‘I don’t have one, but I’ll just write down my contact details the old fashioned way.’
‘An engineer without a business card?’ she teased.
‘We simply don’t have enough funds to publish such drivel!’
The head of department was fuming. He could not believe a woman was telling him what his department should or should not publish, ‘With both departments running on half our usual staff we need to focus on what is most pressing. Even a tourist such as yourself should understand the difference between primary and secondary concerns,’ he concluded.
Mina tried to fit in another word, but Professor Almeini cut her short. He turned to the head of department, ‘Some books of a decidedly theoretical nature may have to wait until the more pressing archaeological reports are published. But we must be aware of the current changes in thought processes in our field, or…’ his gaze hardened as he looked at his adversary, ‘we may lose track complete of what we’re supposed to pursue as scholars. Don’t you think?’
‘Of course Professor, of course.’ The diminutive head of department was a mediocre scholar but an astute politician. ‘I think this is as good a time as any to conclude this meeting. I will see you all in three months time. My secretary will send out a reminder two weeks before the meeting.’
He stood up, ignoring Mina and said goodbye to his colleagues. Mina had not felt like a woman for quite some time and it felt good to be recognised as one again, even in a negative context. When she first arrived in Mosul she had expected to be relegated to some horrid basement office and that being the only woman in the department, no-one would speak to her. A friend working in Pakistan had told her that every time there was a conference or committee meeting, the female scholars went to a different room from the men. But things could not have been more different. She wondered at first if she enjoyed her special treatment because of her connection with Columbia University, or her being half-American, but after a while she understood that being a woman was irrelevant to most scholars around her. She was a scholar herself, a third gender of sorts. Of course to some chauvinists like the head of department, there was no such thing as a third gender. She was a woman, nothing more, and nothing could be less.
‘What a horrid man,’ Mina muttered, as she walked out of the meeting room with Professor Almeini.
‘Mina, Mina. You’re so hot-headed. I wonder if you are at all suited for the world of academia and its little games of power, precedence and give-and-take.’
‘I just want what is best for the department,’ she answered passionately.
‘I know,’ he said, smiling. Then, with an air of innocence he asked, ‘what did you think of Jack?’
‘His project is quite thrilling,’ she answered. ‘Although similar projects are carried out in other countries, if this one works, it would be a first here and might even show the doubters in government that studying our past can benefit our present.’
‘I like him,’ said Almeini, ‘he’s bright and his heart’s in the right place. There’s more to this young man than meets the eye.’
Chapter 4
Hassan’s clay tablet was on her coffee table. Mina felt a pang of guilt for having brought the ancient artefact back from the office but she often had her best ideas in the comfort of her own home. Sipping her favourite drink, a sweet mix of Bailey’s and coffee, she ran through a couple of hypotheses. She brought in a brighter desk lamp, set it up next to the table, turned it on, and studied the tablet from every angle. One idea she had, however strange it seemed might answer the riddle. What if there was something inside the clay that made it heavier? She knew of tablets that had been found within clay casings, like envelopes. Granted they weren’t usually covered in writing but if they were, they acted as seals to be opened by the recipient. Of course there were always exceptions. She could have it x-rayed. But that would require huge amounts of administrative paperwork, and she would have to wait weeks or even months before seeing any results.
Dispirited, she fiddled with the tablet. Suddenly it slipped between her fingers and hit the table. Horrified, she picked it up immediately to check for any damage. One of the corners had broken off. She looked at its cross- section but it seemed completely normal. There was nothing inside the tablet. She felt so embarrassed, both for dropping the tablet and for her mad conjectures. Maybe Nigel was right, and it was time she returned to the US.
Mina stayed in bed, wide awake, for a few hours. Finally, at one a.m., she got out of bed, turned on the light and took a long, hard look at the tablet. She went into her study and picked out the smallest chisel she could find. Sitting down by the coffee table, she took a deep breath and tried chipping off another piece from the tablet. The sound was not that of chipping clay. There was something inside. She felt like an excited child about to rip open her birthday presents.
An hour later, she was soaking a slim and shiny tablet of black stone in warm soapy water. It was possibly basalt, and was roughly 22cm long and 15cm wide, snapped at the bottom in a diagonal break. She rinsed it carefully and dabbed it all over with cotton wool. One side was entirely covered in the most delicate cuneiform lettering she had ever seen. Mina was in a state of shock. She headed to her study and found her Akkadian and Sumerian dictionaries and grammar books.
After a few hours of work, she sat back in awe. Before her eyes was a version of the eleventh chapter of the
She sat back on her couch, thinking about the parallels between this Sumerian myth and the Biblical account of the flood and the story of Noah’s Ark. The similarities had first been pointed out by an English scholar in the 19th century. She thought of the hundreds of scholars who, since then, had pondered the differences and similarities between the two accounts. She knew one thing for certain: the tablet she was holding displayed the only version of its kind in stone.
She could of course email the proper linguists and scholarly authorities, after all, she was not a specialist in epic textual analysis. But if she kept this tablet to herself and published a proper translation and commentary, it could be her making as an academic. She would have to explain how she got hold of it in the first place, and why it was encased in a fake clay tablet, but it would be worth it. The more she reread her rough translation the more she noticed how many odd elements there were in this text. A small detail suddenly caught her eye. Why had she not noticed this earlier? The beginning of the text conformed to other versions:
Gilgamesh spoke to Utnapishtim, the Faraway:
‘I have been looking at you,
but your appearance is not strange — you are like me!
You yourself are not different — you are like me!
My mind was resolved to fight with you,
but my arm lies useless over you.
Tell me, how is it that you stand in the Assembly of the Gods,
and have found life?’
