by Chad Brecher
5
The door squeaked as Alex pushed it open. Probing the wall in the dark, his fingers found the light switch and flipped it on. He hesitated as the fluorescent lights emitted a buzz, flickered, and filled the room with a greenish-yellow glow. Alex could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the corner competing with the metallic clanging of an old radiator.
The office seemed even smaller than usual this night. Up above, the guests had long since departed, leaving the staff to restore the foyer of the museum to its previous state.
Alex felt exhausted, his shoulders sore from holding aloft a seemingly endless number of glasses. The arches of his feet pulsated with a dull ache. As he closed the door behind him with a click, his thoughts drifted to the beautiful and tragic woman and the strange events that had transpired this night.
Dr. Eleanor Griffin.
Alex maneuvered through the office space, stepping over a satchel and winding past a tower of books, before depositing the wooden box on his workbench. Reaching beneath the desk pushed against his workbench, he pressed the computer tower’s power button and glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight and he responded with a yawn. Another midnight at the museum, Alex contemplated as he pulled off the tuxedo jacket and laid it over the back of April’s chair.
The computer screen whirled to life, the background an ink schematic of the Roman Coliseum. His fingers found the knot in his bow tie, which he tiredly tugged at until it suddenly released and unfolded, hanging limply across his neck. He brought up a search engine with a single stroke of the mouse button from his left hand as his right hand unbuttoned his dress shirt. He quickly changed into the pair of jeans and tee-shirt that had been crumpled on his chair in a ball before settling himself in front of the computer. Alex grabbed a half-empty bottle of water sitting on his desk, took a sip, and deposited it on the edge of his workbench.
The cursor blinked impatiently in the search engine box. His fingers found the keyboard and he quickly typed in “Eleanor Griffin.” A long list of entries appeared and he sifted through them, ultimately finding a link to the New York University website. Clicking on this entry, Alex was directed to the Department of Ancient Near Eastern and Egyptian Studies. A long directory of faculty ran down the screen, an eclectic assortment of scholars studying anything from zooarchaeology to gender studies in ancient Syria. Alex found Eleanor Griffin’s name and photo at the bottom of the list, followed by a description of her academic training and accomplishments. Her areas of interest were listed as “Hebrew Bible, pre-Biblical archeology, and ancient Near Eastern studies.”
Alex gripped the mouse and returned to the search engine. What was that Egyptologist’s name? Alex asked himself, trying to think back to a class on Ancient Egypt he’d taken as an undergraduate. Henry…no, Harold Griffin. He typed in the name and found a similar, apparently infinite list of websites. Alex squeezed his chin as he navigated through the entries, discarding one after another until he arrived at a link to The Journal of Egyptology.
Like many academic journals today, prior issues had been digitally scanned into a database and were available over the internet. Fortunately, Alex had access to the journal through a shared account at the MET and with a click of the mouse, he was redirected to a lengthy obituary on Dr. Harold Griffin. The obituary was an impressive recollection of the many great achievements of Dr. Griffin, from his role in excavations at Giza and Luxor to his contributions to elucidating the complex world of hieroglyphics. The final paragraph reflected on the archeologist’s untimely death, apparently from a car crash in which his wife also perished. The last sentence stated that he was “survived by his beloved, only child, Eleanor.”
Alex did the calculations in his head. The journal dated back to nineteen seventy-eight. He figured that would make her around eight to ten when she was orphaned. He couldn’t say that he had a spectacular relationship with his parents. They never approved of his decision to pursue a career in antiquities. His parents would much preferred that he follow a more “responsible” and “predictable” path, like many of his childhood friends — pursue a “real profession” such as medicine, law, or investment banking. Alex was sad to say that they remained in a state of denial, holding out hope that one day Alex would snap out of his latest daydream, as if he were still a child enchanted with pirates or space ships. However, through all of it, they were at least there in case he needed them.
Alex thought back to the way the woman had stared at the statue of the bull in the exhibit hall, the way in which her body language simultaneously conveyed a sense of impenetrability and fragility. Then later that night at the taxi stand, he watched as her eyes fixated upon the wooden box as he retrieved it from the ground, with a mix of guilt and…What was it?…relief.
The box.
He had nearly forgotten about it. Alex dragged his chair from beside his workbench, turned on a small desk lamp, and grabbed the lamp’s moldable, swan-like neck. Bending the silver frame downward, he focused the yellow light upon the box. Lifting the object with both hands, he began to examine the box with the attention a jeweler might give to a precious diamond.
The box was constructed out of a brown wood that was so pale, it was almost ivory. He estimated that it was approximately 6 x 2 ½ x 2 ½ inches and seemed heavier than expected for a box of that size. He brought the box up towards his ear and gently shook it. Nothing rattled inside, and he lowered it again to the table. Each of the surfaces of the box except the bottom had an intricate carving. These carvings were raised from the surface of the box like bas reliefs. The surrounding surface was a silky, smooth canvas without a single blemish or defect.
His attention was first drawn to the top of the box. There was an elaborate carving of a cross with flayed and blunted ends, like the bottom of a pedestal or the base of a grandfather clock. The cross appeared to sprout from a cloud-like structure that flowed around the foundation. Each end of the bars that formed the cross had three small circles with a central dot affixed to it. At the junction of the bars, there were three similar circles. Alex was intrigued by the image before him. He had never seen such a cross during his studies and preparation for the upcoming exhibit on crucifixes. The three circles conjured up a fairly typical Christian motif of the Holy Trinity, but the cloudlike structure was an unusual added feature.
Alex turned the box onto its side. There was a crest carved onto the long side of the box. The crest was a relatively simple design, with three birds walking single-file against a flowing-ribbon. The birds had prominent beaks, wings tucked down by their sides, and stick-like feet. On the opposite side of the box, there was an identical crest.
Alex turned the box on end and examined the short sides. The first side he examined had a conventional cross that one might see at any Roman Catholic Church. Unlike the Greek cross, which had four arms of equal distance, the vertical component of this cross was longer than the arms. There was a simplicity to the cross that seemed strangely out of place when compared to the complex imagery on the top of the box.
The opposite short side had another cross that was distinctly pagan in origin. The top bar of the cross was looped back on itself, forming the appearance of a head sitting on the body of a person. Alex recognized it as an ancient Egyptian symbol but could not remember the significance of it.
He could see what made Graham so exasperated by the box and why he dismissed it as easily as he had. The symbols seemed to be arranged without a unifying theme. It almost appeared to be doodles of woodcraft. Yet, Alex remained intrigued by the piece. After all, some craftsman had clearly devoted a tremendous amount of time to its creation.
Alex looked beyond the symbols, exploring the edge of the box in the hope of finding a way to open it. Disappointed, he could not find even a hint of a gap in the wooden frame to suggest the presence of a lid that could be lifted. Perhaps this is not a box at all, Alex thought. He assumed, based on its shape, that it was, but maybe it was a wooden block. He had seen images of old printing presses that em
ployed wooden blocks that, when dipped into ink and pushed against a piece of paper or parchment, left an imprint. If this was the case, the shape was certainly unusual. The block would not have been used, as there was no trace of ink on the surface.
Alex placed the wooden object back onto the table and stretched. What had Dr. Griffin said before departing in the cab? Alex wondered as he squinted, eyes once again drawn to the box.
It’s nothing.
It rang of mournful deception.
Alex reflected momentarily on the stack of material on the Black Death that undoubtedly sat on Graham’s desk, waiting to be sifted through. Any distraction was better than being Graham’s lackey, Alex concluded. It did not hurt that Graham had so callously dismissed the object as insignificant. It would be nice to prove him wrong, Alex thought and smiled. He would just have to take it one symbol at a time. He would give it one night, and then back to the slave mines.
Alex retrieved a blank piece of paper and sketched out the sides of the box as if it were unfolded into two dimensions. He would start from the top — the unusual cross rising from the cloud. Reaching across his workbench, he gripped the binding of an oversized volume on Christian iconography resting horizontally on a shelf. He quickly realized he had miscalculated how heavy the book was, and his right elbow tried to lock to counter the weight, but instead it gave way. His elbow struck the half-empty bottle of water and knocked it on its side. The cap rolled across the workbench, followed by a rapidly increasing puddle of water. He attempted to grab the wooden box before the water reached it, but he was too late.
Holding the box in the air, Alex cursed himself for being so clumsy. How could I be so careless leaving a bottle of water in my work space! Alex groaned to himself. What if it was a priceless piece for the exhibit? My career could be over.
Alex shook his head as he held aloft the box, water droplets falling to the floor. He trotted over to the corner of the room and grabbed a wad of paper towels. Returning to his workbench, he peeled the saturated paper he had used to sketch the sides of the box from the surface of the table and placed them aside. He then used the fistful of paper towels to mop up the rest of the water. Covering the workbench with dry towels, he placed the box on its side, and retrieved a cotton towel he used to polish the metallic crosses. As he brought the towel to wipe off the bottom of the box, he froze. The towel dropped to the floor as he stared in disbelief at the box and then at his schematic of the six sides of the box.
It’s been a long night. Am I just overtired? Alex wondered.
He could have sworn that the bottom of the box had been blank.
6
Ellie could feel a warm tide of anxiety sweep over her as she neared the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the scene of her most recent embarrassment. After her very public meltdown, she had retreated into a cocoon of self-loathing, seeking refuge in her tiny, closet-sized apartment. Interrupted only by periodic visits from food-delivery people, she found a sense of peace in her separation from the rest of humanity. Indeed, Ellie was truly amazed at how easy it was to never have to step foot outside her apartment in New York City.
The cell phone had rung nearly ten times before she threw aside the comforter that was wrapped tightly around her head and wedged the phone between her ear and the pillow. The voice on the other end sounded tentative. He apologized for disturbing her and explained that he had gotten her phone number from her secretary at NYU. Ellie silently cursed Gail, the angelic secretary from the Department of Ancient Near Eastern and Egyptian Studies, who, undoubtedly concerned about Ellie’s deep descent into isolation, must have decided that any contact with the outside world was better than none at all.
The caller identified himself as Alex Stone, a graduate student working at the MET. He hesitated, as if suddenly realizing that he had woken Ellie at one in the afternoon. Ellie listened as he explained that he had examined the wooden box she had given him and would like to meet with her as soon as possible to discuss his findings.
Ellie groaned. The box! What is it with this box? she asked herself as she pushed her upper torso off the bed with her elbows, her curiosity piqued. It was like a bottle that the tide just kept bringing back to shore.
She tried to think back to the wine-filled gala, but her mind was cloudy. “Are you the waiter?” Ellie wondered.
There was a brief chuckle on the other end of the line. “I would say part-time waiter, full-time student. I’m actually a graduate student working with Dr. Graham.” The voice trailed off, allowing an uncomfortable silence to settle in. “…and yes, Dr. Graham is a complete ass.”
Ellie smiled. There was something pleasant and unassuming in the student’s voice that disarmed her.
“What have you found?” Ellie asked as she looked across the room and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a wild mess of blond. She ran her hands through it with displeasure.
“I’d rather just show you. It’s hard to explain over the phone. Could you come by the museum?”
Ellie rubbed at the dark rings below her eyes and scanned the apartment that had become her prison. “When?”
“Would tonight be too soon?”
Ellie pushed open the door and made her way into the grand entrance hall of the museum. She was happy to be rid of her high heels and evening gown. Ellie could easily blend into the throng of tourists milling about. Dressed in sneakers, jeans, a faded tee shirt, and hooded sweatshirt, Ellie adjusted her Yankees cap and scanned the room in search of a familiar face. A cacophony of hundreds of different conversations filled the expansive space. Visitors spilled out of gift shops, trotted up the marble staircase, and circled around the large information desk.
“Dr. Griffin…”
Ellie turned and tried to place the origin of the voice. She could see the waiter-cum-graduate student weave through a group of Japanese tourists. He was taller than she remembered, with light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a boyish smile. Dressed in khaki pants, brown sneakers, and a button-down light blue shirt, he immediately reminded her of a younger Gordon.
“Dr. Griffin…” He extended his hand and Ellie took it with some embarrassment, thinking back to her behavior at the gala.
As Ellie’s hand slid into his, Alex could not help but notice that her palm was unusually smooth. Ellie quickly withdrew it with a look of self-consciousness. Alex caught a glimpse of the palm of her hand, pink and glistening, before she brought her hands together.
“…Alex Stone. Thanks for coming on such short notice.” He caught her blue eyes under the lid of her cap and let out an awkward half-cough. “It’s pretty remarkable.”
Ellie raised her eyebrows.
“The box, that is. The box is remarkable,” Alex added, maneuvering her towards the information desk. Ellie could feel the faintest touch of the palm of his hand gently behind her right shoulder blade.
Arriving at the information desk, Alex smiled at an elderly lady behind the counter. She pushed a laminated card with the word VISITOR in blue across the countertop. Alex retrieved it by the string and passed it to Ellie, who looped it over her head and peered down with amusement at it swinging from her neck.
“I don’t get one of those fancy tin buttons to snap on my lapel?” she asked with a grin, noting a troop of rotund women wearing fanny packs happily snapping the tin MET buttons onto their shirts after handing over their “donations.”
“Where we are going, the tin buttons won’t get us in. The basement is not very glorious, but few people get the pleasure of being under one of the most impressive collections of art and culture in the world. Consider yourself lucky. Not to mention that’s where my crypt, I mean, office, is.”
Alex motioned for her to follow. They walked across the entrance hall until they arrived at a nondescript tan door in the corner. Ellie watched as Alex removed an ID card secured to his belt and slid it through a card reader. The door emitted a crisp snap. Alex held the door open as Ellie slipped through the opening. She glanced at her surroundings.
> They were in a stairwell lined by concrete walls. Somewhere below there was the drip-drip of water. The stairwell was not dirty, just sterile and industrial, a far cry from the ornate interior of the museum. Alex began to walk down the stairs, halted, and turned back to Ellie.
“Hey, even the Titanic had steerage,” he muttered with a grin.
Ellie smiled back and ducked slightly to avoid hitting a dangling PVC pipe. After walking down several flights of stairs, they arrived at another tan door. A small surveillance camera was perched in the corner above the doorway. Alex once again slid his ID card through a card reader and pushed the door open.
The hallway beyond the door was dark with long fluorescent lights along the walls. A guard sat by a desk and smiled upon seeing Alex.
“Hey. It’s my Main Man A,” teased the guard.
“Hey, Cyrus,” Alex responded with some embarrassment. “I have a visitor with me.”
The guard scrunched his chin and nodded as if in approval. “You know the drill, my Main Man. Sign on the dotted line.” Cyrus tilted a clipboard towards Ellie, who obliged. As she bent down she could see the guard give a thumbs-up sign to Alex. Straightening, she could see that Alex’s cheeks were flushed and he was shaking his head with dissatisfaction.
“Thanks, Cyrus,” Alex mumbled and led them further down the hallway. He looked over his shoulder at Ellie. “They store many of the artifacts not on display down here. There’s also a restoration laboratory, a couple of conference rooms, a kitchen…and last but not least…” Alex paused by a warped door with peeling paint. “…my office.”
Alex slipped a key into the lock and shoved the door open with his shoulder. “It sticks a bit,” he remarked, pushing it open with a grating noise. He reached in and flicked on the lights.
Ellie followed Alex in without a word. The office was about one-fifth the size of her office back at NYU. It was more akin to a storage closet than a workspace. The windowless room with exposed lead pipes and crumbling paint immediately transported Ellie back to Iraq, her ill-fated trip in the APC, and the overwhelming claustrophobia she felt. It was a memory she had fought hard to suppress for some time.