Tevin Rutledge had to muster all his mental strength to keep from squirming and writhing in his chair. He had never set foot in a museum before. His parents had never shown any appreciation for the fine arts or for scientific achievements, nor had his childhood buddies or his shady business partners. Old artifacts and rare specimen had never been of any interest to him, unless he could sell them for a profit. In spite of the cool breeze from a huge ceiling fan which made the North African heat a little bit more tolerable, Rutledge felt sweaty and slightly out of breath. A curator’s office was hardly his terrain. Unfortunately, though being a petty criminal for the better part of his life had never learnt to be a good liar. In fact, this shortcoming was the very reason for his predicament – being stranded in this hellhole of a country, where it was easier for a guy like him to get himself stoned or beheaded than to get a decent drink. In a futile attempt to make up for thirty years of ignorance, he scanned the various items displayed on the office walls: ancient bullshit carved in stone or written on papyrus in a cartoonish fashion. Rutledge was wondering what all this stuff would make when sold on eBay, when a distinguished looking man entered the room. "Well, Mr. ... Rutledge?" "Yes, that’s me", Rutledge said, feeling stupid. He jumped up from his chair, expecting a handshake. But no extended hand was forthcoming. "My name is Farouk Hawass. I am the curator of this institute. Sit down, please", the man said in flawless English and sat down behind an old desk that looked like an ancient exhibit worthy to be displayed in one of the showrooms. Rutledge did as he was told and eyed the curator warily. Just before leaving his hotel room this morning he had shaved, put on his best suit (his only one) and shined his shoes (for the first time in months), but in the presence of Farouk Hawass he felt shabby, his whole attire threadbare and doomed to fall apart at the seams any moment. 'What am I doing here? I should just get up and leave.' "Mr. Rutledge, I take it, you are applying for a job at our institute. Let me point out that we asked for a letter of application, not an unannounced intrusion." Hawass paused dramatically while his guest’s heart sank. "I just saw your posting at the door the other day and thought ..." "Very well," Hawass continued, "all applicants before you failed to satisfy our requirements. So, now that you are here, Mr. Rutledge, we might as well skip the formalities and have a talk. Please, tell me something about you." "Well ... I am thirty six years old, and I ...". He searched the curator’s face for an encouraging smile. There was none. "I ... I was born in Birkenhead, just a few miles south of Liverpool ... in the United Kingdom ..." He cursed himself for not having prepared a story. "My parents died in a car accident when I was seventeen." "I am sorry to here that" Hawass offered in a monotone. "So I moved to London to stay with my uncle." Slowly regaining confidence, he rattled on, careful to leave out the inappropriate parts, like his numerous time-outs at a place where food and lodging were free of charge. "That is very interesting, "Hawass interrupted, "but please, tell me something about your education and your skills." Rutledge realized there was no point in stalling. This guy wasn’t easily fooled! He decided to stay as close to the truth as possible. "After the untimely death of my parents I had to give up the idea of an academic career. I had to do something for a living and so I became a stonemason at the City of London Cemetary." The curator showed no sign of disapproval. Good! "And my uncle taught me some economics and book keeping.", Rutledge added hastily. "I’m afraid, you will not need that here". "And I always had a strong interest in ancient history since I was a child." "Oh, really? Do you have a special subject?" 'What are you doing?' Rutledge scolded himself. 'That was foolish!' "Oh, you know ... my interest is more of a general nature." "We have a golden statuette of Ramses II, son of Echnaton in our exhibition. Ever heard of him?" "Sure, who hasn’t!" "We have a priceless figurine of Ramses, but I'm quite confident, he was not the son of Echnaton." Rutledge felt a drop of sweat running down the side of his face. He felt the temperature of his facial skin skyrocketing. "Mr. Rutledge," the curator said and smiled friendly for the first time since he had entered the office, "please relax. We both know that you haven’t got a clue about any period of history. You are no scientist, no historian or archeologist. Not even a self-educated amateur. You couldn’t tell a classical greek statue from a mannequin. But rest assured, it doesn’t matter. Actually we are well staffed and do not need another academic. We need you for a more ... practical matter." "Oh." Rutledge managed. "You are certainly aware, that our job description was a bit on the vague side. Before I tell you more about what we expect you to do – provided we come to an agreement – I have to ask you a few more questions." "Shoot." said the applicant. In spite of Hawass’ encouragement, he found it impossible to relax. He felt dumbstruck by the sudden change in this strange man’s demeanor. "Are you married?" "No." "Children?" "No." "Do you have a valid permit of residence?" "Yes. Well, not exactly a permit. No. No, I’m afraid I haven't gotten around to it yet ..." "No problem. We will see to it. I assume you have a passport?" "Yes, I have it right here with me." "Good. Do you plan to return to England any time soon?" "No. Actually I have no intention of ever going back." "Good." Hawass pressed a button on some kind of communication device. "Yussuf, please bring in the tea for my guest an me. Mr. Rutledge, would you care for a cup?" "Yes, please." Less than a minute later, a man entered the room, carrying a tray. Silently he placed two teacups on the desk and left. A pleasant fragrance filled the room and momentarily eased the Englishman's tension. "Mr. Hawass, does this mean I have the job?" "If you still want it after I have told you all the details, yes. You fit the bill perfectly." No matter how Rutledge wrecked his brain, he was unable to determine what he had said or done to justify the man’s sudden confidence in him. Farouk Hawass lifted his cup and, with an inviting gesture, encouraged his guest to do the same. "I hope it is to your liking." To his relief, Rutledge liked the taste. That spared him the trouble of having to pretend so. He vowed silently to become a trustworthy and honorable man, at least for a few days. While savoring the flavor he mused about his luck. Against all odds, he, the crook, was admitted at a house of treasures. His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of his employer. "Our institute is renowned throughout the world. Our collection is precious and unique and our research is well respected." 'But ...?' Rutledge thought. "But something is missing and we need your help to obtain it." 'Now we are getting somewhere', Rutledge thought, sipping his tea. "This museum is reasonably well funded, but we don’t have as many paying visitors as we’d like. A museum should be a public place. But look for yourself, look at our halls: They are crammed with fascinating exhibits but lacking in paying visitors." Rutledge felt the sweaty feeling return. A drop parted company with his chin and fell onto his white shirt, leaving a moist stain. Maybe the hot tea, he thought. Why can’t they serve a cool beer in this dreary country? "We need something fascinating to attract the general public, not just fellow scientists", Hawass went on. "And what could that be?" "A mummy!" "A mummy? Like a dead king, or somethin’?" "A king would be most fortunate, of course. But the body of priest or a rich merchant would suffice as well." Rutledge found the sudden enthusiasm of the curator odd, almost out of character. "The point is, we need a mummy. Not necessarily a rich merchant," said the curator, "even a humble stonemason would do!" Hawass burst out laughing. Rutledge did not join in. Instead, he turned a whiter shade of pale. "Hey, what’s the matter with you? Feeling ill?" "I’m sorry" Rutledge managed "I'm not feeling very well. Maybe the heat ..." He wiped his clammy face with his hand and this time the sweat came off cold as deep-sea water. "So what do you want me to do?" he croaked, suddenly desperate to get this conversation over with. Hawass stood up from his chair and grabbed Rutledge’s limp hands and announced: "Well, at first, all you have to do is to lie under a heap of salt for thirty days to dry. Oh, I hope you don’t mind the inconvenience – but we must ask you to hand over your internal organs first." Rutledge was overwhelmed by a vicious pain, that seemed to burn him up from inside out. His muscles could no longer support his weight. He slumped over and banged his head on the desk. Finally, he gave in to gravity and sank to the floor. As quickly as it had flared up, the pain subsided. His conscious mind felt as if it consisted of tiny flakes of ash, ready to be blown apart by a flap of a butterfly’s wing. Or by the whiff of a ceiling fan. _______________ Thanks for reading. English is not my native language, so please don’t be too harsh on me. Matthias