’
‘At least my mother will be happy,’ he answered with a smile.
Mina laughed. She was so happy to find that Hassan hadn’t changed, he was still as sharp and funny as he had been in her classes. But she suddenly became serious.
‘We need to keep this information to ourselves.’
‘I understand.’
‘You need to find the labourer’s whereabouts. I don’t think for a second that this tablet was stolen from a museum. He must have found it somewhere in an illegal dig.’
Hassan picked up his things. ‘I’m on it Madam. I’ll get the information by tomorrow.’
‘Thanks,’ she answered, relieved.
They left her office together and Mina walked on to Professor Almeini’s office.
‘Hello Mina’ Professor Almeini said, smiling broadly.
‘Hello Professor.’
‘I don’t know what you said to young Hassan, but he’s back. I’m so glad. It really would have been a shame to lose one of our finest students to the criminals who plunder our national heritage.’
Mina took a deep breath. That’s all there was to it. He had no idea about the tablet.
‘I got a call from Jack,’ she said, rapidly changing the subject.
‘Ah?’ said Almeini, pricking up his ears.
‘He’s invited us both to the village tomorrow afternoon. They are about to hit the underground water pocket.’
‘Tomorrow? It’s Saturday so I’ll be at home with my family. I can’t come unfortunately. What a shame.’
‘Maybe we could go another day?’ she asked.
‘No no. You go. Tomorrow will be a great day for the department too. After all it is thanks to you that he found the source.’
‘All I did was…’ she began.
He brushed her comments aside.
‘You should go there. How often do you get to meet handsome idealistic men in Mosul these days?’
Mina blushed from head to toe.
‘Professor! Really. That’s totally inappropriate!’
‘Inappropriate,’ he repeated, rolling his eyes. ‘Maybe you haven’t spent enough time in Mosul after all.’
He giggled and swept her out of his office.
Mina was mortified. Even her father had never tried a stunt like that one. Had he planned it all along, introducing Jack to her? She certainly hoped not.
Chapter 6
December 4th, 2004. Morning
Mina whistled as she checked her mailbox. Tucking the large loaf of bread she had just bought under her arm, she reached in awkwardly to pick up a small letter. Back in her flat, she went into her old-fashioned kitchen and made herself a pot of black coffee. As she watched the black liquid steaming in her mug, she thought of the ridiculous choices available in the coffee chains in New York: extra this, fat-free, a shot of this, half-that. Here, in an on-and-off war zone, you sat down in a café and a waiter came to take your order. Back home you queued for twenty minutes to be served in a Styrofoam cup. By the time you’d finished queuing you had to return to work.
She remembered an exchange between an elderly Indian Sanskrit scholar she had met at Columbia and a barista. The scholar had ordered a chai thinking it would be plain sweet tea with full-fat milk as you find in Benares, where he came from. The barista asked him if he wanted an ‘extra shot’. The scholar smiled, not knowing what to answer. To the old man’s horror the barista proceeded to add an espresso shot to his chai. Mina had laughed all the way back to the library that day.
She tore off the end of the warm loaf, spread a little butter and poured some honey across it. She closed her eyes and took a large bite. She loved this time of the day. She picked up the letter and opened it. It was a letter of apology from Professor Almeini. ‘What a sweetie’ she thought. She was not really angry with him and he probably knew it, but he had still taken the time to write to her about his peccadillo. When she thought how she in turn had failed him, she felt guilty as hell.
Mina was shaken out of her guilt as she suddenly remembered that she had to have her car serviced. She had been promising herself that she would get it done. The car was totally unreliable and did not always start when she turned the ignition. Hopefully it would not break down on her way to the village in the afternoon.
Mina decided to stay at home that morning. She had no teaching duties, and felt she needed to jot down some translation notes about the tablet, particularly regarding the mathematical references in the text. She could not understand what they referred to but hopefully someone would. She personally knew at least two scholars working on mathematical cuneiform texts who might help her interpret these formulas.
Mina hadn’t progressed very far in her transcription of the mathematical equations when Hassan rang her doorbell. He seemed in a terrible hurry.
‘Hello Hassan. Everything ok?’
‘So, so… I got you the labourer’s details. His name is Hassaf. I wrote down his address.’
He handed her a piece of paper. ‘It isn’t a nice part of Mosul. You shouldn’t go there alone. I tried meeting him earlier but he was already out at work. No phone, no amenities. It’s a terrible place.’
Noticing her scribbled notes and the tablet on her desk, he asked ‘Any progress?’
‘Not much. I’ve been trying to render the mathematical equations in the second part of the text, the one that’s broken, but I don’t have the necessary books here. I’ll have to transcribe them as they are, work on the translation at the department and discuss these matters with a specialist later.’
‘Right,’ he said, a little disappointed.
‘What about you? You seem a bit troubled.’
‘I owe some money to someone, and I need to return it by today.’
‘I’m amazed that anyone would keep to deadlines in this place.’
Hassan’s face darkened. ‘Some people do, Madam.’
He rushed off. Mina wondered what he had meant. He seemed so un-Hassan-like, so serious. It was as if she had been given a glimpse of another world of which she had no inkling. Perhaps H
assan was in more serious trouble than she had assumed. She wondered if she should discuss this with Professor Almeini.
By early afternoon, Mina had checked herself a dozen times in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She had not worn her field archaeologist’s outfit for months. It consisted of a pair of jeans with a kameez on top, head and neck covered with coloured linen scarves, and battered canvas army boots. She suddenly missed her life in New York where she could dress any way she wished. What choice did she have in Iraq? Particularly as she was going to a remote village. ‘I’m not going on a date, after all,’ she thought to herself. She checked herself one last time in the mirror and walked out of her flat.
Once she got into her car she closed her eyes, made a silent prayer, and turned the ignition. The car started. It had to be a good omen.
After many twists and turns, she finally arrived at the village. She parked her car by the side of the road, stepped out cautiously and knocked on the door of the first house. An old woman came out. Mina said she had an appointment with Jack and wanted to know how to get to wherever he was. After a while, Mina realised that the reason the old woman kept smiling was that she had absolutely no idea where the men were. Mina had no reception on her mobile phone, so she could not reach Jack that way. As she walked back to her car, feeling somewhat helpless, a young boy came out of another house to meet her.
‘Hello Madam.’
‘Hello.’
‘I’m Jack’s collaborator.’
Mina smiled at the boy’s self-important tone. She immediately recognised him from the Professor’s description of Jack’s side-kick.
‘He asked me to take you to him when you arrived,’ he added.
‘You must be Muhad,’ she stated.
‘Yes Madam,’ answered the boy and beamed at her.
‘Let’s jump in the car then.’
This time, unfortunately, the car wouldn’t start. She lost her temper and cursed the day she’d bought the car in every language she could muster.
‘Don’t worry Madam Mina. If you are up to it, we can walk there. It is only a few miles’.
‘A few miles?’ she said.
She could just imagine the state in which she’d arrive there, sweaty and covered in dust. She doubted she would find a shower at their destination. The day was getting worse by the minute. Muhad was smiling at her.
‘What the hell,’ she thought. ‘Alright. Let’s go,’ she told the boy.
‘Excellent, Madam Mina. Follow me!’
‘Oh. Is it safe to leave the car here?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Everyone knows it’s yours. No-one comes to the village, Madam Mina.’
‘Just Mina, Muhad, Madam is for old ladies.’
‘OK.’
The more they progressed on their route, the more jovial Muhad became. He kept peppering her with questions, ‘Where is New York? Do you drive a S.U.V.? Are you an engineer? Are you married?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Muhad,’ she said, trying not to smile.
‘I know. Jack always says that I ask too many questions. The boy puffed up his chest and took on a deep voice, ‘If you want to be a man, Muhad, you need to ask fewer questions and acquire gravitas’. He turned to Mina, ‘What’s gravitas Mina? Jack won’t tell me.’
She laughed. She could just imagine the daily banter between the man and this young boy. What a pair they were, the American engineer and his small, questioning associate. She understood why the professor spoke with such fondness of Muhad. He was very endearing.
As she gazed at the desert landscape surrounding them, the dusty road and detritus on either side, she thought of an article she’d read about the neurosis of Arab émigrés longing for the cleanliness of the desert. When she first read this sentence she thought to herself that it had reminded her of the line in Lawrence of Arabia, ‘Why do you love the desert so, Lawrence?’ ‘Because it is clean.’
She herself had often felt a longing for the desert when stuck in a traffic jam or when submerged in problems back home. She had even gone travelling to New Mexico with a friend, hoping to find some solace in the emptiness of the landscape. But she had not found it, and instead had ended up here, in the real desert.
She realised she hadn’t gone walking like this since she’d first arrived in Mosul. She remembered the first days, visiting every corner of the city, her joy at being there among her fellow countrymen. But slowly, without becoming ‘one of them’ in the least, she had lost herself in work at the university and somehow forgotten the reason behind her deeper desire and longing to be here. Would she have been the same person back in New York? Would she have forgotten who she was, for the greater good of the university? Possibly. It was a strange conundrum she’d noticed among many university lecturers, who’d arrive as scholars but retire as administrators.
‘We’re almost there Madam Mina,’ said the young boy, who was practically skipping with excitement. His elation was contagious. Mina was looking forward to witnessing the moment the water gushed out. She was already thinking over the outlines of an interesting paper she would write on ethical scholarship and the overlap between archaeology and humanitarian work.
As the road twisted to the right, a group of men hard at work appeared in the afternoon sun. Digging like this would have been unthinkable during the summer but it was winter and the temperature was bearable, even in the early afternoon. The men were eager to find the water source and Mina thought that they would probably have braved the summer’s dazzling heat with just the same dedication. Jack looked up and noticed two figures approaching. He stopped what he was doing and walked towards them.
Despite his jeans and shirt being coated in dirt, he had the same rugged and handsome air about him as he had at their first meeting in the more rarefied confines of the university. She couldn’t help but notice his thick brown hair and his firm chest, shoulders and arms, all seemingly carved out of wood. His lack of pretension and unpretentious walk made him all the more attractive. He was definitely the strong, silent type. With every step he took towards them, Mina felt her heart beating faster.
‘Mina, I’m so happy you could make it,’ he said, looking straight at her with his piercing blue eyes. ‘Why didn’t you drive up here?’
‘My car broke down in the village,’ she replied, slightly embarrassed.
‘Man, you must be exhausted!’ He turned to his sidekick, ‘Muhad, where’s the Prof? Did you leave him in the village so you could keep Mina to yourself?’
Muhad blushed and dropped his head. Mina struggled not to burst out laughing. ‘The professor couldn’t make it, but I’m sure he’s as anxious as me and young Muhad here to see the result of your work.’
Muhad looked up at Mina and gave her a large, toothy grin.
‘You drove to the village alone? That was really dangerous,’ Jack said to Mina, trying not to seem too concerned.
‘I said I was coming,’ she answered, ‘So I came’.
Mina wasn’t quite sure, but she thought that Jack did not seem overly disappointed about Almeini’s absence.
‘Right!’ he replied quickly in an effort to change the subject. ‘Let’s join the workers. We’ve almost cracked it!’
When they reached the elevated spot where the men had been digging, Mina could feel the expectation in the air. She stood among them for what seemed an eternity, with little Muhad jumping around the trench. The men seemed so hopeful and absolutely focused on what they were doing. Suddenly, in the settled stillness of the air, they heard a gurgling sound, then a trickle of muddy water appeared.
Great cries of ‘Allahuakbar!’ went up and the workers yelled with joy. They had found the water pocket. Some were crying, others laughing madly. Jack was running left and right shouting orders to the various workers. He was smiling broadly, but had not lost his head: they needed to make sure that the water was channelled immediately, and he was already calculating the potential supply to the village from the flow of the water. The men got back to work with renewed vi
gour.
After a while, covered in mud, Jack waved to Mina and smiled. She smiled back. There was a feeling of elation in the air, a sense of easiness. Here in the middle of nowhere, in the most basic conditions, they had witnessed and shared undiluted joy. ‘Water gushing from the bowels of the desert …It’s like a tale from the thousand and one nights,’ thought Mina.
Hassan was on his way back to the small flat he shared with his mother, more light-hearted than he had been in months. Mina believed in him, valued his opinion and had confided in him. He would tell his mother to stop worrying about him, that he would make amends and resume his studies. He was in such a dreamy state he did not see the two men waiting in the side alley beside his mother’s block of flats. They grabbed him as he passed by and flung him into the alley. A huge man punched Hassan hard behind the ear and he was knocked off balance. The man held him against the wall, while his skinny partner took out a flick knife.
‘You are two days late.’
‘I’m sorry! I was going to pay you two days ago, but I was not paid by my boss. I’ll have it soon.’
The huge man punched him again, hard.
‘You were warned. Three weeks, not one day more,’ he said, and brought the knife up to Hassan’s throat.
‘Please!’
The skinny thug winked at the huge man and punched Hassan full in the face. His nose broke and blood gushed down his face.
‘I can get the money! In two days, I’ll have the money,’ begged Hassan.
‘How’s that?’ asked the thug.
‘My boss owes me money. I’ll explain the situation to him. Two days. Please!’ The man glared at him, hesitating over what to do next.
‘Right. You know what two extra days means?’
Hassan nodded.
‘We add ten percent to the total.’
Hassan nodded again.
‘You have two days. If you don’t have the money then, we will be visiting your mother.’
The 13th Tablet Page 5