Читаем The 13th Tablet полностью

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 Hassan 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 emigres 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.