Chapter 25. Exhibit 1420
On the morning of the seventh of October, at ten o'clock, Anemo was looking out of the bedroom window, waiting for Omar and his black-and-white taxi. The young man had become his friend and personal guide, but Anemo still hadn't found the courage to reveal the white cat's true identity to him.
She, the white cat, was pacing from one end of the flat to the other, as if trying to hit her daily step count before being loaded into the pet carrier.
"No need to be nervous, Remi! We're visiting the museum in broad daylight this time, and we'll be just ordinary visitors. We don't even need the second collar anymore!" Anemo said, reassuring Remi as much as himself.
"He's here! Right, time to board! Your Highness Al-Beyda, your grand journey is about to begin!" he joked, helping his friend and rival into the carrying bag.
The morning was surprisingly fresh. There was a completely strange scent in the air for Egypt, as if it had rained overnight and cooled down the scorching desert heat. The rain seemed to have swallowed up all the city's dust and petrol fumes.
"It smells like Dublin," Remi thought. "Is homesickness creating some kind of olfactory Fata Morgana, or have I completely lost my mind after spending so much time in a cat's body?"
Omar greeted them cheerfully, ready to drive them to the Egyptian Museum in Tahrir Square and guide them through the exhibits like a true expert.
"Sabah el-kheir, Anemo! Cairo is on our side this morning, have you noticed how crisp the air is?" Omar started the conversation as he slammed the passenger door with that sharp, metallic clank only old Lada cars could make.
The black-and-white taxi pulled away from the kerb, plunging straight into the sea of cars flowing towards the Nile Corniche. The interior smelt of crushed mint and sun-baked vinyl, a scent that a little pine-tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror was trying its hardest to mask. On the back seat, the carrier bag holding Remi had been placed with great care, securely wedged between Anemo's legs.
"It's a perfect day for Tahrir," Omar continued, glancing into the rearview mirror with his sharp, enthusiastic eyes. "Professor Simoon always told me that October light, first thing in the morning, is the absolute best for spotting the details on the Merneptah Stele. I really miss his lectures, you know. Without your dad in the department, the archaeology faculty is just a pile of dusty manuscripts and bored professors waiting for their retirement."
Anemo smiled nostalgically at the mention of his father. The thought that his dad was now so far away left a strange emptiness in his chest. Yet, the presence of Omar — this brilliant student who split his time between virtual mummy digs and wild driving through the chaotic streets of Cairo — gave him a comforting sense of safety.
Inside the bag, Remi listened intently, discreetly scratching the fabric with a claw. "So Professor Simoon left us in good hands, Anemo," she told herself, trying to find a comfortable position as the taxi bounced over a sudden pothole. As a writer, her mind was already racing at full speed, taking in every single sound: the rhythmic horn-honking that served as indicators in Cairo, the shouts of the street vendors selling simsim on the pavement, and the massive hum of the waking city. It was incredibly frustrating to have so many metaphors in her head and not a single hand to hold a pen.
The car swerved sharply to the left, leaving behind the silhouettes of the luxury hotels on the riverbank. Omar tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel and stole a quick glance at the bag in the back.
"I hope Al-Beyda doesn't get motion sickness! They say that in ancient times, the Egyptians punished anyone who harmed a cat severely. If anything happens to her on my watch, the professor will fail me on the spot when he gets back!" he joked, his warm laughter filling the whole car.
Ahead of them, past the last old colonial buildings with peeling plaster, the huge roundabout of Tahrir Square was already coming into view. And right at its edge, looking like a massive fortress of rose-pink brick, the Museum of Antiquities opened its grand iron gates, waiting to welcome its visitors.
"You know, this place is a proper time capsule," Omar whispered almost into Anemo's ear as they walked into the courtyard. "If the desert sand hides or reveals secrets at the whim of the wind, here, the stories of the past are called out like a school register. History has its own poetry, Mr Writer — a poetry that completely takes over and hooks you. Follow me, and you'll feel like you've stepped back in time!"
Anemo tightened the strap of the carrier bag on his shoulder. Inside, Remi had poked out just the tip of her white nose, sniffing the air. For her, entering the museum during the day was an absolute shock to the system. The grand halls, which in her nighttime memories had been a maze of shadows and dead silence, were now buzzing with life.
It was a non-stop clash of echoes: footsteps shuffling on the ancient stone floor, the multilingual chatter of tour guides explaining dynasties, and the rhythmic clicking of cameras. They walked past the massive columns on the ground floor, by gigantic granite sarcophagi that smelt of damp, stale stone, and climbed the wide wooden stairs that creaked under the weight of the crowd.
Upstairs, in the royal jewellery room, the air conditioning was barely coping. It smelt of polished wood, floor wax, and stuffy air, typical of rooms where thousands of people breathe in front of the exact same display cases. Omar stopped right in front of a heavy structure made of dark hardwood and thick glass, its edges smudged by the fingerprints of curious visitors.
"There she is," he said, pointing his finger at the exhibit marked simply with a yellowed cardboard label: Number 1420. "The sacred collar from the Eighteenth Dynasty. They say it belonged to a priestess of the goddess Bastet, but local legends whisper that this piece of jewellery gave you the power to transcend forms, to hide or set free the person wearing it."
Anemo stepped closer to the glass and discreetly lifted Remi up, resting her against the wooden frame of the display case. Omar stared at the white cat, utterly fascinated by her intelligent, electric-blue eyes.
"Your cat really appreciates ancient Egyptian art!" the archaeology student noted. "Do you think there could be some link between her and this artefact?"
Remi felt a shiver of ice run down her spine, and the collar around her neck threw off a sudden beam of light, like a flash of greeting to its twin inside the case.
"What on earth was that? Anemo, did you see that too, or am I hallucinating? What a bizarre resemblance between the exhibit and your cat's collar! I've only just noticed."
Anemo froze for a few seconds, but then, with all the calmness he could muster, he put his index finger to his lips:
"Shh!"
Then he took his new friend's hand and gently placed it on the cat's neck, right onto the Collar of the Two Skies.
"Tell him, Remi. I think this man deserves our trust."
Remi startled slightly under Omar's touch, but the author of the book 'Women Can't Be Tamed' instantly took control with total poise and self-possession:
"Hello, Omar! I am Anemo's childhood friend, and right now, I am trapped inside this gorgeous fur."
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