The Cairo Antique Dealer | تاجرة التحف القاهرية
"She sells antiques in Khan el-Khalili. He's the collector searching for a specific piece. What he finds is far more valuable."
The Cairo Antique Dealer
تاجرة التحف القاهرية
Khan el-Khalili is a thousand years old.
My shop has been here for three generations. We sell history.
Richard wants one particular piece.
I'm Om Ahmed.
Fifty-four, widow, running this shop since my husband died. I know every antique in every stall.
Richard collects Islamic ceramics.
He's sixty.
British, retired diplomat, spending his pension on beautiful things.
"I'm looking for a Mamluk tile. Specific pattern."
"Every collector wants Mamluk."
"This one is for my wife's grave. She loved Cairo."
His story softens me.
I help him search—through my inventory, through competitors, through connections the tourists don't know.
"You're very thorough," he says.
"Death deserves respect."
"My wife died here. Twenty years ago. Car accident near the pyramids."
"I'm sorry."
"I've been coming back every year since. Trying to find... peace."
"Have you found it?"
"I'm closer than I've ever been."
We find the tile.
In a storage unit I'd forgotten about. Perfect Mamluk geometry, exactly what he described.
"How much?"
"For your wife's grave? Nothing."
"I can't accept—"
"You can honor her memory. That's payment enough."
"Will you help me place it? At her grave?"
"That's... unusual."
"Everything about this is unusual." He takes my hand. "Please."
We go together.
To the British cemetery, to her gravestone. He places the tile, says a prayer—not Muslim, but sincere.
"Thank you," he whispers after. "For everything."
"Ma'a salama, Richard's wife. Rest well."
"Can I see you again? Not for antiques?"
"What for?"
"For conversation. For company. For whatever this has become."
The first kiss is at the Khan.
Evening, the stalls closing. Cairo golden around us.
"I didn't expect this," he says.
"Cairo rarely gives what you expect."
"I keep coming back for her. But now..."
"Now?"
"Now I'd come back for you."
We don't rush.
He returns to London. Comes back for visits. Letters between, calls that last hours.
"Marry me," he says on his fifth visit.
"I'm not young—"
"Neither am I. That's why we shouldn't wait."
We marry at the Khan.
His wife's tile watching from the cemetery. Her blessing, I hope.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Cairo finally gave me what I needed."
"What's that?"
"Someone to share it with."
Alhamdulillah.
For bazaars that hold treasures.
For collectors who find more.
For antiques that become beginnings.
The End.