“Jacob left me last night.”
She turned and looked at me. I was horrified. She nodded, as if she were acknowledging the shock in my eyes. “I don’t know if it’s permanent. He said he was going to go away for a few days, and he needed to think about things. But I’m pretty sure,” she said hollowly, “that he’s staying with her.”
“But what about you? You really shouldn’t be alone right now.”
For a moment I thought about walking out of the building, catching a train, and going uptown to Jacob’s office and having a very serious – and potentially violent – talk with him – and Angela, too. But I didn’t think it would do the department any good if one senior staff member was out on maternity leave, and the other was in jail for assault.
“My sister Devorah came over. She’s going to stay with me while he’s ‘thinking about things.’”
“Okay,” I breathed. “I’m glad she’s there with you.”
“Me too. My mother didn’t want her to – as she put it – ‘get involved’ – but Devorah told her to buzz off.”
“Good for her,” I said.
“Yeah, at least someone’s on my side in this,” she smiled grimly. “Anyway, I’m sorry I’ve been so snippy this morning.”
“Snippy? Please – you’re entitled,” I reassured her. “I can’t even believe you came in today.”
“It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now,” she said. “Coming in here every day, if you can believe that. I don’t want to be at home, especially right now. And it’s not like I can get the nursery ready, you know.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said, having forgotten the Orthodox tradition – or perhaps superstition - of not preparing the baby’s space until the baby actually arrived. “Well, listen, the offer stands. The meeting’s under control, so why don’t you just sit in? We should probably both keep an eye on Robert anyway, so we can give him a hand if the others give him a hard time.”
“Good idea,” she said. “If he went running just because I snapped at him, he might need some help.”
“Are you kidding? You’re pretty fierce for an Orthodox girl.”
She smiled a little. “Listen, modest doesn’t necessarily mean demure,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It’s almost nine thirty. We’d better get the meeting underway.”
We were a few minutes into the status reports – Robert was doing a pretty good job of moderating the conversation – when the intercom buzzed on the phone in the conference room. Josh went over to pick it up.
“For you,” he said, nodding at me. “It’s Mira.”
I got out of my chair and walked across the room. Josh handed me the receiver. “What’s up?” I asked.
Mira’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Hi, Jill. Larry needs you to come upstairs.”
“Okay.” I eyed the junior staffers, who were starting to talk amongst themselves during the delay. “Can it wait until after the meeting?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. She lowered her voice into an urgent whisper.
“Two men in black suits and priest collars just showed up here, and now they’re in the office with Larry. Schiffman is in there, too.”
Schiffman, otherwise known as Dr. Steven Schiffman, was our executive director. This didn’t sound promising.
“But they’ve got the door closed, so I don’t know what’s going on,” Mira continued. “Larry just stuck his head out a couple of minutes ago and said, ‘Get Jill up here.’ He sounded stressed out.”
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. “Okay, I’ll be up in a second.”
I hung up the phone. “Meeting’s delayed, folks,” I announced. “I have to go upstairs. I’ll email you when I’m done and we’ll figure out a time to reconvene.” Aviva looked at me quizzically. “No idea,” I said, and hurried out of the conference room and up the stairs to the fourth floor.
14
“Jill, thanks for joining us.” Dr. Schiffman smiled calmly and gestured to the sole remaining chair in the office as I knocked softly and pushed the door open. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” I said, and looked around. Larry was sitting at his desk. Dr. Schiffman returned to his usual perch by the window, where he stood with his arms folded.
The other chairs were, just as Mira had reported, occupied by two priests.
I glanced from one to the other. The younger one was dark-haired and green-eyed, almost handsome. The other was white haired and stern-looking, with many more gold insignia on the lapels of his somber black jacket.
“Gentlemen, this is Jill Levin, our museum’s senior curator. Jill, I’d like you to meet Father Jameson and Monsignor Tully,” Larry said. “They’re from the Cardinal’s office at the Archdiocese of New York.”
“Hi,” I said. They both smiled at me, but neither one returned the greeting.
“Well, to get right to the point,” Dr. Schiffman said, “these two gentlemen stopped by this morning because they have some questions for us.”
“That’s right,” Father Jameson said. “Dr. Schiffman and Dr. Grossman very kindly agreed to see us unannounced. It’s our understanding that you may have received a recent artifact donation of some interest to us.”
Larry nodded at me as if giving me permission to answer. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” I said. “Do you mean the manuscript we’re currently investigating?”
The priest nodded. “We received word about it late yesterday, after Dr. Grossman spoke with some of his contacts in the field of antiquities. Our office received a call from a colleague wanting some information about whether such a document might exist. And as you might expect, we are extremely interested in anything that might relate to the life of Saint Thomas More, whom as you may or may not know, is one of our Church’s most honored martyrs.”
Larry spoke up. “We haven’t been in possession of this artifact for very long. The authentication process is certainly underway, but we have no definitive answers yet. That’s one of the reasons why I put some calls out into the field.”
The two priests looked at one another. “If it would be of any help to you and the Museum, we would be happy to take over the process,” Father Jameson said smoothly. “We have people in Rome who would be able to authenticate it very quickly.”
“That’s very kind,” Dr. Schiffman said drily, “but how would it affect the provenance? And could we be sure of getting it back?”
I watched as Larry put his head in his hands.
The monsignor smiled. “How can there be a question of provenance? If the document is what we think it is, we cannot think of how it could possibly relate to your museum. After all,” he said silkily, “it has no bearing on your institution’s mission.”
“Can you tell us, Monsignor Tully,” Larry asked. “if there’s any record of it among your archives? Obviously, if it were stolen, we would be obligated to return it to the Archdiocese.”
Father Jameson sighed before he answered the question. “We don’t know of any records. We only know that there was a rumor that such a document existed.”
I saw the monsignor look at him sharply.
“For decades, there has been talk that Margaret Roper made a full accounting of her sins to her confessor, just before she died. As you might imagine, there was not as much interest in her life over the years, since she was not a candidate for sainthood, nor was she under consideration to be honored by the Church.” Father Jameson looked at me almost apologetically. “We were not as interested, in the old days, in hearing from the woman’s point of view.”
I nodded.
“We were, however, concerned about how certain aspects of Margaret Roper’s life might reflect on her father’s standing in the Church, if any of these stories were indeed true. The rumor I mentioned was one that came down through the centuries, passed from seminarian to seminarian, and scholar to scholar. There was talk that she had kept a diary. But no one could ever locate it.”
The elderly man interrupted. “All of this is, of
course, just speculation. After all, this is based on nothing but gossip and rumor and apocryphal stories that have been passed down through the centuries. No one can be sure, since the confidence between a confessor and penitent is held as a sacred trust. We may never know if Margaret Roper actually said such things. This artifact could very well be a hoax.” He looked at me and smiled, as if he had noticed me for the first time. “As you can imagine, we are very interested in seeing it.”
Dr. Schiffman seemed to be considering something, and then he turned to me. “Jill, can you tell us the circumstances of the donation?”
“It came to me in the mail,” I said. I could sense Larry telling me not to reveal too much. “It was addressed to me personally. But there was no return address on the package. A series of letters have arrived from the donor, who appears to be a Holocaust survivor. Since we received the book, we’ve been discussing ways to authenticate it. But it’s in very fragile condition, so we’re being as careful as possible.”
“I see,” Dr. Schiffman said. “Gentlemen, as far as I can determine, from your side, your interest in this artifact is based on a rumor which remains unsubstantiated. From our side, this object arrived addressed personally to our senior curator from a Holocaust survivor, which does constitute a connection to our museum. I think, then, it would be most fitting for us to continue the authentication process here. However, we would be pleased to share the results with you as soon as we can determine them. And if you would like to schedule a time to come in and look at this artifact with Dr. Grossman and myself, we would be happy to accommodate you.”
“So there is no way,” the younger priest said, “that we could look at it now?”
I spoke up, my voice shaking a little as I thought about the artifact in its case, safely stored away in my apartment.
“It’s not actually here at the moment.”
Dr. Schiffman looked at Larry, puzzled. I could see Larry trying to come up with a fast one. “At the lab,” he murmured. Dr. Schiffman nodded.
“Then I guess there’s no way we can persuade you,” Father Jameson said. “I trust, however, that if you discover anything – shall we say, inflammatory – you will let us know first?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Schiffman said pleasantly.
“You understand, of course, that the Church is in something of a public relations crisis at the moment. Between The DaVinci Code, and the unpleasantness with the removal of certain clergy due to lawsuits in some of our parishes, we have a lot of work to do. As colleagues in religion,” Monsignor Tully smiled chillily, “we hope that you will be sensitive to that.”
“Of course. We certainly mean the Archdiocese no harm,” Larry said. “We just want to see how this relates to the content and mission of our museum.”
“Indeed.” The two priests stood, as if on cue. “We’ll report back to His Eminence, the Cardinal and will be in touch shortly with his statement,” Father Jameson said.
“Statement?” Larry asked.
“His Eminence is quite concerned about this document becoming public, even if it does turn out to be a forgery. Should this have no connection to your museum except having been in the possession of a survivor of the concentration camps, we will expect you to return the manuscript to the Church, where it will become part of the Saint Thomas More archive at the Vatican. We trust that you will comply,” the monsignor concluded serenely, “since we do not want to have to take this any higher.”
I stared at the two of them, the priest who had smiled at me, and the monsignor. I had never seen religious figures playing good cop / bad cop, but I realized that I was seeing it now.
“Understood,” Dr. Schiffman said, and then moved to shake hands with them both. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Thank you for coming in, gentlemen.”
The two priests shook hands with Dr. Schiffman, nodded at Larry and me, and then left. As soon as they were out of earshot, Larry got up from his desk and shut his office door.
“That was an interesting start to the day,” Dr. Schiffman said wryly. “I wish I had known what the hell we were talking about.”
“I’m sorry that we didn’t have the chance to brief you, Steven,” Larry said apologetically. “I just found out about this artifact yesterday. And I only put the calls out yesterday afternoon.”
“I guess that’s how they found out about it,” I said.
Larry sighed. “I need to find out which one of my contacts made that call to the Archdiocese.”
“Guess he’s off the holiday party list,” Dr. Schiffman supplied, grinning.
“And Jill, what do you mean, the artifact isn’t here,” Larry asked me. “Where the hell is it?”
“At my apartment,” I said contritely, expecting to be reprimanded for removing an artifact from the premises. “I’ve been looking it over at night, after work. I’m just too busy to look at it during the day.”
“Thank God,” Larry breathed, to my surprise. “I was worried that they were going to find some way to take it with them.”
“Well, I’d love to discuss this further, but I need to get back upstairs for a 10AM meeting with the Chairman and the marketing committee,” Dr. Schiffman said, “but I trust that the two of you will brief me on this later? I’ll have Ariel call you when I’m available.”
“We’ll wait to hear from her. Thanks, Steven,” Larry said, and we watched Dr. Schiffman walk out the door and across the hall to his office.
“What do you want to do?” I asked Larry.
“Keep it safe at home for now,” he said. “I don’t want to tangle with the church over this. It could be a PR nightmare, for them and for us. The last thing we need is for some reporter to get hold of the story of how the Jews and Catholics are wrangling over some piece of antiquity. The spin machine would be out of control, heaven knows what sort of problems it could provoke. It could undo all the work of Pope John Paul II and Cardinal O’Connor. It could possibly even set interfaith relations back dozens of years.”
“From what they said,” I remarked, “it sounds as if there’s reason to believe we’re dealing with an authentic document.”
“But we need to figure out the connection,” he said urgently. “As soon as possible.” We both stood, and I turned to walk out the door.
“Jill,” he said, and I turned. “Not a word about this visit. You can tell Aviva, but don’t tell anyone else. Okay?”
“Will do,” I said, and headed back down to my office.
“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Robert said, “about the Spanish quote from Pirke Avot that you mentioned in the meeting the other day.”
We were meeting to discuss our choices for the exhibition team. Just before, I’d had only a few minutes to tell Aviva about what happened with the two priests from the Archdiocese, and she was as shocked as I.
I was trying not to show the combination of stress and shock and curiosity that was now conspiring with a lack of caffeine to give me a massive headache. Instead, I was distracting myself with my meeting with Robert, while sipping from a cup of sweet tea at my desk.
Robert was wedged into the one extra chair normally located at the edge of my cubicle. He had pushed it over to where we had laid out the plans for the de-installation over my desk.
Earlier, we went through the meeting write-up and I was pleased with the way it turned out. I’d had to make very few corrections. He had an instinctive sense of how to express things diplomatically, such as when a team member had fallen behind in their assignments, had not used their time effectively, or even, unbelievably, didn’t have enough to do.
“Have you mentioned the quote to Aviva?” he asked me. “She knows so much about sacred texts from her time in yeshiva. And, you know, I have a Masters in Jewish studies.”
He blushed a little, and I liked him for being proud of his studies while not wanting to seem as if he was showing off, which was, in my experience, atypical of most Jewish studies scholars. “I’m sure that between us, we would be able to help you with your
research.”
I grinned at him. “Stop fishing for information, Robert. Besides, Aviva’s just over the wall,” I indicated the cubicle behind me. “And we’re not allowed to tell you what it’s about.”
He grinned back at me. “Okay,” he said. “I get it. But let me ask you this: Does the fact that you’re not allowed to tell me now imply that you may be allowed to tell me at some point?”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s something that I have to discuss with Aviva and Larry.”
“Yes, it’s something she has to discuss with Aviva and Larry,” I heard Aviva’s voice echo from behind the wall.
We laughed. “All right,” Robert said. “I get it. But listen, if there’s anything I can do to help, I hope you’ll keep me posted.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I heard Aviva’s voice again. “You’re going to be so busy within the next few weeks that I can promise you won’t be asking for extra work.”
“Anyway,” I said, “we should get back to figuring out the team. I think Fern and Josh are good choices for the assistants,” I told him. “For the junior curator spot, do you think Meredith or Sandy would be better?”
He debated for a moment. “I think we should give Sandy a shot. We were both assistants on the Yiddish Theater exhibition, and I think she did a great job.”
I nodded. “Sure. I think she’s good, too.” I wrote the names down on the pad by my desk. “So that’s the team.”
“Great,” he said, as my phone rang. “Give me one second,” I said, as I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Is this Jill Levin?” A female voice, elderly, that I didn’t recognize.
“Yes it is.”
“Jill, this is Mitzi Feldman. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m a friend of your grandmother’s. I live next door.”
“Oh, sure…Mitzi,” I said, feeling my stomach sink in dread. “Is everything all right?”
“Well, I remembered that she told me you work at the museum, and I just thought I should call to let you know that your grandmother is fine, but she had a little fall last night on our way home from a concert.”
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