At the next corner she turned to the right, stepping around a donkey that was either dead or dying. It didn’t move, and no one paid the poor beast any attention. Having studied a map of the city prior to leaving the Hilton, she guessed she should reach the square in front of the El Azhar mosque if she continued heading southeast. Pushing her way between a clump of shoppers bargaining over scrawny pigeons in reed cages, Erica broke into a jog. She could see a minaret ahead, and a sunlit square.
Suddenly Erica stopped dead in her tracks. The boy who had demanded a cigarette and who was still following her now crashed into her, but bounced off unnoticed. Erica’s eyes were riveted to a window display. There in front of her was a piece of pottery in the shape of a shallow urn. It was a morsel of ancient Egypt shining in the middle of modern squalor. Its lip was slightly chipped, but otherwise the pot was unbroken. Even the clay eyelets apparently made to hang the pot were still intact. Aware that the bazaar was filled with fakes, highly priced to attract tourists, Erica still was stunned by the bowl’s apparent authenticity. The usual fakes were carved mummiform statues. This was a splendid example of predynastic Egyptian pottery, as good as the best she had seen where she was currently employed, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. If it were real, it would be more than six thousand years old.
Stepping back in the alleyway, Erica looked at the freshly painted sign over the window. Above were the curious squiggles of Arabic script. Below was printed Antica Abdul. The doorway to the left of the window was curtained by a dense row of heavily beaded strings. A tug on her tote bag by one of her hecklers was all the encouragement Erica needed to enter the shop.
The hundreds of colored beads made sharp, crackling noises as they fell back into place behind her. The shop was small, about ten feet wide and twice that deep, and surprisingly cool. The walls stuccoed and whitewashed, the floor covered with multiple worn Oriental carpets. An L-shaped glass-topped counter dominated most of the room.
Since no one came forward to help her, Erica hiked up the strap of her bag and bent over to look more closely at the amazing piece of pottery that she had seen through the window. It was a light tan, with delicately painted decorations in a shade somewhere between brown and magenta. Crumpled Arabic newspaper had been stuffed inside.
The heavy red-brown curtains in the back of the shop parted, and the proprietor, Abdul Hamdi, emerged, shuffling up to the counter. Erica glanced at the man and immediately relaxed. He was about sixty-five and had a pleasant gentleness of movement and expression.
“I’m very interested in this urn,” she said. “Would it be possible for me to examine it more closely?”
“Of course,” said Abdul, coming out from behind the counter. He picked up the pot and unceremoniously put it into Erica’s trembling hands. “Bring it over to the counter if you’d like.” He switched on an unadorned light bulb.
Erica gingerly put the urn on the counter and removed her tote from her shoulder. Then she picked up the pot again, slowly turning it in her fingertips to examine the decorations. Besides purely ornamental designs, there were dancers, antelopes, and crude boats. “How much is this?” Erica looked very carefully at the drawings.
“Two hundred pounds,” said Abdul, lowering his voice as if it were a secret. There was a twinkle in his eye.
“Two hundred pounds!” echoed Erica while converting currencies in her mind. That was about three hundred dollars. She decided to bargain a little while trying to determine if the pot were a fake. “I can only afford one hundred pounds.”
“One hundred eighty is my best offer,” said Abdul, as if making a supreme sacrifice.
“I suppose I could go to one hundred twenty,” said Erica, continuing to study the markings.
“Okay, for you…” He paused and touched her arm. She did not mind. “You are American?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I like Americans. Much better than Russians. For you I will do something very special. I will take a loss on this piece. I need the money because this shop is very new. So for you, one hundred and sixty pounds.” Abdul reached over and took the pot from Erica and placed it on the table. “A marvelous piece, my best. It is my last offer.”
Erica looked at Abdul. He had the heavy features of the fellahin. She noticed that under the worn jacket of his Western suit he was wearing a brown galabia.
Turning the pot over, Erica looked at the spiral drawing on the bottom and let her slightly moist thumb gently rub over the painted design. Some of the burnt-sienna pigment came off. At that moment Erica knew the pot was a fake. It was very cleverly made, but definitely not an antique.
Feeling extremely uncomfortable, Erica put the pot back on the counter and picked up her tote bag. “Well, thank you very much,” she said, avoiding looking at Abdul.
“I do have others,” said Abdul, opening a tall wooden cabinet against the wall. His Levantine instincts had responded to Erica’s initial enthusiasm, and the same instincts sensed a sudden change. He was confused but did not want to lose a customer without a fight. “Perhaps you might like this one.” He took a similar piece of pottery from the cabinet and placed it on the counter.
Erica did not want to precipitate a confrontation by telling the seemingly kind old man that he was trying to cheat her. Reluctantly she picked up the second pot. It was more oval than the first and sat on a narrower base. The designs were all left-hand spirals.
“I have many examples of this kind of pottery,” continued Abdul, setting out five other pots.
While his back was to Erica she licked her forefinger and rubbed it across the design on the second pot. The pigment did not budge.
“How much is this one?” asked Erica, trying to conceal her excitement. It was conceivable the pot in her hand was six thousand years old.
“They are all different prices according to the workmanship and the condition,” said Abdul evasively. “Why not look at them all and pick one that you like. Then we can talk about prices.”
Carefully examining each pot in turn, Erica isolated two probable authentic antiques out of seven. “I like these two,” she said, her confidence returning. For once her Egyptology expertise had a practical value. She wished Richard were there.
Abdul looked at the two pots, then at Erica. “These are not the most beautiful. Why do you prefer them to the others?”
Erica looked at Abdul and hesitated. Then she said defiantly, “Because the others are fakes.”
Abdul’s face was expressionless. Slowly a twinkle appeared in his eyes and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Finally he broke into laughter, bringing tears to his eyes. Erica found herself grinning.
“Tell me…” said Abdul with difficulty. He had to control his laughter before continuing. “Tell me how you know these are fakes.” He pointed toward the pots Erica had put aside.
“The easiest way possible. There is no stability to the pigment of the designs. The paint comes off on a wet finger. That never happens to an antique.”
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.