“Trouble caused by outsiders,” she said, nodding.
“Too often, yes. I was born in Jbeil, at the coast,” he explained. “But my mother never felt safe when away from the mountains. My father cared for her very much, so they eventually returned to her hometown for the sake of her nerves. Then the war happened, so the mountains no longer felt safe, either. I was their only child. They sent me to an aunt in France, to be safe until the situation became clearer.”
“That’s when you attended the Jesuit school.”
She remembered. Because she listened to everything and forgot nothing.
“Yes,” he said.
He slid his arms around her and held her solid, shapely body against his.
“You must have been very young,” she said, her face serious.
“Six years old.”
“Weren’t you terribly homesick?”
His eyes widened sarcastically. “Of course. But when I returned to the mountain a few years later because my mother was gone, I was Ajnabi. Sometimes, I was Gentleman—apparently, I was nine years old with the mannerisms of an old Frenchman.”
Her fingertips snuck into his collar, the touch gentle on his skin. “Then what are you, Mr. Elias?”
“Hmm.” He moved with her in his arms, in slow backsteps across the room to the notes of an inaudible waltz. “I’m many things now. I’m a son of the coast and the mountain. A man of business and a traveler. I read books in three languages, and I had a home in France and studied in Britain. Every book, every country, every new friend, teaches me something, so the old ways, well, you can question them. The trouble is when these different parts jostle against one another, that’s when I think, who am I? Can I still call myself Zghartawi when my own people there call me Ajnabi? Am I still from the coast when I have no family left there? Can I be one thing while I’m also another, am I halves of something or am I whole as I am? I could live in France well enough, but I would miss the old country, and the French look at my face and call me a stranger, again.”
She had moved with him as one, letting him lead. Now she laid a hand against his cheek. “I like your face.”
“Of course,” he said, “it’s a very handsome face.” He laughed out loud and let her go. “The world is changing, amoura. It’s moving faster and it’s expanding, whether you like it or not. You must weave your own way of being in such a place, with all the different strands you have. Now, hurry. We can’t be late to meet this curator.”
* * *
—
The office for Ancient Civilizations of Asia Minor was located on the second floor of the British Museum. It was a small room with a large desk. A painting of the ruins of Baalbek hung on the wall behind the desk. Outside the windows, the sunshine had thinned the fog to a diffuse mist and the views were clear; carts, cabs, and pedestrians bustled around the central monument of Trafalgar Square. Two fountains spouted water without sound.
The curator was a lanky, fair-haired Englishman with a kindly face, his age indeterminable thanks to his brown corduroy suit that would have dated anyone to middle age. Both Wester Ross’s telegram and Catriona’s note were laid out on his desk, along with photographs of the bulls from various angles. The photographs surprised Elias; Catriona hadn’t mentioned that she had had them done, nor that she had passed them on.
The museum was enthralled by the idea of a Phoenician special exhibition, the curator assured them. He seemed uncertain whom to address principally, local ladies or a man from Arabia, so his gaze kept darting back and forth between the three of them.
“We could clear out the Assyrian exhibition in the west wing,” he said. “The question is, however, whether we find a back room with space for those artifacts currently on display. I’m afraid we are looking at early spring for a date.”
Well, that wasn’t any good, was it, Elias thought, though he could certainly return sometime next year.
Catriona pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Are the back rooms truly so crowded?”
A regretful nod. “They are, and more so by the day. The influx of artifacts has in fact forced us to contemplate a costly extension.”
“An extension for the display rooms?”
“No, ma’am, an extension for the storage.”
Elias frowned. “What share of the artifacts in your collections are actually on display?”
“Round about five percent, sir.”
“That means almost everything in the museum’s possession is in storage,” said Mrs. Blackstone, and she sounded unpleasantly surprised.
The curator coughed softly. “With all due respect, ma’am, five percent on display is plenty. And what we have in our possession, the French don’t have.”
“Between us, I’m afraid Mr. Leighton’s willingness to lend out the artifacts is heavily subjected to his moods,” Catriona said. Her cool, flat tone said her head was getting hot. “If you care to have the bulls on display, I advise you to find room sooner rather than later, before he fancies keeping them entirely to himself again.”
The curator kneaded his fingers. “Of course. I understand. There is an alternative I have considered.”
“Brilliant—I should love to hear it.”
“If we were to limit the exhibition to the bulls and selected artifacts from the same period, rather than look at Mr. Leighton’s entire collection, I could have a corridor on the first floor available by September.”
Catriona glanced at Elias, her eyes asking whether this suited him. He made the decision quickly. The bulls were the crown jewels in the collection. If he took everything but them, it wouldn’t feel as though justice had been done, whereas if only the bulls returned to their temple in Sidon, he would still consider it a victory. Also, the sooner he was back home, the sooner he could resume his position in the family business, which was the sensible thing to do. He gave a nod.
“I shall confirm the dates with Mr. Leighton,” Catriona said to the curator, “but assume that he shall agree to a first loan in September.”
“This is all terribly exciting,” chirped Mrs. Blackstone. She pulled a notebook from a large, sparkling reticule. “I should love to share the news in my art circle, perhaps also with our readers of the Home Counties Weekly?”