The view over the Bay was as usual beyond words under the clear Californian morning sky that almost hurt his eyes. He remembered there were only ten shopping days to Christmas as he zapped on the news listening to the reports of heavy snow in the Denver region then showered. It was just after eight as he left the condo pent house and made his way downhill to the ferry jetty. The weekend had been pleasant enough with the warm weather though the days were too short for his liking, the time it took to get the boat out and around the North Bay area was too long with the temperature dropping too quickly to really get the best out of it. He was at the best a weekend sailor and if it wasn’t for Bill Pike a retired broker and excellent skipper shared the boat it would be too much for him.
Four months had passed since he had first embarked on his new project and he had taken time off to get down to the essential – writing. San Francisco was far from the giddying whirl of Paris and Tel-Aviv and O’Connelly had time to think and catch up with his other projects.
There was the usual motley crowd, weekenders, the odd early tourist and a few business commuters on the ferry who stood out with their dark suits and polished shoes burdened by their black computer bags slung heavily over their shoulders, their faces already wearing harassed looks. O’Connelly wondered if they slept with them over the weekends. He sipped the latte he had grabbed at Starbucks as he watched the San Francisco skyline grow though the stained windows of the second deck as the Ferry ploughed its way to the Embarcadero terminal.
He disembarked and took a cab to Heights, he had just three more busy days before he left for Paris. The screen play for The Lost Forest was complete and he was meeting with Joe Steiner the script writer to discuss a few last points before shooting began on location in Costa Rica. Hollywood producers seemed to like Costa Rica for jungle scenes it was relatively near to home, cost effective and the local politics were uncomplicated, which was alright with O’Connelly who in any case had little say in the matter though several scenes would be shot in Jakarta and Pontianak.
Shooting was to commence in the late spring that left him a short time to gather his ideas for his next novel which at that moment were so vague as to be almost non-existent. He put the idea out of his head, first on his mind was a quiet Christmas with Laura, away from the never ending pressure of California, to a more human way of life, life on a smaller scale, away from the never ending questions of business.
Writing had always seemed to him as an easy going intellectual or academic way of life and so it had been until he had been hit by success that turned his life into a money spinning business in which he was hounded from morning to night by agents, publishers, critics, speaking tours and interviews. His escape was to Paris where he could hide incognito.
In their research work in the history of the Levant Laura’s network of relations led her to Bertrand Lacour a French archaeologist and linguist specialised in ancient Middle Eastern Civilizations. He was an associate director of archaeology and ancient History at UCLA and moved between the universities offices in Beirut, Damascus and Amman. He was part of a joint project to form a library of ancient inscriptions and texts with the German Max-Planck-Institute and the University of California at Los Angeles. Lacour was a polyglot and bon vivant who enjoyed the company of his fellow academics who shared his love of pleasure and science, whatever the country or region his presence ensured long evenings of wining and dining when the sometimes passionate discussions would go on long into the night.
They had driven down to Santa Monica and had checked in to Shutters on the Beach, a short taxi ride to the UCLA Campus at Westwood Village, it was a pleasant way to relax for the weekend before getting down to work with Lacour and Smith. O’Connelly liked the hotel for its luxurious comfort with an ocean view suite and if the luxury was too overwhelming he could slum it with a stroll to Venice Beach and its seedy Fellini like non-stop circus.
They dined in the excellent hotel restaurant, One Pico, ordering steamed mussels in a spicy coconut and lemon grass broth and then Moroccan spiced rack of lamb and couscous with a Ravenswood Teldeschi Zinfandel followed by a Shafer Cabernet Sauvignon.
The UCLA Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures is in the Humanities Building on 415 Portoloa Plaza just next to the Powell Library, turn off Sunset Boulevard take Hildegard then Charles Young Drive, you can’t miss it.
‘This is the Kinsey Hall,’ said Lacour, ‘our old red brick building was one of the first on the Westwood Campus of UCLA, originally it was the old Physics and Biology Building and was built in 1929. Today it is completely renovated to seismic standards and from last year is the new home for the Humanities, English and Foreign Languages.’
Just a short walk from the Humanities Building is the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology in the Fowler Museum on Charles E. Young Drive North. The Institute was specialised in interdisciplinary study of the human past and set up in 1973, for the study of ancient human societies. Located on the lower level of the Fowler building on the UCLA campus were the laboratories for regional field research projects, technical labs for the specialized analysis of archaeological materials, classrooms, a teaching lab, meeting rooms and offices. The Institute presents public lecture programs, publications, and research seminars as well as field research grants to its members. The Institute also trains professional archaeologists through an interdisciplinary graduate degree program.
The Institute researchers work throughout the world with particular emphasis on Mesoamerica, South America, California, China, the Mediterranean, the Middle East and Europe. Researchers employ a wide range of theoretical perspectives and disciplinary backgrounds, bringing anthropological, classical, historical, humanistic and scientific perspectives to the Institute and its interpretations of the past.
The Cotsen Institute of Archaeology and the J. Paul Getty Trust formed a partnership to create a new program awarding a Master's degree in Archaeological and Ethnographic Conservation. The conservation of archaeological and ethnographic materials and sites is an important part of our efforts to preserve the cultural remains of the past.
‘Our program will emphasize the multiple values and meanings that archaeological and ethnographic artefacts may hold for society, and how they impact decisions on the conservation and use of those materials,’ he told to them.
The role of the archaeological or ethnographic conservator is increasingly involved in wider cultural or museum-based decisions. Likewise, the conservator may work as part of an interdisciplinary team, with ethnographers, indigenous communities, cultural resource managers or curators.
They were joined by Charles Smith held the Chair of Near Eastern Languages & Ancient Mediterranean Studies at UCLA. He was Professor of Biblical Studies & Semitic Languages and worked with one of the Getty programmes. A tall friendly man with a kind and open scholarly approach, he wore dark glasses due to an eye injury that had occurred on a dig in Iraq many years previously when that country was better known for its ancient history than Middle Eastern politics.
He told them how the UCLA Getty Conservation Program provided students with a solid educational base and practical training in both archaeological and ethnographic materials; as well as an appreciation of the often complex issues relating to significance, access and use of these materials which can be very different from the criteria for conservation of fine art or historical materials. In the case of ethnographic materials especially, the program will facilitate an understanding of the multiple values that artefacts hold for indigenous populations, and will foster a sense of partnership with indigenous communities in relevant aspects of the conservation process.
Lacour had been given a copy of de Lussac’s manuscript to read, his opinion was vital if O’Connelly’s novel was to hold water on the historical facts and details. Did de Lussac’s theory have any real basis, was it just a good subject for the countless amateur archaeologists that gravitated around the subject of the Temple and its mysteries?
‘Bertrand, what’s your opinion, be frank, I didn’t
write it?’
Lacour looked to Charles Smith as if to prompt him.
‘Alright,’ said Smith smiling, ‘it’s an interesting theory, but if I can speak frankly it confuses history, archaeological and religious fact.’
‘I see.’
‘Firstly, the author speaks of Solomon and David as though they existed, as you know we archaeologists doubt that. Then he draws heavily on the work of the Palestinian Survey Fund, an excellent work…for the 19th century, which is unverifiable.’
‘What do you do Bertrand?’
‘I entirely agree. Another point is that your friend seems to have an axe to grind with the Muslims, which contorts historical fact.’
‘Quite so, we notice that.’
‘There are too many suppositions used to back his ideas.’
‘Is there any credibility in the theory?’
‘Yes, obviously those cisterns were built to carry water, and water can only flow downhill. But that doesn’t prove the Temple was in that precise spot.’
‘What about the quality of the work, I mean the exposition?’
‘I wouldn’t give one of my students a high note for that. Too many repetitions, too many circumvolutions, too much insistence on the Bible and other texts that draw on unverifiable notions.’
‘But it’s a good story,’ said Charles Smith laughing.
O’Connelly was pleased to have received the opinions of learned specialists, he could now proceed without fearing he would end up with a fatwa of one kind or another hanging over him.
The next evening, back in San Francisco, they wrapped up things and were prepared to leave for Paris. They decided to eat out as they would be leaving the next morning and he suggested to Laura they try Chinese, in any case he preferred Chinese cuisine to even the best American and for something tasty that would not bloat them. They decide a walk would do them good and one of his favourites was the New Asia on Pacific Avenue a ten minute walk from his Telegraph Hill penthouse apartment. The sky was cloudless and the temperature warm enough not to need a top coat, they walked around the Tower Gardens to Montgomery down to the steps and crossing a seedy Broadway with its adult book stores before entering into China Town. What he liked in the New Asia was picking dishes off the passing trolleys and no unwanted surprise when ordering from a menu. It was noisy as usual and with a largely Asian clientele.
San Francisco was a place to live that suited him, providing he kept north of a line determined in his mind by Geary, where it combined some of the better aspects of the USA with those of Europe, to the south of that line the misery of the homeless and mentally ill that roamed the streets was overwhelming. He became American when heading south of Geary taking a taxi to the place he was visiting, it was cheaper than parking that cost a small fortune, though a taxi home was not that easy to grab when returning later. The homeless were said to be harmless, but it only took one deranged person or drunk to transform an everyday situation into a very dangerous one and he had witnessed such cases though they were mostly between members of that particular population.
At the airport the next morning casually flipping over the pages of the San Francisco Chronicle he suddenly stopped, his eyes drawn to an article reporting Harper Collins announcement of Michael Crichton’s new novel NEXT, to be published in hard cover, audio, large print and e-book formats simultaneously around the world with a first printing of two million copies. He could not prevent his mind from going into cash register mode with a vision of dollars ringing up in their millions as royalties poured into Crichton’s bank account. It was a sobering reminder of his own urgent financial situation, breaking the satisfied feeling that had that he felt about the progress of his novel.
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