| 4 “You are better off not to know,” Ahmed had replied curtly. “Keep clear of Room 52. And if you see an afreet in any place, do not go near it though it beckons you. It is the work of the Devil. Just recite something from the Koran and walk away as though you had not seen it at all. That is the only way.” Sayeed had not known what to answer. Perhaps the man was a little mad with his talk of spirits and devils. On the other hand, there were nights when the young man found himself wishing an afreet would materialize, perhaps a beautiful woman who glowed like the moon and could speak softly and enticingly in this place of so many figures of stone, that looked so disturbingly human in the shadows but were stolidly silent as though brooding over matters lost to the memory of Man. Sayeed wondered if he, himself, wasn’t going mad because sometimes he was almost sure he had heard a voice when no one was about. This is what comes of a solitary existence, Sayeed thought to himself at such moments. People begin to hear things and see things, too, no doubt. Yet, as the weeks passed, the Egyptian had the distinct impression that something was changing within the museum. There was a restlessness there now—or was it some disquiet within Sayeed, himself, that caused him to imagine it? He couldn’t say; he knew nothing for certain—but was it possible that one evening the blade of a sword in a glass case had reflected the light of his torch? No, surely not. The metal had been dull for thousands of years! It was only when Sayeed saw the wheel of a golden chariot turn a full circle, did he realize that something was occurring that had nothing to do with himself. Sayeed, although knowing he was allowed to touch nothing, took hold of the wheel and attempted to move it. It wouldn’t budge. At that very moment, a wind briefly rushed past him that had the force of a gale, even though no windows were ever open when the museum was closed. As though in a film that was playing in a distant room, Sayeed thought he heard the neighing of horses and the thudding of hooves over the shouting of men and trumpet blasts. Trembling, the Egyptian ran to a window. There was no one and nothing stirring in his view and the trees were still in the windless night. Although Sayeed had memorized some verses from the Koran long ago, he couldn’t recall a single line. No prayer or utterance against evil he had ever heard in his village came to his agitated mind, although he knew them all. The night watchman, not knowing what else to do, hurried over to the articles of Tutankhamun, a man scarcely more than a lad, someone eternally young in a storage house of old things. Sayeed suddenly craved the companionship of someone with whom he had something in common, a youth who might even understand what it was like to be lonely and frightened. Although he was perspiring and felt breathless as a fugitive, the Egyptian knew he could not desert his post, his watch. The relics of Egypt were in his care, although he had never done anything to merit such a responsibility. Sayeed pressed his forehead against the cool glass case. NEXT PAGE |