The Hypnotist

THIRTY-SEVEN

Shush, Persia, 1885

“You’re on my property.” The old man yelled at Fouquelle and waved his fist in his face. “Leave or you will be arrested for looting. My sons are on their way with help. They’re bringing the whole ghetto with them. If you don’t go, you’ll get hurt.”

“These give me the right to excavate here,” Fouquelle said, offering the second set of official documents that the minister of culture had given him. Hosh had ripped up the first set; he pushed these away, as well.

“This is my property, and I order you to leave. All of you.” He pointed to the nether end of the crypt, where Fouquelle’s band of Persian workers stood at alert in the flickering lantern light, all of them armed with knives, all focused on the frantic Jew.

“It’s you who is the thief,” Fouquelle argued, “you who are hiding ancient treasures here that belong to Persia, to history and to mankind.”

“Is that what you are going to do with them? Give them to mankind? Or are you going to sell them to collectors in Europe and America? Don’t think I’m a fool because I’m old. We all know what happens to the antiquities that are dug up in our land.”

Hosh shook his fist in Fouquelle’s face. “Whose law? What law takes away a man’s property?”

The Frenchman had had enough. He was going to profit greatly from the find and had no time for this feeble old man’s argument. Fouquelle’s countrymen had been here for years digging up the ancient cities and benefiting from the partage system, and now it was his turn. He’d been promised half of the half France was getting for all his hard work, and he had a wealthy American collector waiting by the docks for these broken shards of pottery and slivers of history.

“Step away, sir,” he said. “I would prefer not to hurt you.”

Hosh was as immobile as the giant sculpture.

Fouquelle turned to his men. “Move these pieces out of here. Now. You four take the sculpture and try to keep from breaking it. You two, the pottery. The rest of you take the smaller items. And I know exactly what’s down here. So if there’s anything missing I’ll know one of you has it.” He turned back to Hosh. “Get out of my way,” he shouted, aware he was running out of time. He didn’t doubt that the man’s sons were collecting a populist army from the ghetto to come and fight the removal of these works of art. Fouquelle wanted to be gone before they returned.

Hosh didn’t move. Not a single muscle in his hand or his neck twitched. Not even his eyes blinked.

“For the last time, get out of my way.”

Hosh pulled his knife from its sheath. The blade shone in the archaeologist’s lamplight.

“Is your life so worthless to you that you would throw it away on these objects?” the archaeologist asked in a gentler tone.

When Hosh didn’t answer, Fouquelle nodded at two of his men, who stepped forward. In their eyes was the assuredness of the very young and very strong.

“Get out of our way,” the younger of the two Persians said, each of them taking Hosh by an arm, lifting him and tossing him to the floor.

Fouquelle watched the foolish man get back on his feet. With a burst of anger he lashed out, surprising the Persian on his right and nicking him on the arm with his blade. The wounded man looked down, noticed the trickle of blood and almost casually shoved his knife into Hosh’s ribs.

The man staggered and fell. He put his hand up to this chest as if his frail fingers could stop the flow of blood.

Out of the darkness, a bent and wizened woman came rushing at them, shrieking. She threw herself at Fouquelle, beating his chest with her small fists, cursing at him and crying at the same time.

He brushed her off brusquely and gave orders to his men to begin the removal, but the woman righted herself and threw herself at him again, spitting at him and scratching him with sharp, clawlike nails. First he tried to slap her away, and when that didn’t work he kicked her. Finally she collapsed, shrieking atop her husband’s body.

“Be quiet!” he yelled.

But her wailing only increased. The sound of sustained agony filled the chamber.

Fouquelle’s anger was building. Everything depended on his ability to get these treasures out of here before the neighbors arrived and the woman’s screams were paralyzing his men.

With a single sharp tug, the archaeologist yanked the knife from Hosh’s chest. Hesitating only a moment, the blood still dripping from its blade, he shoved it deep into the woman’s back.

“Hurry now. Hurry,” Fouquelle bade his men. In silence they set about removing the giant sculpture, the jewelry and the artifacts. The only things they left behind were the two bodies that lay still in the dust and debris of centuries.