Sinai Tapestry

by Edward Whittemore

  I think it’s certainly a theory for good days.

  Yes indeed, a happy ending after two thousand years. And not that impossible either. As a matter of fact my own father did much the same thing in the last century.

  Did what? Made Jerusalem move?

  No that takes more time. I was thinking about leaving the empty hilltop behind by putting on a disguise. And he was relatively famous too, and rather recognizable you would have thought.

  But no one knew who he was?

  Only the few he chose to tell.

  How can you be sure he told you the truth?

  Stern smiled. He almost had her now.

  I see what you mean but I still have to believe him. What he did is too unreal not to be true. No one could forge a life like his.

  All the same, forgeries can be enormous.

  I know.

  Once a man forged the whole Bible.

  I know, repeated Stern.

  Why do you say that?

  Well you’re talking about Wallenstein, aren’t you? The Albanian hermit who went to the Sinai?

  She stared at him.

  How did you know that?

  Stern’s smile broadened. At last he’d found what he was looking for.

  Well isn’t that who you mean? The Trappist who found the original Bible and was so appalled by its chaos he decided to forge his own? Then went back to Albania where he survived to the age of one hundred and four in a dungeon beneath his castle, in a totally black and soundless cell, the only place he could live now that he was God? Cared for all that time by the love of Sophia the Unspoken, later when I met her to become Sophia the Bearer of Secrets? Who was overwhelmed when Wallenstein finally died in 1906?

  But that’s not true.

  What?

  That Wallenstein died in 1906.

  Yes it is.

  It can’t be. I was there then.

  Then you must be Maud, and you escaped to Greece when Catherine had a seizure and all his veins burst, a death willed on him by his own mother Sophia, or so the old woman always believed. She told me the whole fantastic story when I was trapped there during the first Balkan war. Told me everything, it seemed she just couldn’t bear the burden of keeping it all a secret anymore. A strange mixture of brilliance and superstition, that woman. She actually believed Catherine’s madness had come about because Wallenstein himself was an angel, literally, not a saint but a divine angel who couldn’t have a human child because he was superhuman. Well maybe he did have a touch of something considering the scope of his forgery.

  Maud stared at him in utter disbelief.

  Twenty-seven years ago, she whispered.

  Yes.

  But can any of it be true?

  It’s all true and there’s more, much more. The baby you had for example. Sophia named him Nubar, a family name, it seems she was of Armenian descent originally. She brought him up with as much love as she had had hatred for Catherine and was able to give him a fortune through her early manipulations in the oil market. He’s extremely influential although very few people have ever even heard of him. Now what do you think of that?

  Nothing. I can’t think anything about it. It’s all some kind of magic.

  Not at all, said Stern, laughing and taking her by the arm, leading her up the street away from the water.

  They talked late that night and many others and slowly she pulled away from despair as eventually it all came out, the horror of her first marriage and the loneliness of her second when she felt she had been abandoned again by someone she loved, the hidden fear from her childhood growing malignantly then until a time came when she could bear it no longer and she ran away from Joe, the great love of her life, the one thing she had always wanted in the world, a magical dream come true in Jerusalem and she had left it.”

  Every act futile and bitter then. More years when she was terrified at growing old. Trying to find Sivi again, some link with the past, surprised to learn he was also living in Istanbul, tracing him with difficulty and shocked when she found him at last, so vastly different from the elegant and worldly man she had known at the time of the First World War. Pathetically alone now, working as a common laborer in a hospital for incurables.

  And the strange muddled story about his former secretary that obsessed him, that he repeated over and over, how Theresa had gone to a place called Ein Karem in Palestine, there to suffer some kind of terrible self-inflicted penance in an Arab leper colony.

  It was inexplicable. How could people change so much?

  Stern shook his head. It wasn’t time to speak, her memory of standing beside the water was too recent. Sivi? Yes he had known him once, anyone who had ever spent any time in Smyrna had known Sivi. Yes and Theresa too. He nodded for her to go on.

  Kind and gentle Sivi, totally broken when she found him, grave and sad and bewildered, living in a small squalid room near the Bosporus, so confused he often forgot to feed himself.

  She had decided to devote herself to caring for him, it was the best thing she could do. She cleaned for him and washed and cooked, and for a while she felt stronger. Helping Sivi gave life some meaning again. But then that awful rainy afternoon came when she went to pick him up at the hospital after work as she did every day and found him strapped to a bed, beyond the impenetrable barrier of madness, the same afternoon Stern had found her by the water.

  And now after forty-three years what did she have?

  The memory of one exquisite month long ago on the shores of the Gulf of Aqaba. That and the son she had conceived there.

  Would you like to meet him? asked Maud.

  Yes very much.

  She looked at him shyly.

  Please don’t laugh. I named him Bernini. The dreams were crumbling but not quite gone. I suppose I hoped someday he would also carve his own beautiful fountains and stairways to somewhere.

  Stern smiled.

  And why not? It’s a good name.

  But Maud looked suddenly troubled. She took his hand and said nothing.

  In the small apartment above the Bosporus, Stern tried to amuse the boy with stories from his childhood. He described the first clumsy balloon he had built when he was about Bernini’s age.

  Did you fly?

  For a yard or two, depending on how hard I pushed. After that I just went bumping down the hillside.

  Why didn’t you put wheels on the basket? Then you could have used it as a sailboat and crossed the desert that way.

  I could have I suppose, but I didn’t. I kept trying to build better balloons and after a while I made one that would fly.

  I wouldn’t have done that, said the boy distantly. Sailing would have been good enough for me.

  They were sitting on the narrow terrace. Maud came out with tea and the boy lay down on his stomach and gazed at the ships plowing up and down the straits. When Stern left, Maud walked to the corner with him.

  He’s often like that, I don’t know how to explain it. He talks for a minute or two about something and then drops it as if he were afraid to say too much, as if by touching certain thoughts he was afraid they would go away. He wouldn’t ask you why you wanted to fly for example, nor would he tell you why he would have preferred to sail. Instead he just lay down and watched the boats. I knew his imagination was working and he was thinking about those things, but he wouldn’t talk about it with us.

  He’s young.

  But not that young and sometimes it frightens me. His thoughts don’t always follow each other, somehow the sequence is wrong. Again it’s as if he were leaving things out on purpose. In school he can’t get along at all except for drawing.

  Stern smiled.

  With his name that’s fine.

  But Maud didn’t smile.

  No. He used to draw at home and now he doesn’t even do that anymore. He just lies on his elbows and gazes at things, especially the boats. And there’s something worse, he can’t read. Doctors say there’s nothing wrong but he can’t seem to learn. I mean he’s already twelve y
ears old.

  She stopped. Stern put his arm around her. He didn’t know how to help.

  Listen. He’s healthy and good-natured and even though he may be a little too much inside himself right now, that’s not necessarily bad or wrong. After all he seems happy enough and isn’t that the most important thing?

  There were tears in her eyes.

  I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do.

  Well at least you could share the burden. Why not get in touch with the boy’s father? He’s still in Jerusalem, near enough.

  She moved her feet uneasily.

  I couldn’t do that. I’m too ashamed of the way I treated him.

  But that was twelve years ago, Maud.

  I know but I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was too cruel to him and none of it was his fault. That would take a kind of strength I don’t have yet.

  Stern looked at the ground. She took his hands and tried to smile.

  Well don’t worry about it. It’ll be all right.

  Good, he said in a soft voice. I know it will be.

  And now you’re going to be away for a while?

  He grinned.

  It shows that desperately?

  A man on his travels, yes.

  About a month probably. I’ll cable.

  Bless you, she whispered, for being who you are.

  She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  Stern used to tell her how his father had somehow managed to mark his memory as a child with every name and event from his long years of wandering, in the course of time narrating his entire journey much as a blind man might have done in the days when there was no other way for the stages of the past to be passed from generation to generation, in effect rewriting the haj of his life in indelible ink upon his young son’s mind, swirling stroke around stroke in the complex etching of a spiritual stylus.

  Yet strangely in those myriad experiences, those majestic flowing volumes that together comprised Strongbow’s legendary voyage through the desert, never once had the old explorer talked about the gentle Persian girl he had loved so dearly in his youth for a few weeks, no more, before she was carried off in an epidemic. Why?

  Why should he have? answered Maud. He had loved her, that’s all, what more was there to say? Besides, when we look back on it there are always mysteries in someone’s life and perhaps the gentle Persian girl is his.

  You may be right, said Stern vaguely, standing and then sitting down again. But Maud didn’t think he was really talking about the Persian girl and Strongbow. There had to be something else on his mind the way he was acting, something much more personal. She waited but he didn’t go on.

  What else did he never mention? she said after a moment.

  It’s very curious, but the Sinai Bible of all things. Surely he knew about it. Why that one secret held back?

  Why do you think?

  Stern shrugged. He said he couldn’t imagine why. He got up again and began roaming around the room.

  When did he die? I don’t think you’ve ever told me that.

  August 1914, the very month the nineteenth century came to an end. You know I remember that prophecy you said O’Sullivan Beare’s father made two months before that, that seventeen of his sons were going to be killed in the Great War. Well Strongbow must have had the gift too. He was ninety-five years old and he’d gone blind by then but his health was good and his mind was certainly as clear as ever. The main thing seemed to be simply that he felt he’d lived long enough. I was there with him in Ya’qub’s old tent during those last days and that’s exactly what he said. It’s enough.

  Ya’qub had already died?

  Yes, but only a few months before, the two of them inseparable to the end, always talking and talking over their endless cups of coffee. Anyway, after he said it was enough he did something that couldn’t have been a coincidence.

  Stern frowned and lapsed into silence. He seemed to drift away.

  Well?

  I’m sorry, what?

  The thing he did, what was it?

  Oh. He predicted the hour of his death and went to sleep to await it.

  And never woke up.

  That’s right.

  And what wasn’t a coincidence?

  Dying like that. It was a story he’d heard long ago from some bedouin called the Jebeliyeh. Around 1840 a blind mole did the same thing at the foot of Mt Sinai after talking to a hermit on the mountain. And of course you know who the hermit was.

  Wallenstein.

  Yes, Wallenstein. A hermit in 1840 and a blind mole in 1914. Strongbow was obviously dreaming Wallenstein’s dream when he died. Dreaming of the Sinai Bible.

  Once more Stern’s voice trailed off and his attention drifted away. Maud waited as he restlessly crossed the room to the window and returned and went back to the window again.

  And if it was so important to him, you still can’t imagine why he never told you about it?

  No, said Stern quickly.

  A thunderstorm had broken overhead and lightning suddenly lit the room in a violent burst but Stern seemed unaware of it.

  No, he repeated. No.

  Maud gazed at the floor. She wanted to believe him but she didn’t. She knew it wasn’t true, there was no way it could be true. And even though she knew the two old men only through Stern, she could picture exactly what had happened. It was as clear to her as if she had been there and seen Ya’qub and Strongbow marching back and forth between their almond trees in one of their interminable rambling discussions.

  Ya’qub saying merrily that this was fine, all the things the boy was learning, but then suddenly serious and tugging Strongbow’s sleeve and whispering earnestly that one mystery must be excluded from their teachings, at least that, for the boy’s sake, one for him to discover alone by himself.

  The former hakïm pondering the words and nodding solemnly over this piece of wisdom, the two of them sitting up late that night in their tent trying to decide which mystery it should be among the thousands they shared after all their years of tramping from Timbuktu to Persia, of tracing a hillside in the Yemen and going nowhere.

  So Stern was lying to himself. He pretended all his days and nights were taken up with his clandestine cause but it just wasn’t so. There was something else more important to him.

  Dizzily then she recalled things he had said and all at once it became obvious. For years he too had been secretly in search of the Sinai Bible.

  Wallenstein. Strongbow. O’Sullivan Beare and now Stern.

  Where would it ever end?

  She didn’t want to talk about it but she knew she couldn’t just ignore it, so finally she asked the question.

  Stern, what made you begin looking for the Sinai Bible?

  It was late afternoon and he was pouring himself a glass of vodka. His shoulders seemed to twitch and he poured more than he usually did.

  Well, when I realized what it meant I had to. What was in it I mean. What’s still in it wherever it is.

  And what’s that, Stern? For you?

  Well everything. All my ideas and hopes, what I was really looking for years ago in Paris when I thought of a new nation here, a homeland for Arabs and Christians and Jews alike, you see what I mean don’t you? That homeland could have been here in the beginning before people were divided into those names, the Sinai original might show that. And if it does I would have proof, or at least I could prove it to myself even if to no one else.

  Prove what? What you’ve done? What you work for? Your life? What?

  Well yes, all those things, everything.

  Maud shook her head.

  That damned book.

  Why say that? Think what it could mean if it were found.

  Maybe, I don’t know anymore. It just makes me angry.

  But why does it make you angry? Because of O’Sullivan Beare? Because he wanted to find it so much?

  Yes and no. Perhaps it was just that then, now it’s something more.

  What?


  She shrugged wearily.

  I’m not sure. The way it obsesses people. The way it sends lives careening off in all directions. Wallenstein in his cave for seven years going mad while the ants eat his eyeballs, Strongbow marching through the desert for forty years never able to sleep in the same place twice, Joe and his wild search for treasures that don’t exist, you and your impossible nation. Why are there these mirages that pull men and pull them on and on and on? Why does it have to be the same with all of you? You hear about that damn book and you go crazy. You all do.

  She stopped. He took her hand.

  But it’s not the Sinai Bible that does it, is it?

  More vodka?

  Maud?

  No I know it isn’t, of course it’s not. But all the same I wish that damn fanatic Wallenstein had never had his insane dream. Why couldn’t he have left us alone?

  But he hasn’t got anything to do with it either. It was there and all he did was find it and live it, or relive it and bring it back to us, all the things we’ve always wanted. Canaan, just imagine it. The happy land of Canaan three thousand years ago.

  It wasn’t happy.

  It might have been. No one can say until the original is found.

  Yes they can. You know it wasn’t.

  He didn’t answer.

  Damn it, say you do. Admit it. Say you know.

  All right then, I know.

  She sighed and began stroking his hand absentmindedly. The anger in her face had drained away.

  And yet, she whispered.

  Yes that’s right, that’s always it. And yet. And yet.

  She picked up the vodka bottle and looked at it.

  Christ, she muttered. Oh Christ.

  Yes, said Stern with a thin smile. Among others.

  Dizzying and more, for although O’Sullivan Beare had the account of the Bible all mixed up, confusing it with the vague stories Haj Harun told him, Stern actually knew where the Sinai original was. He knew it had been buried in the Armenian Quarter of Jerusalem.

  Yet he had never looked for it there.

  Why?

  Stern laughed and filled his glass.

  You know that’s the only part of Sophia’s story I’ve never believed. It would have been too obvious a hiding place for someone as clever and dedicated as Wallenstein. Look at it. He spent twelve years in a basement hole in the Armenian Quarter before he went to the Sinai to do his forgery. Would he have been likely to come back and bury the original in that same basement hole? Ask questions about him and someone would remember, the spot could be found and all of Wallenstein’s efforts would have been for nothing. Would Sophia have allowed that considering how much she loved him? She knew what the forgery had cost him, what it eventually cost her too, so she lied to protect him, to protect herself, to keep their suffering from being meaningless.