The 13th Tablet

‘Thanks,’ she answered, relieved.

They left her office together and Mina walked on to Professor Almeini’s office.

‘Hello Mina’ Professor Almeini said, smiling broadly.

‘Hello Professor.’

‘I don’t know what you said to young Hassan, but he’s back. I’m so glad. It really would have been a shame to lose one of our finest students to the criminals who plunder our national heritage.’

Mina took a deep breath. That’s all there was to it. He had no idea about the tablet.

‘I got a call from Jack,’ she said, rapidly changing the subject.

‘Ah?’ said Almeini, pricking up his ears.

‘He’s invited us both to the village tomorrow afternoon. They are about to hit the underground water pocket.’

‘Tomorrow? It’s Saturday so I’ll be at home with my family. I can’t come unfortunately. What a shame.’

‘Maybe we could go another day?’ she asked.

‘No no. You go. Tomorrow will be a great day for the department too. After all it is thanks to you that he found the source.’

‘All I did was…’ she began.

He brushed her comments aside.

‘You should go there. How often do you get to meet handsome idealistic men in Mosul these days?’

Mina blushed from head to toe.

‘Professor! Really. That’s totally inappropriate!’

‘Inappropriate,’ he repeated, rolling his eyes. ‘Maybe you haven’t spent enough time in Mosul after all.’

He giggled and swept her out of his office.

Mina was mortified. Even her father had never tried a stunt like that one. Had he planned it all along, introducing Jack to her? She certainly hoped not.

Chapter 6

December 4th, 2004. Morning

Mina whistled as she checked her mailbox. Tucking the large loaf of bread she had just bought under her arm, she reached in awkwardly to pick up a small letter. Back in her flat, she went into her old-fashioned kitchen and made herself a pot of black coffee. As she watched the black liquid steaming in her mug, she thought of the ridiculous choices available in the coffee chains in New York: extra this, fat-free, a shot of this, half-that. Here, in an on-and-off war zone, you sat down in a cafe and a waiter came to take your order. Back home you queued for twenty minutes to be served in a Styrofoam cup. By the time you’d finished queuing you had to return to work.

She remembered an exchange between an elderly Indian Sanskrit scholar she had met at Columbia and a barista. The scholar had ordered a chai thinking it would be plain sweet tea with full-fat milk as you find in Benares, where he came from. The barista asked him if he wanted an ‘extra shot’. The scholar smiled, not knowing what to answer. To the old man’s horror the barista proceeded to add an espresso shot to his chai. Mina had laughed all the way back to the library that day.

She tore off the end of the warm loaf, spread a little butter and poured some honey across it. She closed her eyes and took a large bite. She loved this time of the day. She picked up the letter and opened it. It was a letter of apology from Professor Almeini. ‘What a sweetie’ she thought. She was not really angry with him and he probably knew it, but he had still taken the time to write to her about his peccadillo. When she thought how she in turn had failed him, she felt guilty as hell.

Mina was shaken out of her guilt as she suddenly remembered that she had to have her car serviced. She had been promising herself that she would get it done. The car was totally unreliable and did not always start when she turned the ignition. Hopefully it would not break down on her way to the village in the afternoon.

Mina decided to stay at home that morning. She had no teaching duties, and felt she needed to jot down some translation notes about the tablet, particularly regarding the mathematical references in the text. She could not understand what they referred to but hopefully someone would. She personally knew at least two scholars working on mathematical cuneiform texts who might help her interpret these formulas.

Mina hadn’t progressed very far in her transcription of the mathematical equations when Hassan rang her doorbell. He seemed in a terrible hurry.

‘Hello Hassan. Everything ok?’

‘So, so… I got you the labourer’s details. His name is Hassaf. I wrote down his address.’

He handed her a piece of paper. ‘It isn’t a nice part of Mosul. You shouldn’t go there alone. I tried meeting him earlier but he was already out at work. No phone, no amenities. It’s a terrible place.’

Noticing her scribbled notes and the tablet on her desk, he asked ‘Any progress?’

‘Not much. I’ve been trying to render the mathematical equations in the second part of the text, the one that’s broken, but I don’t have the necessary books here. I’ll have to transcribe them as they are, work on the translation at the department and discuss these matters with a specialist later.’

‘Right,’ he said, a little disappointed.

‘What about you? You seem a bit troubled.’

‘I owe some money to someone, and I need to return it by today.’

‘I’m amazed that anyone would keep to deadlines in this place.’