The Islamic Art Dealer | تاجرة الفن الإسلامي
"She sells Islamic manuscripts to billionaires. He's the collector who wants more than illuminated pages. Their negotiations become intimate."
The Islamic Art Dealer
تاجرة الفن الإسلامي
The manuscript is fourteenth-century Persian.
Illuminated Quran pages, gold leaf, worth more than most houses. My client wants it.
He wants more than that.
I'm Soraya.
Forty-six, Iranian-British, running one of London's most exclusive Islamic art galleries. I deal with billionaires daily.
Victor is different.
He's sixty.
Russian-Jewish, made his money in oil, now collects what oil money can't buy. Culture. History. Beauty.
"I want the Shiraz Quran," he says.
"Everyone wants the Shiraz Quran."
"But I can pay."
"Payment isn't the issue. The Shiraz Quran belongs to a private collection. Not for sale."
"Everything is for sale."
"Not everything."
He looks at me—really looks.
"Then I'll take what is."
We start with smaller acquisitions.
Calligraphy panels. Ceramic tiles. Each sale requires meetings, discussions, the slow dance of wealthy collectors.
"You know more than any dealer I've met," he observes.
"I know more than most collectors too."
"Arrogant."
"Honest."
"Why do you do this?"
"Sell art?"
"Love art. I see how you touch these pieces. Like lovers."
"They are lovers. Safer than human ones."
"Safer isn't always better."
Our meetings grow longer.
Gallery visits become dinners. Dinners become midnight conversations. He tells me about Moscow, about building empires, about the loneliness of success.
"You're not what I expected," I admit.
"What did you expect?"
"Another oligarch measuring worth in zeros."
"And instead?"
"Instead, a man who understands that beauty is its own currency."
"May I ask something forward?"
"You're paying enough. Ask anything."
"I want to acquire you. Not buy—acquire. Learn. Understand."
"That's not art dealing."
"No. That's something more valuable."
The first kiss happens in my gallery.
Surrounded by centuries of Islamic artistry. He tastes like expensive whiskey and intention.
"This changes our relationship," I say.
"Everything good involves change."
"I don't sleep with clients."
"Then I'm not your client anymore." He gestures at the manuscript we've been discussing. "Buy it yourself. I'll fund the acquisition. But sell it to someone else. Then we're not in business."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I want what can't be bought. And that's you."
He undresses me in my private office.
Where I've negotiated million-pound deals, now negotiating something priceless.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin—"
"You're abundant. Like these manuscripts. Layered. Rich."
He worships me on my desk.
Paper and gold leaf scattered around us. Centuries of art witnessing something artful itself.
"Victor—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want to stop negotiating. Just... feel."
"Then feel."
We make love while Qurans watch.
The sacred and profane tangled together. When I come, it echoes off walls that hold history.
"Ya Khuda—"
"Again?"
"Please."
One year later
We're together now.
Not public—the art world would talk. But real. He bought a house in Hampstead; I keep my flat.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Satisfied. Which might be better."
"Better how?"
"Satisfaction is earned. Happiness can be accident."
He acquired the Shiraz Quran for me.
Outbid everyone. Gave it as an anniversary gift.
"This is too much," I protested.
"Nothing is too much for you."
He makes love to me under the Quran's light.
Gold leaf glowing. Centuries of devotion meeting our own.
"Worth it?" he asks.
"The acquisition or you?"
"Both."
"Priceless." I kiss him. "Both priceless."
Alhamdulillah.
For manuscripts that connect.
For collectors who see value.
For negotiations that become love.
The End.