Whenever a client insists on an absurdly early time for a meeting, I remember Rene Descarte, who never got out of bed before noon. Who knows, maybe the human race would have been better off if he had been up at five-thirty every morning, diligently working on the management of his French country estate, counting sacks of grain and overseeing animal husbandry. Had that been the case, there is little doubt that, when he died, the Descarte family fortune would have been much larger than it actually was in 1650, and, of course, also little doubt that there would never have been any such thing as analytic geometry.
But I’m no Rene Descarte, and if one of my clients wants to have a meeting at dawn, then there I am, ready to go. So it was this morning, when I faced down Ali Aswaad al-Phisti, Special Cultural Attache for the Government of Egypt over steaming cups of coffee as the blood red midwinter sun painted my office a grisly ochre.
“It was your own Benjamin Franklin,” he goaded, smiling sadistically, “who extolled the virtues ‘early to bed and early to rise,’ was it not?”
“Our dear Benjamin Franklin said many things, Your Excellency,” I replied noncommittally. “How can I help the Egyptian nation this morning?”
“My government requires your analysis of intellectual property policy issues,” Ali answered, slow and deliberate as a temple scholar as he sipped his coffee.
“That’s certainly a hot topic these days,” I allowed, “but also a very broad one. What types of intellectual property are of concern to your government – would it be books, magazines, printed material?”
“No, none of those.”
“Motion pictures?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Audio records?”
“No, that has been taken care of already, too.” Ali smiled. Obviously, he found this amusing.
“Internet content?”
“No, not that, I’m afraid.”
“Software?”
“No, not even close.”
“Photographs?”
“Not those, either.”
“Very well, Your Excellency,” I relented, “you have me stumped. What is it, then?”
“Antiquities.”
“Antiquities?” I could scarcely believe my ears. “Your government wishes to apply intellectual property protection to your antiquities?”
“Precisely,” Ali nodded, peering at me expectantly. “Is that not the most brilliant idea you have heard in quite some time?”
“It is your idea, I take it?”
“Exactly,” Ali confirmed, smiling broadly. “The brainchild of Yours Truly, indeed!”
“And you disseminated this idea throughout the Egyptian government?”
“Yes,” he proudly proclaimed. “And shortly, our government will pass a law requiring royalties for use of the likeness or image of any Egyptian antiquity.”
“You mean,” I inquired, not a little amazed at such presumptuousness, “like a pyramid, for example?”
“Yes!” Ali responded enthusiastically.
“And Sphinx heads?”
“Of course!”
“Hieroglyphics?”
“Absolutely!”
“Obelisks?”
“Them, too!”
“Those Ankh symbols that Wiccans wear?”
“Indeed,” Ali affirmed, “such a graphic, shape or physical object constructed in that image would also be covered by the upcoming law.”
“Just basically everything that can be construed as some sort of symbol representing some sort of ancient Egyptian attribute?”
“Essentially.”
“So,” I extrapolated, “after passage of this law, Egypt would seek to obtain copyright royalties from, say, the Luxor Hotel in Las Vegas?”
“Of course,” he assured me, “for both the pyramid and the Sphinx.”
“And you’d go after Hollywood Pictures for their use of the Sphinx design, too?”
“Definitely.”
“The people who created the ‘Riddle of the Sphinx’ game?”
“Most certainly.”
“The ‘Bart Sphinx’ from The Simpsons?”
“Yes, we should especially go after the cartoons – they make a lot of money.”
“And you’d want fees for all those mummies people have been using for years and years, I suppose?”
“Well, only the ones that clearly reference Egyptian mummies, Mr. Collins. We are well aware that other cultures have their own versions.”
“So Boris Karloff’s mummy would qualify?”
“Mr. Collins, I believe that nearly every mummy movie ever made will owe the Egyptian government royalties; every mummy novel; every mummy comic book; and every mummy wrap in every spa!”
“Mummy Rummy?”
“Clear infringement, in my opinion!”
“How about the card game called ‘Pharoah?’”
“Sounds close enough for a nasty letter from our lawyers, at the very least.”
“And you’d sue Pharoah Sanders for infringement, too?”
“We’d encourage him to settle out of court, of course.”
“What about Pharoah brand amplifiers?”
“They can either pay us or change their name, that’s how I see it.”
“And that band that calls itself Pharoah’s Daughter?”
“Anything with a Pharoah in it, that’s infringement of Egyptian intellectual property, plain and simple. All infringing parties will have to pay up, that’s it, period.”
“Would you go after the French for the Louvre pyramid?”
“I’m glad you thought of that, Mr. Collins! What a perfect example of plagiarism! I should think we would put them first in line for our demands!
“Would you expect money from all those New Age flakes who make pyramids to sleep in or sharpen razor blades with?”
“I don’t see why not. That’s proprietary ancient Egyptian pyramid magic they are using, you know.”
“Pyramid tents?”
“In canvas, nylon or any other fabric, their manufacturers owe us.”
“The Learning Pyramid?”
“Let them learn how to pay royalties to us!”
“The Drinker’s Pyramid?”
“I say it’s time to tip Egypt as well as the bartender!”
“The Punctuation Pyramid?”
“Open quote, Pay to the Order of, colon, the Government of Egypt, exclamation point, close quote.”
“How about the U.S. Department of Agriculture Food Pyramid?”
“Well, you know what they say, ‘A pyramid is a pyramid, is a pyramid.’ Why should we let the Department of Agriculture off the hook?”
“And you’d sue the United States Park Service for royalties because the Washington Monument is an obelisk?”
“No question about it – in my mind, at least, Mr. Collins. Your Uncle Sam will have to pay up all over the place.”
“How about the Shriners?”
Ali stared at me, puzzled. “Who?”
“The Shriners are a part of the Masonic Lodge. They use a large number of ancient Egyptian symbols.”
“Oh, well, then,” Ali declared, rubbing his hands in anticipation, “they will have to pay, too!”
“And so forth and so on, I presume?”
“And on, and on… on to the National Bank of Egypt, Mr. Collins!”
“Your Excellency,” I asked, delicately, “weren’t all of those things your government is going to claim as intellectual property conceived of and made thousands of years before the institution of international copyright, trademark and patent laws?”
Ali pondered the ceiling, thinking. “I suppose so,” he finally conceded.
“Is it not also the case,” I continued, “that some of them were even conceived of and constructed many hundreds of years before the invention of money itself?”
Ali picked his attache case up, placed it on his lap and began drumming his fingers on it as he stared at me, clearly growing irritated at my line of questioning. “Perhaps,” he admitted with obvious reluctance. “Certainly there was no money, as we know it, when the Sphinx and the great pyramids at Giza were built.”
“Presumably not,” I agreed. “And how can your government seriously maintain that the current population of your country is directly descended from the individuals who conceived of and created the Egyptian antiquities?”
Ali stopped drumming on his attache case, placed it on the floor again and stood up, leaning across my desk, his face inches from mine.
“If you please, Mr. Collins,” he demanded, blowing last night’s lamb couscous up my nostrils, “what is your point?”
“Well,” I replied, drawing back slightly so as not to get sick to my stomach, “suppose the Greeks did this, too? Then they would be suing everybody from the Supreme Court to the New York Public Library for ripping off the Parthenon, wouldn’t they?”
Ali drew back, resumed his seat, and gazed contemplatively out the window. “I guess that is possible,” he finally conceded.
“And what about the Italians? What if they claimed intellectual property protection for everything the ancient Romans did? They’d be suing the owners of every building with an atrium dome. They’d be demanding patent royalties on Pozzolanic cement. They’d be asking for payments from every stone engraver who ever used Roman numerals. And why stop there? What if the Germans were to claim copyright on Gothic architecture? What if the French decide to trademark Art Deco?”
“Good for them,” Ali huffed, “that’s what I would say – good for them!”
“Do you mean to say, Your Excellency,” I prodded him, “that all of those scenarios I just called out strike you as perfectly reasonable?”
Ali slowly turned to look at me. “If people and corporations can protect their intellectual property, why shouldn’t nations be able to do so?”
“So if bats, birds and bees can fly, you think that pigs, snakes and elephants should fly, too?”
“It’s not like that at all, Mr. Collins,” Ali protested. “Besides, Egypt needs the money!”
“Perhaps,” I parried, “but if other nations, like Greece, Italy, Germany and France, for example, start demanding money from Egypt for your country’s unauthorized use of their ancient intellectual property, what assurance do you have that Egypt will not be a net loser instead of being the big winner you obviously imagine it will be?”
“Mr. Collins,” Ali sighed, “I appreciate your observations and insights. The government of Egypt requires other efforts on your part, however. We need a complete policy analysis of intellectual property protection for Egyptian antiquities. It shall include strategies for implementation, both in the United States and world wide. We will also need an exhaustive and comprehensive list of targets, such as those you have already identified, from which the government of Egypt can be reasonably expected to recover substantial sums. Finally, we shall also require an econometric analysis, indicating projected discounted future revenues as a function of various tariff schedules and fee recovery cost projections.”
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency,” I told him, sadly shaking my head, “but I cannot accept such an assignment.”
Ali’s head snapped back as if I had slapped him. “How can you possibly say that, Mr. Collins?”
“Frankly, Your Excellency,” I answered, “I can’t afford not to refuse such an assignment.”
“Why on earth is that?”
I paused carefully before making my reply. “With all due respect, Your Excellency, to accept and execute this assignment would most likely damage to my professional reputation very considerably.”
“How?”
“To put it quite simply, Your Excellency, upon learning that I had done so, other potential clients would, quite reasonably, conclude that I have taken leave of my sanity, lost my sense of judgment, or both.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Because, not to put too fine a point on it, Your Excellency, this revenue generation concept of yours is, without the slightest doubt, the silliest, most utterly ridiculous, downright harebrained piece of half-witted idiocy I have ever seen proposed by a sovereign national government which is not itself under the control of a some variety of demented lunatic.”
Ali squirmed in his seat for a few moments as my words sunk in. “Let us not forget, Mr. Collins, that many great ideas have appeared to be ludicrous upon initial examination.”
“In that case, Your Excellency, could you please name a single example comparable to this one?”
A long silence ensued. Finally, Ali heaved an elaborate sigh. “Well, I suppose I must go elsewhere then, Mr. Collins. But I must say…”
Just then, my telephone rang. Given the circumstances, I had no problem picking up. It was my private secretary, who had arrived at her desk in the outer office during my meeting with Ali. Given the early hour, she was surprisingly excited, her voice driven by what was apparently a very strong jolt of adrenaline.
“Mr. Collins,” she related, her voice rattling like a machine gun, “Benazir Bhutto was just assassinated at a rally in Rawalpindi. I pulled up that e-mail she blind carbon-copied you on a couple of months ago, the one that says Pervez Musharraf is responsible – it’s on your desk top now; click the icon I marked ‘Urgent.’ The State Department’s on line one, the White House is on line two, the Pentagon is on line three, the CIA is on line four and three calls from Capitol Hill are rolling over into voice mail… make that four… ah… five voice mails from Capitol Hill.”
“Ask everybody to hold,” I told her. “I’ll be with the party on line two in one minute. Explain to the others, the office with which I am speaking; and ask them to please hold until I can speak with them. While I’m doing that, you listen to the voice mails and get ready to brief me on what they said.”
As I hung up, Ali shook his head, mocking incredulity. “You must have a very considerable consulting practice, Mr. Collins, to be in a position where you can refuse such a substantial job. You must admit, policy analysis of this issue amounts to quite a considerable piece of work.”
“Your Excellency,” I volleyed back, “whereas you have claimed authorship of this particular idea, I would offer that, in my estimation, you are quite obviously one considerable piece of work yourself.”