by Roger Herst
"Fragments of scrolls from the first century. They belong to the State of Israel."
"Property of the Jewish state? Why, isn't that a debatable subject? There are those who believe ancient artifacts belong to the descendents of such treasures. If I am not mistaken, the Jewish government in Israel has only existed for some sixty years. But artifacts from the first century of the Common Era, why that's a bit older, wouldn't you agree?"
"A legal question," Itamar responded with cold crispness. "The Israeli government will be happy to submit its claim to the International Court in The Hague. I doubt any modern court would grant ownership to distant descendants whose claim is, at best, hypothetical. Besides, the documents removed from Qumran were written by Jews for Jews. I respectfully submit, Your Excellency, that the Church of Rome had not been founded when these texts were written in Hebrew and Aramaic, two ancestral languages of the Jewish people. You're welcome to keep any Latin fragments."
The cardinal adjusted eyeglasses on his nose with both hands. "May I ask what evidence you have that such documents are here in Rome?"
Itamar nodded to Major Zabronski to exhibit proof of the Holy See's involvement. After a glance at his notes, the police officer said, "Father Benoit Matteau of the École Biblique et Archéologique Française in Bethlehem brought stolen fragments here on February 4, aboard a corporate Gulfstream licensed to the Vatican." He handed to the cardinal copies of an aeronautical license for the Gulfstream, along with a flight plan filed with Ben Gurion and Fiumicino air-traffic controllers. One of the cardinal's aides immediately snatched up the papers to free his superior's hands. "Father Benoit is, as you no doubt know, a respected scholar thoroughly familiar with Israeli antiquities laws. I must remind you, your Excellency, that your priest and his École in Bethlehem have enjoyed Israeli hospitality and protection for more than four decades. He returned to Israel on February 8 aboard a commercial El Al aircraft, but has subsequently been replaced in Bethlehem by Father Donito Freezini. We understand that Monsignor Patrick Flaraty from Ireland has already been appointed the new permanent director. Israeli police have issued a warrant for Father Benoit's arrest."
The cleric's expression hardened, but he said nothing.
"We know that Father Benoit is taking refuge here in Vatican City."
"Oh," said Fornenti, feigning surprise. "Now how would you know that?"
Zabronski fished in his briefcase for two photos of the Dominican priest taken as he was leaving St. Paul's Basilica. An electronic date embedded in the photos registered thirteen days before. The photos passed from Zabronski's hand to the cardinal's, who examined them briefly, comparing one with the other.
"He has been seen at mass here," the Israeli policeman added.
Cardinal Fornenti handed the photographs over his shoulder to an aide, then nonchalantly instructed him in Italian to look into the matter and report back.
"My government and the Vatican have no extradition treaty," Zabronski continued. "So here Father Benoit will remain until the Holy Father sends him back to Israel to be tried for the theft of state property."
"If he were here, gentlemen, I would think he would be free to come and go as he pleases," inserted the cardinal.
"Yes, free to come and go where he pleases inside Vatican City, but not elsewhere and certainly not in Italy with, which we have an extradition agreement. Israel is committed to maintain good relations with the Holy See. Our government will take no action against your priest as long as he remains in the Vatican City. But, between you and me, I wouldn't recommend that he take his supper on the Piazza di Rovere beyond papal jurisdiction by some four hundred meters. We Jews are a small people who, throughout history, others have enjoyed injuring. But that was in the past. These days, we have a new policy; those who harm us are punishable wherever they can be apprehended. Jewish justice now has a long reach. Were Father Benoit in Israel, we would charge him with theft and, if convicted, imprison him. But for the present, he is here and, as far as we're concerned, you may have the honor of feeding him in the Pope's cafeteria for the remainder of his natural life."
"Are you suggesting that we turn over this priest?"
Itamar, knowing he was more diplomatic than Zabronski, reentered the discussion. "Your Excellency, we're urgently requesting the return of the documents Father Benoit stole. If we receive them in their entirety, we are prepared to overlook charges against him."
Fornenti demonstrated his control by casually smiling before he said, "But, gentleman, how can you possibly know what this priest is alleged to have taken?"
"We know exactly what he took. Every fragment of parchment, every word," replied Itamar. From a folder he had on his lap he extracted two DVD disks in clear plastic envelopes and placed them on the desktop in front of the cardinal. "We have an electronic record of everything. You may keep these to check against what Father Benoit brought here."
The cardinal asked, "Can your people read these documents?"
Itamar made a snap decision not to dissemble, even if the truth would embarrass the prelate. "They are in Aramaic and Hebrew, our historic tongues. We have already compiled many into readable text."
Knowing that Vatican scholars were unsuccessful in assembling the fragments, Cardinal Fornenti was surprised, but rallied by saying, "Well then, I'd be curious to know what these documents say."
Itamar expected this question and replied without a moment's reflection. "I'm certain you would, Your Excellency. But until this matter is resolved, we have chosen to classify the information. You know as well as we that without the original documents we cannot make a claim to their authenticity. Nobody will accept mere copies as genuine historic artifacts. Why should we expose ourselves to ridicule?"
"Very wise," the cardinal said, promising to look into the matter. He warned that the Vatican worked slowly. "My counselors will need at least a week to investigate. During that time, we would be happy to accommodate you in the Vatican. Otherwise, it would be helpful for you to remain nearby, in case we have questions."
Itamar picked up a pained expression on Zabronski's face. He knew the police officer would choose freezing in the Antarctic rather than remaining overnight in Vatican City. "Thank you for this thoughtful invitation, but unfortunately, my colleague must return to Israel immediately. I'll remain in Italy to answer your questions. May I give your aide my cell phone number?"
As Zabronski passed before the cardinal on his way out, the churchman put a friendly hand on his shoulder. When the police officer turned to see why, the cardinal asked with a pleasant smile, "By the way, how's the food on the Piazza di Rovere? I might like to join you there someday."
"With great pleasure," Zabronski answered. "And please, bring along Father Benoit."
When the cardinal accepted his humor with a playful grin, Zabronski smiled back, finishing his earlier remark, "So I can arrest him."
From his room in Hotel de la Minerve, Itamar sent Gabby an urgent email:
HI GABRIELLE: I MUST STAY A WEEK IN ITALY ON BUSINESS. IF YOU CAN, SPEND IT WITH ME. I KNOW A WONDERFUL, QUIET INN AT MONTEFOLLONICO IN THE TUSCAN COUNTRYSIDE. I'M GOING TO RESERVE TWO ROOMS. SEND ME YOUR FLIGHT NUMBER AND I'LL PICK YOU UP AT THE ROME AIRPORT. COME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. SHALOM. Iti.
***
For weeks, Gabby had managed to avoid the apartment on Ussishkin Street, thinking there was nothing there but raw memories. Then a neighbor telephoned her at the Kings Hotel to say that the front door was slightly ajar and appeared to have been forced open.
"Oh no, not again!" she squealed, sensing that the apartment had been ransacked a second time.
When she arrived shortly after, it was clear from gouges on the doorpost that someone had tampered with the lock. To prepare herself, she paused before entering, then took determined steps into the vestibule. Everywhere, furniture was overturned and personal belongings strewn on the floor, leaving a greater upheaval than after the first break-and-entry. To survey the full extent of the damage, she had to step over items on th
e cluttered floor. If anything, this proved that the burglars had failed to find what they were looking for on their first visit. She wondered if the same intruders had returned for a second look. Or was this the handiwork of someone else?
Gabby stepped around an overturned stool and buried her head in her hands, blocking out the mess before her. Nothing seemed to make sense. Itamar had told her before leaving for Rome he was confident that the original fragments were somewhere in Italy. So if the Church already had what it wanted, why make more trouble in Jerusalem? That puzzle stirred a more distressing thought. Perhaps not all the fragments were in Europe. One or more might still be in Israel.
A forensic team from Major Zabronski's office arrived an hour after Gabby's call, immediately initiating a new search for fingerprints and taking more photos. Zabronski's officer-in-command, a loquacious, avuncular looking man with an uncombed crop of silver hair, appeared elated with the possibility of finding new clues. He explained how, in ongoing investigations, one shred of evidence usually leads to another, slowly casting light on clues hidden when the probe first began. "Now that they've struck again, we have some traction here," he said with apparent delight, insensitive to how the break-in affected Gabby.
She asked the officer, "Major Zabronski made it clear the government won't interfere in a Bedouin blood feud, so is your department still investigating the deaths of Timothy Matternly or Mumad banu-Nazeem?"
The officer paused to consider the implications of sharing with her new information. "Our position has changed a bit," he responded. "We've never seen a Bedouin using an Uzi. It's not beyond the realm of possibility, you understand, but these people mistrust Uzis, probably because, for years, they faced them in the hands of our army boys. We killed hundreds of smugglers with them, and Bedouin are all smugglers in one form or another. And most are related to each other. I can tell you they weren't shy about killing an equal number of our boys, but never, in my memory, with an Uzi. Baruch ha-Shem, the killing stopped years ago."
"But I hear they still smuggle whenever they can," Gabby said.
"Why of course they do. But with us it's a matter of degree. If they stay within acceptable limits, so will we."
***
After meeting Gabby at Rome's Fiumicino Airport two days after his email, Itamar drove with her north through small farms and vineyards to the rolling hills spotting the Tuscan countryside. At the Relais La Chiusa in the agricultural village of Montefollonico, they entered a cool, dark room Itamar had reserved for Gabby. Hand in hand, they stumbled to the window around a low writing table and two spindle chairs. Darkness frustrated unlocking an old-fashioned latch securing the wooden shutters. Once freed, both doors swung open to shower the room in warm midday sunlight. Itamar stood behind Gabby, both hands lightly gripping her shoulders, as together they gathered in a panorama of manicured vineyards, punctuated by irrigation fountains and Christian statuary. Squared off pastures in the distance were familiar to them from the brushes of Renaissance painters. Itamar lowered his arms around her waist. For several minutes, they were lost in the soft serenity of this bucolic land, unaware of how their bodies had merged.
Before dinner, they watched the artistry of kitchen staff preparing for the evening meal. Like a painter touching his canvas, a sous-chef sliced fresh lettuce with a small paring knife, measuring each leaf before planting it in a garlic-glazed bowl. His helper washed and re-washed a dozen tomatoes with the attention of a surgeon scrubbing in for an operation. Though a spring breeze accompanied the failing sunlight, Gabby and Itamar chose to eat outdoors on a hillside near the kitchen. Three waiters set a table with a starched white cloth, silverware, candles, and two sets of wineglasses. By the time they sat down, lights from nearby farms flickered in the valley. A waiter soon returned with eggplant and olive ante-pasta and a dry local Semillon selected by the maitre d'hotel.
Unwilling to spoil the mood, Gabby postponed telling Itamar about the last break-in in Jerusalem. But, freed from her inhibitions by several glasses of more regional Italian wine, she broached the subject gently, telling him that, while it confounded her thinking, it was really no big deal. In fact, she said with a touch of humor, she had gotten accustomed to being violated. "Kinda comes with the turf these days."
Itamar's eyes suddenly lost their glimmer as he said, "Not good at all. Something's missing here."
"I've decided not to renew the apartment lease. Tim was the sole lessee, and he's obviously no longer able to complete his contract. Since I'm not a cosigner, maybe I can break it early."
Itamar glanced to his right, admiring her silhouette in the candlelight. "I was thinking of selling my own house. But since I've met you, I haven't taken any steps in that department. I'm still thinking that someday you'll come and stay in my daughter's bedroom."
She put her hand on his arm and squeezed with affection, saying nothing more until two waiters came with broiled bass marinated in a creamy Tuscan sauce. After the pair had rearranged silverware for the fish, she said, "I don't look forward to cleaning up the mess at the apartment. I'm thinking of having movers send everything but my books directly to Tim's family in Massachusetts. No sense saving tchotkes to elicit sad memories. Whatever I don't send to the States should go to a charity. One simple move with as little angst as possible."
"Sounds like a plan to me," he said. "Got a timetable in mind?"
"As soon as I return. I know it will take time to work things out with the lease, but if I continue to pay rent, the landlord shouldn't care, especially if I let him show the apartment to prospective tenants in the meantime."
"How about coming to my home? There's more than enough room."
She let her eyes remain upon his, just looking.
"Yes?" he inquired.
She woke from her reverie to say, "Let's think about that, Iti. I worry about your position. Once people learn I'm staying with you, its bound to stimulate l'shon ha-rah, rumors. Neither one of us needs that. Besides, I wouldn't want to get in your way."
His eyes fell over his plate.
She read the disappointment on his face and said, "Iti, let's not talk about it now. It's so perfect here, I don't want to spoil anything. I wish this holiday would never end."
After dinner in the deserted public room, they curled up together on a couch before a simmering fire. She removed her shoes and tucked her toes under his thigh. He dropped his lips beside her neck and, from time to time, touched but did not kiss her flesh. The two bottles of wine they had consumed put them to sleep and they were awakened by a hotel employee snuffing out the fire before bedtime. Reluctantly, they drew themselves from the couch to walk arm in arm to her room. A physical hug and a series of light kisses ended this day in paradise.
After breakfast and a walk through the hillside village the following morning, they returned to Gabby's room. While they were gone, servants had already taken the opportunity to clean and remake the bed with fresh linens, closing the window shutters when they left. Itamar opened them to let in bright Tuscan sunlight.
It started with an embrace on one of the upholstered chairs, but quickly moved to the bed. Despite many reservations, their bodies were ready for each other. Exploration of new flesh was exhilarating. Were there surprises? Or just the confirmation of appealing opposites? Both could remember previous loves when wild fire drove their bodies to couple. But at their ages, the heat of youth had tamed. In their lovemaking, the sweaty passion of the past succumbed to a mellow tenderness. Gabby found that the firmness of Itamar's muscles soon eclipsed her familiarity with Tim's flesh. She wondered if he was experiencing a similar transition from Becky. Later, they lay naked together on impeccably laundered white cotton sheets, letting their eyes and lips speak the language of new lovers.
Their Tuscan holiday ended abruptly the next evening while having dinner at a small outdoor restaurant on the Palazzo Casali in Cortona. The call to Itamar’s cell phone he was expecting cut into their pasta course. He took it, stepping away from the table and returning several
minutes later to say that early the following morning, he would have to drive back to Rome for additional consultations at the Vatican. The only thing wrong with dinner was that it ended too soon. Back at the relais, they packed for an early morning getaway, then fell into each others arms to resume their earlier passion, even before making it to Gabby's bed.
The following afternoon, he dropped her off at the Hotel de la Minerve in Rome before circling back in the direction of Vatican City.
***
Two weeks later, movers showed up at 28 Ussishkin Street. Due to space limitations inside the apartment, they assembled four large containers on the pavement outside: one for Tim's personal belongings being shipped to Massachusetts; one for his scholarly books, bequeathed to the Oriental Museum Library at the University of Chicago; another for furniture, appliances, and household items his family agreed to donate to the Jewish Agency for distribution among immigrant families; and a far smaller container for Gabby's personal possessions, headed for temporary storage in Itamar's home.
Major Zabronski sent an armed policeman, reasoning that whoever had trashed the apartment might think this was his last opportunity to find what he was looking for. Another detective demanded to see the identity cards and identification badges of the movers. Three of the five men assigned to the job happened to be Russian immigrants, which, under the circumstances, didn't give Gabby a warm and wooly feeling. She instructed the detective to watch them carefully, then stationed herself near the front door to inspect everything that left the apartment, placing color-coded decals on each item for proper placement in containers on the street. Itamar, who had returned from Rome five days after her, seething with contempt for what he called the Vatican's criminal bureaucracy, dedicated part of his workday to providing support for what he knew would be an emotionally trying task.
By day's end, the apartment was nearly empty, looking tired, worn, scuffed, and in sore need of fresh paint. The landlord dropped by to make a list of damages requiring attention. Only then would he consider returning the security deposit.