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By Jared Taylor
MOKHTAR ENTERED THE room silently, carrying a tray on which he had laid out the day's mail. He set down the tray on the low table next to the armchair and, catching my eye, bowed slightly and withdrew. The mail was always a pleasant distraction after a morning spent translating the mystic poetry of the 17th century Caliph, Shayk al-Bahr, but I finished a stanza before I got up from my desk and sank into the cool leather of the armchair.
Most of the mail was correspondence forwarded by the university, from which I always escaped during the second semester to Baghdad. One letter, however, was of local origin. It did not bear a stamp, and must have been delivered by messenger that morning. I turned the envelope over and saw that it was from Ahmed Basim, the antique dealer whose shop on Al-Rashid Street I sometimes looked in on when I had business at the consulate. Basim, who was as old as most of his merchandise, never bothered with telephones and always sent a note when he found something he thought I might buy.
Your Excellency, the letter began. [Everything about Basim was antique.) An article of great interest has come into my possession, with respect to which I invite your Excellency's perusal. I must suggest that your Excellency refrain from delay in this matter, for the article in question is of such curiosity that even those with none of your Excellency's cultivation in such matters cannot fail to note its worth. I remain, with respect, your humble etc.
I could hardly suppress a chuckle. Nothing ever stayed in Basim's shop for less than three months, and most of the daggers and dusty parchments that cluttered the place had been there for years. I tossed his letter into the waste basket and went back to the poetry of Shaykh al-Bahr.
A month or so later I was called to the Consulate and asked to take an advisory position on some pointless cultural commission. I managed to elude responsibility without giving offense, and it was with relief that I stepped out into the bright sunlight for the walk home.
My route took me across Al-Rashid Street and when I reached the corner I recalled Basim's letter. I had not puttered in his shop for some time and, suddenly curious to know what sort of trinket had prompted him to write me, turned and made my way through the twisting street.
As I stepped into the shop, the floor groaned beneath my foot, where a rotted board had been patched with a piece of tin. As always, there were no other customers to be seen. After a moment my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness and I made out Basim's familiar form, squatting on a tasseled cushion behind a table littered with amber pendants and carved ivory. His face was ridged with wrinkles and once again I marvelled at how a man who sat all day in the dark could have so weathered a complexion. He was gently puffing on a hookah that sat in a tray on the floor, and he eyed me with what seemed to be amusement.
"Peace be upon you," he said when he was sure that I could see him.
"And upon your household," I replied.
Basim rummaged in the darkness under his table and pulled out another cushion, which he set down across from the hookah. He gestured to me to be seated, and as I slipped out of my sandals he called for his boy and asked for tea. We sat across from each other for a moment, while he puffed at his hookah. Our tea arrived and we chatted about mutual acquaintances in the antiquities trade before I brought up the subject of his letter.
"I understand you have acquired something you think might interest me."
"Would it interest you," he replied, "to know that a Frenchman has already offered me one thousand dinars for this article?"
For a thousand dinars I could have bought half this shop. It was an enormous sum. "Not at all," I said, "until I had examined the article in question."
Once again Basim called for his boy and murmured a few words. The boy returned with a flat package wrapped in a white silk cloth. Basim removed the cloth and withdrew a leather portfolio with the initials R.F.B. stamped in gold on the cover. I took the portfolio in my hands. It was clearly of European workmanship and could have been no more than a hundred years old. I opened it and found a dozen pages of heavy rag paper. The first was a title page, at the top of which the words "The Tale of the Two Queens" had been penned in a bold, calligraphic hand.
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