"One hybrid mountain goat. One goat produced by a wild goat. One suckling goat..."

 

     Monday was a gorgeous day to be downtown, and I gave myself extra time to walk across the Loop to from Union Station to my interview on North Michigan Avenue.
     It had been a few months since I've done that — because winter — and maybe my bearings were a little off. Walking east on Washington, when I hit LaSalle Street, and saw this row of empty storefronts, pictured above, my first thought was a shocked, "Hey wait a minute? Harlan J. Berk went out of business? Nooooo!" 

     The store had been there for decades. I used to bring the boys there to buy coins. I'd always stop by and chat with Robert, who went to the same synagogue as my father-in-law....

     The flash of dread lasted only for a few seconds. I did some quick orienteering. We were just south of the City Hall. I gazed over toward the Picasso. Wait a sec...  

     My step quickened. Soon this parallaxed into view.  Not LaSalle Street. Clark. Whew. Still there.  

    Given that little psychic contortion, I had to go in. You can't worry about the fate of someplace then skip past it. Beside, I had a little time to kill. 

     So I went in. Robert retired last month, lucky soul. I chatted with the clerk about gold prices. The bullion value of a double eagle — a $20 gold piece — is so great, nearly $5,000, that it's numismatic value, the price added to the value of the gold by it being a coin of a certain year and quality, has dwindled to almost nothing. 

     Though people do still collect coins, he said. 

    Looking for something to say, I asked if he ever got any cuneiform tablets in. Besides coins, Berk sells antiquities, Roman lamps and vases, kraters and Egyptian trinkets. I'm a writer, and have written about deciphering ancient languages. I always thought a pristine cuneiform tablet would look good on my desk, maybe displayed in some kind of cool brass stand, suspended by pincers. Look, early writing.

    The next thing I knew I had been handed over to great man himself, Harlan Berk, 62 years in the business, and we were heading upstairs to his suite of offices, stuffed with all manner of statue shards and ancient detritus. I tried to beg off — look at the time, mustn't be late to my appointment. But I think he saw me as a fish on the hook, and he would not be deterred until the tablets he knew he had were dug out from the charming confusion of his offices, all cases and dusty volumes about coins. It took time. I tried to be patient. 

And only $300

     After some searching, a pair of cuneiform tablets were produced, in plastic bags — the first one, a 4,000-year-old Sumerian receipt for slaughtered meat (most ancient writing is not poetry or political speech, but accounts of grain shipments and recipes for beer).  It cost $600 for a piece of baked clay two inches long and an inch wide with some scratches on it. There was a second, with a single line of writing, basically an ancient notepad, for $300.

I was thinking of something
more like this (Met)

     I said it seemed a lot for objects which were not the beautiful, intricately hash-marked tablets I'd seen at museums. I had in mind something much more ... well. aesthetic. Mr. Berk explained that, because of changes in international law, such tablets could not longer be exported from the Middle East, and supplies are extremely limited. Not a situation the current war in Iran will help, I imagine.  

     Just as well. A tablet of the quality I had in mind would be wildly expensive, all for another trinket to join the others, more stuff my kids don't want. I need to be getting rid of junk at this point, not acquiring more. I pushed on to my interview, but was very glad of my quick dip into the back rooms of Harlan Berk. That's the thing with the city; you set out to interview bagpipers — my appointment on Michigan Avenue — and end up eyeballing Sumerian tablets.

    Not entirely true. I ended up, as I like to, after the interview, standing at the plaza just east of the Madison Street entrance to Union Station, enjoying a Rocky Patel Vintage 1990, watching the river flow and waiting for my train. A man was nearby, having a cigarette, and I considered saying something along the lines of "Nice day for it, eh?" But he seemed as if he were nursing a private sorrow, and I decided to leave well enough alone.

Harlan J. Berk