Page 77 of Afraid to Hope

They rose early, showered, and packed, their plan in place. After breakfast, Natasha and Bane checked out and headed into the town center to find other lodging, sticking to SOP. It was early, so they left their bags with the front desk of a bed-and-breakfast off the long garden square and began reconnaissance in the bustlingsouk,continually sweeping their surroundings for anyone who seemed suspicious. They looked like tourists—Natasha with her oversized tote and Bane with the camera slung over his shoulder. By midmorning they were ready to leave.

Bane veered off at the next right, Natasha at his side, easily keeping up with Bane’s long, easy stride. The cacophony of the vendors lessened as they walked farther from the center of thesouk,and the alley broadened into a narrow street with established shops with more alleys shooting off in other directions. They slowed, then took a left, continuing to take rights and lefts, walking the labyrinth leisurely, cautiously. Occasionally one of them paused at a shop to access the wares while the other watched in their peripheral vision.

“Anything?”

“No, but… Wait a minute. Up ahead.” Natasha’s eyes moved back and forth. She picked up her pace, her attention on a shop ahead to their left. “I’m going antiquing. Wait a few minutes, then follow me.”

Bane slowed and kept an eye on her until she had entered the shop, bringing his camera up and snapping photos of his surroundings. To anyone watching, he was enamored with Moroccan culture.

The first thing Natasha noticed upon entering was that the small shop was filthy and smelled far older than the Amazigh items displayed. String and wind instruments and drums, local pottery and crafts, and bellows, which were much needed by people living in the higher altitudes, packed the place full to bursting.

Her interest piqued when she saw footprints on the dirty floor. They looked to be fresh and of differing sizes; in one set, the right foot dragged slightly and consistently. The footprints passed through the door at the back of the shop, into what appeared to be a storeroom. Her gut told her she was in the midst of a cache created by a serious collector or held by a middleman.

Natasha’s eyes grew huge. Ahead of her, propped against the stairs, broken slabs of cave art were revealed through torn white cloth, as well as large carved human figures and a wooden door. She would have to get up close and personal to determine if the artifacts were authentic and ancient, and she stepped forward, intending to examine them.

A shuffling noise to her left stopped her. Similar to the market where the merchants were primarily men, one observed her now, warily from the side of the store, like a cat. He stooped under the weight of age and had a scraggly soul patch on his chin. The eyes in his deeply lined face drifted over every inch of her—from the sunglasses perched atop her loose hair to the long-sleeved cream-colored travel shirt and belted khakis to her sturdy, broken-in leather boots. His eyes then met hers. He scowled and gestured toward the front entrance, indicating she was to leave.

Natasha’s eyes flashed at him. In Arabic, she said wished to speak to the shop owner.

Soul Patch said he was the owner and shuffled unsteadily forward, possibly hoping to intimidate her.

“Do you speak English?” she asked, smiling disarmingly, hoping her hunch was right. How else would the man be able to navigate within the American’s network if he was unable to communicate with all parties?

“A little,” he said cautiously.

“I’m Natasha Rua. I represent clients who are looking for something special,” she said at a slower cadence than normal. “I wish to take a look at your treasures in the back room. Those wooden sculptures, are they authentic Dogon?” She referred to the West African tribal art and offered him one of the ART business cards.

“They are already bought,” he said before accepting the card from her.

“I see. May I look at them anyway?”

“I am Amastan.” He squinted at her, then read the card. The shopkeeper seemed to weigh his answer before nodding perceptibly and motioning for her to follow.

She adjusted her height to clear the low, scarred header and stepped into the storage room. Dust motes danced freely in the feeble rays of sunlight filtering through the dingy and broken high window. It was enough for Natasha to see that what was in the room was authentic and priceless. She pulled a pair of gloves from her tote to further inspect the two large, carved hermaphrodite silhouettes that had to be close to seven feet tall.

“Exquisite,” she whispered, extending her fingers.

A bell tinkled in the front of the shop. Amastan barked, “No touching.”

Behind her, she felt Bane’s protective presence. His voice rumbled, causing Amastan to jump. “There you are! One minute you were with me and the next you were gone. What’d you find?”

“This is Amastan. He’s the shopkeeper of this fine establishment, and we’re in luck. He speaks English.”

“Great. That will make our talk much easier. Why don’t you take a seat, Amastan,” Bane quietly suggested to him, pointing to the leather pouf in the corner of the poorly lit room. His size and demeanor were enough to terrify the man, who was markedly shorter than Natasha. “I only want to ask you questions. And my wife… Sweetie, are we buying these?”

“I wish,” Natasha said, ad-libbing with Bane. “They’re sold, but I want to have a close look. I’ve never seen Dogon this large outside of a museum.”

Bane looked at Amastan and handed him a wad of cash. “Maybe you’ll reconsider?”

“No,” he muttered, attempting to hand the bills back to Bane.

Bane closed the man’s fist firmly around the money and pushed it back at him. “Why don’t you just hold on to that for now while we talk?” His inquisition of the shopkeeper proceeded. “How long have you had your shop?”

“Many years,” Amastan said, and then his mouth ran like a full-on faucet, muttering between Arabic and Berber while his wild eyes bounced between Natasha and Bane.

“English, Amastan.”

“No pictures,” Amastan whined.

---