Robin Cook: Sphinx

Wetting his finger, Abdul tested the pigment. His finger was smudged with burnt sienna. “You are absolutely right.” He repeated the test on the two antiques. “The fooler is made the fool. Such is life.”

“How much are these two real antique pots?” asked Erica.

“They are not for sale. Someday, perhaps, but not now.”

Taped to the underside of the glass countertop was an official-looking document with government stamps from the Department of Antiquities. Antica Abdul was a fully licensed antique shop. Next to the license was a printed paper saying that written guarantees on antiquities would be supplied on request. “What do you do when a customer wants a guarantee?” asked Erica.

“I give it to them. For the tourist it makes no difference. They are happy with their souvenir. They never check.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No, it does not bother me. Righteousness is a luxury of the wealthy. The merchant always tries to get the highest price for his wares, for himself and his family. The tourists who come in here want souvenirs. If they want authentic antiquities they know something about them. It is their responsibility. How is it that you know about pigment on ancient pottery?”

“I am an Egyptologist.”

“You are an Egyptologist! Allah be praised! Why would a beautiful woman like yourself want to be an Egyptologist? Ah, the world has passed by Abdul Hamdi. I am indeed getting old. So you have been to Egypt before?”

“No, this is my first trip. I wanted to come before, but it was too expensive. It’s been a dream of mine for some time.”

“Well, I pray that you will enjoy it. You are planning to go to Upper Egypt? To Luxor?”

“Of course.”

“I will give you the address of my son’s antique shop.”

“So he can sell me some fake pottery?” said Erica with a smile.

“No, no, but he can show you some nice things. I too have some wonderful things. What do you think of this?” Abdul lifted a mummiform figure from the cabinet and set it on the counter. It was made of wood covered with plaster and exquisitely painted. A row of hieroglyphic writing ran down the front.

“It is a fake,” said Erica quickly.

“No,” said Abdul, alarmed.

“The hieroglyphics are not real. It says nothing. It is a meaningless row of signs.”

“You can read the mysterious writing as well?”

“That is my specialty, especially writing from the time of the New Kingdom.”

Abdul turned the statue around, looking at the hieroglyphics. “I paid plenty for this piece. I’m certain it is real.”

“Perhaps the statue is real, but the writing is not. Maybe the writing was added in an attempt to make the piece appear even more valuable.” Erica attempted to wipe off some of the black color on the statue. “The pigment seems stable.”

“Well, let me show you something else.” Abdul reached within the glass-topped cabinet and extracted a small cardboard box. Removing the top of the box, he selected a number of scarabs and placed them in a row on the cabinet. With his forefinger he pushed one toward Erica.

She picked it up and examined it. It was made of a porous material, its top exquisitely carved in the form of the familiar dung beetle revered by the ancient Egyptians. Turning it over, Erica was surprised to see the cartouche of a pharaoh, Seti I. The hieroglyphic carving was absolutely beautiful.

“It is a spectacular piece,” said Erica, replacing it on the counter.

“So you wouldn’t mind having that antique?”

“Not at all. How much is it?”

“It is yours. It is a present.”

“I can’t accept such a gift. Why do you want to give me a present?”

“It is an Arabic custom. But let me warn you, it is not authentic.”

Surprised, Erica lifted the scarab to the light. Her initial impression did not change. “I think it is real.”

“No. I know it is not real because my son made it.”

“It’s extraordinary,” said Erica, looking again at the hieroglyphics.

“My son is very good. He copied the hieroglyphics from a real piece.”

“What is it made of?”

“Ancient bone. There are enormous caches of broken-up mummies in Luxor and Aswan in the ancient public catacombs. My son uses the bone to carve the scarabs. To make the cut surface look old and worn, we feed them to our turkeys. One pass through a turkey gives it a truly venerable appearance.”

Erica swallowed, fleetingly sickened by contemplating the scarab’s biological journey. But intellectual interest quickly overcame her physical response, and she turned the scarab over and over in her fingers. “I admit, I was fooled, and would be again.”

“Don’t be upset. Several of these have been taken to Paris, where the curators think they know everything, and they were tested.”

“Probably carbon-dated,” interjected Erica.

“Whatever. Anyway, they were declared truly ancient. Well, obviously the bone was ancient. Now my son’s scarabs are in museums around the world.”

A cynical laugh escaped from Erica. She knew she was dealing with an expert.

“My name is Abdul Hamdi, so please call me Abdul. What is your name?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Erica Baron.” She placed the scarab on the counter.

“Erica, I would be pleased if you joined me for some mint tea.”

Abdul put the other pieces back into their places, then drew aside the heavy red-brown drapes. Erica had enjoyed talking with Abdul, but she hesitated a moment before picking up her bag and advancing toward the opening. The back room was about the same size as the front part of the shop, but it appeared to have no doors or windows. The walls and floor were covered with Oriental carpets, giving the area the appearance of a tent. In the center of the room were cushions, a low table, and a water pipe.

“One moment,” said Abdul. The curtain fell back into place, leaving Erica to stare at several large objects that were completely draped with cloth. She could hear the crackling noises of the beads in the front entrance, and muffled shouts as Abdul ordered tea.

“Please sit down,” Abdul said when he returned, indicating the large cushions on the floor. “It is not often I have the pleasure of entertaining a lady so beautiful and so knowledgeable. Tell me, my dear, where are you from in America?”

“Originally I’m from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica somewhat nervously. “But I live in Boston now, or actually Cambridge, which is right next to Boston.” Erica’s eyes slowly moved around the small room. The single incandescent bulb hanging in the center gave the deep reds of the Oriental carpets an incredibly rich softness, like red velvet.

“ Boston, yes. It must be beautiful in Boston. I have a friend there. We write occasionally. Actually, my son writes. I cannot write in English. I have a letter from him here.” Abdul rummaged through a small chest by the cushions, producing a typed letter addressed to Abdul Hamdi, Luxor, Egypt. “Perhaps you know him?”

“ Boston is a very big city…” began Erica before she caught sight of the return address: Dr. Herbert Lowery, her boss. “You know Dr. Lowery?” she asked incredulously.

“I’ve met him twice and we write occasionally. He was very interested in a head of Ramses II that I had about a year ago. A wonderful man. Very clever.”

“Indeed,” said Erica, amazed that Abdul would be corresponding with such an eminent figure as Dr. Herbert Lowery, chairman of the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. It made her considerably more at ease.

As if sensing Erica’s thoughts, Abdul fished several other letters from his little cedar chest. “Here are letters from Dubois, at the Louvre, and Caufield, at the British Museum.”