by Michel Faber
‘I’ll carry these down to the car,’ he said.
‘Your girlfriend do that to you?’ said Lowell when they’d started driving.
‘Do what to me?’
Lowell was an old pal of Theo’s from university days. Friendly enough to be called upon to help shift his stuff to the bachelor flat, not so friendly that the deal was emotionally complicated.
‘The scratches on your face,’ said Lowell.
‘No, they’re from broken glass.’
‘Right.’
‘I was in Iraq a few days ago, in a place called Mosul. I was visiting a museum. A bomb went off outside. It was an assassination. The building sustained some damage. So did I.’
Lowell laughed. ‘Well, if you’re gonna go on holiday in a war zone . . .’
‘It wasn’t a holiday. I was representing the Institute. I was hoping to arrange for some artefacts to be shipped over here.’
‘Bummer.’
‘Yes, especially for the Iraqis that got killed in the attack.’
‘Ah, they’re used to it. And they go straight to Heaven, right? Or Paradise or Nirvana or whatever they call it. I read about that. Fifty hot virgins for every guy. It sure beats the hell out of clouds and harps.’
Theo smiled bemusedly. It was obvious that Lowell was not the right person with whom to share his great discovery.
On the back seat of the car, in amongst the books and CDs and clothing and shoes and the not-quite-functioning Walkman he thought he’d thrown out ages ago and the video camera and the bicycle helmet and the stoneware mug with the Far Side cartoon on it, lay a briefcase containing the nine scrolls. He was transporting them, at long last, on the final leg of their journey. Just a few more miles, from one Toronto suburb to another, and they would come to rest in their new home.
He could barely wait. Those papyri were burning a hole in his briefcase. They were like a stash of pornography that he’d been forced to delay getting to grips with. Not that there was anything kinky in his attraction to the scrolls; the porn comparison was just . . . a metaphor. A metaphor for the promises the papyri were urgently whispering from the back seat, of what they were going to do for him.
The scrolls were unquestionably authentic, in the sense that it was beyond doubt that they’d been sealed inside the bas-relief at the historical juncture when the sculpture was made, which was almost two thousand years ago. The airtight seal, combined with a preservative agent in the swaddling cloth, had kept the papyrus in superb condition: supple, robust, wholly spared the pulverous fragility that commonly afflicted ancient documents. This alone made the scrolls very, very special. Usually – not that the word ‘usually’ could be applied to the discovery of 2000-year-old scrolls, but let that pass – a find like this would cause a brief sensation in the newspapers, and then you wouldn’t hear another word about it for years while a team of conservators and scientists debated the best way of extracting some vestiges of meaning from the pathetic mulch before it suffered its final collapse into decay. To find a scroll of this vintage that could simply be unrolled and read like the latest issue of the Toronto Star was unheard of.
To find nine of them, written in painstakingly clear script by a first-century Christian convert called Malchus, was miraculous.
Brothers and sisters, I thank you for your letters, and beg you to forgive me for waiting so long to answer them. I am unworthy of such patience. That is to say, the man called Malchus is unworthy, the man called Malchus deserves no more attention than a dead dog in the street; listen to him only insofar as his words can bear witness to the greatness of Jesus the Nazorean, the Messiah, the Son of God.
Prose-wise, it was not the most scintillating opening salvo, especially for an atheist like Theo. But what had electrified him in the Mosul museum when he’d first examined the scrolls was that they were written in Aramaic. Had they been written in Coptic Egyptian or Kurdish or Persian, or even in Classical Arabic (a language he could read passably well with the aid of Koranic glossaries), he would have felt that they were national treasures that manifestly did not belong to him. To remove them, even from a looted museum with burning vehicles and roasted human flesh all around it, would have been theft. But Aramaic . . . Aramaic was his baby. He knew it better than just about anyone in North America, better than many scholars in the eastern world. The coincidence of finding an Aramaic memoir – to have it literally falling at his feet – at a highly dramatic moment in his life, was too astounding to ignore. These scrolls were meant for him. There was no other explanation for it.
In truth, my life for the most part has been a worthless one, insofar as the life of any man before he becomes acquainted with Jesus the Messiah adds nothing of value to the world. My first thirty-five years, in my own conception during the living of them, were full of sweet achievements and bitter disappointments; but I see now that I contended against nothing and won nothing.
Since leaving the house of my mother, I have earned my bread in the following ways: as a scribe of the unimportant utterances of unimportant men who puffed themselves up to be great leaders, and as a gossip and informer. My official titles were not so. But these are the true words for my usefulnesses.
My first employment was in the court of procurator Valerius Gratus. My head was like a lantern, burning with the pride of serving a person of such high office. I translated his most trivial pronouncements from Roman into the popular tongue. For his more significant pronouncements, he had other scribes. Three years I did this. I might as well have bent my quill to a flow of ordure in the street, and written upon its surface as it sped along the gutter. But my hunger for advancement was very keen.
That was about as much as Theo had managed to read so far, what with the other things going on in his life. Apart from a few hours in planes, leafing through crumpled in-flight magazines and watching the uniformed handmaidens do their symbolic safety dances, he’d had no time to reflect. Getting from the museum to Baghdad Airport had been an experience and a half, filled with the sort of high-octane anxiety that seemed to be Iraq’s principal domestic product. All sorts of things had happened to him – or almost happened to him – which, if Meredith had still been his girlfriend, would no doubt have impressed her mightily to hear about. And the fact that his various narrow scrapes were routine ones – just the run-of-the-mill dangers affecting anyone foolhardy enough to be in Iraq right now, rather than the specialised hazards associated with soldiering – gave them an added frisson of exoticism. He could’ve recounted them nonchalantly, in a low-key, good-humoured tone, similar perhaps to the tone used by a wildlife photographer describing close encounters with wild animals.
Anyway, enough of Meredith. He had the scrolls now, which were potentially a much bigger deal in his life than any female. Relationships, he could have anytime. Life-changing discoveries were not so easy to come by.
A higher agency wanted him to have them, that much was clear. At Baghdad Airport, with sweat pouring from his armpits, he’d handed in his suitcase at the check-in desk, having decided against putting the scrolls in his hand luggage. It was torture to surrender the suitcase onto a conveyor belt to possible oblivion, but he judged it was a lesser risk than trying to keep the papyri on his person while passing through security. He had no idea whether checked-in luggage was screened for suspicious objects; he kind of wished that it was, because of the sheer idiocy of making people stand in line while their handbags were X-rayed and tubes of toothpaste were confiscated. Why humiliate an old lady for having a nail file in her mouldy little purse when there was nothing to stop a terrorist stowing a suitcase filled with explosives in the hold of the plane? But OK, whatever. His suitcase had gone through.
In Athens, the fifteen minutes he spent waiting for his luggage to appear on the carousel caused him almost as much stress as his dash through the burning streets of Mosul. But again, a higher agency was looking after him. The suitcase rolled out, undamaged, unbroached. He immediately checked in to his Toronto flight, and, on arrival there, suf
fered the same fifteen minutes of anxiety, peering into the dark aperture at Baggage Reclaim. Again, his suitcase trundled casually into view. A big bunch of sweaty shirts and pants and socks, a creased jacket, and, wrapped snugly inside those grubby clothes, the greatest archaeological find in centuries – he’d whisked them from a war zone, pulled them out of the flames (so to speak) and brought them home.
Home? Well, not quite, not without a struggle. Shortly after touchdown in Toronto, Theo was presented with the tricky challenge of moving out of his flat, finding new accommodation and not physically attacking his suddenly-ex-girlfriend. It was at times like these that Canada’s policy of discouraging gun ownership among members of the public seemed eminently sensible.
‘You gonna be all right?’
Lowell’s voice jolted Theo out of his reverie.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, slightly annoyed at this attempt of Lowell’s to forge one of those delicate guy–guy moments.
‘You got stuff to keep you busy?’
‘Sure. A big translation project.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Lowell looked unconvinced. Maybe he thought Theo was lying, or maybe he felt that shutting oneself in a crappy little apartment dicking around with a dead language was an unwise pursuit for a man in Theo’s situation. Maybe he felt that a newly cuckolded discard should be out on the town, drinking with his buddies and getting laid.
‘I mean big in every way,’ said Theo. ‘I have a feeling a whole new phase of my life is about to begin.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ chirped his pal.
Malchus
Brothers and sisters in the Messiah! I write these words in lowest wretchedness; I hope that you will read them in highest gladness. My belly is afflicted with constant pains, and food passes through me without giving nourishment. The gnawing in my guts allows me no sleep. Four months I have been like this. My flesh is yellow, my eyes are yellow, the hairs fall from my head, and my innards make noises when all else is quiet. I scratch at my skin like a dog. Praise the Lord! Were it not for this mission he has chosen me for, I would be long dead and in the grave, I am certain!
But enough of my body and its ailments. The body is but a chariot for our spirit to ride. It matters not that my own chariot is fit only for firewood, nor that the wheels grind and the axles creak. My spirit is seated in it even yet. Praise the Lord!
Brothers and sisters, I thank you for the questions you have asked me in your letters, concerning the correct behaviour for those who dwell in Jesus. I beg your forgiveness for the long delay you have endured in awaiting my answers. You must know that since losing my position in the temple of Caiaphas, I have had no fixed abode. I flit from house to house like a bird, or shall I say rather, a rat. I tell everyone that I live in the house of my father. This is true, inasmuch as I live in the house of our heavenly Father, or expect very soon to take up my residence there! But while I scurry upon the earth, I must make arrangements that are not so perfect.
Your letters are kept in store for me by my father, likewise named Malchus, and I fetch them into my own hands as often as I can. But, unlike our beloved Jesus and his heavenly father, Malchus and Malchus were never a harmonious pair. And we are even less so, now that I have lost my position at the temple, and now that I have scarcely a mite in my purse, and now that my face is disfigured and my body befouls the air around it. Each time I return to his house, my father addresses whoever stands near, whether they be servants or passersby, and speaks in a loud voice, saying, Can this be my son? Is this my fate, to have such a son? And many other speeches of this kind. Only after this ceremony has been completed am I admitted across his threshold, and permitted to fetch the letters that you have sent to me, brothers and sisters. But enough of that. I will speak of it no more. Praise the Lord!
You asked me, dear Azubah, in your last letter, what should be done when a man who is not in Jesus wishes to love a woman who is in Jesus. I cannot recall, from my conversations with Thaddaeus and James, any statement made by our Saviour on this matter. According to Thaddaeus, Jesus said many times that no man shall enter the kingdom of Heaven but through him. But they, that is to say Thaddaeus and James, did not ask our Saviour until he was gone from us, whether this meant that all good men in all the world, who have never heard a word spoken of Jesus, much less met him, through no fault of their own, are barred from entering the kingdom. James was of the belief that this must be so; the words of Jesus were clear. Thaddaeus disagreed, urging us rather to study the Messiah’s general disposition when he moved through the everyday world. He, that is to say Jesus, often praised the righteous poor, observing them discreetly, and making example of them in his teachings. Thaddaeus recalled that there was on a certain day in the temple a widow who put an offering of only two copper coins in the temple alms-box, while before her were rich persons giving much more. I am sure I have told you this story in a previous letter; my memory is not what it was since I have suffered this sickness. I discharge my responsibilities in between foul embarrassments from both ends of my body.
But, to return to the story of the widow. For Thaddaeus, there was a greater meaning in the tale, beyond her admirable sacrifice of coins she could not spare. He noticed that Jesus let the widow leave the temple. He did not speak to her, or instruct his disciples to follow her. She dwelled in perfect ignorance of him, and, much as he loved her, he allowed it. Thaddaeus took this as proof that the righteous who are ignorant of the Messiah are not damned. The damned are those who hear of the Messiah and scorn him. As further proof, he, that is to say Thaddaeus, pointed out that the Messiah will return in glory and judgement very soon, certainly within our lifetime. Yet in our lifetime, witness as hard as we may, we cannot hope to enlighten more than a few hundred persons. Does this mean that the kingdom of Heaven will be opened to a few hundred persons only, and closed to all the other thousands of persons in the world?
At this point, as I recall, Thaddaeus and James would begin to dispute with raised voices and robust gestures of hands.
My own belief is that the kingdom of Heaven will have many courts, and many gardens and gates and chambers, and that the ignorant righteous will dwell in some of these, while the truly saved will dwell with our Saviour in the inner temple. And I believe Thaddaeus to be correct, in saying that those who have heard the call of Jesus but rejected him, will be excluded. So, my counsel to you, dear Azubah, is that a woman who is in Jesus, and who is pursued by a lover who is not, has a heavy duty. For, while the man remains ignorant, he may yet enter the kingdom, whereas if he hears your witness of the Messiah, and laughs in your face, he will be damned. So your persuasion must be powerful indeed, or you will succeed only in robbing him of his life hereafter.
However, furthermore, I understand that many weeks have elapsed since you sent me your letter. Life demands action, and actions follow swiftly upon provocation. In the case of the woman and the man, I imagine that whatever was not yet done when you wrote your letter is since done, and cannot be undone, and I have spilled ink for no purpose. But, even so, you asked a question and I answered it. Praise the Lord!
This guy is a bore, thought Theo. A total fucking bore.
It was 1 a.m. in his new apartment. He leaned back in his unfamiliar chair, bracing his knees against the bottom of the unfamiliar table, and stared at the computer screen where Malchus’s words hung in translation. The original scroll was stretched out on his desktop, prevented from rolling itself up by four heavy coffee mugs. Empty mugs, obviously. It would be a shame if the scrolls, having survived immaculate for two thousand years, were rendered illegible by a coffee spill. Ideally, he would have them pressed between two sheets of hinged plexiglass, but equipment like that was only available at the Institute, and it was probably harder to smuggle a viewing case out of the Institute than to smuggle the scrolls out of Iraq.
Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, screwed his eyes tight. All things considered, he was a great deal less elated than he’d expected to be at this stage of proceedings. He was fu
ll of bad pizza, Pepsi and chocolate chip cookies. His head throbbed and his back ached. He missed his expensive ergonomically designed chair, which Meredith had somehow neglected to remind him was his, unlike the 25 Cool Jazz Classics CD. There was a bad taste in his mouth, not just from the so-called comfort food, but from the conversation he’d had earlier that day with his superiors at the university. They were unimpressed with his near-death experience in Iraq; all they cared about was that they’d paid to get him there and paid to get him back and there was nothing to show for it.
‘For God’s sake, the curator died!’ Theo reminded them. ‘Splattered all over the street!’
‘You could have stayed a little longer,’ said one of his superiors. ‘In Mosul, I mean. Another curator would have been appointed. You could have dealt with him . . .’
‘Or her,’ added his other superior. ‘It might have been a propitious juncture, actually. In the upheaval following this . . . ah . . . incident. The new curator might have been eager to appear decisive and competent.’
Theo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Meredith always complained that he was cold and calculating: she should get a load of these guys! Custodians of civilisation! Hyenas circling a scene of carnage!
Good thing he hadn’t told them about the scrolls. It was none of their business. As soon as he was financially secure, he would tell them where they could stick their precious Institute.
In his horrid new flat, Theo leaned back, and the cheap chair creaked dangerously. Soon enough, he would buy a high-quality chair just like the one Meredith had filched from him. He would buy whatever he wanted. Including some Alka-Seltzer. Actually, he wished he could buy the Alka-Seltzer right now, but the shops were shut. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was empty except for a tiny bottle of nail polish remover, a token of his landlady’s largesse. To top it all off, the walls in this flat were painted orange. Who paints walls orange, for God’s sake? Japanese drug addicts? Semi-professional New Age masseuses? Elderly Dutch homosexuals? No wonder the rent was reduced. It had nothing to do with the busted microwave or the temperamental shower. It was the fucking orange walls.