Another Pan (4 page)

No problem,
thought John. He could lead a double life. He had a game plan.

As he settled in front of his computer and typed his Facebook password, John promised himself that this year he would have it all.

London (early autumn)

Everywhere Assistant Professor Simon Grin went that day, he had the feeling he was being followed. As he struggled to carry his duffel bag down the narrow stairs of his flat, he imagined there were upside-down faces watching him through the windows, as though kids were leaning over the roof. But every time he glanced over, he managed only to catch a glimpse of something that might have been the last wisp of hair pulling out of view. When he fell down the last few stairs and landed on his bag, which burst like a ketchup packet and sent his toiletries flying, he thought he heard giggling.

He knew it couldn’t be hoodlums. After all, he was the assistant professor of Egyptology and second correspondent curator to the British Museum now. He had badgered the dean of faculty housing until he was given a flat in a very up-and-coming part of town. That’s how Simon saw himself, up-and-coming. So it made sense to live there with
no
flatmate. This was all very important. Up-and-coming professors (soon to be tenured professor, and then dean of history by thirty-seven) did not share rent.

Simon scowled at himself in the mirror with his sharp, fidgety eyes before heading out. His face was too white, almost pink, and his hair was too red, too carefully brushed, gelled, and parted down the side.

As he was locking up the front door, Simon thought he heard shuffling behind the neighbor’s shrubs. Then he thought he heard a “Shhh, you eejit, he’ll hear.” Simon knew that in lesser neighborhoods it was dangerous to let people know you’d be out of town for a long time. Uneducated thugs would break in and take all your things. Of course, Simon Grin didn’t have anything but history books and a fridge full of Vienna sausages. He prided himself on not owning a television, gaming console, or stereo. The only DVDs he had were footage of archeology digs in the lower Nile.

Simon checked his military-grade multifunction watch — with built-in compass, barometer, and gas-filled luminous tracer lamps, capable of withstanding a whole array of activities that Simon would never undertake — and saw that he was running late. When he lugged his bag to the corner, a cab was already waiting for him.
Strange,
he thought.
Cabs don’t usually loiter in the up-and-coming parts of London
. Simon jumped in anyway. He couldn’t keep the director of the museum waiting.

The cabbie looked like a teenager, olive-skinned and wearing a fisherman’s cap. “Where to, sahib?” he said in a mixed-up Bengali accent. Simon squinted behind his spectacles. The driver’s tangle of brown wavy hair reminded him of the ancient Greek frescoes depicting playful satyrs and dashing hunters. Simon couldn’t quite decide whether this guy was a hunter or a satyr. But he definitely wasn’t Bengali. “Tick-tock, sahib,” said the cabbie. “Where will it be?”

Simon could have sworn this kid was no more than seventeen. He looked at the ID card behind the driver’s seat.
Naamkaran Jarmoosh
. The picture was of a graying Indian man with pocks all over his face, scowling at the camera.

“This isn’t you,” Simon said in his most accusing tone.

“My old man,” said the cabbie.

Simon shrugged. He was in too much of a hurry to get involved in the details of father-son cab-sharing customs — in Bengal or any other place. “The British Museum,
Junior Jarmoosh,
and hurry!”

“You’re the boss,” said the cabbie in a clearly insubordinate tone that intensified Simon’s suspicions.

The cab tore through the narrow London streets with Simon in the backseat, clutching his bag to his chest. A few times, when the car flew over a small hill, the cabbie would shout, “That was some wicked air.” And then he’d catch himself and add, “Eh, sahib?”

By the time they reached the museum, Simon was green with nausea. The cabbie swerved in front of the building and parked with two wheels on the curb. Simon paid him and nodded good-bye. He rushed past the guard and through the front door, even though the museum wouldn’t open for another hour. When he looked back, he caught a glimpse of the cab, still lingering in front of the museum.

Simon teetered onward toward the director’s office. Through the frosted glass, Simon saw the old man bent over his desk, as usual. “Grin, is that you? Get in here.”

Simon patted himself down, made sure his tie was straight, and checked his multi-watch.
Six hundred and twelve seconds early, facing due west
. He rushed into his boss’s office.

“Sit down, Grin.”

“Sir, I’d just like to say thank you for the opportunity to oversee this exhibit to New York. I couldn’t be more —”

“You aren’t overseeing anything. You’re babysitting the bloody things and making sure that nutter, Professor Darling, doesn’t shame us with his mummy stories.”

Simon paused. “
Professor
Darling? I thought George Darling was the
curator
.”

“They don’t have curators at boarding schools, Grin,” said the director, without looking up from his papers.

“They don’t have professors, either,” said Simon under his breath.

The director looked up for only a second, then went back to his papers and said with a snicker, “They do at Marlowe. It’s one of those ostentatious American upper-class misnomers — like calling an afternoon party a
soirée
. Really, Grin, did you think that I’d send
you
to the Metropolitan Museum?”

“Well, um, yes,” Simon stuttered. “I was told that it was an Upper East Side Egyptian exhibit.”

“That’s right: you will be
assisting
Professor Darling at the Marlowe High School exhibit.”

Simon turned the words
high school
several times in his head. Up-and-coming Egyptologists do
not
waste their careers working with children. He began shaking his leg nervously. “I — are you sure you have the right assignment?” he asked desperately.

“Yes, Grin. I’m quite sure. The items were shipped several months ago, and do you know what kind of strings I had to pull to get just a few worthless pieces to Darling?” Then the director began to mutter, “The man may be a fool, but he has friends in high places.” He raised his voice again and looked Simon directly in the eyes. “They’re just a few items that were going to storage anyway: a statue of a woman who was a historical and mythical nobody, a few jars and knickknacks, and a badly replicated copy of the
Book of Gates
. Rubbish. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Maybe not,” said Simon, his voice going weak. “I mean, if he’s such a loony, then why bother . . . I mean, how is a
high school
getting a loan from the Brit —?”

“Look, Grin. Some of our big donors like his insane stories. They wanted to make a gesture on behalf of the museum. And however mad I think he is, the man’s said to be an authority on all this. He’s read more about the dozen items in this shipment than you’ve read about any subject in your entire life. Besides, as I said, the items are
worthless
. Nobody else wants them. Free storage as far as I’m concerned. Understood?”

“I think I’m coming down with something,” said Simon.

“Your flight is in three hours.”

Simon made sure to grab an expense form before skulking out of the director’s office. He had already changed his Internet profiles to say he was an exhibit manager at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. Now when he took it down, all of his strategically chosen network would know. As Simon mourned for his résumé, he heard the clatter of several sets of footsteps down the main marble hall of the museum. Strange, since the museum wasn’t open yet. Simon thought the rushing sound was coming up behind him. He whipped around just in time to see a young man with brown wavy tangles of hair running toward him with two night guards chasing behind. Simon didn’t get more than a glance at the fugitive before he flew by. But he saw that the burglar was carrying a wad of crumpled pink papers. Outside, he heard cursing and the sound of a car screeching away.

Simon brushed it off and picked up his travel bag. This was an up-and-coming disaster. Simon was no fool. Everyone he’d ever met knew that he was number one in his high-school class, was chess champion of his college dorm, and had taken an online test that said he had a genius IQ. So Simon knew when someone was pulling a fast one. And he recognized that wavy brown hair.
Amateur,
thought Simon, remembering that his research assistant had been sacked for stealing office supplies.
What kind of dumb ass would come back for seconds?
Simon thought, absolutely certain that it was the research assistant who had just gotten away. Once again feeling utterly superior, Simon straightened his collar and headed to the airport.