The image for “Art, Sense, and Spirit” was a reprinted sixteenth-century Iraqi painting titled Prince Conversing with a Mythical Bird. It was done pre-perspective, making it oddly flat and swirling.
“The Swords of Araby” pictured an Arabic saif sword, curved in deadly grace, handle and hilt intricately engraved with calligraphic script and songbirds. I thought of Kenny Bryce and the threat letters to the Headhunters. How could I not? Something alien and cold stirred inside me.
I looked up from the sword to Hector Padilla’s quaint El Cajon home. I imagined his Qur’an, his energy drinks, these invitations, and the large sharpening stone spilling from his upturned backpack to Hadi’s desk. I thought of Taucher’s cogent question: Who carries around a sharpening stone? A seemingly hapless hospital janitor who wants to become a Muslim and learn Arabic in order to find a Muslim woman?
At five sharp, Hector’s garage door rose and the shiny black Cube backed out into the mid-December dark. I fell in behind it. Hector drove as he had driven before, exactly the speed limit, signaling turns well ahead of time, waiting at least three full seconds at each stop sign. He picked up Interstate 8 west to the 5 north, headed for Solana Beach. I was pretty sure where he was going. Nice work, Ford. I stayed two cars behind in the heavy traffic. Predictably, Hector drove only in the slower, second-from-the-outside lane. The Cube, freshly washed and waxed, gleamed in the lights of the exit signs.
Hector exited Via de la Valle, loafed his way to South Cedros Avenue, and turned right. Cedros Avenue was an upscale retail zone: galleries, furniture, lifestyle purveyors, the Belly Up nightclub, where I had spent a number of nights with Justine — and, later, without her. Hector circled the crowded area patiently, finally finding a place. I parallel-parked half a block down, keeping an eye on him.
Not difficult. By the time he had gotten out of his car and made it to the parking meter, which seemed to be puzzling him, I had paid and caught up. I’d never really seen him before, except pictured on Taucher’s wall or sitting in his car. He appeared less than average in height. Bushy dark hair and a small pot belly. Jeans too small and Raiders hoodie too big.
I window-shopped a contemporary art gallery, fingering the GPS tracker in my coat pocket. Nifty gadget: reports the host vehicle’s location to your phone every second while in motion, so you can become invisible. It never needs a line of sight. Gives you time/date/address for every stop, sleeps when your target isn’t moving, waterproof, with a built-in magnetic fastener strong enough to keep it secure on a car chassis. Fifty hours of charge, one hundred ninety-nine bucks.
I’d had a good long look at the paintings in the window by the time Hector solved the meter, locked up his Cube, and headed down Cedros, tapping what looked like a rolled-up magazine against one leg. I gave him a good lead, then followed, kneeling to activate the GPS tracker and attach it to the rear chassis of the Cube. It jumped to the metal frame with a heavy clunk.
The Gallerie Monfil was a big corner building, a three-level gallery/warehouse I’d visited several times. They specialize in folk and primitive art and crafts from around the world, handmade furniture, ceramics, weaving, textiles, carvings, vessels, and jewelry.
Hector walked toward the entrance. Well-dressed people bustled in around him, winter finery finally on display in sunny San Diego County, and I was surprised by how many visitors there were. Hector stood in the line, the invitation protruding from his magazine, which he leafed through as he waited. He paused and checked his phone, then looked at the people around him, a half-smile on his face. I held back, watched a woman in a green dress stride by, diamonds in her ears, a faux-mink stole on her neck, a man with a phone in tow. She looked at me unhurriedly. A calligraphic sign announced The Treasures of Araby — Level Three. Docent-guided tours at 7 and 9 p.m.
I drifted into the building a minute or two after Hector. Claimed a free glass of champagne off a table in the lobby. Heard the holiday music coming from the PA. Then climbed the wide maple-and-stainless-steel stairs to level three.
I entered a spacious rotunda buzzing with visitors. Dramatically elevated in the center was a life-size bronze Arabian charger with a warrior astride it, scimitar lifted high. The sculptor had captured speed and balance. Around this centerpiece stood lesser statues, metal sculptures and wooden carvings and large, free-standing ceramic vessels. From amid these rose tapestries and fine fabric pavilions and lilting silk banners, and the walls were hung with carpets. Each object had an orange price tag on it. Beyond all this I saw that four salons branched off in four directions, spokes from a hub, each bannered overhead with the names of the collection’s four exhibits.
Hector stood at the clogged entrance of the “Of Carpets & Magic” salon, looking back toward me and the central rotunda. The Raiders sweatshirt would have been provocative here two years ago, when the Chargers were still in town. He checked his phone quickly again. Then scanned the crowd before he turned and walked in. I gave him a minute, then followed.
Big room, rugs piled high on the floor, and three walls fitted with hangered carpets that glided left and right at a customer’s touch. Docent-salespeople busy answering questions. Lots of interest in these beauties. In the middle of the room teams of young men and women unrolled rugs for viewing, and carried the rejects back to the stacks and racks and the winners to the cashiers down on level two. Faux-Mink Stole looked down at a rug, diamonds swaying, a forefinger to her lips as she considered a purchase. Caught me looking. Hector seemed fascinated by a blue-toned Persian carpet with a background of pistachio green. Sensing my interest in him, he turned and I looked away.
As if he was suddenly bored, Hector walked out of the salon, tapping the rolled-up magazine on his leg again. I watched him go into the rotunda, look up and around at the other salon entrances, then, stepping around the bronze warrior on his Arabian horse, cut diagonally into “The Swords of Araby.” I studied the crowd for a minute or two, then tailed him in.
The “Swords of Araby” salon was more crowded, full of a strange energy the carpet salon had lacked. The centerpiece was a majestic tapestry suspended from the center of the ceiling, depicting a hunter fighting a lion. Both man and lion were much larger than life, especially the lion, which towered on its hind legs over the hunter and everyone else in the room. But the turbaned, high-booted human looked poised and confident, having planted his knife in the animal’s chest. Blood was jumping as the lion snarled, teeth bared. In snippets I read the placard below it, while keeping track of Hector. “Mihr Killing a Lion” had been faithfully re-created from an 1830 silk tapestry woven in Persia. It illustrated one of the adventures of Mihr (the Sun) and his best friend, Mushtari (Jupiter), from a poem about their friendship. You could own this re-created tapestry for twelve thousand dollars, professional delivery and hanging included. I glanced up again at Hector, then away, an eye blink before his gaze hit my face. The holiday music stopped.
A man’s amplified voice filled the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give me your attention as I point out the highlights of ‘The Swords of Araby.’”
I saw the speaker, small and sleek, move into the center of the room to stand under the great tapestry. He wore a trim dark gray suit, an open-collared shirt with red and white stripes, a lavender handkerchief, and a small mike attached to his lapel. His hair was short and glistening, his complexion ruddy. He stood on a carved wooden chest that looked plenty strong enough to hold him.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said, his voice forceful and clear and lightly accented. “Hello, my good friends. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Bernard Monfil, owner of this gallery. I welcome all of you and wish you a wonderful experience here tonight. Araby, as you know, is not a place that you can locate exactly on a map, or a word that you will find in a modern English dictionary. Rather, Araby is a word coined by James Joyce — an idea — deriving from the collective and unrivaled histories, cultures, and arts of the mysterious Middle East. Araby is treasure and learning. Araby is romance and—”