The Body

by Richard Ben Sapir

  As in every misleading message of this sort, Father Winstead used some fact of reality that had happened during the day. This day he used Cardinal Pesci’s name, which was always good because it implied information about Vatican foreign policy. And then he combined it with something totally random. The name of a street he had heard mentioned that day. Haneviim Street.

  10

  Look Again

  It was a happy Mass. It was a happy morning. Even the elusive antiquities dealer Zareh Tabinian finally returned Jim’s phone calls.

  Because of his good friend Mendel Hirsch, Zareh Tabinian would give up a morning for Mr. Folan.

  Jim postponed observing the coating of the bones to get the interview.

  Mr. Tabinian lived in the Old City in a clean, white-walled apartment with immaculately washed linoleum on the floors, the walls white as bond paper, sun bleaching in from a window overlooking a courtyard of yellow-brown limestone blocks.

  A large photograph of King Hussein of Jordan hung over the kitchen table. It was the sort of photograph a movie star or politician might have visible. King Hussein was smiling, showing three quarters of a face and wearing an Arab kaffiyeh. It had everything but an autograph, “To my good friend, Zareh.”

  “King Hussein?” asked Jim.

  “The absolute most perfect ruler in the world,” said Mr. Tabinian. Mr. Tabinian had a presence as though he was always posing for a statue. He had a large, imposing nose, dark eyebrows, and a very small, dark mouth. He wore one of the few ties Jim had seen in the city.

  “Yet, you say Mendel Hirsch is a good friend of yours.”

  “Of course. I respect the Israelis. But King Hussein is the perfect ruler.”

  “So your loyalties are with the Arabs?”

  “King Hussein,” said Tabinian.

  “You have done business with him?”

  “I still do. The most perfect ruler in the world.”

  “Substantial business?” said Jim.

  “Any business with a king is substantial,” said Tabinian.

  “Very good,” said Jim, and then asked Tabinian to describe the piece of mosaic floor Jim had already seen in the warehouse. It was a form of cross-reference.

  “It was a perfect example of Byzantine mosaic before A.D. 430. I paid for it from my own pocket because I knew I had a greater duty to this city. Where, I asked myself, had it come from, this beautiful mosaic? And when I found out, I knew it was a new find. In no way did I wish to harm Mr. Hamid. Do you know him?”

  “I met him,” said Jim.

  “A wonderful, gracious man. Perhaps the most perfect businessman in all the city. I would sooner burn my own shop. You know where my shop is?”

  “Off Via Dolorosa, two blocks from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.”

  “Yes, I deal in only the best antiquities. Only the best. I wish I could say that for all of the dealers. I am certified, you know, by the Israeli Tourist Ministry.”

  “You have your grapes, so to speak?”

  “Yes. In any case, I wished no harm to Mr. Hamid, and yet, to my horror, this find I had turned in, on whose property I had no idea was Mr. Hamid’s, this property turned out to be his. Well, what could I do? I ask you, what could I do?”

  Jim shrugged.

  “Done was done, and if Mr. Hamid would give me just the slightest chance to explain and make amends, I would crawl on my knees to his residence and say, ‘Friend, tell me what you will of me.’” Mr. Tabinian’s hands went up with such a glorious statement.

  “And you want me to tell that to Mr. Hamid if I see him again?”

  “If you wish. Here. A gift. Please take this,” said Tabinian. He brought forth from his suit pocket a small silver coin in a plastic case. Jim saw a figure of a god with a spear seated on a diadem. The god had a wreath of laurel. On the other side was a profile. And Jim could read the name “Augustus.”

  “Augustus Caesar. This is the time of Christ, two thousand years ago.”

  “Yes. It could well have been in the hands of Jesus Himself. Paid to a taxman. Perhaps Matthew, the publican. You are familiar with Matthew? One of Jesus’ very disciples was himself, I am sorry to say, a tax collector. Perhaps he was saved especially, yes?”

  “Where was it found?”

  “Much of the Roman material we get is from Galilee.”

  “Jesus was raised there.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I couldn’t take it. How much will you let me pay you?”

  “Two hundred dollars American is what I paid.”

  Two hundred dollars was more than Jim had paid for anything since he had become a Jesuit. But this was a special day in a special place, and he felt he was now not failing his Lord. And since he had the money, and he would repay it to the Church, he bought the coin.

  “All right,” said Jim, taking out his large roll of Israeli shekels.

  “It is a beautiful coin. Do you know we have holy oil lamps from Jesus’ time?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have any more money,” said Jim.

  Tabinian gave him another gift, a small dark coin, which Jim returned. Jim asked more corroborative questions, and felt at the end that, although Mr. Tabinian tended to dramatize extensively, he did indeed verify the last corroborator on the lack of fraud concerning the discovery of the body.

  Jim could prepare that part of the report for the courier, making seven different pouches that could be understood only when assembled in Pesci’s office.

  That took two days. He spent one more day watching Mendel’s workers install an iron door to replace the stone at the dig. Jim took both keys, and Mendel was happy that he had them.

  Four days later he met Sharon for lunch in a little coffee shop on Ben Yehuda. Her hair was loose over a thick khaki shirt, and the weather was now cold enough for blue jeans. This was the day she would polyvinyl the bones.

  Jim had abandoned his sandals for army boots. He ordered ice cream but it tasted too chemical. Most Israeli ice cream tasted of chemicals, and Jim didn’t know why, since they had good dairy herds and access to sugar.

  Sharon had cigarettes, coffee, and a salad.

  “What happened at the dig?” she asked. “What did you see?”

  “I went to check out something. I’ll explain it at the dig. I don’t want to talk about it here,” said Jim, nodding at the crowds.

  “Fine. But now we are going to be there alone inside, right?”

  “Yes,” said Jim.

  “How do you know I won’t attack you as an occasion of sin? Nobody will be there to protect you.”

  “The dig would not be an occasion of sin because I would not normally be tempted in that sort of a place.”

  “Oh, it applies to you too. I thought of it just as an insult to me.”

  “The Church, in its backwardness and mindless superstition, Sharon, has declared that it takes two.”

  “It’s reasonable, you know. If you accept the first premise,” said Sharon. “And that is that God cares about that and has given instructions.”

  “I do,” said Jim.

  She thought that was funny. Jim noticed she touched him a lot, but not in a sexual way. It was part of her communicating, he told himself. Israelis did that.

  On the way to Haneviim Street, he started to explain that she shouldn’t hold his arm as they walked, but instead of rebuffing her, he showed her the coin he had bought from Tabinian.

  “Where did you get it?” said Sharon, releasing him to glance at the little clear plastic envelope containing the silver coin.

  “Is it genuine?” asked Jim.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “What does that have to do with whether it’s real?”

  “You bought it, so where you bought it had to do with whether it is genuine, because some people are reliable for certain things and others aren’t.”

  “How do you know I bought it? Well, I did. Zareh Tabinian. Do you know of him?”

  “Yes. He will not deal in fakes. It is genuine.”r />
  “What do you think of it?”

  Sharon turned it over. “Very pretty. But may I ask, is there any special reason why you got this thing? You liked its looks?”

  “Augustus, Caesar Augustus, was emperor of Rome at the time Joseph and Mary came to Bethlehem. He ordered a census of his empire, and that was what they were doing on their way here, when they stopped down the road and couldn’t find an inn.”

  Sharon held the coin up in front of Jim’s face. “Did Tabinian sell you this as an artifact of the Holy Land?”

  “He said he couldn’t guarantee that Jesus or Mary or Joseph ever held it.”

  “I can. They didn’t. This came here on either Alitalia or El Al. Maybe TWA. Come,” she said, tugging on his arm to make him move faster.

  “Wait, it was sort of a gift.”

  “He knew you,” said Sharon.

  “Tabinian is highly reputable. You said so yourself. He gave up his own profit to turn in that mosaic floor, you know. He has been authorized as a legitimate dealer by the Israeli Tourist Board.”

  “Yes. Yes. His grapes. And he may lose them because they suspect he sold an ostracon. That has writing on it, if you don’t know. He is trying to make up to Antiquities, that’s why he turned in that piece of floor.”

  “I think he exaggerates, but I got the impression—”

  “You didn’t get any impression. He got the impression about you and he was right. Come,” she said, and she pulled him along after her, refusing to listen to any explanations about how honest the transaction had been.

  “I know Tabinian. I respect Tabinian. You don’t know enough to respect Tabinian. You don’t know enough for anything,” she said.

  At Damascus Gate she turned into the Old City, and after leading Jim through warrens of dark, covered streets with packed stalls and syrupy smells combined with the faint odor of Old City sewage, she took him to Tabinian’s shop just off Via Dolorosa.

  She charged into the shop holding the coin aloft like a standard. She was barely at the counter when Tabinian, himself, hastily rammed his hand into his pocket and pushed $200 in American money at Jim.

  “It was a gift,” said Tabinian.

  “Sharon. He’s right. I insisted on paying.”

  “Do you think he didn’t know you?”

  “Sharon, I made the offer. I paid for it.”

  “Take it,” she said, grabbing the money in her fist and pushing it into his hands.

  “Sharon, I think you’re out of place …”

  “You’re out of place. I live here. Tabinian knows that.”

  “It was a gift before and a gift now. Yes, please,” said Tabinian. He was turning red.

  “He knows you’re going to be gone but I am still going to be here.”

  “Then I will return the coin.”

  “No. No. It is a gift.”

  “Sharon, I feel awful,” said Jim.

  “Do you want a gift?” said Sharon, pushing the coin into Jim’s face. “This is not a gift.” She put the coin into Tabinian’s hand. And then pointed to his head. “This is a gift. In there is the gift. That’s the treasure. Sometime he will show you his private collection, the one he uses to sell special dealers around the world, and then you see a gift, and it is this man’s understanding of antiquities. He could have been a professor.”

  “I like my Mercedes,” said Tabinian.

  “A good mind,” said Sharon. “A monkey can drive a Mercedes. What a waste.”

  “A rich monkey, Dr. Golban,” said Tabinian, smiling with courtliness.

  Tabinian insisted they let him serve coffee. Jim felt too embarrassed to say no. Sharon said they were busy but if Tabinian would show his special items they would love to stay.

  Jim was impressed with Tabinian’s knowledge of the Roman Flavians. He had several artifacts from that peiod, almost all of which were imported. Sharon noted that Tabinian not only imported but was known to do a bit of exporting also. She smiled wickedly when she said that.

  Tabinian shrugged, with an acknowledging smile. When they talked about the dating of an object, Jim discovered that much dating of archaeological areas was guesswork, unless of course one had something that could be carbon-dated, or better yet something that could lend itself to thermoluminescence, like kiln-fired pottery. On that subject Tabinian deferred to Dr. Golban, whom he called an expert.

  He showed her a small silver coin with a “G” on it, for which he would be asking $500.

  “Governor Glaucus, he followed Pilatus,” said Tabinian.

  “I know,” said Jim. “This is like a Pilatus coin I’ve seen.”

  “Pilatus, five times more valuable, religious interest,” said Tabinian. “So little is left with Pilatus’ name.”

  “I found it,” said Sharon, “on one of my digs.”

  “Ah well, then it is not for sale.”

  “That means some archaeologists do sell things?” said Jim.

  “Never,” said Tabinian, with that little, knowing smile.

  “I imagine there have to be some archaeologists who live on a very small income who might have sold something not too crucial just to survive in their work,” said Sharon.

  “As opposed to, let’s say, a rabbi, Sharon, who would just be greedy?”

  “Well, I don’t know rabbis that well.”

  “Would you stone me if I said something against your great Kathleen Kenyon?”

  “She is dead. I don’t care. It would just show who you are.”

  “You’re angry,” said Jim.

  “Please. I have other things,” said Tabinian. “Who needs arguments?”

  “I am not arguing,” said Sharon, refusing even to look at Jim. “Some people have idiot spots in their heads and it comes out from time to time.”

  “I am just pointing out that you have invested your profession with a certain sanctity, Sharon. And I am willing to bet that some archaeologists have sold some very important and very expensive properties in this shop.”

  “Never,” said Tabinian.

  “Not you, of course, Mr. Tabinian,” said Jim. “I am sorry I mentioned this shop.”

  “If it is not me, then yes. They have. Dr. Golban happens to be one of the most honest. Most are, but some … some,” said Tabinian, and there was a very broad smile on his face. And he locked the doors of his shop, and took them to the rear out of sight of the street, and unbuttoned his shirt. He reached a hand under his left armpit and winced as he pulled. Coming out of his shirt was a wide white adhesive tape with black hairs still on it.

  A small, clear, hard plastic envelope protected by gauze was stuck securely in the middle of the tape. Tabinian removed it ever so carefully. Inside was a slick gold coin, so bright it looked as though it had been minted that morning.

  Tabinian very carefully handed it to Jim.

  “Moabite,” he said. “Before the Nabataeans.”

  “The Nabataeans,” Sharon explained to Jim, “were very, very powerful once. There is a whole abandoned city in Jordan they once ruled. Cut entirely out of stone, and highly defensible. Totally abandoned, called Petra.”

  “What happened to it?” said Jim.

  “They sinned and were destroyed,” said Sharon.

  Tabinian smiled.

  “What happened?” said Jim.

  “What usually happens. Think. The Romans changed the trade route on them, and the city had no purpose anymore. And poof! Everyone left because you couldn’t make a shekel in Petra anymore. It’s the way things really happen.”

  “They could also have sinned,” said Jim, “and as His punishment God changed the trade route.”

  On that Tabinian smiled, for Jim had a good point. Even Sharon said she couldn’t disprove that.

  But on the subject of passing civilizations, Tabinian became sad. He, himself, was an Armenian, and his grandfather had come to this city, Jerusalem, after the Turkish massacres of Armenians, and there was no Armenian nation, although here was an Armenian, citizen of Israel, citizen of Jordan.
r />   “A Jerusalemite,” said Sharon, putting a hand on Tabinian’s.

  “We were the first Christian nation,” said Tabinian.

  “I know,” said Jim.

  “And we have suffered. Where were the Christian nations when we were massacred? Where? Where was anyone?”

  Jim was silent.

  “Fourteen thousand dollars,” said Tabinian with no joy on his face as he put the gold coin back into its pouch. He taped it back under his arm and buttoned his shirt. “You see, I am a rich man here in Jerusalem.”

  He smiled. But there were tears rimming his eyelids. He was a proud man, Jim realized, and the smile was very brave.

  “Thank you,” said Sharon softly, and they left the shop and walked back along the Via Dolorosa amid Old City noises of vendors, donkey hoofs, and artisans. Sharon and Jim were silent until they reached the Damascus Gate, where the street had been widened.

  “You know,” said Sharon, “he would never leave Jerusalem. Armenians have been here for sixteen centuries.” And then she smiled, and her tough shell appeared again. But Jim had seen her tender side.

  Immediately she explained, while they were at the Damascus Gate, why all the medieval gates shown in movies were wrong.

  “The movies show giant doors opening to courtyards of the city, and men charging in, right?”

  “Right,” said Jim, remembering how he had seen doors bashed down.

  “Wrong,” said Sharon. “That would be considered a breach in the wall. They never had gates open directly into a city. They always had another wall behind, forcing an invader to turn one way or the other. The one thing they weren’t going to do was to let anyone charge right in.”

  “I see,” said Jim, looking up ahead at the dark wall where now vendors sold batteries and radios and candy. They had to turn left and then right again to get out of the Damascus Gate.

  “It would force any invader,” said Jim, “to lose the power of his charge, and bunch up as they turned.”

  “Exactly,” said Sharon.

  “I feel sad for Tabinian,” said Jim.

  “Yes, well so much for proper medieval gates,” said Sharon.