The Snake Stone

20

The archaeologist was still sprawled out on the divan when Yashim returned home. He raised his head weakly when the door opened, but he seemed to have lost some of the nervous energy of the night before. Yashim set about making coffee while he explained the arrangements he had made.

“Tonight? That is very soon. Ca d’Oro — I don’t know her. Does she go to France?”

“Palermo.”

“Palermo?” Lefevre frowned. “It’s certainly not France.”

“No. There was a French ship, but she wasn’t leaving until Monday.”

“Monday. Perhaps the French ship would have been better. I might spend a fortune waiting in Sicily.”

“Well, you owe me forty piastres for the berth. You must pay the same again to the captain.”

“But how much was the berth in the French ship?”

“I didn’t ask. More expensive, for sure.”

“You say that,” said Lefevre, sitting up and picking his teeth with a fingernail. “There’s something wrong with the Ca d’Oro?”

“Nothing at all. She’s smaller. But she’s leaving tomorrow. You wanted to get out, that’s what you said.”

“Of course, of course. But enfin, Palermo.” Lefevre sucked the air through his lips. “You should have woken me.”

Yashim banged the coffeepot on the edge of the table to settle the grounds.

“I’m confused,” he confessed. “Last night I thought you were afraid of someone. Or something.” He reached for the cups, and found the question that was on his mind. “Is it the Hetira?”

Lefevre said nothing. Yashim poured the coffee slowly into two cups. “But if you like, we will change our plans. You are my guest.”

There was a silence while he handed the cup to Lefevre. All of a sudden the Frenchman’s hands were shaking so much he could hardly hold the cup without spilling the tiny amount of oily liquid it contained. He crammed it to his lips and drank it in little sips.

“Hetira?” His laugh was high-pitched. “Why Hetira?”

Yashim sipped his coffee. It was good coffee, from Brazil, twice as expensive as the Arabian he drank in the cafes. He bought it in small quantities for the rare occasions that he made coffee at home. Sometimes he took down the jar and simply sniffed the aroma.

“Because I have an eye for Greek antiquities?” Lefevre’s eyes narrowed. “I ensure their survival. I have sometimes rescued an object from imminent disintegration. You’d be surprised. Unique pieces, which nobody recognizes-what happens to them? They may be broken or torn or lost, they get damp, they are nibbled by rats, destroyed by fire. And I cannot look after all these beautiful things myself, can I? Of course not. But I find them-what shall I say-guardians. People who can look after them. And how do I know that they will do so?”

“How?”

Lefevre smiled. It was not a broad smile. “Because they pay,” he explained, rubbing his fingertips together. “I turn valueless clutter into something like money-and people, I find, are careful with money. Don’t you agree?”

“I’ve noticed it,” Yashim said.

“Some people do get the wrong idea. They think of me as a grave robber. Quelle betise. I bring lost treasures to light. I bring them back to life. Perhaps, if it is not too much to say so, I can sometimes restore their power to inspire men, and challenge their view of the world.”

Is that right? Yashim wondered. Or could it be that Lefevre-and men like him-simply chipped away at the foundations of a people’s culture, scattering the best of it to the four winds?

“You understand me now a little better, monsieur.” Again that smile. “But all the same, I will do as you suggest. Tonight, after dark, I shall go aboard the Ca d’Oro. ”