Selected Detective
KARNAK TEMPLE

Khalifa loved the ruins of the Karnak Temple, especially at the end of the day, when the crowd was already thinning and the sunset blanketed the entire complex with a golden mist. Iput-Isut, as the people of old called it, “the most valuable place”, and he can understand because there is something magical in it, indeed, the city of ruins lies in the middle between earth and heaven. Being there was always able to take him out of himself, smooth and calm him down, as if he had been moved to a different dimension of time and space, leaving all the problems that were being struck.

But not today, the monumental statues and hieroglyphic-filled walls have made it freeze cold. Indeed he hardly noticed them, so drifting in his own mind, crossed the first and second pillars and entered into the jungle space within the great Hypostyle Hall with a glance at his surroundings. It was almost 5 p.m. On the orders of Chief Hasani, he had spent most of the afternoon at Winter Palace, dealing with female British tourists who had reported the loss of her jewelry. She and Sariya had spent three hours interviewing the entire household staff before the woman finally remembered that she had not brought her jewelry.

“My daughter asked me to leave the jewelry at home,” she explained, “later it was stolen. You know, in Arab countries..” After settling the matter, Khalifa returned to the office and sat alone at her desk, constantly smoking, doodling her books, thinking about Piet Jansen and hannah Schlegel and her meeting with Chief Hasani, she said, repeating all the things in his head.

After an hour, he got up and went down to the filing room on the basement floor to look for records on Schlegel's case, aware that he had to leave the case but was unable to contain himself. However, here, another mystery had greeted him, for the note he had not found. Miss Zafouli, the spinster who, as Khalifa remembered for as long as anyone could remember, had been the custodian of the old cases of the office, had been looking for her more and more but still nil. The archive is gone.

“Can't I explain,” he said muttering. “I can't explain.” Khalifa left the underground floor feeling even more agitated than before and, without a second thought, jumped straight into the taxi that immediately hurtled to Karnak. It was not to clear his mind because it was the place where Hannah Schlegel was killed and therefore, however, was the central point of all her doubts and worries.

Now he was walking through the great Hypostyle Hall, its pillars looming over him like the trunk of a sequoia tree, and out through the door on the south wall.

It was nearing the time of the temple's closure, and tourist police began to call on visitors to return to the main entrance. Someone approached Khalifa while playing his fingers, but then the detective showed his ID and was allowed to continue the journey.

Why did Hasani insist on Khalifa not reopening the Schlegel case? It was a question that did not disappear from his mind.Why did this Chief seem so nervous? Something's not right here. So wrong. And he's trying to find what's going on and it's going to get him into trouble. There's a lot of trouble. But still, Khalifa could not throw it away.

“Damn it!” his grunts, while turning off Cleopatra's cigarette under the sole of his shoes and immediately igniting another. “Choose right!” He headed to the southeast corner of the temple area, following the path between rows of hieroglyphic sandstone blocks, like numerous mosaic puzzle pieces, before finally arriving at the rectangular building which is somewhat separated from the other parts of the complex. Khonsu Plateau. He slowed down for a while, looking at the monumental wall of dull sandstone, then his heart suddenly thumped, as he slid the side door towards the inside.

The inner part or space was cold and shady, very calm, so silent, with the sunlight on the floor of the courtyard coming in from the opposite door, like a stream of melting gold.

On the left side of the porch supported by an open pillar; on the right side was another open courtyard, and on the far side was a low road leading to the main shrine. He himself was standing in a hypostyle narrow hall that was the center or center of the building, with eight lontar-shaped pillars lined up in front of him, four on each side. It was under the third pillar to the left that Hannah Schlegel's body was found.

He let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then stepped forward. Although he had visited Karnak several times in the years that followed, he had always avoided this particular section. As he traversed the hall now, he half wished he could find some traces of red blood that once stuck to it still there marking the floor of the courtyard, or the chalk lines that formed the body. However, there was no sign that said that violence had occurred here; no traces of blood, no chalk, no memories except those stored within the rocks themselves, he said, that seemed to have some kind of elemental awareness, tranquility. “We have witnessed many things,” as if they said, “good and bad. But we won't talk about it.” He arrived at the third pillar and squatted down, recalling the moment when he first saw the woman's corpse. For some reason, the overall state of the body of the corpse has little effect on him than some irrelevant detail: ********** green victim, the victim is green, and the, what is seen is that her skirt is exposed above her waist; a line of ants near her bare right leg; a codet or scar that runs across her belly like a pencil line made by a drunkard; in addition, the main thing is the presence of a strange tattoo on the left upper arm, a triangle followed by five figures in dark blue ink that has faded, like a column drawn on the surface of cheese. Jewish sign, Chief mahfuz explained. A kind of religious sign or something else. Like the mark you found on the flesh to show where it came from. The analogy shocked Khalifa, as if the victim was just a nameless piece of carcass lying on the butcher's desk. Like the mark you found on the meat was terrible.

He rubbed his hands on the floor. His palm made a dry hissing sound on the dusty stone floor, then stood up again, focusing his eyes on the wall behind the chamber contained ancient reliefs depicting Pharaoh Ramses XI being consecrated by the Gods Horus and Thoth, the latter depicted with a human body headed ibis.

Thoth and Tzfardeah, that's what Schlegel said just before taking his last breath.

Tzfardeah, he felt sure, referring to the unusual shape of Jansen's soles. And what about Thoth? Did he just, in his dying moments, declare what he could see on it? Thoth, that Ibis, must have been the last image that became the focus of the poor woman's eyes. Or, is there another deeper meaning, a more revealing resonance?

He smoked his cigarette and rubbed the temple, thinking more deeply, pulling out whatever he could remember about the gods. This wisdom, literature, counting and medicine were special characters attached to Thoth. Also a Miracle, for it was he who, according to Egyptian mythology, had provided the spell that allowed the Goddess Isis to revive her murdered husband/brother, Osiris.

Specially? He was the messenger and messenger of the Gods, the Creator of the Hieroglyphs, the author of the holy law of Egypt, the perpetual recorder-keeper in the heart of the dead. He is associated so closely with the moon that he is often depicted with a lunar disk or plate above his head and has a cult center in Hermopolis, Middle Egypt, where he is known, among others, as “Heart of God Ra”; “Sang of Time Gauge”; and “Owners of the Word of God”. His silver Barque ship moved the souls of the dead across the night sky. He married Seshat, “Female Lovers Book”, librarian of the gods.

There are many possible links in this case, many ways for Khalifa to attribute Schlegel's remarks about the word ‘Thoth’ to the allegations attributed to Piet Jansen.

Jansen was intelligent and read well; he could speak many languages; he had a large library. If Egyptologists had an interest in archaeology, Thoth would almost certainly have been his patron god.

However, despite these similarities, Khalifa still retains the sensitivity that something is lacking from her; that she still has not gained the essence of what Schlegel has delivered. Schlegel meant to say something specific, and he did not understand it. He really doesn't understand it.

Khalifa finished her Cleopatra and stepped on the cigarette butts under her shoes.Maybe hasani was right, she thought.maybe I was just imagining something, trying to do something excessive. And even if I wasn't imagining, what could I do about it? continuing the investigation without the Chief's knowledge, risking my entire career? And for what? When all happened, Schlegel was just someone from the past.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the distance, at first he thought it must be a guard. With her steps approaching, Khalifa realized that the voice was too soft for a man's steps. Five seconds passed, ten, then a woman in a djellaba had already entered the hall from the south end, a stack of wildflowers summarized between her hands, a black scarf covering her head so that her face was hidden. The sun has passed now, and in a thick twilight,

the woman was unaware of the existence of Khalifa, which had shifted behind the pillar. He came to the place where Hannah Schlegel died and removed his shawl, crouched down and placed flowers on the floor. Khalifa stepped closer.

“Do not be afraid,” he said as he raised his hand giving a sign that he would not harm others. “I didn't mean to scare you.” He stood up, retreated away, looking at the man suspiciously. A moment later he recognized Khalifa.

“Khalifa,” whispers. There was a pause and then: “the man who killed my husband. One of those men.” The woman has changed since she last saw her in the courtroom on the day of sentencing for Muhammad Jamal. She's a beautiful young woman. Now his appearance was different, looking tired, his face withered like weathered wood.

“Why are you watching me?” tanyakanya.

“I'm not watching you. I just...” He stopped, unable to explain exactly why he had come to the temple. The woman looked at him, then lowered her gaze back on the flowers, crouched down and arranged them back around the floor of the room. A white stork appeared outside the front court, pecking at the dusty floor.

“I come here every time,” he said after a while, more like talking to himself than to Khalifa, strumming the roots of a flower with her wrinkled fingers. “Muhammad did not have a proper tomb.they simply kicked him out in the outer courtyard of the prison. It's too far for me to go to Cairo. So I came here. I don't know why. I guess, this is ... yahh, where he died.” His tone showed reality as it was, not openly accusing, which was somehow even more unpleasant for Khalifa. He felt uneasy, his hand playing a coin in his pocket.

“I left these flowers for the old woman too,” she continued. “It wasn't his fault, ’kan? He did not accuse muhammad.” He arranged the flowers according to his wishes and stood up again, preparing to leave. Khalifa stepped closer to him.

“Kids?” he asked worriedly, all of a sudden, so the conversation was not over.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Mansyur get a job as a mechanic. Abdul just finished his school. Fatma is married, soon to have a child. He lives in Armant now. Her husband works in a sugarcane factory.”

“And you, already...”.

“Married again?” He looked at the man with big eyes.

“Muhammad is my husband. He may not be a good person, but he is still my husband.” The white stork had walked towards the door and was now stepping gracefully into the hall, its head looping here and there; her needle-like legs rise and fall in a controlled and gentle rhythm like a ballet dancer.

He was within a meter of the woman, then moved to another place.

“He didn't do it, you know,” he said slowly. “He did take that watch, which turned out bad. Really bad. But he did not kill the old woman. And he didn't take his wallet. Not wallet.” Khalifa stared at the floor.

“I know,” murmured. “forgive me.” He followed the stork with his eyes until it flew to the pillar.

“You are the best,” whispered. “The only one I thought might be able to help her. But then you...” He sighed and turned away, moving a few steps before looking back.

“That money did help. it could not make him come back to life, but it was quite helpful. So thanks for that.”

Khalifa looked up, confused.

“I don't ... what money?”

“Money you sent. I know it's from your own. You're the only good one.”

“I don't..., what money? I don't know what you're talking about.” He was staring far behind Khalifa's shoulder, into the dense shadows at the back of the hall, his eyes dry and empty the eyes of someone from whom all hope had been lost.

“Every year. A few days before Eid al-Adha. The money came in the mail. Without a record, without a name, without anything. only 3000 Egyptian pounds, in a hundred sheets. Always in the hundreds. The shipment began one week after Muhammad committed suicide, and continues to this day. Every year. That's how I can send my kids to school and survive. I know it must be from you. You are a good man, apart from other things.” He looked at her, then turned around and rushed out of the temple.