HAMID ISKANDER, TREMBLING WITH fear, stumbled to his feet. He looked at his visitor and managed to stammer in Arabic, “Sir, what a pleasant surprise.”
“I am sure,” Varese said. He stood straight and motioned to the servant to bring in a small cardboard box. The box was placed on Iskander’s desk.
“Be seated,” Varese said.
Both men sat down and stared at each other over the box. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, Iskander said, “What is in the box?”
“You are a fool,” Varese said, shaking his head rather sadly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You were appointed before I became Director of Antiquities. I have allowed you to continue your sluggish performance only because I had no clear evidence of bungling.”
“Yes, sir.”
“However, now I have evidence. Can you guess the nature of it?”
“Yes, sir,” Iskander said, hanging his head.
Varese was genuinely surprised. “You can?”
“I know,” said Iskander, “What the charges are against me. I know that I am guilty. But I beg you to leave her out of this. I am simply a man, and women…”
“What are you talking about?”
“My guilt,” Iskander said. “Perhaps you have seen her. She beautiful, and I cannot resist the temptation to spend some afternoons—not every afternoon, why not even one afternoon this week—at her side. I cannot resist it.”
“Fool,” said Varese irritably. “You think I care about your fat mistress?”
“She is not fat!”
“Fool!” Varese opened the box and removed a small piece polished stone. He placed it in front of Iskander, who was sweating profusely.
“What do you make of this?” Varese smiled grimly. “I ask you in your capacity as regional representative of the Antiquities Service in Luxor. I ask for your professional opinion.”
Hesitantly Iskander picked up the stone and turned it in his hand. He fingered the etched markings.
“It is a scarab beetle,” he said.
“Brilliant.”
Iskander shrugged. “They are for sale anywhere. On the streets of Luxor you can buy them of quartz which looks like lapis lazuli. Fifty piasters, or one hundred for a large one. They are manufactured in the home of Abdul—”
“May Allah preserve especially the fools,” Varese said, sighing. “You think that is quartz?”
Iskander paused, squinted at the stone, and bit his lip. “You mean it is real lapis lazuli?”
“Yes, former employee. It is real lapis lazuli.”
“Then this is a genuine and priceless artifact!”
“No.” Varese shook his head. “Order tea.”
“But if it is real—”
“Order tea,” Varese commanded.
Iskander scrambled to his feet.
Later, Varese became calm. Iskander started to think of ways to ingratiate himself with his boss and keep his job. His only alternative was the Transport Ministry, where his cousin worked, and there, the pay was less and the hours longer—altogether unsatisfactory.
“The scarab,” said Varese, “came into my hands last week. A wealthy visitor came to the museum and was so impressed he wished to make a donation. Naturally, I was amenable. At the conclusion of our meeting, he jokingly brought forth the scarab, which he had purchased that morning in the Cairo bazaar. He said he knew it was fake, but he wanted my opinion of it anyway. It is the kind of foolishness one puts up with for a donation.”
“Only this time it was real.”
“Silence,” Varese said coldly. “Your stupidity will carry you to an early grave. I am trying to explain that the scarab is, indeed, a fake.”
Iskander spread his hands. “Then where is the problem?”
“In the stone and the quality of the cutting. It was seen by Professor Hakim, and Professor Imman. Both agreed it was probably a copy, but neither could be certain. In any case, the stone itself was the genuine article and the workmanship excellent. We decided to investigate.”
Iskander knew what was coming. The story of tracing antiquities was oft repeated in Egyptian history. Squads of police would set out to track down the route that a piece had taken from its source.
“It was a precaution,” Varese said dryly. “A routine matter. The dealer was questioned. He explained he had purchased it from a Nubian traveler. The traveler was located. He explained that he had bought it in Aswan. We discovered that the dealer there was a Turk. He said he bought it from a sailor. The sailor was difficult to locate, but when we found him, he told an unusual story. It seems he got it from an unknown stranger, a man who stole a boat in Aswan. The stranger had offered it as a bribe and then beaten the sailor, but did not retrieve the scarab. A most unusual story.”
“And you believed it?”
“Yes. When we were through with him, we believed him.”
“It seems unlikely,” Iskander ventured.
“It seems more likely all the time,” Varese said. “The story of the boat was puzzling. We reexamined the scarab and still could not be certain it was a fake, though we suspected it. So we made still further, very subtle inquiries.”
“Yes?”
“It may interest you to know,” Varese said, “that I have been in Luxor for two weeks, and I am satisfied that I know the truth.”
Iskander shifted again in his chair. A long silence fell. Finally, he said, “And what can I do to help?”
“Remove all personal belongings, and vacate this office by morning,” Varese said. “Your replacement is already on his way from Cairo.”
With that, he got up and left the room.