Existence by James Frey Page B

imaginary beat, pretending to be lost in his own head.
    Humans, he’s noticed, are all too willing to believe that they’re invisible. And it’s only when they think no one is looking that they reveal their true selves. So Hilal sees the nervous primping of the elderly man in the bow tie and understands that he’s on his way to a romantic rendezvous, while the furtive young man with the mustache and the briefcase he never lets out of his grip makes all too obvious his criminal intent. He sees that two other men are both employer and employee and father and son, that the father loathes and distrusts his offspring, while the son hopes and perhaps plots to soon have his father out of the way. He sees which of the men is a secret smoker, which is an alcoholic, which is satisfied with his life, and which hopes soon to end it.
    They don’t bother to see him at all.
    The plane touches down in Cairo as the sun is setting, and his taxi battles brutal rush-hour traffic as it inches toward the museum. Hilal shifts impatiently on the leather seat—of course, if the museum is closed by the time he gets there, it won’t be a problem; he’ll find his own way inside. But he prefers to walk in through the front door: it’s more dignified.
    The setting sun glints off skyscrapers; overhead, the sky burns, and Hilal draws his patience from the moon, which bides its time, waiting for night’s canopy to descend and the stars to show their faces.
    The taxi screeches to a stop, and Hilal gives the driver twice the requested fare.
    Here is the Museum of Antiquities, its white archway blazing bright against an orange facade, its classical Western architecture giving all the appearances of a European museum—belied only by the toweringpalm trees bracketing it on either side and the Egyptian flag flapping at its entrance.
    The museum, Hilal knows, has been instrumental in the cause of returning stolen artifacts to their land of origin, chasing Egyptian antiquities halfway across the world, statues and jewels from tombs excavated centuries before, bought and sold and hoarded in private collections—bringing them back home.
    Were he quicker to anger, Hilal might be enraged by the hypocrisy of it, the nerve of these curators and government officials who stake their own national claim while dismissing the Aksumites out of hand. But Hilal only smiles gently at the irony. It is another thing he’s noticed about people, including his own: they have one set of rules for themselves, another for the rest of the world. And all rules are allowed to be broken, for convenience’s sake.
    In the new era, the era Hilal dreams of and works toward, there will be only one rule for the whole of mankind: the golden rule, and this is what Hilal tries to live by.
    This is all that binds him, which is why it bothers him not at all to break Egyptian law and smuggle a priceless artifact out of the country. Laws like those are, literally, made to be broken.
    Hilal purchases an entry to the museum and lets himself be absorbed by the crowds. He ignores the exhibits and instead surveys security measures, the cameras lodged in corners, the alarm system trip wires snaking along the wall, the glass cabinets with their feeble locks protecting the most valuable of valuables. So many blind spots, beyond the reach of both human and mechanical eyes. The museum’s security is riddled with gaps he can exploit. It’s almost as if they want their goods stolen. Even the Aksumite manuscript, worth more than all the other artifacts in this building put together, is housed in a room protected only by a flimsy alarm system and a glass case. As the clock ticks toward closing time, Hilal drifts through the crowd ogling the Aksumite exhibit, noting both the foolish security measures and the bored expressions on the tourists’ faces. They have come toCairo to see elaborate statues and golden tombs, not some musty old manuscript in a