hurry. It is Christmas Eve. Maybe they hadn’t finished their shopping – the presents for the kids, the cheesecake for dessert. You know how it is . . .’
Yes,’ said Husseini. ‘It is Christmas Eve.’
He took the coffee that he had crushed in the mortar with the spices and poured it into the pot of water that was boiling on the stove. The aroma immediately became more intense, but softer and more penetrating. Blake realized that it was the smell of the spices and coffee that permeated the carpets on the floor, along with that of incense.
Husseini handed him a steaming cup and offered him a Turkish cigarette. He sat on his heels in front of Blake, smoking in silence and sipping the strong, aromatic coffee.
‘Is this what it’s like in your tent in the desert?’ asked Blake.
‘Oh, no. In my tent there are beautiful women and luscious dates. There’s a wind from the east that carries the fragrance of flowers from the high plain and you can hear the bleating of lambs. And when I walk out I see the columns of Apamea in front of me, pale at dawn and red at dusk. When the wind picks up, they sound like the organ pipes in your churches.’
Blake nodded, then took another sip of coffee and a drag on his cigarette. ‘So,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you stay in your fucking tent in the desert? What are you here for if you hate it so much?’
‘I didn’t say that I hate it here. I said it’s different. And I said so because you asked me. And if you want to know the truth, the only place I lived after the age of five was a refugee camp in southern Lebanon: a filthy, stinking sewer where we played among rats and garbage.’
‘But . . . what about the columns of Apamea, pale at dawn and red at dusk, that chime in the wind like organ pipes?’
‘Those I only dreamed about. That was how my grandfather – Abdallah al Husseini, may Allah preserve him – described them to me, but I’ve never seen them.’
They sat in silence for a long time.
‘I don’t understand why you were kicked out,’ said Husseini eventually. ‘I’d heard that you were one of the best in your field.’
‘You can say that again,’ answered Blake, holding out his cup for more coffee.
Husseini filled it, then said, ‘There was nothing I could do about it, because I’m not a full professor, but what about your friend Olsen? He could have cast a vote in your favour.’
‘Olsen had to leave for Egypt and so he couldn’t be there, but he sent in a note protesting the decision. Only him. No one else stood up for me. Anyway, if you really want to know how it went, I’ll tell you. But it’s a long story.’
‘It’s Christmas Eve and we both have time on our hands, I’d say.’
Blake lowered his head into his hands, overcome by a sudden wave of memories and anxiety. Maybe it would help to talk about it; who knows, maybe he’d get a handle on how to extricate himself from the whole mess, regain credibility.
‘It was about a year ago,’ he began. ‘I was examining some microfilms with texts from the New Kingdom which had been transcribed by James Henry Breasted just before World War One broke out. Stuff from the period of Ramses II or Merenptah, and there was something about a possible connection with the biblical Exodus. On the edge of the sheet, next to the transcription, there was a note scribbled in the margin. I’m sure you’ve seen samples of Breasted’s handwriting . . .’
Husseini nodded. ‘Of course. Go on.’
‘So you know how neat and regular it is. Well, that note, like I said, seemed really hurried, and it referred to another folder of his writings where he supposedly specified these connections to the Exodus. The note wasn’t even that clear, but I was intrigued by the idea. It would have been the discovery of a lifetime. Actual historical proof of the Exodus! I looked for that phantom folder in all the cellars and back rooms of the Oriental Institute, searched through all the old records, but there was no
Yes,’ said Husseini. ‘It is Christmas Eve.’
He took the coffee that he had crushed in the mortar with the spices and poured it into the pot of water that was boiling on the stove. The aroma immediately became more intense, but softer and more penetrating. Blake realized that it was the smell of the spices and coffee that permeated the carpets on the floor, along with that of incense.
Husseini handed him a steaming cup and offered him a Turkish cigarette. He sat on his heels in front of Blake, smoking in silence and sipping the strong, aromatic coffee.
‘Is this what it’s like in your tent in the desert?’ asked Blake.
‘Oh, no. In my tent there are beautiful women and luscious dates. There’s a wind from the east that carries the fragrance of flowers from the high plain and you can hear the bleating of lambs. And when I walk out I see the columns of Apamea in front of me, pale at dawn and red at dusk. When the wind picks up, they sound like the organ pipes in your churches.’
Blake nodded, then took another sip of coffee and a drag on his cigarette. ‘So,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you stay in your fucking tent in the desert? What are you here for if you hate it so much?’
‘I didn’t say that I hate it here. I said it’s different. And I said so because you asked me. And if you want to know the truth, the only place I lived after the age of five was a refugee camp in southern Lebanon: a filthy, stinking sewer where we played among rats and garbage.’
‘But . . . what about the columns of Apamea, pale at dawn and red at dusk, that chime in the wind like organ pipes?’
‘Those I only dreamed about. That was how my grandfather – Abdallah al Husseini, may Allah preserve him – described them to me, but I’ve never seen them.’
They sat in silence for a long time.
‘I don’t understand why you were kicked out,’ said Husseini eventually. ‘I’d heard that you were one of the best in your field.’
‘You can say that again,’ answered Blake, holding out his cup for more coffee.
Husseini filled it, then said, ‘There was nothing I could do about it, because I’m not a full professor, but what about your friend Olsen? He could have cast a vote in your favour.’
‘Olsen had to leave for Egypt and so he couldn’t be there, but he sent in a note protesting the decision. Only him. No one else stood up for me. Anyway, if you really want to know how it went, I’ll tell you. But it’s a long story.’
‘It’s Christmas Eve and we both have time on our hands, I’d say.’
Blake lowered his head into his hands, overcome by a sudden wave of memories and anxiety. Maybe it would help to talk about it; who knows, maybe he’d get a handle on how to extricate himself from the whole mess, regain credibility.
‘It was about a year ago,’ he began. ‘I was examining some microfilms with texts from the New Kingdom which had been transcribed by James Henry Breasted just before World War One broke out. Stuff from the period of Ramses II or Merenptah, and there was something about a possible connection with the biblical Exodus. On the edge of the sheet, next to the transcription, there was a note scribbled in the margin. I’m sure you’ve seen samples of Breasted’s handwriting . . .’
Husseini nodded. ‘Of course. Go on.’
‘So you know how neat and regular it is. Well, that note, like I said, seemed really hurried, and it referred to another folder of his writings where he supposedly specified these connections to the Exodus. The note wasn’t even that clear, but I was intrigued by the idea. It would have been the discovery of a lifetime. Actual historical proof of the Exodus! I looked for that phantom folder in all the cellars and back rooms of the Oriental Institute, searched through all the old records, but there was no
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