“For money. There is a market in antiquities.”
“And Tabinian would in turn sell something like that?”
“No. He is not supposed to.”
“But something like that can be sold?”
Jim watched the woman.
“Sometimes, but he is under obligation to report anything like that. And he lived up to his obligation.”
“I see,” said Jim. “And where is the piece of mosaic floor now?”
In a small town near Jerusalem, Jim saw the warehouse where the piece and the entire floor were supposed to be stored. The warehouse had a corrugated tin roof and was roughly seventy yards long. Jim tried out his Hebrew and stumbled through a conversation. The watchman, with the keys and a note pad, found the Golban dig listed in the pad.
He opened the warehouse door and pointed to the first mosaic floor on the left. The warehouse was stacked to the ceiling with layers of earth, tile, fabric, and more earth, tile, and fabric, like a giant layered Viennese pastry of floors.
“Lucky that our floor is right here,” said Jim in Hebrew.
“Yes. Yes. Take the floor. You have the permission. Yes. Yes. Your papers are in order,” answered the man. He wore old gray pants and cracked shoes. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days.
“This is the floor?” asked Jim.
“Right here. This one,” said the man.
“I want to see it.”
“Take it.”
“I just want to see it.”
“It’s yours.”
“I wish to observe, to oversee it. Yes?”
“You can take it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You have the papers. Take it.”
With elaborate pantomime, Jim showed himself examining an imaginary floor.
“Yes. Come. Of course,” said the man and motioned to the floor he had been pointing to. Jim climbed on top of the stack. It was the lowest stack in the warehouse. The others stretched to the ceiling. He walked along the gauze, which had apparently been shellacked to hold all the squares together in the same order in which they had been removed from the dig. Every square was virtually even.
In no way could a tractor digging a foundation have made any of these squares. They were all the produce of saws. Nowhere was there a jagged piece with a portion of a cross on it to match the story of the laborer and the antiquities dealer.
“This is the floor from the Golban dig?”
“Yes,” said the man.
“Thank you,” said Jim. “May I see its papers?”
“What?”
“Papers. How do you know it’s the Golban dig?”
“No. No. Take the floor.”
“I want the one from the Golban dig!”
“Oh no. Back there. Too much labor. No. Take this one. It is a good floor.”
“I want the other. I want to see the other.”
“No.”
“Mendel Hirsch is a friend of mine. Mendel Hirsch.”
“So? It means nothing.”
Jim asked to use the telephone in the man’s shack near the warehouse, and phoned Mendel Hirsch to explain what he wanted. In five minutes there was a phone call back, and the man answered. He said a few words, and then led Jim back into the warehouse, a third of the way down, and pointed to a layer three quarters of the way up.
“I think it’s that,” he said.
By nightfall both Jim and the man had the stacked floors above it laboriously moved. It wasn’t the Golban floor. Two days later, sweaty with dust in his mouth from centuries-old floors that had been dug up in Israel, Jim found the Byzantine floor that had started the whole thing. It had strips of plastic glued to it with the date of the excavation and Dr. Golban’s name. Its corners also matched the written description on the watchman’s pad, and, most significant of all, it had a jagged piece unlike the smooth squares, and on that piece was a portion of a cross, the cross which Emperor Theodosius decreed in the year 430 was too holy to walk on.
It was less than ten by fifteen feet, and had obviously covered a small room. There was a peacock in beautiful pink and brown, surrounded by a sea of grape-purple tile. It had many crosses.
It was the floor that had started it all.
“Good. Thank you,” said Jim.
“Is that it?” said the man.
“Yes.”
“You don’t speak good Hebrew,” said the man, still puzzled.
“Thank you. Thank you,” said Jim, smiling to show him gratitude for the help with the floor.
“No. You speak bad Hebrew. Not good,” said the man.
“Yes, thank you,” said Jim.
In three weeks Jim managed to get most of the small, corroborating interviews. There were some conflicting stories on small details but this was usually because someone didn’t remember accurately. There were enough minute strokes of such subtle shading that Jim had to conclude that, unless something major leaped up and screamed phony, he was not dealing with fraud. He still had three major interviews to do in Jerusalem, and therefore when Mendel Hirsch asked him how long it would be until he saw the site, he had to say he didn’t know.
“Sharon has been calling me quite often, saying there are things that have to be done, and that you are not doing them,” said Mendel. He had come to his office this holiday especially to facilitate more of Jim’s requests. It was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, five thousand and some years since the creation of the world according to ancient Jews, and this reminded Jim that when Christ came down from Galilee the Jews were already dating into the three thousands, more than an entire millennium than Western men were dating now.
And even then the Egyptians were considered ancient history. Man had been around this part of the world recording and building a long, long time.
“I have my own methods, but assure her I will get to it. Do you think I should call?” asked Jim.
“It might help and it might not. She was raised in a rather narrow academic atmosphere, and, as you can see, professors are not prone to compromise. Then again, who is, yes?”
“Well, I can see her point,” said Jim, extending his own charity to its limits.
“About how long will your work here take?” asked Mendel.
“As long as it takes, whatever it takes. I will do this thing.”
“Will you need Sharon further?”
“Yes.”
Mendel sighed. “She is not an easy woman, you know.”
“She’s rather beautiful on the outside,” said Jim.
“If you like that kind. You’re not supposed to notice, I thought. But men are men. If we were all saints, Father,” said Mendel with a resigned smile, “I don’t think we would need countries. But need them we do. Have you seen Yad Vashem?”
“That’s your memorial to your holocaust?”
“Yes. I go there once a year, and each year it gets harder. Sometimes I wish I would never go. Sometimes. But wishing does not make things so, and every year I go.”
“Do you think I should see it to get a better idea of who you are?” said Jim. There was a sadness in the man, which now he showed. Jim felt it was there always, even under the joyous solicitude. It was constant. Perhaps on the side, not center stage, but constant.
“The big mistake I think people make is that Yad Vashem is to show the Gentiles. You know, everyone who visits here who is important is taken there, but I guess it looks like we run it down for everyone else. But I tell you, Father Folan, what you get out of it is your business. That is there for me. I will never let myself forget. Never.”
There was silence for a moment, and then, almost in a whisper, with all the illusion of softness, Hirsch repeated the word again.
“Never,” he said.
“Ken,” came the beautiful singing voice over the telephone. It meant “yes” in Hebrew.
“It’s Jim Folan. Hello,” said Jim. He had planned to use his young and wobbly Hebrew, but when he heard her voice, he wanted to be sure he spoke well. So he used E
nglish.
“Hello, Jim. How are you doing?”
“I am doing fine. In a few days, hopefully, we will go down to the dig.”
“Well, good. Fine. At last. You have been researching?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Good, then you are getting some background in archaeology and we can talk better.”
“I am sort of saving that part,” said Jim.
“You haven’t?”
“No,” said Jim.
He heard contemptuous laughter at the other end of the phone.
“I will be getting back to you soon,” he said.
Nasir Hamid insisted Jim partake of sweet coffee and candies before they began their talk in Mr. Hamid’s home.
There were low couches slightly higher than pillows, and the floor was stone, as were the walls, the ceilings arching to high points under smooth, perfect plaster.
The room needed no air conditioning, even though this was noon and the winter rains had yet to come to chill Jerusalem. It smelled of roses and there was quiet, although Jim knew outside there was traffic.
“I guess your family has been here forever, Mr. Hamid. I am told you were one of the old Jerusalem families.”
“Oh no. Not forever,” said Hamid, with a slight acknowledging smile. He wore eyeglasses, and had a somewhat fair complexion, but his eyes were pit black.
“They came with Sal Ah Din.”
“Saladin,” said Jim. “That was almost seven hundred years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And how do you feel about your new government? The Israelis?”
Jim didn’t know if he would answer the question.
“They are the government,” said Mr. Hamid.
“Which means?”
“Which means I deal with them.”
“Do you like them?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Do you like them as the government?”
“I am talking to you, Mr. Folan.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If I wish to get my basement built, I will speak to you. You have been sent by the government. So I do not understand why you ask these questions.”
“I see you think I am from the government.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I am not. I am not the government. The Israelis are cooperating with me, but I am not the government.”
“Then you have nothing to do with my basement?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What, may I ask, do you have to do with my basement?”
“I am working with the government on that dig, and when I am finished, then I believe you will be able to build your basement.”
“I am sure you can understand, Mr. Folan, how I would look upon you as the government.”
“I do. But I cannot punish you.”
“I am already being punished. I am paying taxes on land I cannot use. That is a punishment.”
“I guess it is,” said Jim, and was quiet to let Mr. Hamid know that he, himself, had nothing more to say on the subject. Eventually, Jim did point out that when he was done, and he did not know when this would be, but he was sure it would be less than a year, and it might even be as little as two months, Mr. Hamid, he was sure, would be able to build his basement.
Mr. Hamid answered every question, but nothing more than the question. He offered nothing. Jim kept him the better part of the afternoon. And still Mr. Hamid’s courteousness did not wither. He answered all the little questions about the dig, and then some big ones, such as that particular piece of land being in the family’s hands for a century and a half, and that it had once been a food-selling stall and had never had a big building on it.
Moreover, that part of Haneviim Street had been right at the Mandelbaum Gate, the dividing line between Jordan and Israel from 1948 until 1967, when the city was reunified.
Even now Jim could see the remnants of Jordanian sniper fire in pock holes on stone buildings near there, undoubtedly having come from the parapets controlled by the Arab legion. No one was going to plant anything three stories down at that spot for those nineteen years unless they tunneled in from miles away. And that would be checked out by his geologist.
All the details of the problems of building a basement to a store, and specifically why Mr. Hamid felt Haneviim Street would be a good location for an appliance store, fit into what sounded accurate, especially in the little details. Never once did Mr. Hamid question the silliness of Jim’s questions, such as what Dr. Golban wore the day before the dig was closed, what Mr. Hamid saw at the bottom of the dig, who called out first, how long they were down there, and why Mr. Hamid thought the dig was closed.
“From what I hear, the Religious Party of the Jews had some influence in closing it. Why, I do not know for sure.”
Jim nodded. He was hearing Hirsch’s cover story for the closing of the dig, and the dismissal of the students.
“What do you think of Dr. Golban?”
“She is a fine, worthy person, despite her education.”
“What do you mean?”
“An educated woman is like a sharp chair. Not exactly comfortable.”
“So she was abrasive?” said Jim.
“Not in the least. I would consider her one of the finer people I have been blessed with meeting. Educated and yet thoughtful.”
“That’s quite generous of you.”
“I am not exaggerating.”
“Surely you can’t mean that?”
“I absolutely do, sir.”
“You have to say it because she is an Israeli official for you. Correct?”
“No. I do not have to.”
“Well, you haven’t attacked any other Israeli official.”
“That is not praise.”
“What do you think of me?”
“Please, sir, this is my house. I do not insult people in my house.”
“I would consider it a gift for your assessment of me and what you think I am doing.”
“As to what you are doing, you are incredibly clever. You have asked so many questions about so many things I do not even suspect what you are after. As for yourself, I am sorry to say, you are very much like Director Hirsch, who has spoken to me.”
“And that is?”
“Both of you, I am sorry to say, are so fixed on something that is of ultimate concern to you that you do not even think of me as so much dust under your feet. I am like a cat. Only if he makes noise will he be noticed. Either you will chase me off, or you will give me milk. But only when I in some way disturb you or, more important, what you are doing.”
“Mr. Hamid, you are right and I am sorry.”
Nasir Hamid accepted this with a precise and almost minute nod. He invited Jim to stay for the evening meal. Jim declined.
Mark Prangle from Lansing, Michigan, was the last student volunteer on the dig left from the summer, but he was the most important one.
He had discovered the round stone covering the tomb first, and he had done something to make sure the stone had not been moved the first night.
Jim met him on the steps of the Christian Youth Hostel, about three blocks from Haneviim Street. Jim talked as one American to another, and Mark, in his blue jeans and Israeli sandals, took it at that.
Mark was a pleasant and intelligent young man whom Jim would happily have recommended for acceptance to Boston College. He had enthusiasm, and enough courage to be positive, which would be refreshing for a freshman dean to see nowadays.
Unfortunately, Mark never stopped asking questions. And invariably it was about Sharon as they walked the streets and talked in the coolness of the late afternoon. Mark had stayed in Jerusalem just to take Sharon’s course, and now that she wasn’t giving it he had decided to go home.
“Is Sharon all right?”
“She’s fine,” said Jim.
“But she’s not lecturing this year,” said Mark.
“She’s working with me.”
“What are y
ou doing?”
“I am trying to get technical things squared away. As you know, she has run into a religious problem with the dig.”
“I heard about the Religious Party. Terrible, but it’s their land. It’s the only land that we know for sure anyone owns,” said Mark.
“How is that?” said Jim.
“The Bible. The Bible gives the land of Israel to the Jews and anyone who believes in the Bible accepts that deed. Do you believe in the Bible?”
“I do,” said Jim.
“Are you a Christian?”
“I am.”
“Then you too believe it’s their land.”
“Yes,” said Jim. “But how much and where? The borders of Jewish land here historically have been all over the place. And borders have to be compromised. Because, frankly, there are complications.”
“Nothing’s complicated if you believe in Jesus Christ,” said Mark.
“I think you’re confusing our position with God’s. To us it’s complicated.”
“Not if Jesus tells you what is right.”
“I agree.”
“And He does in the Bible.”
“But you’ve got to interpret it correctly. You can get incorrect things from the Bible too. It does require the grace of God to get out of the Bible what’s in there. Without His grace, the Bible is just another book.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“Yes,” said Jim. Mark offered him a can of Coke and some dates from the spring of Ein Geddi, supposedly, according to Mark, the best dates in the Holy Land. “Jesus,” said Mark, “might have spent some time at the spring of Ein Geddi. He’s all over here. I can feel him. Can you feel him?”
“I try to,” said Jim, steering the conversation toward the mechanism Mark had used on the first night and how the covering stone had been discovered.
It was at bedrock, everyone thought, the limits of man, when Mark had noticed chisel strokes on a piece of rock, and then he had called Sharon. She verified that it was indeed worked stone, not bedrock.
“What was she doing on top of the dig?”
“Smoking and talking to the Arab who owns the property. She smokes too much. She is so beautiful and she smokes all the time. I told her what it’s doing to her lungs, that it would take ten years off her life. And she said those were the ten years she didn’t want anyway.” Mark smiled. Jim could see a fortune in braces having gone to make those teeth. Why he assumed Mark was not born with good natural teeth, he did not know. He just had the feeling that the big-boned young man with the remnants of acne on his face, and sandy brown hair, had to have had incredibly expensive orthodontic work.
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