Free The Gold of Thrace by Aileen G. Baron Page A

corner next to the dresser; the feather bed, puffy with the pristine downy white of the comforter and thick pillows.
    She stared blankly at the walls and thought about the mosaic, about the last day at Tepe Hazarfen. Something wasn’t right that day, even before she knew the mosaic was gone.
    What was it? Something Mustafa said? Or was it earlier, was it Chatham?
    Tired and thirsty, she rummaged in the refrigerator for a bottle of water and took a long draught before she fell on the bed and slept for an hour, dreaming of Alex again, as she always did.
    This time, they were sipping iced tea on a terrace floating over an orange sea flecked with stars that blinked on and off, and Alex was saying to her over and over, “Be careful. It isn’t what it seems. It isn’t what it seems.”
    When she awoke, she checked herself in the mirror and fingered the amber beads against her blouse—heavy, dark, strung on a leather thong.
    This will never do, she decided. I have to look rich, like I can afford to buy a mosaic floor. She had little in her suitcase besides clean underwear and two light cotton dresses that she saved for weekends. She had thrown away her torn digging clothes in Turkey, as she did every year.
    She unpacked, found a terrycloth robe in the bathroom, found the soap and shampoo on the counter next to the sink, and climbed into the shower.
    She selected a pale green knitted dress to wear. In Turkey it looked elegant when she wore it with the amber necklace. Here it looked shoddy and second-rate.
    She shrugged, flung the strap of her clumsy leather purse over her shoulder, and went down to the concierge desk in the lobby. She asked for a city map, and asked the concierge to show her the main shopping street.
    Another patronizing smile, this time from the concierge. The concierge opened the map and began to trace on it with a pen. “Here, between Barfüsserplatz and Marktplatz, you will find everything you need.” She clicked the pen and looked Tamar over. “Shall I call you a cab?”
    “It doesn’t look as if it’s that far. I’ll walk.”
    The concierge looked down at Tamar’s sandals and smiled again. “The taxi is complimentary.”
    “I want to get to know Basel.”
    “Suit yourself. Enjoy the lovely day.” The concierge picked up the pen again poised it over the map. “When you leave the hotel, turn left, then right on this street.” She made a mark on the map. “Then straight on. You can’t miss the center of town.”
    Tamar wandered for the better part of half an hour, viewing the burghers of Basel with their dark suits and briefcases, and the grim-faced housewives wearing print dresses and colored shoes and waiting patiently at street corners for traffic lights to change.
    No one smiled.
    It’s as though they have constipated souls, she thought, and went back to deciding what she had to buy. She had two credit cards, one for the hotel, one for clothes and other expenses. Shoes, she thought, shoes that match each outfit, like the ladies of Basel.
    She passed a Bank Suisse and got two hundred dollars’ worth of Swiss francs from the ATM machine. She looked up at the street sign and found herself at the corner of Aeschenvorstadt and Aeschenplatz. It can’t be too far, she thought. She oriented herself on the map and found Barfüsserplatz.
    She walked along Freiestrasse, looking in shop windows for appropriate clothes, taking short forays into side streets. She stopped outside a quiet shop with one dark outfit on a form in the window and peered inside. She saw a linen dress on a rack in the center of the shop, the kind of dress she needed, decided to look further, and continued on toward Marktplatz.
    The Town Square, lined by corbelled houses, lay in the shadow of the Rathaus, the town hall, a red stone building adorned with frescoes and fluttering banners and topped by a multi-colored roof. Tamar navigated through a barricade of parked cars that edged the market in the center of the square.
    She