The Byblos Antiquarian | صاحبة التحف في جبيل
"She deals in ancient artifacts from the world's oldest city. He's the historian who challenges her expertise—and awakens something ancient in her. 'Inti akdam w ajmal min kil shi bi hal mahal' (أنتِ أقدم وأجمل من كل شي بهالمحل)."
The Byblos Antiquarian
صاحبة التحف في جبيل
My shop sits in the old souk of Byblos.
Seven thousand years of history outside my door. I've been selling antiquities here for twenty years.
Then he walks in and tells me I'm wrong.
I'm Nadia.
Forty-eight, never married, married to history instead. My curves fill the narrow aisles of my shop like the artifacts fill the shelves.
Dr. Karim Haddad is here to ruin my peace.
"This isn't Phoenician."
He holds up my prized amphora. The nerve.
"Kifak mfakir halak?" Who do you think you are?
"Someone who's studied these for thirty years." He sets it down gently. "It's Greek. Third century."
"It's Phoenician. Fifth century BC."
"Prove it."
I prove it.
Three hours, seventeen reference books, one trip to the basement archives. He watches me work, and somewhere between the second and third hour, his skepticism transforms.
"Ya Allah." He leans back. "You're right."
"Tab'an." Obviously.
"How did you know?"
"The clay composition. Greeks imported Phoenician techniques but couldn't replicate Byblos soil."
He's fifty-two.
Lebanese-American, UCLA professor, here on sabbatical. His research specialty: Phoenician maritime trade.
Mine too.
"Shu esmik?" I finally ask.
"Karim."
"Ana Nadia. W baddik trouh halla."
"Why?"
"Because you've been staring at me for ten minutes instead of the artifacts."
"The artifacts aren't as interesting."
"Excuse me?"
"I've seen amphoras. I've never seen you." He steps closer. "Twenty years you've been here, building this collection, and no academic has written about it."
"I don't need academics."
"Maybe I need you."
He comes back daily.
Ostensibly for research. Actually for debates that turn into dinners that turn into walks through ancient streets.
"Li shu ma tzawajti?" Why didn't you marry?
"Men wanted me to choose. Them or history."
"Impossible choice."
"Not really. History never disappoints."
"I wouldn't disappoint you."
We're standing in the ruins of the Crusader castle at sunset. The Mediterranean blazes orange.
"You're leaving in three months."
"I could stay."
"Don't make promises in magical places, Karim."
But the magic follows us back.
To my shop after hours. To wine on my rooftop. To conversations that last until the call to prayer.
"Inti mish mitil ay wahdi."
"Because I'm not skinny?"
"Because you're timeless." His hand finds mine. "Inti akdam w ajmal min kil shi bi hal mahal."
I kiss him among the antiquities.
Surrounded by five thousand years of human longing. His hands pull me close, and I feel ancient—in the best way.
"Nadia..."
"Sakker. Bawwisni."
We make love in my back room.
Where I catalog treasures. Now I'm being catalogued—his hands mapping my geography like I'm a dig site.
"Mashallah," he murmurs against my breast. "Kil inch minik masterpiece."
"Karim—"
"Every curve." Kiss. "Every fold." Kiss. "Every abundant inch."
His mouth travels lower and I grip a shelf, sending a replica scarab clattering.
"Careful—"
"Ma fi shi akhtar minnik." Nothing more valuable than you.
He enters me against the wall.
Surrounded by clay tablets that have witnessed millennia. We're just two more humans adding to the history.
"Ya Allah—Nadia—"
"Aktar—"
His thrusts are archaeological.
Deep, searching, uncovering something buried. I've kept myself hidden for so long—
"Let go," he commands.
"Mish adir—"
"Adri. Khaliki."
I shatter.
Crying into his shoulder, body clenching around him. He follows, groaning my name like it's Phoenician script.
Nadia. Nadia. Nadia.
Afterward, we sit among the ruins of my composure.
"Three months," I remind him.
"Resign from UCLA."
"Shu?"
"I've published enough. I have savings." He cups my face. "W la'ayt shi la astana li ajlo."
Two years later
The Haddad Collection opens in Byblos.
Our combined research, our shared scholarship, our love made tangible in glass cases.
"Dr. Nadia Haddad," he reads from the placard.
"Hyphenated. I kept my name."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
Alhamdulillah.
For cities older than memory.
For scholars who argue with passion.
For antiquarians who become treasures themselves.
The End.