placard inset beside the jar fountain was inscribed in Arabic, German, and English, and it identified the sculptor as a woman. I was pleased.
The fountain was only a year old, installed in the year 2019. Water bubbled, sometimes seeped, from apertures piercing the alabaster of the fountain jar, one opening for each of the thirteen books the actual ancient jar had contained. The meticulous sculptor had gone to the trouble of examining the site of the discovered stone jar and had reproduced that slope here as the base for the fountain.
I envisioned the moment in 1945 when just the lip of the mouth of the original jar had made its way to the surface after having been buried for some fifteen hundred years. It was as though the jar had wanted to speak. Chasing a goat, perhaps, a peasant boy had stubbed his toe against the curved protrusion.
Beside me, someone female said, “It makes one wonder, doesn’t it, how many other stone jars lie buried in the sand and rocks, all of them with suppressed messages?”
Turning, I saw a young Middle Eastern woman; she had spoken confident English with an American accent. Her black hair—uncovered, tucked behind her ear on one side—hung loosely almost to her shoulders. She had perched her black-framed sunglasses on top of her dark hair, like a headband. The young woman—perhaps twenty-five—was tall and pretty, unpretentious.
“No,” I answered slowly. “I wasn’t thinking that. I was just admiring the fountain.”
“Do you like it?” she asked. “Aesthetically?” A smile still hovered around her lips, but instead of looking at me, she was gazing fondly at the fountain.
“Very much,” I answered.
“I’m glad,” she answered. “I made it.” She pointed to the bronze plaque. “I am Arielle Saad. I believe you know my father.”
“No,” I said again, but I suddenly felt better than I had for a long time—interested and eager. The circle of protestors had removed themselves to flank the entrance to the museum.
“My father’s name is Pierre Saad; he knew your husband.”
I realized that the Egyptian woman’s father had been the host for the symposium. “I’m sorry to have missed getting acquainted with your father,” I said.
“Perhaps you’d like to talk with him now?” Arielle Saad suggested. “I could take you to him. Only a three-minute walk from here.”
I took a breath. “So you are a sculptor?” I said evasively.
“Yes,” Arielle answered. “And a pilot, as you are.”
I drew back. How would this young woman know that fact about me?
Arielle laughed. Perfectly at ease, she added, “I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry. We have a favor to ask of you, but my father can explain it better than I can.”
“A favor? Couldn’t he come here?”
“Here we are watched. Soldiers with telescopic lenses—don’t look—are on the tops of all these buildings.”
“You think he would be shot?”
“They use the lens, binoculars, too, to read lips.”
“Perhaps they are reading our lips,” I suggested shrewdly.
“I made this fountain. Why shouldn’t I come here to admire my work?” she asked. “Notice I’m facing the desert.” She seemed not only composed but happy with our conversation. Yes, Arielle Saad stood with her back to the two brown-clad guards high up on the structure of the information center.
“Where is your father?”
“He is in the back part of a house that tourists visit, one that sells figures carved from camel bone and also essential oils, Egyptian-woven carpets, objects for tourists. Follow me.” She lowered her sunglasses and strode away.
For a moment I hesitated. Arielle Saad? She did not look back as she stepped into the deep shade of a narrow street. I looked around. Three soldiers were dispersing the sign-carrying protestors from the tourist attraction. I began to follow Arielle Saad.
It was not easy to keep the young woman in sight. Walking quickly, Arielle turned the stucco corner of a thick-walled building. A man with a donkey steered his onion cart to one side so she could pass. She had to skirt a large hairy lump of a camel sitting in the narrow street and chewing its cud. The smell of animal hair pervaded the passage. Glancing back, to try to memorize the return route, I saw soldiers arresting some Egyptian men in turbans. Veiled women looked at me curiously and quickly glanced away. After my next hurried turn, I looked back again. Ahead, Arielle had disappeared. I concluded the young woman must have turned down another narrow street. As I rounded a stuccoed corner, a film of sweat veiled my skin.
Ah! My guide had paused in