Hot Art by Joshua Knelman Read Free Book Online Page B

archaeological digs in the country. He also began exporting Egypt’s cultural heritage to the world—for big money. When you saw King Tut's treasure on tour, that was a Zahi Hawass production. Perhaps for the first time in the ancient kingdom’s history, Egypt was profiting from its cultural heritage.
    By this time, though, the world seemed addicted to “free” loot courtesy of Egypt, and stolen antiquities remained a major draw for thieves and corrupt dealers. Case in point: in 2005, a Manhattan-based art dealer was convicted of smuggling a bust of Amenhotep iii—likely King Tut’s grandfather—into the United States. Frederick Schultz, who was sentenced to three years in prison, was linked to a vast network of middlemen spread out over a number of different countries. “There are constants in the history of human desire,” St. Hilaire told me. “There is a desire to loot that is constant. There’s also a desire to preserve. In Egyptian history, both of those are plainly evident.”
    On the last night of the conference, Bonnie Czegledi, Rick St. Hilaire, and I had dinner in a beautiful old restaurant in Cairo. We were all flying out the next morning. I said goodbye to St. Hilaire, who was staying at a smaller, less expensive hotel. When Czegledi and I returned to the Marriott, we decided to check out and then have a drink on the patio. We queued up at the front desk. When it was my turn, the desk clerk calmly informed me that I owed an extra $40 U.S. per night on my room. I felt a chill. “That can’t be right,” I said.
    The clerk assured me it was. There was a note attached to my account, he said. I asked to speak to the manager. The clerk looked nervous. I explained to him that I’d already had this conversation when I checked in, and the issue had been resolved. At first I was successful. He began preparing me a second bill, without the extra charge. Then he informed me that he had called the Organizer, who was coming downstairs to the lobby. “What does he have to do with this? Does he run the Marriott Hotel?” I asked. The clerk said, “Please wait here. He is coming soon.” Czegledi stood in the lobby while all of this unfolded. I watched as the new bill was printed up. I gave the clerk my Visa card and hoped the payment would go through before the Organizer arrived. Everything was happening very slowly. Finally, the card number was entered into a machine and the receipt began to print just as I saw the Organizer walk into the lobby.
    â€œDid you pay?” he asked in a loud voice as he approached.
    â€œYes,” I answered, “I paid.”
    He turned to the clerk and they had a quick, terse exchange in Arabic. It ended with him berating the desk clerk. Then he stepped very close to me, until our faces were just inches apart.
    â€œYou must pay the rate I told you to pay.”
    â€œI’ve already paid the bill with my Visa card. The bill is settled.”
    â€œI don’t care about that bill. You will pay the rate I gave you.”
    â€œDo you understand that I’m a journalist from North America, writing about the corruption in the art world?”
    â€œI don’t care what you are writing about,” he said. “You will pay.”
    â€œI’ve paid. It’s over.” I wasn’t sure what to do. I stood still, didn’t step back. But the Organizer stepped closer. The clerk, other staff in the lobby, and a few guests circulating near the desk looked frightened. Czegledi watched intently from a few feet away. I thought the Organizer was going to punch me. Instead he poked me with his finger.
    â€œYou haven’t paid me! ” he shouted.
    I did not respond. His eyes were wide with rage, and he was shaking. We stood like that for what seemed like a long time, but it was probably less than a minute.
    Then he collected himself and lowered his voice to a whisper.
    â€œI am leaving now. I