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rest stop. I
sidled up, quite unabashedly, to observe while sipping my tea. Eugene and Jack
were nearby too; Eugene's bald head was like a speckled brown egg and both he
and Jack feigned inattention. But nothing goes with tea like scandal.
Harold Campbell was smoking one of his innumerable cigars, though politely away
from the main part of the group. A perennial loner, for once he was interacting
with someone else on the tour: I was surprised to notice he made two of the
younger tour members, Nicole Powell and Tiffany More, laugh. He'd made his
lighter disappear with a practiced and elegant flourish.
I turned back to the real drama. Lale's lips were compressed almost to
invisibility as she asked precisely where Rose had found the object. I knew
Lale's job could be endangered by something like this, and Rose might be in a
great deal of trouble if the situation wasn't handled exactly correctly.
It started to drizzle, and we all huddled under the rest stop's shelter.
"The Storm God is upset now," Eugene announced. We'd been learning the Storm God
or Weather God was the chief god among the Hittites, a powerful king and warrior
in control of the elements.
I winced. It was exactly the wrong thing to say, especially since we were all
able to hear Lale rebuking Rose, however politely.
"It's a good thing we are seeing Dr. Boran Saatchi today," she said. "We'll give
it to him, with all the information you have about where you . . . found it. I
don't need to tell you this is very serious. I'm glad you spoke to me,
though."
She held out her hand, waiting.
Lale had been friendly and informative, all smiles the whole trip. Now her face
was grave, and she was clearly angry, though suppressing it. Rose had the
decency to look abashed as she handed over the object, which I could now see was
a small white clay disc, the size of a quarter, with concentric ridges. It might
have been a gaming piece. Whatever it was, it was culturally meaningful.
I got it, I really did. I understood that urge to want to hold onto the past, and
I almost felt sympathy for Rose. But I was on vacation from solving problems,
archaeological or criminal. I liked being done with work at the historical
archaeology conference in Istanbul, I liked being away from my part-time
consulting for the Massachusetts State Police. I liked
not
being an
expert. Now Rose had reminded me of all that, and I couldn't forgive her. As we
scurried through the raindrops onto the bus, I was glad the situation was dealt
with and out of my hands, but I was annoyed all the same.
"Okay, go ahead," Brian whispered, as he sat down next to me. The bus was abuzz
with what Rose had done. "I can see you're about to burst."
"On Mount Nemrut, there were signs in Turkish, English, French, and German,
telling us not to climb on the mound behind the statues," I whispered. "At every
stop, Lale reminded us not to go off the paths or move away from the group.
Hell, Brian, there were signs in the
airport
saying not to mess with
the antiquities. Rose knew what she was doing."
I looked away. "Why do people go on these tours, if they're not going to respect
the culture? I'm not even talking about the past. Randy only complains about the
toilets, Rose is practically a kleptomaniac. Eugene is asleep when he's not
asking how expensive something is. Jack seems to think it's just a moving
buffet, and Harold, Harold never says anything to anyone, just stalks around
like a great tall stick insect, puffing on his cigars and watching us like we're
acting in a play for him. What's the point?"
"Lots of things. People travel for all sorts of reasons. It's allowed."
"Well—no. It shouldn't be." I felt better for having let off steam, but
was still pouting.
"So only highly trained professionals and their spouses—who've been beaten
into submission with interminable lectures—should be allowed to travel
and see sights, maybe learn
sidled up, quite unabashedly, to observe while sipping my tea. Eugene and Jack
were nearby too; Eugene's bald head was like a speckled brown egg and both he
and Jack feigned inattention. But nothing goes with tea like scandal.
Harold Campbell was smoking one of his innumerable cigars, though politely away
from the main part of the group. A perennial loner, for once he was interacting
with someone else on the tour: I was surprised to notice he made two of the
younger tour members, Nicole Powell and Tiffany More, laugh. He'd made his
lighter disappear with a practiced and elegant flourish.
I turned back to the real drama. Lale's lips were compressed almost to
invisibility as she asked precisely where Rose had found the object. I knew
Lale's job could be endangered by something like this, and Rose might be in a
great deal of trouble if the situation wasn't handled exactly correctly.
It started to drizzle, and we all huddled under the rest stop's shelter.
"The Storm God is upset now," Eugene announced. We'd been learning the Storm God
or Weather God was the chief god among the Hittites, a powerful king and warrior
in control of the elements.
I winced. It was exactly the wrong thing to say, especially since we were all
able to hear Lale rebuking Rose, however politely.
"It's a good thing we are seeing Dr. Boran Saatchi today," she said. "We'll give
it to him, with all the information you have about where you . . . found it. I
don't need to tell you this is very serious. I'm glad you spoke to me,
though."
She held out her hand, waiting.
Lale had been friendly and informative, all smiles the whole trip. Now her face
was grave, and she was clearly angry, though suppressing it. Rose had the
decency to look abashed as she handed over the object, which I could now see was
a small white clay disc, the size of a quarter, with concentric ridges. It might
have been a gaming piece. Whatever it was, it was culturally meaningful.
I got it, I really did. I understood that urge to want to hold onto the past, and
I almost felt sympathy for Rose. But I was on vacation from solving problems,
archaeological or criminal. I liked being done with work at the historical
archaeology conference in Istanbul, I liked being away from my part-time
consulting for the Massachusetts State Police. I liked
not
being an
expert. Now Rose had reminded me of all that, and I couldn't forgive her. As we
scurried through the raindrops onto the bus, I was glad the situation was dealt
with and out of my hands, but I was annoyed all the same.
"Okay, go ahead," Brian whispered, as he sat down next to me. The bus was abuzz
with what Rose had done. "I can see you're about to burst."
"On Mount Nemrut, there were signs in Turkish, English, French, and German,
telling us not to climb on the mound behind the statues," I whispered. "At every
stop, Lale reminded us not to go off the paths or move away from the group.
Hell, Brian, there were signs in the
airport
saying not to mess with
the antiquities. Rose knew what she was doing."
I looked away. "Why do people go on these tours, if they're not going to respect
the culture? I'm not even talking about the past. Randy only complains about the
toilets, Rose is practically a kleptomaniac. Eugene is asleep when he's not
asking how expensive something is. Jack seems to think it's just a moving
buffet, and Harold, Harold never says anything to anyone, just stalks around
like a great tall stick insect, puffing on his cigars and watching us like we're
acting in a play for him. What's the point?"
"Lots of things. People travel for all sorts of reasons. It's allowed."
"Well—no. It shouldn't be." I felt better for having let off steam, but
was still pouting.
"So only highly trained professionals and their spouses—who've been beaten
into submission with interminable lectures—should be allowed to travel
and see sights, maybe learn
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