by JT Osbourne
"The key," he insisted, "is to get marching ahead of the supply lines. Let the money catch up. Once the train leaves the station, everybody will want to get aboard."
Brook had heard this theory from her father many times, and had applied it to her own work. The success of the template was one of the reasons Professor Green assigned her to so many grant proposals and strategic funding schemes. Nobody liked a beggar, but, if a project looked like it was in full swing, and therefore like it was just a matter of a few dollars at the donor’s convenience, people could be remarkably generous.
Jacob's campaign had started in Petra, but the scope quickly expanded to include Zimbabwe, Angkor, and Copán in Central America. For archaeologists, it was the Marshall Plan, the moon-shot, and the race to the A-bomb all in one. Suddenly, funding opened up for digs all over the world. Connections were made; matching styles of pottery, use of tools, the spread of specific sailing techniques, language, writing, DNA—all of it pointed to the "one-world" theory propagated by Cale Burlington his entire career, indicating that there had been a great deal of inter-civilization interaction for thousands of years.
Brook, for her part, had never looked into it. She avoided the whole embarrassing episode, blocking it out of her mind. Her only regret was that she hadn't changed her last name when she'd had the chance.
When she woke in the hot Egyptian afternoon, it took her a few minutes to reorient herself with her location, (the hotel room in Alexandria) the time, (almost five p.m.) and the reason she was there (sweaty with fever). Then came the opposite sensation, shivering as if dunked into ice, with the air-conditioning blowing mercifully over her face. Naked on top of the sheets, she remembered her concern about surveillance, then laughed. She didn't care. She wasn't pregnant.
Brook remembered Katy hinting at it as she had guided Brook back to the room. Not unless I really misunderstood Miss Thompson's sex-ed class! She cringed when recalling the memory of her awkward middle-school days. “More like food-poisoning," she added, testing her voice along with the rest of her body. She crawled out of bed and paced the room, checking the view—still magnificent. "Or stress."
She took a look at her phone—which held many unread messages—and the computer, which held a multitude of messages too. She picked the one from Marta first.
"Not Safe For Work!" was the headline of the first e-mail. She'd attached the scan of Muller's first letter home, to a woman named only as "D." It was Muller's handwriting all right, the tiniest version, cramming everything he could fit onto a single page and its reverse.
Any thought that Muller had been some sort of Nazi robot was quickly dispelled by Marta's translation, which was downright pornographic; a string of lustful thoughts, imaginings and fantasies, as earthly as anything Brook had ever read, and nothing she would ever expect a man to say to a woman; certainly nothing a man had said to her.
Brook felt herself getting warm again as she read. A pink blush ran up her body, and suddenly aware of her nakedness, she put on a hotel-supplied bathrobe before she kept on reading. There was nothing in the letter of any real help to Brook's quest, except maybe an insight into Muller's psyche—a place she wasn't sure she wanted to go. To Brook's understanding, Muller hadn't given away any state secrets, divulged his location, or said anything else improper—besides the sex, of course.
Did the Gestapo allow this sort of thing? Weren’t these letters usually censored? Brook was sure that Allied troops had their mail read, both incoming and outgoing. Surely it had to be the same with the Germans?
If it was censored, what did they think of this? Or did Muller's mail somehow bypass the normal channels?
When she had finished reading the letters over again—they were no less shocking the second time, Brook remarked on them to Marta in an e-mail—she thanked her former student, and asked her to translate the rest of the diary, starting with the last one and moving to the first.
Afterwards, Brook wrote a short note to Professor Green detailing everything she currently knew about Neferu of Rakota, which wasn't much. Her lone suggestion was to look for statues dated about that time, possibly in Italian museums—"Everyone forgets the Italians," she wrote.
***
"Italians..." Professor Green mused, reading the note in his office while sipping his third cup of morning coffee—one cup over his limit. He checked his watch, and then picked up the phone.
"Hello there, Lucia!" Green enthused.
"Stuart!" Lucia cooed from across the Atlantic, "it is good to hear you."
They chatted for a few minutes about all sorts of things, avoiding anything important. Their affair, which neither wanted to admit was now mostly in the past, had continued through several decades, and Green never missed an opportunity to call her. He'd asked her to marry him once. She'd laughed, and he hadn't asked a second time. Their relationship was destined to float casually on the surface; Lucia insisted on it. It was the best she could do—she knew Green's deepest secrets, and both were amazed she'd even speak to him because of them. She now held a position with the Italian Police Department’s Art Squad, which brought her to the US once a year. Every other year, Green went to Italy to see her.
"I have some business for you this time," Professor Green told Lucia. "I'm looking for a sculptor, a man by the name of Neferu of Rakota. He's Egyptian, first century BC, with a penchant for signing his work on the bottom. I know he does busts and funeral columns, but that’s about all I know."
"Egyptian?"
"Yes, hailing from the area of El Alamein and Alexandria, around there. I thought maybe one of your squads might have picked up a souvenir or two during the war."
Lucia didn't reply.
Perhaps I've insulted her. You've done much worse, haven't you, Stu?
"Maybe you should call your German girlfriend," Lucia replied eventually. "Sounds more like the Germans’ area. Most of our guys just wanted to get home to their Nonna’s cooking."
Green laughed. "It was just an idea."
"You wanted an excuse to call me," Lucia said bluntly, without sentiment.
"Absolutely. And you know I don't have a German girlfriend."
"This is for Brook Burlington, isn't it?" Lucia accused.
"Yes," Green answered honestly, not surprised at the question.
"Is she still looking for Cleopatra?"
"It's not a bad thing to do, is it?" Green reasoned.
"I guess not. How is the poor little girl?"
"No longer a little girl, and not poor at all, Lucia."
"She'll always be poor with a father like that."
Green could hear Lucia suck her teeth at the other end, maybe spitting, too. She was a beautiful woman, but she could be rather uncouth sometimes.
"I'm sorry," he said, out of the blue. Their whole ugly past was coming back.
"You're trying to help her out," Lucia stated.
"Yes, of course."
"I'll see what I can do," Lucia said finally. "Ciao, Stuart."
She hung up on him before he could say goodbye, or anything else.
Maybe that wasn't such a good idea after all.
32
Cairo, Egypt
Tom Manor easily found the spot where he'd first met the brothers with the felucca.
At least your memory didn't get hurt, Tom told himself. The pain was still fairly intense, and he still walked with a limp, but all that paled in comparison to his guilty curiosity surrounding what had happened to the two brothers on the boat. Tom feared they were dead; drowned instead of him in the Nile during the attack.
You don't know that, do you? he reasoned with himself. Tom understood that the world was full of optimists and pessimists—“half-full” guys vs. “half-empty” ones—but his world was different. He lived in the wonderful present, with a grin on his face, enjoying the moment. He was a Buddhist without portfolio, a natural-born "now" man. Good things had come to Tom without much effort, and bad things in very small doses. This recent kidnapping had been a real shock to his sys
tem, and he desperately needed to see the world put right again.
Communication with the bewildered boatmen at the dock was impossible. They understood Tom wanted something from them but they had no idea exactly what. Foreigners never spoke to them, which was fine as far as they were concerned.
As Tom attempted to describe the two men to yet another puzzled group of fishermen a mile down the river from where he first started, he stopped short.
A few hundred yards downstream one of the wooden boats sat half-in/half-out of the water—a wreck really, but there were shreds of tent attached to the wet, rotting slats.
My tent! Tom realized. He gestured and pointed to the vessel. The fishermen shrugged, no idea what he was saying. Tom walked away, hurrying down to the felucca to be sure. Finding no one there, Tom called to the entire area:
"Hello? Where are the men who own this boat?!"
Everyone within earshot responded by turning away, embarrassed, which Tom momentarily mistook for grief—The brothers must be dead! But then one of the fishermen, an old man, short and spry, signaled to Tom.
"Come, come!" he called in English, pointing down a narrow lane.
Tom limped over, and the old man gestured down what looked like the very definition of a dangerous dark alley. The old man threw his hand straight ahead, and then jerked it to a hard-right angle, over and over.
"Go, go!" he said, grinning, making Tom all the more suspicious. He had dodged death a couple times already on this crazy journey, and didn't care to try the maneuver again.
"Okay," Tom agreed, taking on the attitude of his old self again, and headed in the direction the old man indicated.
The alley was filthy with trash, and descended slightly, the local adobe brick on each side. The windows lining it had were long-since broken and never replaced, or covered with sheets of plywood or cloth. Tom smelled food cooking, and heard children crying and grown-ups fighting with each other—not that different from slums found worldwide, but an environment as foreign to Tom as a crater on Venus.
He turned right, like the old man had instructed, and there they were, squatted on the doorstep of a closet-sized room, leaning over the small wood-fired camp-stove they'd used on board. That was what Tom recognized first, followed by the aroma of one of their exquisitely spiced dishes. They ate with their heads down, scooping out their bowls with unleavened bread.
The younger one looked up first, and gasped, nearly choking. He stared at Tom like he'd seen a ghost, and nudged his brother with a shaking elbow. The older one, who'd been bolder and friendlier once, pushed his brother away, and said something sharp in Arabic. Eventually Tom caught the older brother's attention, too, and he rose and put down his bowl, tears in his eyes, wiping his hands on his pants. Tom shook hands with them both, and all three embraced, Lazaruses raised from the dead.
"Thank God," they muttered in their own languages.
At the brothers' invitation, Tom sat and ate with them. The younger one eventually chattered surreptitiously to his brother. The older one hesitated before he spoke, reluctant to bring up such unpleasantness. "My brother says no refunds.”
Tom waved the idea away elaborately, and pulled out the newly bought pouch hanging under his shirt against his rib-cage, handing the brothers the second installment of the fee they'd agreed to originally.
"For your boat," Tom insisted, standing and holding a palm out to repel their objections. "Insurance, for your boat. Get it fixed. Or buy a new one. Yours." He scurried off, not wanting to argue the point. A bad thing had come close to him—two bad things, counting each brother—and just the hint of that dread had been overwhelming. He was anxious now to quickly put as much distance between himself and them as he could.
33
Alexandria, Egypt
The sun was down by the time Brook left her room to look for supper. Famished, yet preferring not to brave the city as a woman alone, she decided to just try the hotel dining room. To Brook's surprise, Ali and Katy sat at a table near the window, eating, drinking, and having a good time. A flash of jealousy ran up Brook's spine. She knew in an instant they were perfect for each other—at least for a night or two, maybe a month—and there was nothing she could do about it. Just as Brook was about to turn around and brave a room-service adventure, Ali spotted her and waved wildly for her to come over and join them.
The maître d’ joined in the conspiracy, happy to escort Brook over, like a hostage, pressing a menu into her hand and picking a chair for her. Defeated, Brook sat.
"I'm surprised to see you eating in the hotel," she told them both. "Ali is a bit of a food-snob, you know," she said to Katy. So is Katy for that matter, Brook recalled too late. "Figured you'd be out and about."
"Ali insisted we stay close by," Katy said. "He thought it would be inappropriate to go out dining and dancing when you were sick a-bed."
"A-bed?" Brook smirked.
"It's a perfectly good word! I run an antique shop, after all. I pick up quaint phrases, don't I?"
Katy directed the speech to Ali with a toast of her wine glass, a wink and a smile. They were already an item, Brook could see. If they hadn't slept together, they'd do it tonight, certainly.
Brook refused to feel hurt, or angry. She gripped the menu and pretended to peruse it. Both Ali and Katy knew to be quiet. "I'm not pregnant, by the way," she blurted
Ali and Katy gave each other a look, stifling laughs like a couple of children.
"You said that last night," Katy replied, "when I was helping you to bed."
"A-bed."
"That's right, helping you a-bed," Katy smiled.
"But you didn't believe me," Brook accused, looking up and over the edge of the menu.
"None of my business."
"Well, I'm not," Brook repeated, to Ali this time.
She ordered, and ate it all, hungry again and feeling fine. If Ali and Katy wanted each other, that was just fine. The least Brook could do was make them watch her eat her supper. "That was delicious, by the way," Brook announced when she was done.
What little talk there'd been during the meal was about the dig that day, which had gone the same as every other day. Except Ali and Katy had spent it together, Brook suspected. She wanted to ask Katy if she'd made any progress in getting the scroll she'd seen at St. Mary's convent to the Israeli archivists. Katy hadn't mentioned the subject, probably because Ali was there, so Brook went along with her decision and resigned herself to looking for the first opportunity. When Ali excused himself to go to the men's room, she leaned forward…
Before a certain person entering the restaurant made Brook forget everything.
34
Morgantown, WV
Professor Green ambled slowly across campus. He enjoyed the fall day—it was his favorite season— and the sound of colored leaves crunching underfoot. Some students were in a hurry, but others had all the time in the world, it seemed. Somewhere, Green figured, people who didn't know any better were dismissing the Liberal Arts. "Waste of money, won't get you a better job, ivory tower, blah blah."
Green had heard the arguments. He'd argued back.
"The Liberal Arts aren't about getting a better job, or a degree," he'd said on numerous occasions. "They're about studying the world, increasing Man's knowledge of it, handing down that knowledge to the next generation. Maybe you want to be an engineer or a nurse or a plumber or a computer technician, maybe you don't think you need college, but everybody I ever met who said he didn't, actually did, in my opinion. It doesn't hurt to learn a little art, a second language, or some biology."
Green recalled all those conversations as he walked the campus en route to proving exactly his point.
The Art Department was mostly a single large warehouse space occupied by undergrads, graduate students, and faculty; blowing glass, throwing pots, painting, drawing, and sculpting.
Professor Green paused at the door to look around. The activity always amazed him. At some point, a department head had decided individual rooms were co
unter-revolutionary, and art could only thrive if the individual disciplines worked in the one space rather than competing against each other in their respective cubby-holes.
Before long, Green found who he was looking for: Emily Losser, an old friend, and the first person he met on joining the faculty long ago.
"Stuart! Over here!" Emily shouted from across the room, her voice cutting through all the activity. Green went to her, and they hugged.
"You look terrific!" Emily said.
"I'm old," Green admitted.
"Tell me about it."
"How's Nelson?"
"Same as always. Reading. Writing. Home alone, the way he likes it," Emily said. Green nodded; Emily's husband had always been a recluse. "Come back to the office," she said. "You have something to show me on the computer?"
"Yes. Thanks so much."
They walked back to Emily's office, similar to Green's but smaller, cluttered with books and manuscripts. The computer was on. Emily offered the lone chair, and he took a seat.
"I uploaded about two hundred photos," he said, finding them. "Sculptures, all dated from about the same period."
"And you want me to decide which ones were carved by the same sculptor."
"Exactly," Green said. He gave Emily the chair, and cycled through photographs. Busts, archways, ruins mostly, some on exhibit in museums, some out in the open where they had stood for two thousand years.
"This is a tall order," Emily told Green, studying each one for a few seconds.
"Is it?"
"Yes, it is."
"I don't know much about art—"
"But you know what you like."
Green laughed. "No, that wasn't what I was going to say, actually, and I really don't know what I like."
"You don't like anything," Emily told him, smiling.
Green wanted to disagree, but he knew it was no use. That was his reputation; a grumpy old professor. Real “get off my lawn” type.