We went home and had a feast. My aunts and uncles and cousins were congratulating me on the drawings I made for the sides of the obelisk. Mother said that even though drawing pictures is not something one can do to earn a living, she is very proud of me. I was happy.
We had almost finished our meal when there was a knock at the door. It was Omari.
“Before he returns to Cairo,” he told me, “the pharaoh wishes to meet you.”
“Me?” I asked, disbelieving. “The pharaoh wants to meet me? There must be some mistake.”
“We do not make mistakes. The pharaoh wishes to meet you, right away. Come with me, Lateef.”
This time my mother did not fall to her knees. She beamed with pride.
“What will I say to the pharaoh?” I asked Omari as he led me through the busy streets. “I am afraid.”
“You will say nothing,” he replied. “You will listen.”
Omari brought me to the grand palace in the center of the town. He led me inside, through huge golden doors. I had never been in the palace before. Only the wealthy and powerful are permitted inside. It is a beautiful place, with tiled floors, fine curtains, and heroic statues everywhere.
I was led into a room. And there, sitting before me on a gigantic throne, was the great Thutmosis III.
I could not believe I was in the same room as the pharaoh. I trembled in his presence and fell to my knees.
“The son of Ra, the son of the sun,” I blubbered uncontrollably, “the King of Upper and Lower Egypt, the powerful and glorious—”
“Quiet!” spoke the pharaoh. “Stand up, Lateef.”
I stopped blubbering and stood up. My name had passed through the pharaoh’s lips.
“I have been informed that you are the artist who drew the hieroglyphs for the sides of my obelisk,” spoke the pharaoh.
I could not move my mouth. I could only nod my head. Perhaps he did not like my work. Perhaps I was to be executed.
“You are a talented young man, Lateef,” the pharaoh told me. He placed one hand on my shoulder. I almost fainted.
“Continue to work and improve your drawing,” the pharaoh continued. “Someday when you grow up, you will come to Cairo and become my personal artist.”
DAY 31
I still cannot believe it all happened. Every day I walk past the obelisk and gaze upon it, standing so tall and proud in front of the Temple of the Sun.
It seems a miracle that this glorious monument to the pharaoh was carved out of raw granite that was once buried in the ground at Aswan. It seems a miracle that the strong men of Heliopolis were able to raise it up to point at the sun, Ra. And it seems a miracle that my drawings are now carved into the four sides of the obelisk.
Now the memory of Thutmosis III will live forever. My drawings will live forever. And the obelisk will stand proudly in Heliopolis for eternity.
Meanwhile, in the present day...
Man, I bet my mom made that whole story up. How would she know how they stood the obelisk up in ancient Egypt? And how would she know that some kid drew the pictures that were carved into it? I really doubt the Egyptians wrote any of that stuff down.
“I thought those hieroglyphics were some kind of secret wise sayings,” I said as I gazed at the faded symbols on the obelisk.
“You thought wrong,” Mom replied as she got up from the bench. “They were just the pharaoh bragging about himself. Well, it’s getting late. I guess we should start heading home.”
“Before we go,” I said, “one quick question. They didn’t have trucks and cranes and stuff like that in ancient Egypt. If this thing weighs over two hundred tons, how did it get to America?”
“Oh, that’s a long story,” Mom replied. “You’d probably be bored. And I don’t want you to miss your game.”
“Give me the short version.”
Mom explained that after they raised up the obelisk in Heliopolis, it stayed there for a long time—about 1,500 years. But during that time Egypt declined as a world power. It became part of the Roman Empire. Mom told me that in 12 BCE, Emperor Augustus Caesar had the obelisk moved to Alexandria, which is not far from Heliopolis. He raised it in front of the Caesarium, a temple honoring his father, Julius Caesar.
“Yeah, but how did it get to New York City?” I asked.
“Well,” Mom said, “when the Roman Empire collapsed in western Europe between 395 AD and 476—”
“No, I don’t want to hear that boring history stuff,” I said to my mother. “Tell the story the way you told the first two.”
“Okay, if you insist....”
PART 3 I AM A SPY. THIS IS MY STORY.
(1879–1880)
Diary of Panya Hassan, a girl in Alexandria, Egypt, who witnessed Cleopatra’s Needle being taken away from Egypt
Translated from Arabic
