APEX PROJECT

The early morning air was cool and pleasant. The night's rain, one of the last of the season, had dampened the dust, the cloudless sky was a brilliant, intense blue. The men loaded the gear from the lobby into the back of the Wagoneer. Iraj closed the rear door with a satisfied, rattley slam.

"Ok," he said.

With Iraj driving, the grand old machine roared to life and they headed southeast out of the town along the two-lane asphalt highway. There was no center line making Ellen twitch a little bit to the right every time they met another vehicle coming the other direction.

Over the roar of the engine, Ellen asked, "If there are really thieves out here, what do we do about this car and the gear in it?" She had to lean back toward the rear seat as Jamshid leaned forward. He was protectively holding the camera bag in his lap.

The translation was shouted several times to Iraj who nodded and grinned as he answered. The exchange lasted several minutes.

Finally Ellen asked, "What did you decide?"

Not totally convinced, Jamshid said, "He says we have to hire a thief."

"A thief?"

"I think it is his cousin."

"Mosein very good!" Iraj interjected.

"So," Ellen said, "like you said this morning, this is life in Iran."

The outer walls of the Arge, as Jamshid explained it was called, loom up tall and imposing. The entrance a rounded archway, easily three stories high, dark in the interior because of the depth of the passage. Narrow defensive slots along the inner walls would make it very dangerous for an enemy to approach the tall gate which blocked the far end.

Standing back by the Jeep, Ellen tried to visualize it as it must have been. The wall and the ground were all the same color. The sandy dirt was the primary construction material for all of this ancient city. Either made into sun-dried bricks or built up with handfuls of sticky wet mud reinforced with straw.

Jamshid explained that especially the entrance area had been restored and rebuilt many times. There were no other vehicles in the parking lot and the inner gate was closed. The sign, Jamshid read, advertised daily hours from nine A.M. to five-thirty P.M., unless it rained.

Moments later a lady arrived in an old BMW. She wrapped her dark blue chador tightly about her head and without a glance at Ellen and the men, walked to the inner gate, pulling out a large, important-looking ring of keys.

Iraj announced that he would stay with the Jeep and watch for Mosein.

Ellen and Jamshid walked up just as the lady was settling herself behind a little table just inside the now open small door set within the large, imposing gate. She unlocked her metal change box, produced a roll of tickets from her bag and a sign with entrance prices and rules which she proceeded to tape to the lid of the cash box.

"Oh we need money." Ellen gave Jamshid several Iranian bills, saying, "Here. This is something I have to learn about. In the meantime can you handle the money?"

He pushed all but one of the bills back to her. "Too much. I must get you some small money."

The rest of the transaction Ellen did not see. Her attention was drawn to the city of mud-adobe buildings that stretched as far as she could see. Small narrow streets with buildings eroded from the rain and wind, but still there were archways lifting over second floors, whole walls with partial roofs still standing strong and straight. Everything, all of it, built from the earth, reformed into a silent, enduring testament of the thousands upon thousand of people who had lived their lives here so long ago. She could see no wood visible anywhere. Perhaps once there were doors and window shutters, but now long gone for firewood or maybe still functioning on a house in the new town. This was a land where trees and wood were very rare. The only trees were the tall date palms out across the fields where water flowed to irrigate trees and crops in this new age of capitalistic Iran.

As they started to walk, Ellen could see tiny accents beyond the beige-brown of the stucco and underlying bricks, where part of an interior wall still carried its white plaster and a fleck of blue where the paint still weathered, safe up under a protecting arch. The overheads were all arches. There were no flat roofs where wooden beams had been used. It was all the impressive skill of the builders being able to construct soaring arches out of mud bricks.

Jamshid led her through the maze of disorganized streets and alleyways. They walked through the partially restored market place, the bazaar. The fairly new little booths already showing the weathering of rain while the original walls were still standing after hundreds of years.

Ellen stood, both hands feeling the hardness and warmth of an original wall in a stall that still stood. What did they know to do that would make the material last so long?

She had seen on the bus trip down from Kerman, people out repairing the rain damage, their village houses unable to withstand even one season of downpours. There had been large washed-out corners where roofs had drained and many mud fences that looked as if they had melted. Maybe it was camel urine or a special plant juice that made even the stucco so impervious to the erosion of years and years within the old city.

Because of the monochrome color of the ruins, Ellen quickly decided she needed either early morning light or the hour before sunset, the golden hour as they said in the movies, to do her photographs. The three dimensional quality of the buildings would not show unless they had the contrasting light and shadow.

"I don't suppose there is a map of all this?" They had reached the far western wall, the houses built right up to the wall.

"No, I've never seen one." Jamshid was thoughtful.

"You're right about getting lost. I can see we could miss something very easily."

"Maybe you could take a picture from very high," he said pointing up to the white tower that rose above the top of the fortress wall that dominated the entire northern side of the city.

She hadn't really looked up there being down in the streets, the view of the fortress was almost always blocked. "Good idea. Then we can divide this maze into sections and work a different section each day."

"Do you want to go up there now?" He asked with an eagerness that belied his lack of sleep.

" No," Ellen replied quickly, having already considered the walk back to get a camera and then the walk back across the entire city to the base of the long, winding road and archways that she could see led up to the summit. "I think tomorrow morning is soon enough."

Smiling agreement, Jamshid shed his leather jacket. The morning sun was feeling more intense and the earthen buildings were already beginning to radiate heat.

"Besides," she started walking back toward the center of the city, "I have another important mission for you."

"What, Miss Ellen?" he said catching up, the jacket slung casually over his shoulder.

So cool, she thought, like a GQ model; the white teeth, the curly dark hair... No, no stop thinking like that. Persian men just look like models. "I want to shoot my photographs both early in the morning, right after the sun rises and in the late afternoon during the hour just before sunset. I think the light will be best for all these same-colored buildings.

"Yes," he said, thinking hard.

"Now, your job is to convince that lady at the gate to call her boss and get permission for us to be in here during those hours. They could just give us a key or send someone to open and close for us.."

"I understand. I think a key would be better. That girl would be very unhappy to come so early." He walked backwards for a moment, squinting at the angle of the sun.

"And have to stay so late," added Ellen. They rounded a corner to a new street and headed back to the south and the entrance. "Oh... I have a letter in my bag in the car from the Iranian Department of Antiquities. This is an international undertaking you know. It's sponsored by both the U.S. and Iran.

Jamshid laughed. "That is the boss of the boss. Give me the letter and I will make the arrangements, unhappy girl or not."

When they arrived back at the Wagoneer, there was a boy, possibly ten or eleven years old, wearing a very worn, leather cowboy hat, sitting jauntily on the hood of the car.

"Hello... How are you?" he said in overly enunciated syllables, his dark eyes sparkling.

Jamshid said several things sharply in Farsi and the boy jumped down and stood respectfully facing Ellen. "This is Iraj's cousin, Mosein e-Ghurian."

Ellen offered her hand. "Hello Mosein. I'm happy to meet you."

Taking her hand, he said, "I am fine, how are you?" Then produced a heartbreaking smile that melted any objections that Ellen might have had about this young ruffian.

Just then Iraj returned with several bottles of orange soda pop and seeing that Ellen had already met his cousin, said, "Mosein very good."

Ellen gratefully accepted the bottle of cold orange and sent Jamshid back to negotiate with the Ministry letter in hand. Then since she really couldn't converse with the other two, broke out the laptop and proceeded to power up, extend her satellite antenna and check her e-mail.

The satellite link took several minutes to sort through the files and produce a updated version of her mail center with messages waiting. One was from the museum in San Francisco confirming that the publication rights for her project would be respected by the Iranian government and they had agreed not to allow illegal duplication. This was a point the State Department had been sticking on for a number of years.

There was a message from her apartment manager wanting to know what to do with her mail. She had forgotten in the rush of leaving to even notify him that she would be gone.

Iraj and Mosein watched this process with great interest. Iraj seeing a computer as a mystery from the great unknown never having touched one; and Mosein was impressed with the brilliant color screen and speed of the new Globe Operating System. The one he used at school was much slower and had to be connected to a phone line.

The last message was from Ellen's older sister.

ELLEN RICHARDS. SAN FRANCISCO MUSEUM CENTER.NET

ELLEN DEAR

STILL HAVEN'T HEARD FROM YOU. WHAT'S GOING ON? I'M WORRIED SICK, ETC., ETC.

PLEASE RESPOND IMMEDIATELY!

NOW MOST IMPORTANT: THE NEW COMPLEX "SILENTIUM" IS HAVING A GRAND OPENING ON MARCH 27. I EXPECT YOU TO BE HERE. THIS HAS BEEN MY FIRST BIG PROJECT FOR MTC. THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME. YOU ARE ALL THE FAMILY I HAVE LEFT AND I NEED YOU HERE! IS THAT ENOUGH GUILT?

TWO DAYS AT THE MOST. I HAVE A ROOM RESERVED FOR YOU AT THE SILENTIUM HOTEL ON THE 26,27 AND 28. PLEASE ANSWER IMMEDIATELY AND LET ME KNOW YOU ARE ALL RIGHT OUT THERE IN THAT WILDERNESS WITH ALL THOSE MEN.

I LOVE YOU LITTLE SISTER. \\

MILLIE

Ellen opened "New" and typed:

MILLIE SAPIR @ MTC HQ.NET

DEAR BIG SIS,

MY WORK HERE IS JUST STARTING. I AM VERY FAR FROM AIRPORTS AND I HAVE EMPLOYEES TO THINK ABOUT PLUS A PUBLISHER'S DEADLINE. THANKS FOR THE INVITE. I KNOW IT WILL BE FABULOUS, BUT DON'T COUNT ON ME THIS TIME. I'LL COME SEE IT THE MOMENT I FINISH HERE. I'M FINE, THE PROJECT IS VERY INTERESTING, AND THE MEN ARE BEAUTIFUL. I'LL KEEP YOU POSTED. LOVE. \\

ELLEN

She clicked "send" and remembered that she had a translation module installed before Christmas and there were language blocks in her memory storage at the museum. She accessed the San Francisco Museum of Art and found her way into Staff Personal, Research Department/Richards. A few minutes later, the download was underway with a Middle East Language Block.

Jamshid returned minutes before the download was complete with a satisfied grin. "The unhappy lady will be here tomorrow morning at five A.M. to let us in. She has to be here for us every day until they decide about a key." He then translated the news for Iraj and Mosein who also wanted to know about the computer.

Ellen explained as the download complete window popped up, that the satellite net was connected to her home office in San Francisco and she had storage space within the Museum's permanent storage network. "And I've just downloaded a Farsi language block for my translator which if I can figure out how to get us all voice-registered with the program it will translate English to Farsi and Farsi to English plus include Farsi in the System menus so you guys can operate as well."

This information created much excitement and conversation. Iraj being very intimidated about computers and afraid he would not be able to do anything.

"Tell them," she said realizing the anxiety, "the only rule is that the machines are not be turned on unless it's part of work and I'm there to supervise. At least while everyone is learning. Ok?"                      (To Chapter 3)

Copyright © 2000 by Gale Peterson