Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective

Not sure why I went inside museum that day. Was it boredom? Loneliness? Morbid curiosity? Or 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 that place. In fact, the first time I had met him was inside city museum’s underground Egyptian section. I was bored with no plans and had gone alone. I was admiring the gold throne when Cleo had approached me and offered a tour of the section. He did not even introduce his friend, who had 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 13-year-old on a trip to football stadium. 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 sacrophagus (the 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 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 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 in 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 coversation–especially since we were never alone. He wouldn’t leave the museum–he lived on 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 life or our future. He didn’t even have a mobile phone number, so we couldn’t connect unless I visited the museum.

Three 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 the museum, including the mummies of the king and his slave, had come from a private collector. His family had acquired it from the black market a couple of centuries ago without the consent of 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. Though I knew nothing about him, his job, his life back in Egypt or his family but I knew it wasn’t just a holiday romance. We had barely touched each-other and yet, I could feel my heart breaking over the news.

That day, the love in his eyes said everything, even if he wouldn’t. Even as he spoke of different layers in society, of commoners, of priests, of nobles, of princes and kings of divine origin and of slaves who worked under them and were buried alongside their master to serve them in afterlife, I saw in his eyes something akin of a desperation–a burning question, as if he was seeking permission to say something. I had asked him what it was, but he had simply shrugged. I could see he was holding back.

I couldn’t bear his silence now because we were running out of time. He would leave for Egypt, and I would never see him again. I wondered if I should propose him instead but so far I had only guessed his intentions. I had no clarity. What if I was wrong and I didn’t mean as much to him as he did to me? What if he had a wife waiting on the other side of the sea?

He still wouldn’t talk about his family and friends or what he thought of our future together. He wouldn’t even come out of the damned museum for a short walk with me.

Angry, I had walked out that day. He had stood at the gate looking at me with desolate eyes, but he hadn’t stopped me.

It was a difficult fortnight. I couldn’t eat or drink. Sleep defied me, no matter what I did. I even went on a date to take my mind off the matter, but it felt like cheating, even though, logically speaking, we had never been together–just a few friendly meetings at the museum. But all I could think of was of Cleo’s fingers wrapped around mine; and how I would lose him forever.

The eve of the movement day arrived with announcement of the big news on Television and Newspapers. They had called it an act of international goodwill; an Egyptian king and his treasure being returned to his people. It would bring a lot of tourism and, in turn, employment to the cities around the tomb where he will be placed back. Cleo will probably play the tour guide there or whatever he did for a living. The thought alleviated the ache in my heart so much that I could scarcely breath.

He was leaving…

Without me…

I sat huddled in my bed all day, not eating, not sleeping, not responding when my roommate asked if I wanted to go out and grab lunch. I just wanted to be left alone, so she complied. But loneliness pricked more than ever. He didn’t have a phone but he had my number. He could have called. He chose not to.

He was leaving…

Without me…

May be it is better his way. I wouldn’t be able to afford the tickets, passport and visa to Egypt. God knows whether Cleo has enough money for the two of us. May be that’s why he…

He was leaving…

Without me…

I am not sure how I reached museum. I don’t remember making a decision to. But my feet ached as if I had walked all the way. I only realised I was there when the guard at the main gate stopped me. Apparently, the museum was closed earlier than usual because there were certain Egyptian rites to re-coronate the mummified king before the big movement the next day. The coronation was obviously a marketing strategy to raise the excitement and, in turn, tourism to his tomb. The museum staff has been given the day off and only select few Egyptians were allowed. A dread settled in my gut along with hope–Dread that I wouldn’t be able to meet Cleo. Hope that he must be here. He wouldn’t miss such a rare Egyptian event. He must have found a way to get in. I had to get in too, somehow. When begging for an entry got me nowhere, I decided to change tactics.

I had noticed a small hole in the wall on the other side of the museum on my walks with Cleo around the place. It can serve as a foothold to jump in. There was also an emergency exit, which is always open.

So, I walked around the wall and used the foothold. It was too small, and I could only get a toe in, so I left my shoes behind and jumped in barefoot. The emergency exit was open. With all staff out, I was free to explore.

The place felt weird and darker, probably because of the lack of the usual staff. And once the adrenaline wore off, I was slightly scared to be alone. I could smell incense in the air along with many other smells I could not understand. A different sense of dread clutched my heart–I shouldn’t be here. I should have waited outside along with the guard. I wished Cleo was here alongside me to fill the silence with his chatter.

As I walked to the Egyptian display room, I wondered if I should go back and wait outside but I couldn’t make myself give up. Cleo was so close, I could almost smell him, or was it the insense? The fragrance was stronger closer to the Egyptian display and so was the sense of dread. I opened the door just a sliver and peeped in.

The room had a pile of large shopping boxes packed on one side. Two sacrophagus lay open.

It seemed they were play-acting. Cleo’s friend was sitting on the throne in a regal dress. A fire burned in the middle of the room. Another man was reading a book aloud. I shifted a little and saw several people sitting on one knee, head down, listening. Cleo was there too, not hiding like me but out front. His clothes resembled that of a slave as he had once shown me in a display. His face was just as desolate as the last time.

The sound of the book closing with a low thump drew my eyes to the reading man. He was now walking to the throne with a crown. Once he placed it on the man’s head, everyone bowed with their noses on the floor. Cleo did too.

Nothing made sense.

The man with the book spoke a few versus again and looked expectantly at the “king”. He nodded regally.

And his face and hands started to shrivel. Horrified, I wanted to tear my eyes off him, but fear held me still. Before my very eyes, bandages replaced his royal garb and he went limp. One of the men in the congregation picked him up gingerly and lay him in his sacrophagus. Unable to comprehend, I looked at Cleo for some kind of explanation but someone had picked him up too and placed him in the other sacrophagus.