The Museum: Part 1

Author’s note: This is first installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories.

Not sure why I went inside the museum that day. Was it loneliness?

Boredom?

Morbid curiosity?

Or was it just the hope of seeing Cleo again?

*****

It would be fair to say that he was neck deep in Egypt…or may be deeper still. He was absolutely in love with his birthplace. In fact, the first time I had met him was inside city museum’s underground Egyptian section.

That day, I was bored, had no plans and went alone. I was admiring the gold throne when Cleo had approached me and offered a tour of the section. He hadn’t even introduced his friend, who had simply smiled and left us alone.

He seemed quite well informed on the subject of ancient Egypt and his enthusiasm was contagious. He talked like a thirteen-year-old on a trip to a football match. Soon, I was skipping along his side from display to display. He had stories about each piece—the pottery and the potters; the carving and the carvers; the two sarcophagus (the elaborately carved ancient Egyptian caskets) and the mummies hidden inside—the king and one of his slaves.

He was intelligent and witty and had a quirky sense of humour. He was chivalrous but not overbearing. He treated me like a queen, and no woman can ignore that kind of attention. When at the end of visiting hours, he had asked me to visit again, I could not help but promise to return the next weekend.

So, for seven weekends, we met at the museum. We laughed and talked. I told him about my life at college, my dorm room and my crazy roommate. He told me about his childhood antics, crocodiles on the Nile, pyramids and Egypt. He was holding back his present life though, as if he wasn’t ready to share it yet. He didn’t tell me what he did for a living and if he had a family back in Egypt.

It worried me a little, but I wasn’t the one to probe.

And we had time.

His interest in me felt genuine though. When we held hands as we walked through the museum discussing different displays, I could feel that he was as reluctant to let go of my hand as I. Sometimes, he would look into my eyes with the look that made me wonder if he was going to get down on one knee and ask me to marry him.

I would have said “Yes” without doubt, even if it meant moving to Egypt with him.

But he never asked the question in words, and I didn’t know how to begin that conversation, especially since we were never alone—he wouldn’t leave the museum. He lived on the campus, or so he said. He wouldn’t come out with me for dinner, lunch or even coffee. He always had something to do, something to show, something to talk about, which was not his present life or our future. He didn’t even have a mobile phone number, so we couldn’t connect unless I visited the museum.

*****

Two weeks back, he told me he was moving to Egypt; and it seems that he had known the fact for a long time. Apparently, a certain part of the Egyptian display at the museum—including the mummies of the king and his slave—had come from a private collector whose family had acquired it from the black market several centuries ago without the consent of the Egyptian government, as was the norm in those days. But a team of Egyptian researchers had traced them back to the correct tomb a few years back. They had discussed the matter between the two countries and were moving the collection back to where it belonged. Cleo was leaving with it, back to where he belonged.

And I wanted to go with him.

Author’s note: To be continued…

Photo by Spencer Davis on Unsplash

If you would rather read it all together in the book, The Bracelet and other short stories is available for free download here: Link