See the Mona Lisa. Check. What’s next?
She wondered how many of them would, fifteen minutes hence, even remember what they had seen in this room. Few, if any, would grasp its significance, or recognize that they had glimpsed a part of human history that predated Leonardo Da Vinci by nearly a thousand years.
Unlike the pyramids of Egypt or the Acropolis of Athens, the Buddhas of Bamiyan were monuments that relatively few of the planet’s inhabitants had been privileged to gaze upon. In the early sixth century, the Hazara occupants of the Bamiyan Valley had carved two monumental statues from the native sandstone, modeling details upon the rock foundation using a traditional composite of mud and straw, covered with stucco. The statues had been noteworthy for being the tallest images of Buddha in a standing pose-the larger of the two measured one hundred and eighty feet-but because of their remote location, eight thousand feet above sea level in Afghanistan, they had not achieved the same level of notoriety as other monumental constructs. Time and weather had worn at the statues, scouring away much of the original detail, but it had been a deliberate act of vandalism that ultimately brought down the Bamiyan Buddhas. In March of 2001, just a few short months before the events of 9/11 plunged the turmoil-prone region back into a state of war, the oppressive Taliban regime, reversed an earlier position that the Buddhas were of historical value and deserving of protection. They had declared the statues to be idols, forbidden by Islam-even though there was not a single Buddhist in the country who might have venerated them-and ordered their destruction.
Following the subsequent overthrow of the Taliban, an effort had been made to restore the Buddhas, but progress had been hampered by the ongoing war, funding problems and international politics. A further complication had arisen in late 2011, when the United States had, in protest of UNESCO’s decision to recognize Palestine, withdrawn financial support from the United Nations’ cultural agency, which had designated the Bamiyan Valley a World Heritage Site. The traveling museum exhibition, represented a last ditch effort to raise awareness of the flagging restoration effort.
On a technical level, the exhibition was spectacular. It featured state of the art full-sized holographic reproductions of the Buddhas as they would have appeared at the time of their completion. A museum visitor could stand at the foot of the statues and gaze up at the eighteen story high likeness of the Buddha, never realizing that it was an illusion created by lasers and mirrors. Of even greater significance, at least to Julia’s way of thinking, were the countless fragments of the actual statues that had been painstakingly collected from the floor of the Bamiyan Valley, and which now rested in dozens of glass display cases. Most of these pieces were nothing more than chunks of sandstone, scarred and scorched by the barrage of artillery rounds and dynamite charges that had reduced the Buddhas to rubble, but on a few it was still possible to see where ancient craftsmen of the Gandhara Empire had carved the folds of the Buddha’s robes.
Yet, for all the technological sophistication and cultural relevance, the exhibition was plagued by the same general apathy that had stymied the restoration effort. Julia had watched museum visitors come and go for several days now; their indifference was almost palpable. But every once in a while, someone would stop and she could see the glimmer of appreciation in their eyes as they read the placards, gazed in awe at the dioramas, and then, almost reverently, placed their hands on the glass display case containing the fragments, as if wishing they could actually touch this part of history.
Her gaze alighted on one figure, a man, who seemed to be taking more than just a passing interest in the exhibit. As she watched, he moved from one display to the next, carefully perusing the descriptive passages before studying the contents. Edging closer, Julia noticed first that the man’s silvery-blue eyes were turned to the paragraphs written in English. Then she noticed the handsome face around those eyes.
The eyes shifted ever so slightly, catching her reflection in the glass display case, and then the dark haired man straightened and turned toward her.
Mildly embarrassed at having been caught staring, she hastily tried to deflect his attention. “Tragic, isn’t it?”
The corners of the man’s mouth tugged up a little into a rueful smile. “That’s one word for it,” he replied, seeming to agree.
She nodded. “That these marvelous statues could endure the ravages of time for so long, only to be destroyed in a cowardly display of ignorance.”
“Cowardly,” the man echoed, thoughtfully. “Perhaps. But I don’t think ignorance was a factor. The men who destroyed the Buddhas understood all too well the importance of symbols. This was no mere act of vandalism.”
“That’s a very astute observation.” Julia stuck out a hand. “I’m Julia Preston, curator-at-large for the Global Heritage Commission.”
The man accepted the proffered hand, holding it gently rather than squeezing it. “Curator-at-large? That sounds very important.”
Julia resisted an impulse to giggle. Her title certainly sounded more important than it actually was. In reality, she was more of a glorified handyman, assigned to manage the logistical side of the traveling exhibition. That meant liaising with museum staff-the Louvre was just the first of a dozen museums on the two-year long tour-and making sure that all the moving pieces moved together correctly. It was a far cry from the research and field work that she had dreamed of doing as a graduate student, but it would look very good on her CV.
“You’re American?” the man continued.
She nodded.
“Thank goodness. I can get by in French, but anything more complicated than ordering a coffee gives me a headache.”
His smile gave her a little thrill. An attractive woman, she had grown weary of fending off the almost predatory advances of Louvre staffers who seemed intent on reinforcing the stereotype of the amorous Frenchman, but somehow she didn’t quite feel so ambivalent about a flirtatious exchange with a fellow American-a very attractive and evidently intelligent one at that.
“Your accent,” she said, trying to break a little more ice. “There’s a bit of Russian there, if I’m not mistaken?”
For just a second, the man’s beautiful eyes seemed to darken, but the smile did not falter. “Very perceptive. You’re the first person to catch that. As a matter of fact, you’re right. I was born in Saint Petersburg, but my parents emigrated to the United States when I was very young. I must have picked it up from them.”
“Oh, it’s barely noticeable. I’m good at catching accents.” Worried that she was only exacerbating the evident faux pas, Julia tried to navigate to a different subject. “Are you vacationing in Paris?”
He shook his head. “I’m here for work. But I couldn’t pass up a chance to see the Buddhas. My father saw them when he was in the army-the Soviet Army. Three years he served in Afghanistan. He told me all about them and was deeply troubled by their destruction.”
She noted that his speech seemed more halting, his accent more pronounced, as if both the unexpected revelation of his origin and the subsequent reminiscence had left him a little shaken. “That’s remarkable. I would have loved to have seen them before…” She waved a hand toward the fragments. “Your father must have a unique appreciation for history.”
“Yes, and he raised me to have the same appreciation. How does the old saying go? ‘Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.’”
“Edmund Burke.” She nodded. “That’s sort of the unofficial slogan for historians, and a lesson that we still can’t seem to get right. We seem to keep making the same mistakes over and over again.”
“As my father is fond of pointing out.” The man’s eyes turned to the display. “Afghanistan, for example. It has been called ‘the place where empires go to die.’ Invaders may conquer her armies, but the effort of trying to possess the country is too costly. It destroyed the Soviet Union, but now, only a few decades later, we Americans think our adventure there will end differently.”
Julia registered the emphasis he placed on “we Americans,” and wondered again if she had somehow inadvertently offended him with her observation about his origins. She wished desperately that she could rewind the encounter and start over, especially since he seemed to share her passion for history. Before she could formulate a response, she glimpsed the familiar figure of Mr. Carutius entering the gallery. She offered a rueful smile. “I’m terribly sorry, but my boss just walked in and I should get to work. But the museum closes just before ten, and I’m not doing anything after…”
She let her voice trail off hopefully. Technically, Carutius wasn’t really her boss-she worked for the Global
