Eight p.m.
Friday. The Jinn had been in the jar for
exactly three millennia. It sounded simple
when stated in historical terms like this,
and in one sense it was true. If the second
hands on a tiny, hidden clock were to
have been watched constantly for three
thousand years, much as the Museum Curator
was watching his wall-clock at that very
moment, then the seconds would have rolled
into minutes, the minutes into hours and
so on. Neat rolls of time, spiraling up
all the way to heaven.
The Curator shepherded
the last of the cleaners through the already
half-closed side-door, jangling his bunch
of keys like a Victorian station-master.
It was a familiar ritual, as much a part
of the involuntary segments of his life
as, say, brushing his teeth or eating
bread in the morning. The Closing-Up rite
had melded into the thrum of his daily
inhalation and was on the way to becoming
myth (though the Curator knew that this
might well have taken another three thousand
years). By which time, of course, the
small-boned man, along with his obsolescent
side-whiskers might have become part of
the Great Sinai Desert or else a speck
in the eye of the whore on Main Street,
Sacramento, Calif. 1). The next part of
the process would be for him to switch
off all the lights, retire to his tiny
room, and drink old coffee from a stained
mug - the last note in the tapping Arabesque
of his polished floor day. He closed the
side-door, slid the bolts and then turned
three keys in three locks, each one twice.
He re-attached the keys to the large ring
slung from his belt, removed a handkerchief
from his pocket and wiped the top of his
bald pate. He peered at the stain, trying
to focus, but its edges were undefined
and it extended through the white cloth
in all directions at once. He found himself
gazing into some non-existent distance.
Not so much beyond the stain, as between
it. He flipped the hankie over and saw
that his sweat had seeped right through
the material like some kind of insidious
salt cloud. A noise sounded from behind
him. He spun round, then rebuked himself
for reacting. It wasn’t as if he
was unused to the creak and sputter which
the old building generated as night crept
along its wood and glass and stone. There
were so many halls, each arrayed with
dozens of cases, every one of which contained
multiple objects. He reminded himself
that tonight of all nights, it was imperative
that he keep a cool nerve. He held out
both hands, carefully inspecting the finger-tips
for any sign of tremor. He blinked, slowly,
and exhaled. Allowing his arms to swing
in measured pendula, he walked over to
the Temple Case.
The cabinet was the longest
in the museum. Running almost half the
length of the room, it contained relics
thought to have been recovered from the
Temples of Jerusalem, both Old and New.
Many of the contents had only been discovered
on recent archaeological digs, both beneath
the Old City of Rome and in the soil of
a dried-up oxbow lake by the Bosphorus.
They accorded with the set of Temple artifacts
listed in the (possibly apocryphal) Books
of Solomon which themselves had been re-discovered
by one Ben-i-Amin Levi, an octogenarian
Kabbalist while he had been poring over
one particularly faded set of punctuation-marks
in those Nag Hammadi Scrolls which had
been thought to have been burned by the
wife of the peasant who had stumbled across
them in a jar beneath the sands of Egypt
but which, in fact had been sold by her
to a Cairene manufacturer of backgammon
sets. 2
Among the golden brooches
and cryptic candelabras (each as accurately
annotated as possible given the circumstances,
and pinned to the green felt of the cabinet
base) were several large porcelain jars.
All the surahis but one, were unstoppered.
They were of different colours, and each
had a shape and design unique to itself.
Spiral serpents, reclining lions, abstract
geometric patterns, a fish … The
Curator looked at each of the jars, in
turn as he had done every night and every
morning for seven years, ever since they
had been brought to the museum. He couldn’t
bear the thought of any one of them being
stolen. It would be worse than murder.
It would be like pilfering a myth. Stealing
a soul. When he had reassured himself
that all the containers were present and
unharmed, he came at last to the final,
the stoppered jar. It had a sinuous, female
shape and its long, slender neck rose
high above the others. The ancient porcelain
was decorated in blue fire designs. It
was almost totally undamaged. He stood,
motionless beside the cabinet. At first,
he had treated the jar as just one more
relic. He had known, even then, that this
was a lie. A necessary deception. He had
behaved like a fusty academic with a beautiful
woman. He had tried to ignore the surahi,
yet his dreams had been filled with its
dancing, curvaceous form. Sometimes, it
would melt in reverse creation and assume
manifold shapes, multiple existences.
Until at last, he could feel it taking
the shape of the Curator. Becoming, him.
After a few months of this, he’d
had the security sensors around the cabinet
enhanced, so that even the most casual
of glances, the tiniest of envies would
tend to set off the alarm. Then he had
it arranged so that when the bells did
sound, they would cause a red light to
flash, on and off, in his office.
Every morning, he would
arrive before the post was delivered,
and in the evening would exit the building
only after the last of the cleaners had
left. Eventually, even this had not been
enough and he had begun, over the past
few weeks, to sleep behind his office,
in a room hardly bigger than one of the
larger cabinets. He had made excuses to
his wife, saying that an extremely important
consignment had arrived
at the Museum and that someone would be
needed to watch over it at night. ‘Why
you?’ she had asked, ‘Why
do you have to do it? Why don’t
they get someone else for a change?’
and he had replied, ‘Who else would
there be? I have no choice.’ In
some ways he wasn’t lying. And in
spite of the cramped conditions in his
office, he had begun to feel a new kind
of freedom there, one which he could never
have had on the streets or in his home
or in twenty years of marriage. It were
as though time, that most precious of
artefacts, had been suspended in the very
substance of the glass cases, the creaking
wood pillars, the musty, unchanging air.
In the Museum, at night, the Curator felt
he could expand and fill himself. And
yet, the facts remained solid, outside
of him. His marriage, his job, his body…
death. He shivered, though the night was
warm, humid. He felt as though all his
life, he’d been dodging between
pillars of fear, hiding behind first one,
then another till his fear had trapped
him in a temple of pillars. Perhaps that
was why he had become a curator. It was
a safe job. Hermetic, almost. He had slipped
into it as he’d fallen into his
marriage, through a combination of lack
of confidence and his wife’s need
to dominate. He had never quite been able
to handle women. To play them like other
men played the clarinet. He gazed at the
porcelain. It was familiar. Necessary.
He knew every crack, every glaze-line.
He lived along one of those random fissures.
Nothing more. He felt an urge well up
in his chest. An urge to be inside. To
get within. The pressure forced itself
out between his ribs and stretched across
the empty hall. It seemed as though his
life up to that moment had been merely
a preparation for this night.
The
Curator removed a small key from the ring
and unlocked the case. He reached out
and touched the jar. It was fingertip
cool. The temperature within the cabinet
was maintained at a steady level, regardless
of room temperature. But then, he mused,
the room temperature was also kept at
a steady level, winter and summer. His
mind flipped through the convolutions
of a thousand realities, each one hovering
in its own, unique weather-pattern. He
wondered whether, within the jar, there
existed still other, air-conditioned boxes,
right down to an infinitesimal room where
a bald, moustach’d, middle-aged
museum curator was busy wondering whether,
within the jar… 3
Using both hands, he lifted
the surahi out and placed it on the glass.
Without re-locking the cabinet, he carried
the jar from the gallery down the corridor,
his shoes tap-tapping on the newly-polished
wood of the floor. He cradled it to his
chest. Like a baby, or a heart attack.
Once in his office, he carefully placed
the object on the centre of his desk,
and switched the on kettle. Rituals within
rituals. Safe, he thought, as the water
began to hiss. He sat down. The top of
the jar was at eye-level. The thick bung
which blocked its slender neck was composed
of multiple layers of some greasy material
wrapped, one upon the next, in infinite
jamming roundels. The
blue flames burned along the porcelain.
Kiln-fresh. Repetitive pink motifs circled
the belly of the jar. He saw his face,
his eyes, reflected in the cream white
background. Wondered if something was
looking out at him. He pulled himself
away, went over to a shelf and took out
a large book. Sipping black coffee, the
Curator read from the old tome. Or rather,
he traced his fingers along the esoteric
shapes and numbers within its pages.
The Curator finished reading and reached
out to remove the bung from the top of
the jar. He paused, his hand in mid-air.
The electric light was still on. He got
up and plunged the room into darkness.
Since he had already switched off all
the other lights in the museum, the Curator
found he was totally blind. He stood,
stock-still in the pitch, the only sound
that of his own breathing. Gradually,
that too became merged with the night.
From somewhere, doubts began to slide
up the back of his neck. This whole thing,
and his part in it, was crazy. The jar
had lain in the cabinet for years, and
he had walked past it countless times,
one in the crowd, merely. A spectator.
The lie, again. He had wondered who had
removed the bungs from the other jars,
and what had become of them. And what
had been released from the darkness of
their interiors. It had begun to obsess
him. His
days had become filled with its strange
shadow, its ancient light. His nights
hovered around the jar’s rim, tantalising
him as he craned his neck to get a look
inside. His mind ran on automatic. The
decision had been made gradually, over
the months, and any doubts were now like
the breeze in a candle flame. The Curator
began to make out vague shapes. He stumbled
back to the desk and sat down. His breath
echoed in the jar of his body, and the
harmonics danced along the walls of the
windowless room, chimed within the glass
cases with their spirit objects, blew
cacophonies along the fissures between
the cracked paint and the sinews of the
artist.
The Curator placed his
right hand over the neck of the jar, while
with the left, he pinned the vase to the
table. The bung (he had never touched
it before) felt oily, yielding, beneath
his palm. He wondered what it was made
of. An image of snakes slithered through
his skin. He withdrew. Though they were
not cold, he blew into his hands as though
they were, and tried again. He gripped
the bung, and pulled. It was stuck. His
fingers kept slipping off. Removing a
handkerchief from his pocket, he tugged
and twisted simultaneously, switching
hands after several attempts. As it slid
away from the porcelain, it seemed to
disintegrate and he let it fall. A loud
pop sounded from outside of him. A blinding
light filled his eyes and in the light
he had a momentary vision of the infinite
regression of time and space, before a
whoosh of air gathered up the streets,
the museum, the room, the cabinets, the
jar. He felt the light enter him and fill
him with its clarity. He felt himself
break apart and come together again. All
of his possible existences fragmented
and then evanesced in the light. But in
between fragmentation and re-union, something
had changed. Something in the core of
his being. Then the light faded and died
and the Curator sank into a state which
might have been sleep, but which might
also have been non-existence.
When he opened his eyes,
everything was pink. The jar lay on its
side on the table before him. A long,
grin-shaped crack ran from bottom to top
and blue porcelain flakes had scattered
onto the wood. He reached out and touched
the jar with the tips of his fingers.
It rocked from side to side, and then
became still. Sand on wood. It held no
mystery. He felt his joints move stiffly
as he walked towards the door. A mauve
luminescence streamed in through the high
windows. Dawn was breaking over the museum.
He walked down the hall, passing by the
gray shapes of cabinets, statues, jars,
and in one smooth movement, he threw open
the outer doors. Stepped out. Closed his
eyes. Inhaled. Let the breeze slip over
his face. He opened his eyes and descended
the steps. At the bottom he paused for
a moment and then turned to the right.
Behind him, the doors lay wide open. The
streets were deserted, except for the
odd lone figure trudging back from some
sweatshop night-shift or other. He entered
an early-morning café and sat down.
The only customer. Ordered an espresso
from the blond waiter. Watched him as
he disappeared into the kitchen at the
back. Ran his finger along the wood of
the table. Listened to the sound of the
coffee-machine. Smelled the aroma of morning
cigarettes. Everything seemed so real.
He brought the curator’s coffee
in a demitasse cup balanced on a brass
tray, and again the curator watched him
as he went over to the counter and sat
on a stool. Crossed his legs, took out
a cigarette. He felt the movement of the
waiter’s muscles, the feel of his
hair against the skin of his scalp. He
saw through the waiter’s eyes. Morning
blue. In a harmony of mirrors, he saw
himself. The same, and yet not the same.
The coffee tasted pungent, in the pink
dawn light. The waiter was having difficulty
lighting the cigarette. They were alone
in the café. Just him and the waiter
and the steaming, bubbling coffee machine.
He put down his cup. Met his eye. Looked
away. Then picked it up again but did
not sip. Met his eye, got up, went towards
him. Saw the waiter, seeing him. Blue-on-pink.
Held out his hand, the fingers steady,
porcelain. Flicked the lighter. The waiter
craned his neck and his hair fell across
his olive skin. Just so. He inhaled, twice.
Sat back. Removed the cigarette. Looked
the curator full in the eyes, and smiled.
But already he was smiling back. From
somewhere down the street, the strains
of an old clarinet filtered through the
morning. Single notes. One after the next.
Pure, melismatic. His smile broadened.
The Curator was free.
...............................................................
1 The name afforded to
the western part of the land-mass known
until the late Twenty-First Century as
‘America’. The zone seceded
from the main body of the state after
the Wars Of Intelligence, 2172-2181 and
2186-2190.
2 Codex XVIII, Para 27
(see Bibliography. Solomon, Jar of, Zaragossa
Municipal Library, Sp.).
3 For a discussion of
the dichotomy of the inverted angels of
black magic, see Ahsen, Akhter (1994),
‘Illuminations On The Path Of Solomon’,
Lahore, Pakistan, Dastawez Mutbuat.
.........................................................................................
Suhayl
Saadi
Suhayl
Saadi is a novelist and stage/ radio dramatist
based in Glasgow, Scotland. His hallucinatory
realist novel, 'Psychoraag' (Black and
White Publishing, 2004) won a PEN Oakland
Josephine Miles Literary Award, was short-listed
for the oldest literary prize in the UK,
the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and
a Pakistan National Literary Award and
was nominated for the Dublin-based Impac
Prize and in 2007 will be published in
French by the Paris-based Éditions
Métailié. ‘Psychoraag’
is also used in the curricula of various
universities and secondary schools across
the world. Saadi’s eclectic short
story collection, ‘The Burning Mirror’
(Polygon, 2001) was shortlisted for the
Saltire First Book Prize. His first novel
was a literary erotic fiction, ‘The
Snake’ (Creation Books, 1997), penned
under the pseudonym, Melanie Desmoulins.
He has edited a number of anthologies,
has penned song lyrics for modern classical
compositions, his work has appeared on
several continents as well as widely on
TV, radio, the web and in the national
Press and currently he is writing for
the BBC and the British Council and is
working on another novel. Suhayl Saadi
wishes to acknowledge the valued support
of the Scottish Arts Council. www.suhaylsaadi.com
