The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

  Dropping her cigarette on a cobblestone, she crushed it under a boot heel.

  She was still unnerved by the way Drew had shown up at Asmali—and she was still bitter about the divorce. It didn’t matter that he had begged her to take him back. By that time she had already suffered through three humiliating months, and in spite of the fact that she had kept her ring on, everyone knew her husband had left her. No matter how politely they smiled at her, she was a woman who couldn’t keep her husband.

  She would never forgive Drew for those first three months of separation. She would never forgive him for breaking his wedding vows. For the string of men she had dated—men who had seen nothing in her but a bed-warmer. She tried to explain to Drew that this was one of the ways Turkey was different from the West, that being a divorced woman in Turkey was shameful. Every time she said she was divorced, she felt like she was admitting she had once been a prostitute. And that was how most of the men she had dated had treated her, as though without one of them on her arm, that’s what dressing up in boots and a skirt made her: a whore.

  If Drew showed up now, she’d slap him.

  It had begun in an almost a fairytale way. They used to laugh about the chain of coincidences that had brought them both to the same restaurant, on the same night, at the same time. “And if you didn’t speak English,” Drew had said, “that would have been the end of it.”

  It had all felt like it was supposed to happen—not through the Internet or a friend or even a co-worker but almost as though the city itself had arranged for it, as though the criss-crossing streets made up an enormous chess board and had sat them at tables right next to each other. Just to see what would happen.

  The attraction had been sudden and inexplicable. It wasn’t that Drew was all that good looking; it was his laugh, his five mispronounced words of Turkish, his ridiculous American jokes, his long hair falling around his face before he raked it back with his fingers, the way he looked at her and at nothing else the whole time they sat together, the way he listened to her, as though he couldn’t hear anything else.

  There had been no kiss on that first night, and later, walking down Istiklal Avenue, they had joked, “And this is where for the first time we did not kiss …” But they had hugged. Being in his arms for the first time had made her feel as though a good breeze might lift her off the cobblestones.

  On her way home things she’d noticed a thousand times before—a sky as glittery as glass dust, the Moon sinking behind the stanchions of one of the two bridges spanning the Bosporus, the wind shivering the boughs of trees—none of it would ever be the same.

  The memories, too, were as glittery as glass dust.

  It was over now, and she was too bitter to consider marrying again. Marriage was something you did once, something that lasted forever. She had loved him as much as she could love a man, and it hadn’t worked. He’d made her suffer for that love—why shouldn’t he suffer too?

  Maybe what Drew had said was true, that whenever he upset her, accidentally or not, she punished him. By refusing to so much as look at him—let alone speak to him. No good morning, no Hi, I’m home, nothing. For days. But if, say, a girlfriend called, her voice would have its natural bounce, she’d laugh easily, and no one listening in would have any idea she was in the least upset.

  “You realize you’re doing that to hurt me, don’t you?”

  She would look up from the phone she’d just hung up, vaguely aware she’d gone out of her way to be friendly during her conversation, but it never really occurred to her that it was more than reminding Drew of what he was missing.

  “I really can’t take that—not talking to me, sleeping on the couch, walking around here with a face like you can’t stand me, but you’re stuck in the same prison cell.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I lose my temper sometimes, I know. But this is cold. It’s spiteful and calculating.”

  She would walk away, smiling inwardly. She had won.

  Mehmet, leaning forward to kiss her, startled her.

  “Cut it out, Mehmet. We’re still in Turkey.”

  “Who’s going to see?”

  “Everyone in the café. Where are we going?”

  “Your place?” He smiled impishly.

  She raised an eyebrow as a reprimand. “I’m a little upset. I want a drink.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Drew came by Asmali today. He got angry and broke a glass.”

  Mehmet’s face changed. “Why do you still talk to him?”

  “Because I was married to him for four years, and I spent six years of my life with him, and when you’re a little older, you’ll understand.”

  “I should have a talk with him.”

  She studied Mehmet. He wasn’t much taller than she was. He had curly black hair, dark skin like hers, and a sweet smile. But Drew was a grown man. Mehmet was a boy. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mehmet, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “What are you going to say to him?”

  “I’ll tell him to leave you alone.”

  “First of all, I can do that myself. Second, he’ll tell you to piss off.”

  “Then I’ll have to introduce him to some of my Turkish friends.”

  Yasemin glared at him. “Mehmet. You and your friends are not going to attack my ex-husband. If you’re such a maganda, you fight him yourself. But then don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

  “So now you think I can’t protect you?”

  “Protect me? From what?”

  “You said he has a temper. You told me he used to break furniture when you had arguments. He broke a glass tonight.”

  “Not really. He chipped the bottom.”

  “I don’t want you around him.”

  “Mehmet, don’t turn into a typical Turkish man. Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.”

  Mehmet punched himself in the jaw, crossed his eyes, and his knees wobbled like a cartoon boxer about to fall.

  She burst out laughing. “That’s the Mehmet I like going out with.”

  They hooked elbows and walked up Istiklal Avenue.

  They hadn’t decided where they were going, but she was glad to be moving. What if she ran into Drew now? Drew was never good with pride wars—that’s what he called it when they were too angry to speak to each other. And if he saw her with Mehmet, he would lose again.

  3: 7

  THE ESSENES

  DREW GAZED OUT OVER the Sea of Marmara. Its dark breadth, intimated by the glint of moonlight, was studded by the twinkle of scattered ships.

  “Power outages are common enough in Istanbul,” Stephen said, “but there’s always the possibility this isn’t one of them.” He pointed. “The lights in the buildings across the way are still on.”

  Zafer stood up. “I think we have a problem.” He went out on the balcony, a silhouette outlined by the lemony brightness of the tall windows across the street.

  Drew imagined the crack of a rifle, Zafer’s stocky frame tightly wound with muscle crumpling to the flagstones.

  After peering over both ends of the balcony, Zafer closed the glass door behind him and pulled the curtains. “We’re the only ones without power.”

  Professor Cutherton looked at Kadir. “Are either of you armed?”

  Zafer nodded.

  “Well then, I suggest you and I go downstairs and have a look at the circuit breakers.”

  Zafer reached into the satchel and took out a pistol. The black automatic gleamed darkly in the frail light.

  Christ, Drew thought to himself, what have I gotten myself into? He had to hold onto his knees to keep his hands from shaking. What have I gotten Stephen into?

  “There are a few decorative candles around here—”

  The professor sounded entirely matter of fact. He’s not sweating this …

  “I have something more better.” Kadir pulled a penlight out of his flak jacket. Zafer clicked it on, the illumination sta
rtling.

  “Outstanding.” The professor looked at Zafer. “Shall we?”

  Look at him, Drew thought, at seventy-something. Do not go gentle into that good night? Stephen was going into it like a flaming brand. And here I am, thirty-two, with half his conviction and half his guts.

  “Should we call the police?” Drew kept imagining the pistol in Zafer’s hand going off.

  “And tell them what? Our electricity is out?” Zafer asked. “That an Egyptian tourist is dead because he was putting stolen scrolls on the black market? That we have what the men who killed him are looking for?”

  “Never mind.”

  The two men descended the stairs, the professor leading the way with the flashlight.

  Drew and Kadir listened.

  For a few moments, there was only the sound of their breathing. Abruptly, the lights went on.

  It was another fifteen minutes or so before the Drew heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

  “Nothing,” the professor said. “We checked every door, every window, every room, every closet.”

  After putting the pistol back in the satchel, Zafer sat back down on the couch.

  The professor picked up the photographs, his pad, and the magnifying glass and resumed translating.

  The three other men watched in silence. Occasionally, Drew sipped tepid tea.

  Stephen looked up from his pad. “It’s nearly identical to Q1, the earliest version of Q. All that’s missing, as far as I can tell, are proper names. Kadir, is there any chance you might leave these photographs with me this evening?”

  “Hojam, it is not a good idea for me.”

  “Yes, I suspected as much. Would you allow me to photocopy them? There’s a machine downstairs.”

  Kadir glanced at Zafer.

  The larger man shrugged.

  Kadir nodded. “Okay, Hojam.”

  “Right. Give me a moment …”

  Zafer, shouldering the satchel, accompanied the professor downstairs.

  Drew heard a click, like something had been turned off. He looked at Kadir, but the dwarf seemed not to have noticed.

  When the professor returned, he looked grave, as though he were bearing the head of John the Baptist instead of evidence that might rewrite Christianity’s origins.

  “I’m sure I’ll be awake half the night looking these over, but they’re meaningless if the scroll is a forgery. Kadir, isn’t there someone who knew … even the smallest thing about this scroll? Where it was found for example.”

  “Who can be know, Hojam? The man who found this scroll too is dead maybe.”

  The professor nodded slowly, as if his head had turned into iron. “What about …” Drew began. “You said something about Paul and the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

  Stephen sighed and dropped into the chair beside the coffee table. His vigor gone, he flicked a gnarled finger at Kadir. “If you’re going to understand what you’ve got hold of, it’s important for you to understand the world it came from.” He leaned to the edge of his chair. “While there is no shortage of controversy over this idea, the Qumran Essenes may have had close ties to the early Christian community. John the Baptist was quite probably a former Essene, and Jesus himself shows not a few Essene traits.

  “But you have to bear in mind one exceptionally important fact when looking over the Dead Sea Scrolls: the Essenes built a few mysteries of their own into them. The scrolls were written during a period of Roman oppression, and the Essenes feared they might one day fall into Roman hands. Thus, for example, the word Babylon in the Dead Sea Scrolls actually refers to Rome. The Kittim, who, in the Old Testament, are the Babylonians, are now the Romans. This way, were the Romans to discover these writings, their translators would assure them they were reading about history long past.”

  “The Book of Revelation does the same thing, doesn’t it?” Drew asked.

  The professor nodded. “Yes. There are no actual names in Revelation— or the Dead Sea Scrolls. Who was the Teacher of Righteousness? Who was the Wicked Priest? The Liar? We have no choice but to interpret.

  “By the time of Jesus’ birth, you see, the Jews had long been an occupied people—the Persians, the Greeks in 332 BC, the Greco-Syrians, and then, in 63 BC, the Romans. The Jews could do very little without consulting their Roman overseers. Among the Jews themselves, there were four principle groups vying for power—the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Zealots, and the Essenes.

  “The Pharisees concerned themselves with keeping the Law of Moses and with the ethical ramifications of the Law. They were directly opposed by the Sadducees, whom they outnumbered. Moreover, the Pharisees had the support of the people, who considered the Sadducees a snobbish elite. So, while the high priest of the Temple was always a Sadducee, the Sadducees often gave in to the demands of the Pharisees because the public would not have tolerated them otherwise.

  “The Essenes, on the other hand, were outsiders. Although they emphatically maintained that they were ‘zealous for the Law’, they performed a different ritual of purification for their sacrifices and so were barred from the Temple. According to Josephus, without whose writings we would be utterly lost, they observed the Sabbath with such rigor that they refused even to defecate on the Lord’s Day!”

  Kadir looked at Drew. “Defecate?”

  “Shit,” Drew answered.

  Kadir nodded sagely. “Very pure men.”

  “And the Zealots believed they had been called by God to take up the sword against the Romans and reclaim the land for Yahweh?” Drew asked.

  “More or less, yes,” the professor agreed. “Now, there is one other important point regarding the Essenes: they expected two messiahs. One would be descended of the line of David; one would be descended of Moses’s brother, Aaron. One would be a king who would lead the Jews in battle and the other a priest who would guide them spiritually. So you had the line of David and the line of Zadok—Zadok being an heir of Aaron. The Essenes insisted the high priest of the Temple be chosen only from among Zadokites.”

  Drew glanced down at Kadir. He was actually listening.

  “The problem here is that the Sadducees always furnished the High Priests, but they were not Zadokites. The Sadducees were therefore a source of continual outrage to the Essenes. Moreover, since the Sadducees cooperated with Rome, the Essenes looked on them as traitors.

  “What the common Christian does not understand is how many messiahs came and went in ancient Palestine. Messiah, in fact, was the accepted term for a king centuries before the Christian era. It simply designates the anointed one, of God of course, and Jewish kings were all ceremonially anointed with oil. David was a legitimate messiah as was Solomon.

  “Nor do most Christians bother to discover how many Jews were crucified by the Romans. At the turn of the first century, for example, Judas of Galilee led a revolt. It was eventually put down—but not until Herod’s palace in Jericho had been left a smoldering ruin and some two thousand Jews crucified. Two thousand. Jesus’ punishment and suffering, however unfortunate, were far from unique.

  “Of greater significance is the fact that Christ is not, strictly speaking, Jewish.” The professor turned to Drew. “You should know this. He is the last in a long line of dying-and-rising gods.”

  “You mean the Mystery cults …”

  Stephen nodded. “The authors of the Gospels and Church historians had to make Jesus unique. They had to make him more than a mere messiah … quite a few had already come and gone, you see. They had to make him divine. The Son of God. Hence the various miracles—most of which had been performed by pagan cult figures centuries earlier.” His hands drifted back into his lap.

  “I seemed to have got sidetracked. And despite the fact that I have a gift for sustained monologue, I think I’ll save this lecture for another time. I’m retired after all.” The professor shook his head. “Anyway, it hardly matters. In the end people believe exactly what they want to believe.”

  Stephen looked exhausted as he pushed off his thighs and st
ood up with an exaggerated groan. “Kadir, you’ve a business to run, and, if I must admit it, I want to be alone with my photocopies …”

  Drew heard the same clicking he’d heard earlier. Vaguely he wondered what it had been as he and Stephen exchanged handshakes and a kiss on each cheek.

  “Kadir,” the professor said, “I expect to hear from you soon.”

  “Inshallah.”

  “Zafer, I’m not a fan of firearms, but under the circumstances, I suppose some sort of protection is warranted.”

  “Don’t worry, Hojam. I’ve had extensive training.”

  “Well, there’s some reassurance in that.”

  The street was empty except for a fruit-seller on the corner who’d parked his cart under a streetlamp.

  Zafer pointed at Kadir and then at Drew: “A glass of raki?”

  Kadir nodded. “Evet.”

  Drew shook his head. “I think I’ll head home.” He looked at Kadir. “You going to call Tariq’s friends?”

  Kadir shook his head. “Turkish Airlines.”

  “Turkish airlines?”

  “These things are not done by the phone. We must go Cairo.”

  3: 8

  THE SAVIOR

  DREW’S CELL PHONE RANG just as he reached the end of Istiklal Avenue. He stopped in a tiny plaza coldly lit by the neon of the shops around it. Glancing down at the name and number displayed, he frowned and answered. “Stephen…?”

  “Drew. This scroll …”

  It sounded as though the professor’s voice was trembling … or was it the connection?

  “You think it’s a forgery?”

  “No. Just the opposite. This is the first time I’ve ever seen solid proof that there may have been no actual man on whom the Gospels are based.”

  “But that’s—that’s impossible. There are records. I mean, Tacitus…”

  “Drew, you know as well as I do that Christ is not a proper name—”

  “Here’s what I know—it’s from the Greek, christos, which is how the Gospel authors translated messiah, or the anointed one. In other words, christened.”