no Jews there in 1170.’
‘What’s so strange about that? Maybe there weren’t any Jews then even if it did become an important place later on.’
‘Maybe. But Tudela’s other accounts were all accurate, except for this one. I found a piece of evidence in the British Library which contradicts it entirely: as you know, Tudela’s
‘I know that, so what?’
‘Well, a number of specialists believe that this anonymous compiler picked and chose the material and did not insert everything into the manuscript. I think they’re right, and I can prove it.’
‘Go on.’
‘Among the other works bound to the manuscript, an essay by Maimonides and various other commentaries, there were a few pages of Arabic poetry. No-one has paid much attention to them until now because they were in Arabic and not in Hebrew and because they were never inserted in the compiled manuscript of Tudela’s travels. But, I think Benjamin of Tudela copied these poems himself during his travels, because he also jotted down a few notes among them.’
‘What do the notes say?’
‘That he sent a letter to a certain Mordechai in Safed, on his return from Mesopotamia.’
‘Really? How interesting,’ Nigel suppressed a yawn. Mina looked at him. He didn’t seem in the least bit interested.
‘There wasn’t much more, but I thought that the name Mordechai couldn’t be anything other than Jewish, and the travel note states that he is ‘in Safed’. That’s how I made the assumption that there must have been at least one Jew in Safed.’
‘So what? Aren’t you seriously digressing from your thesis? You’re supposed to be studying the writing of explorers in Mesopotamia, not Israel!’
‘I think this deserves to be followed up. There might be more information to be gleaned in Safed. They have synagogues and archives that date back centuries… maybe I’ll find more writings by Tudela?’
‘Right. What do you expect from me?’
‘Well, I was hoping that you could write as my referee to the travel grant committee?’
‘Mina, as your PhD student status is suspended until you return to m… to the department, I’m not sure you will receive all the support you deserve. But I’ll write on your behalf.’
‘Thank you so much. I thought you didn’t want to write any recommendations until I returned to New York?’
‘Well, in this case, I’ll make a small exception.’
Laying on her back, Mina reflected on these last words. Nigel was not known for his forgiving nature, and she had never known him to make exceptions. What did it all mean? She was not getting anywhere this morning. She got up, and had a shower.
An hour later, Mina walked out of her flat and proceeded to the backroom of Ibrahim’s, a small art dealer in the market. She did this twice a week. The word was out through various channels that she helped whoever possessed illegal ancient artefacts to return them to the museum. She did not offer money, but she did offer anonymity and peace of mind. Unfortunately, in these times of need, very few genuine people came to see her. Many came by and tried to hustle her, and some actually came just to know if what they possessed was worth anything. She knew all this, but what else could she do? She had no money to offer these people.
‘Hello Madam,’ said an embarrassed voice.
‘Hassan?’ She was surprised to see him there.
‘You don’t seem very happy to see me,’ he answered, disappointed.
‘Of course I am,’ and without beating around the bush, added ‘but I still have in mind a chat I had with Professor Almeini about you last night.’
‘Ah…’
‘Yes.
She wasn’t sure she could deliver on this promise, but she told herself she’d give it her best shot. Hassan seemed to hesitate and for an instant lost his usual cockiness.
‘I would like that very much,’ he said, looking down at his feet.
‘What’s the story about you working for ‘art sharks’?’
He laughed heartily. He was the one who had come up with the expression one day during class.
‘Honestly? They pay more than normal jobs, Madam, and I need the money.’ He sat down, pulled out his bag and took out the rag-covered tablet. He handed it to her sheepishly, ‘A gesture of goodwill.’
She was surprised, but did not show it. She removed the rag, and looked at the tablet.
‘It’s really heavy, Hassan.’
‘Yes, I noticed that too when I first held it.’
‘Weird,’ she said.
‘Can you read the inscription?’
‘I’m amazed you didn’t try to do so yourself.’
‘I’m a little rusty,’ he answered.
‘Come on Hassan, don’t be lazy. Let’s have a look together. Is it intact?’
‘No, it’s missing the top part, and it was probably originally rectangular although only a large square remains.’
‘Good. Language?’
‘Akkadian.’
‘Start at the top,’ she said.
Hassan studied the tablet, ‘We’re missing the addressee, but the first few lines seem to describe the sale of a property between two distinct parties.’
‘Good. You aren’t that rusty Hassan. I’ll take this to the department and catalogue it as Mos.Has.01 for tablet found in Mosul by Hassan, n0.1.’ He smiled, proudly. ‘Any idea where this tablet was found?’
‘No. I didn’t think to ask the old labourer.’
‘That’s too bad. I’m off to the department now. See you in class?’ She stood up, feeling quite excited.
As soon as Mina sat down in her office, she unwrapped the tablet and started reading. There was something strange about it. Although she agreed with Hassan’s interpretation about the original rectangular shape of the tablet, this type of contract did not usually require many more lines than what was already here, so the original was probably not much longer than its current square shape. More importantly, the weight of this tablet felt wrong. She picked up the phone and called the small office of the janitor. Nurdin Muhammad used to be an art restorer at the Mosul museum, but in 2003, like many others, realised that the salary he had been waiting months for was not going to materialise. He had been forced to find different work, any work really. Now he was a janitor at the university.
‘Hi Nurdin. Mina Osman here. I need to borrow a small pair of scales. Great. Half an hour? Thanks.’
There were enough student essays piled on Mina’s desk to keep her up all night marking them. She picked up the first essay and started running through it. When she first started teaching at the department she had been aware of the students’ poor English grammar, strange syntax and flowery vocabulary. But she had enjoyed their eagerness from the first instant and how uncontrived their writing was in comparison to some of her New York students. None of these boys followed a set path in the presentation of their essays or in their analyses. They enjoyed being given free rein to write in English about their own past, and they took full advantage of it.
A knock on the door brought her out of her marking reverie. It was Nurdin.
‘Miss Osman?’
‘Hi Nurdin. I see you have the scales. Thanks.’
‘Can I have a look?’
