Before the Americans killed his parents and sister, Mohib was forbidden to play in the ruins. But now, grandfather allows it, as long as he takes care of his prosthetic arm. Mohib isn’t worried. Titanium, doctor said, when you grow up you’ll punch through walls like the Incredible Hulk.
After discharge from Al Shifa hospital in Jalalabad, there were no more rules. Grandmother didn’t insist he finish his eggplant. Aunt Shabnam didn’t scold him for leaving his toy pistol under the courtyard cot. If he pinched his cousins, they dared not tell him stop.
This morning, guests came from Asmar. Gave money to grandfather, jewelry to grandmother.
People visit. Want to touch him. Take pictures with him. Snip little rectangular tabs of old clothes as charms. They want his luck — the boy who survived the ghanghai that destroyed a truck.
In the afternoon, Mohib searches the ruins for flattish stone blocks to stack. He needs to finish building his fort before school starts. Forward Operating Base Aisha, he’s named it. For his sister.
Ghanghai whirs fill the valley. Grandfather said Americans would increase frequency after first snow. One or two sorties a day. Now three or four.
Black dot moving out of the sun. Ghanghai. Larger. Laborers in poppy fields scatter, crouch behind rock piles Father and Uncle Duryab built last year to distinguish the boundary between Bashir Baba and Khalid Amer’s properties when fields flooded from spring snowmelt.
They lie down, white kufis and headscarves amid orange bulbs.
If you’re alone, ghanghai will not attack. Best be completely alone. A month ago, one fired missiles at a woman and her cow. Half the mountainside came down. Grandfather and others picked through rubble. Found hooves and headscarf. No body.
The dot moves towards the ruins, four wings visible. Two, long and parallel to the ground. Two, stunted, spiky, crossed swords on a rider’s back. Playing on Abbu’s phone, he’d seen nothing. Explosion. Vibration. Hard slap. Hot metal on inner thigh. Mud mouth. Salty. Arm, bad smell. Hospital beeps.
Staring too long. Dot larger than sun. He skips over fallen column, darts through shattered arch, clambers into crawl-space halfway up a wall. Knees under chin, he listens for sleeping scorpions. Dark. Whirring echoes. Ghanghai doesn’t leave. Circles. Sun shifts and shaft of light illuminates a hollow. He reaches inside. Cool loose rock. Something large. Holds it to the light. A stone doll. Heavier than plastic toys, heavier than his Titanium arm he held before the doctor attached it.
He doesn’t play with dolls.
If Aisha were alive, he’d give it to her.
***
Skyward. Bitter wind be damned. Tall in a country of tall men, clean-shaven in a country of bearded men, Waleed believes in speed, not blending in. Scans for the black dot, ghanghai. Pricks ears for its whir.
He knows U.S. Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC, revisits its target list weekly. Never delete his name from the Holy List. Like Abou Ben Adhem’s, may his tribe increase. Names etched on Predator Drone missiles. And if not name, sim card number. Waleed never carries a phone. Still, ghanghai — behind clouds, between peaks, from Swat Valley to Quetta.
Canadian arms dealer says, “Ask not who the ghanghai sings for, it sings for thee.”
Waleed growls at the millworkers. Taking too long to load the truck.
A grizzled, stooped shepherd approaches, little boy in tow.
“My grandson found this near Kunar Fort in Changa Ser,” he says in Pashto. “The old Kabul University dig site.”
Waleed examines the object, heavy and round. Reminds him of ostrich eggs from his cousin’s petting zoo outside Quetta.
The shepherd continues, “We waited three days for you. Ghoulam Rasoul was in town.”
Waleed nods. Rumors name Rasoul, the local Hezb-e-Islami agent, an informant who calls ghanghai to settle tribal scores.
“We don’t trust him. We trust Haqqani Network. You have a reputation for fairness.”
“You did the right thing.” Waleed withdraws his note-roll from his kaftan pocket. Flicks through dollars and afghani. He’ll visit the local Haqqani Commander before leaving for the border. Suggest a few men comb Changa Ser for more artifacts.
“So?”
“Whatever you wish, sir. Whatever you say, we’ll take. We’re poor. We’ve been here three days so please be fair with us.”
“7,000 Afghani.” Less than $100. A bargain. “If you find more, come talk to me.”
The boy emerges from behind his grandfather, titanium arm outstretched.
“Take this, too,” says Waleed.
Tin of fresh baklava.
***
Waqar, Taliban’s chief revenue officer for Baramcha border crossing. The one man in Helmand Province Waleed esteems as an equal. In his offices, they tally export duties for this month’s consignment to Pakistan. Raw poppy, processed opium, semi-precious gemstones. Waleed nearly forgets the shepherd’s item.
$1,000. Waqar’s assessment.
“Look at its size,” Waleed protests. “It’ll fetch nothing.”
“I have assessed smaller ones for more. $200 in duties. What’s that to Haqqanis? If you pay in ammo, $100.”
Waleed grumbles, “Be riddled with bullets, then.” Pashto pun, referencing a well-known khairey. A curse reserved for people held in affection.
“Fairness breeds discipline,” says Waqar. “That is why people respect Baramcha. We follow rules here.”
Waleed signals the lead convoy driver to cross the border. The piece is worth more than $1,000. Probably ten times that.
***
A White SUV leaves the Port of Sharjah, United Arab Emirates. Winds down the coast to Abu Dhabi.
In the front passenger seat, Suleiman Abbas rolls his palm over a soccer ball and texts Mickey Krishnan, free 2day? 6pm?
Crossing immense grounds of the Al Raha Beach Hotel, skirting four interconnected swimming pools, they rest under the awning of the poolside restaurant. ‘Closed After Lunch’ — reads the door sign. Beyond the golf course, above the water, the sun drops behind a gliding oil tanker. Mickey tightens his bathrobe around his enormous belly.
Suleiman’s abaya billows orange in the sunset. He runs a razor blade along the seam of the soccer ball. Rips open its stitching. Withdraws a bundle of shirts.
At the heart of the tangle. Wrapped in layers of newspaper. There it is.
Gold chains jangling, Mickey examines it. Scratches his stubble. Thumbs his cross-shaped locket encasing a color picture of the Virgin Mary. Taps Ray-Bans’ lenses.
“$10,000.” He offers.
“Brother, this has come from Helmand. Through Karachi port. Fat envelope kept it off ship’s manifest. We don’t do that for $10,000.”
“For $20,000?”
Abbas’ gold-toothed smile catches evening’s last light.
***
Mickey Krishnan left the gold chains at home in Abu Dhabi for a low bench in the orchid greenhouse in Palmengarten, Frankfurt Botanical Gardens. Hotter in here than outside. Hotter than Abu Dhabi. Sweat spots form. Shouldn’t have worn the white suit. He dreads stains.
Hans-Dieter Richter, navy suit, light scarf, light-brown hair, nose red from nervous scratching, checks the windows. No one around. Examines the pictures Mickey’s brought.
Sauna in here, thinks Mickey. Wants to smack Richter. Hard. Must have known how hot this place gets. Bloody glass windows.
“Findspot?” asks Richter.
Mickey holds out his phone with Abbas’ Whatsapp photos pulled up.
Unmistakably Afghanistan — men in kufis and sleeveless jackets, AK-47s slung from shoulders, standing atop rubble, leaning against walls attached to nothing, remnants of ancient fortification.
Richter sighs. Pure Hollywood. Looks back and forth between findspot and object photos. “Doesn’t have enough patina crustation. It’s a toy. Played with. Buried underground. Should have more wear.”
“Maybe she died before she could play with it? Maybe someone found it and cleaned it. Two thousand years. Things happen.”
“Look at this photo. Between the skirt folds should be some red or green, some oxidation. Too smooth, clean-looking. People want to feel this has come from the time of Alexander the Great. Not a Mattel factory.”
“Fuck off. Mattel factory. Anyone with half a brain knows this is an ancient doll. Fucking heavy, man. Can’t see that in pictures. Heavy with power.” Mickey undoes his fourth shirt button and rubs his locket. “I should have gone straight to Magda Brandt instead of wasting my time with you.”
“I only meant it’ll be difficult to find a customer. It’s real. I believe that.”
“Two-hundred grand, only offer,” says Mickey, rising to leave.
“One-seventy-five is all I can do.”
“Wire fifty percent and I’ll ship it to Freeport.”
Mickey storms out of the greenhouse, pausing to deposit a cheekful of spit on a pale purple Thai orchid.
***
Kyriakos Manolas, proprietor of Alexandrine Antiquity Auctions, and Hans-Dieter Richter, owner of Bucephalus Import-Export have both quit smoking. Yet in a cloud of truck exhaust in the Geneva Freeport loading bay they share a Gauloise donated by a skinny, tattoo-sporting art handler.
“We should consider the private collection of Jackie Renard,” says Richter. “I’ve used his collection before for small pieces. Renard’s curator photographed the larger pieces but didn’t catalogue the smaller ones. And this fits with the collection style.”
“What documentation?”
“A signed declaration from Samir Dilsizian, the Armenian collector. Died in 2002. It says he saw the piece in Renard’s collection. A 1969 letter from the Berlin Pergamon asking Renard to borrow it for an exhibition. I made a bill of sale from Renard to Gestede. Another bill of sale from Gestede to me. And, of course, a certificate from the Art Loss Register confirming it’s not on the stolen artworks database. That’s five.”
“Who’s Gestede?
“Died two years ago. Worst player in my backgammon club. Loved playing him.”
“Get another letter done. Did Renard have siblings? People love letters from siblings.”
Richter purses his lips, nods. Difficult, but doable.
“Be careful with postmarks and stamps. They fuck things up.”
Richter flicks the cigarette into a puddle.
“Price?” asks Kyriakos.
“$750,000. Easy.”
“I agree with the valuation but you know I can’t pay that. Let’s do a deal, Hans. With a risk discount.”
Kyriakos knows it’s important to nourish Hans-Dieter’s ego. Like with driving, everyone believes they’re above average at negotiating. In gathering fog, under the white facade of the enormous Geneva freeport, they see-saw towards a deal — $400,000 and seven percent of the sell-on price.
“You relentless motherfucker.” Kyriakos calculates markup. “No mercy, huh?”
Hans palms a half-hearted mea culpa.
“Especially as I’m eating import duties,” continues Kyriakos. “Let’s shake on it and auf wiedersehen, you crook.”
“Same to you. When you find a buyer I will send you a case of Dom Perignon.”
“No booze. Doctor’s orders. Send Swiss stuff. Chocolates for the kids. They always want Nerf guns but they keep getting bigger. The guns, I mean, not the kids. I bought Luka a pistol and Arnaud a machine gun with a bandolier. But then they formed a buyer’s cartel and asked for a mounted gun. Believe that, a mounted gun? Next, there’ll be Nerf Rocket Launchers.”
“I bought one of those Nerfs for my nephew. Drives my sister mad.”
“They’re driving me mad. Silvia is no help. Know what she said when I was getting into the taxi? Asked for a red Lancel bag from Geneva airport. Apparently Fifth Avenue sold out. Believe that?***
Transcript: Elaine Rosellen Mohr (1–206-XXX-XXXX to Sally Emilia Spears (Samsung 7 – serial #XXXXXXXXXXX17421).
EM: “This is Elaine Mohr from Ridley, Reinhardt, and Cole. May I speak to Sally Spears?”
SS: “Sally here. Can I help?”
EM: “Hi, Sally. We met last Easter at the Hoffman Estate Luncheon on Hunt’s Point.”
SS: “Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry. Tom Cole’s associate, right?”
EM: “Partner, actually. Since January.”
SS: “Oh, how wonderful. Congratulations. You must be one of the youngest partners in their history.”
EM: “Yes. The youngest, in fact.”
SS: “How wonderful.”
EM: “As you know, Mr. Cole’s recovering from surgery. I’ve looked at the tax estimate for the Hoffman account and wanted to discuss potential offsets.”
SS: “Wonderful initiative. You know, as curator though, I focus on acquisitions. I can talk top-line figures but defer to the third-party firm for detailed accounts.”
EM: “I’m calling for the top-line. To cap off this remarkable year. The whole Hoffman team should be proud — our firm, wealth management, the accountants, and, you, of course. Especially with respect to transferring ownership of most of the illiquid assets to the entity in the Bahamas. But next year is election year and it’s important to stay ahead of the curve. I don’t need to tell you that an artwork has to be long-term capital before it’s an eligible deduction.”
SS: “Yes, correct. Held for at least a year.”
EM: “Market appreciation is an opportunity. And when assessment rolls around, valuing offsets at sale price is a missed opportunity.”
SS: “Sorry, what?”
EM: “According to last month’s statement, you wired $620,000 for the BSF. Five years from now, when donated, it would be a neat little coup if the offset is more than that. Clear enough for you?”
SS: “Yes, yes, no, I get it. I didn’t mean that.”
EM: “So can we find a way to ensure its market value appreciates? Maybe out of storage and in fresh air?”
SS: “Sure, I can think about it.
EM: “Yes, think about it, Sally. It’ll be a nice present for Mr. Hoffman. May not be top line of his financial statement but I guarantee you — he’ll notice.
***
Ada Hoffman fans herself with her straw hat. Through the clubhouse window, she watches her granddaughter, Aurora, weave Tiramisu, her calico hazelnut filly, through the trotting poles on the far end of the course. The horse would never amount to anything though it had pedigree — sire and grandsire, Breeder’s Cup winners. But it was a lazy, daffy horse and, at five-years-old, was too set to change. Serves Aurora right, thinks Ada, for going on looks and nothing else.
A knock. Al Porter, her attorney, peers through the doorway. She’d forgotten they were meeting.
“Al — you handsome devil. That’s my granddaughter out there.”
Aurora urges Tiramisu into an ugly counter-canter — bouncing like a bobblehead.
“She looks like she’s having a whale of a time,” says Al. “Outside, in fresh air. I can’t get my son off those bloody video games.”
“Yes, well, kids — bull-headed, aren’t they? What do you have for me then?”
“Good news,” Al arranges papers on the table. “We found a hot document with Sally Spears’ name on it.”
“Who’s that?”
“She curates Mr. Hoffman’s art collection.”
“Oh, the new one. What about her? Was Jules screwing her, too?”
“Here’s a transcript of a call we found during discovery.”
Ada’s heart rate picks up as she reads. She fans herself. Jules, you prick. Offshoring in the Bahamas. Three marriages and I’m the one you hide assets from?
“The Bahamas. Isn’t that where you’re from, Al?”
“I’m from Barbados.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right.”
She frowns, reads on. BSF? BSF? What was the BSF? Oh, that hideous grey doll. Plus-sized Biblical Barbie. His money to waste but some of things he wasted it on …
“Bunny Mellon warned me years ago,” she whispers to herself. Men underestimate what their wives can do for them, she’d said. You’re wasted on him. She’d been right, of course. Jules had it all backwards. Obsessed with Alexander the Great. For what? There was greatness to be had in this life if he’d wanted it.
“I mean,” she says, addressing Al. “What the fuck was the pre-nup for?”
“It’s void now. This document puts Mr. Hoffman in an unpleasant situation. Sally Spears is not a client of Ridley, Reinhardt, and Cole. She is not covered by their attorney-client privilege. That means this is admissible in court. Mr. Hoffman is likely to give up anything to keep it from going public.”
“It’s basically an admission of tax evasion.”
“Avoidance.”
“Right. So you’re saying we’ve got him by the balls.”
“It does strengthen our position in terms of the settlement negotiation.”
“Want a drink, Al?” She spins around, catching the attention of one of the grooms. “Have them send some champagne down from the big house, Spencer. We’re having a little celebration.” She holds the document by its edges, treasuring it. “We’ve got Jules by the ball hairs, I’d say. If there’s a colder, meaner bitch than me, it’s the IRS.”
They share a laugh. Through the window, they watch Aurora dismount and pass Tiramisu off to a smiling groomsgirl. Her granddaughter turns sharply away from the horse and Ada is certain that’ll be the last time she rides her. Bored, clearly. Maybe with horse-riding altogether.
Al turns his legal pad in her direction, the words ‘Updated Demands’ underscored three times.
“I want to keep the Virginia properties,” she says. “He can have the Seattle house. But I want the Caillebotte from our bedroom. It’s called ‘Oarsmen in a Top Hat’.”
She considers asking for the doll but where the hell could she put something that hideous? The day it arrived, Jules, normally as animated as the bust of Euthydemus in his study, danced into her greenhouse to show it off. She’d pretended to like it. Even took of her gloves and washed and dried her hands to hold it. Heavier than it looked, she remembered. Not delicate or elegant or alive-seeming or remotely interesting. A fat farm girl. But it lit him up like Christmas morning. He can have it, she decides, a reminder of how he screwed up.
***
Bactrian Stone Figurine
2nd Century B.C.
Northeastern Afghanistan
6.3 in. x 3.5 in
(Gift From The Julius Hoffman Collection)
This seated female figure, a pastoral ideal, captures a time when the traditions and way of life of Bactria (modern-day Afghanistan, North of the Hindu Kush mountains) flourished, before successive attacks from the West, including from Alexander the Great, led to its Hellenization.
The arms of the statuette have been preserved as detachable parts, making it the most complete of those so far unearthed. Her placid expression conveys famed Bactrian resolve.
Scholars continue to debate whether the figures, found in tombs, depict fertility goddesses or princesses or, like similar-sized statuettes of scaled, winged demons, were intended to pacify aggrieved spirits and guard against grave robbers.
Or, in the more prosaic explanation, they may have been toys of dead children.
Raghav Rao is an Indian-born, Chicago-based writer. He is an adjunct instructor in the English Department at National Louis University and a member of the Office of Modern Composition.
