The Bible of Clay

  "Yes."

  "Yet how many of you boys did it anyway?" "Well, I did."

  "You did, indeed! You and several of the others, and one of them, I believe, broke his arm. You knew that might happen, did you not?" "Yes."

  "Yet you still did it."

  "But breaking your arm is not the same as dying!" Shamas insisted.

  "No, it's not the same. But Adam and Eve believed that eating of that tree would make them be as gods, and they could not resist that temptation. When you boys jumped out the windows at school, you were not thinking about the harm it could do you—neither did Adam and Eve."

  "Yesterday I also realized that the creation of Eve is like the story of Enki and Ninhursag."

  "In what way?" Abram asked, pleased, as always, by Shamas' quickness and natural acuity.

  "Enki lives in paradise too," Shamas answered, reciting, "where the raven utters no cry, the ittidu-bird makes not the call of the ittidu-bird, the lion kills not, the wolf steals not. . . . Well, you know it better than I do. In that paradise there is no pain either, and Ninhursag, with no pain in her body, brings forth other goddesses into the world. Ninhursag created eight plants and Enki ate the fruits of those plants, for which

  Ninhursag grew angry and condemned him to death. Then later, when she saw him suffering, she created other gods and goddesses, one by one, to cure his illnesses and pains. Remember the poem? Ninhursag says to Enki, My brother, where do you hurt?/My tooth hurts. /1 have given birth to the goddess Ninsutu for you. Then she creates Ninti, the goddess of the rib, to cure that part of his body. Enki becomes ill because he eats plants he should not eat and he is punished for it; Adam and Eve eat from the Tree of the Knowledge, and from that moment on they are condemned to death. And so are we."

  "You will be a wise man, Shamas. I only hope that you use your knowledge to grow closer to Him and that reason does not blind you to the true path."

  "How can reason keep me from finding God?"

  "Because we humans are a reflection of God. And that can lead you into the temptation of believing that you understand everything, of imagining that you know everything."

  12

  a thin, dark-haired priest nervously wandered about

  St. Peter's Basilica, frantically searching for a quiet, out-of-the-way place to pray privately. The basilica seemed strange to him, a monument to the arrogance of men rather than a house of God. He had passed Michelangelo's "Pieta" twice, and only in the pure lines of the marble had he seemed to see a flicker of spirituality.

  For several days now, God would not come to him, no matter how desperately he prayed for his guidance. The priest went out into St. Peter's Square, alone with his unquiet conscience.

  He had failed in his search for Clara Tannenberg. By the time his painfully slow taxi reached the Fiumicino Airport, she had already boarded a plane for Amman.

  He'd been tempted to buy a ticket for the next flight to Jordan, but once there, how would he have been able to find her?

  He was going mad—mad with inactivity. He restlessly roamed from one place to another. His father had called him again that morning and again had been told by his son's superiors that the young priest had simply gone out. Gian Maria couldn't bear to talk to anyone, much less his father.

  "Gian Maria..."

  The young man whirled around, startled by the deep voice of Padre Francesco. "Padre . . ."

  "I've been watching you wander aimlessly like a lost soul."

  For over thirty years, Padre Francesco had been hearing confessions in the Vatican, unburdening of their earthly miseries all the men and women who came to the Holy See. Upon becoming a confessor in the basilica months ago, Gian Maria had grown comfortable under the wing of the old priest. And Padre Francesco's look of concern reflected that bond.

  "I'd been told you were ill. But seeing you now, I realize this is a sickness of the soul, not the body. What's troubling you, my son?" "Padre Francesco, I... I can't tell you." "Why? I might be able to help." "I can't break the bond of confession."

  The older priest fell silent. Then, taking him by the arm and dodging the tourists, he led Gian Maria out of the cathedral. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee."

  Gian Maria tried to resist, but Padre Francesco wouldn't hear of it. "I would never ask you to disregard the sanctity of confession, my son," he said firmly as they walked along. "But I might be able to ease this terrible suffering I see in your face another way."

  They entered a quiet cafe outside the Vatican, where Padre Francesco skillfully attempted to assume some of Gian Maria's burden without breaking his vow of secrecy. After an hour of vague hints and general responses, Gian Maria finally asked a direct question.

  "Padre Francesco, if you knew that someone was going to do something terrible, would you try to prevent it?"

  "Yes, my boy, of course. Priests shrieve man's sins, but we also have the obligation to prevent them."

  "But doing that could take me far from here, and even then, I don't know whether I could help. ..."

  "You should try."

  "But I don't know where to begin." Gian Maria lowered his head, hopeless.

  "You're intelligent, Gian Maria. Once you've made your decision, the right path will reveal itself."

  "Do you think the superior will let me leave? I may be gone indefinitely."

  "I'll speak with Padre Pio. He's an old friend; we studied together in the seminary. I'll ask him to grant you a leave of absence."

  "Thank you, Padre." Gian Maria smiled, as if a weight had been lifted from him. "Talking to you, everything seems easier."

  "It may seem easier now, but I sense that what's tormenting you will not be easy to overcome. But at least you can try."

  Half an hour later, Padre Francesco had returned to his confessional in the Vatican, while Gian Maria was still pacing the floor, marshaling his thoughts.

  The archaeologists' conference was over, and there was precious little information he'd been able to gather about the woman. Most seemed to know nothing about her—those who did said she was a nobody, riding the coattails of her husband, Ahmed Husseini.

  Gian Maria knew in his heart how he could find her. This Ahmed, he'd been told, was head of Iraq's Bureau of Archaeological Excavations. Therefore, to find the woman, he must go to Baghdad. The trip would be like a medieval penitence, he thought, but he had to go: It was his sacred duty.

  He felt a terrible apprehension yet was filled with happiness and purpose at the same time.

  He leaned against one of the enormous columns that encircled St. Peter's Square. His decision had been made; he mustn't lose heart, and he must not turn back.

  Gian Maria walked to a travel agency near the Vatican, and there, timidly, asked for a ticket to Baghdad.

  But there were no direct tickets to Baghdad. It would be a war zone soon enough. What did he want to go to Iraq for, anyway? the woman behind the ticket counter wanted to know. Gian Maria couldn't reveal to this stranger the intimacies of his priestly duties, so, reluctantly, he lied: He was to lend a hand to some friends at an NGO. At that, the travel agent's suspicions were tempered, and she promised him she'd see what she could do.

  Two hours later, he left the travel agency with a plane ticket for Amman, Jordan. He'd sleep there overnight, then go overland to Baghdad, and once there . . . He only prayed that God would help him.

  He entered the order's house as quietly and surreptitiously as he could, to avoid any unwanted conversation. He'd wait for Padre Francesco to speak with his superior.

  Gian Maria locked himself in his room, and when he was called to dinner, he feigned tiredness and opted to go to bed. Before he retired, in the quiet of his room he composed a vague letter to his family, telling them that he was taking a short vacation because he needed to rest and think. He'd call them later to let them know he was all right. He couldn't say good-bye to his family in person. His sister, surely, would be worried at first, then angry. She'd try her hardest to wring the details of his trip out of him, but he
couldn't confide them, even to her.

  Gian Maria hadn't drawn the curtains, and he was awakened by the first light of dawn. When he opened his eyes he remembered the course he had set for himself, and he began to silently weep. The day before it had all seemed so easy. But in the light of the new day, he found himself assailed by doubt. He looked at the sky outside his window, and for the first time in his life he asked himself where God was.

  Night was falling as Ahmed led Picot into his Baghdad office.

  "Are you tired, Yves?" Ahmed asked as he flicked on the light.

  "I am. The dinner was magnificent, but it's made me sleepy. Can you make some coffee?"

  "Absolutely, let's have a cup—then you can examine the tablets for as long as you like."

  Yves refrained from sitting in what appeared to be a very comfortable chair, for fear of falling asleep. He heard Ahmed fiddling with the coffeemaker. After traveling this far, would he finally see the tablets?

  Ahmed approached with two steaming cups in his hand and handed one to Picot.

  "Come with me," he said to the Frenchman.

  Picot followed him farther into the warren of offices, past another locked door. He took a sip of coffee, which did nothing to lift his torpor after the heaviness of the meal. But as Ahmed turned on the light, Yves' drowsiness vanished. He opened his eyes wide, focusing on two ancient stone tablets unceremoniously resting on a large gray cloth. Leaning in closer, he saw the name Shamas clearly inscribed at the top of each one.

  Clara steered clear of her husband's office the next morning, loath to interfere with Ahmed and Picot's work. So she spent the early hours wandering through the narrow, winding streets of the bazaar with Fatima, protected by four armed men who never let them out of their sight.

  When it was getting close to noon, Clara made her way to the Ministry of Culture, while Fatima, loaded down with bags, returned to the Yellow House.

  Ahmed and Picot were just about to leave when Clara arrived.

  "Don't tell me you were leaving without me!" she burst out.

  "No, we were going to call from the restaurant," Ahmed explained.

  Clara couldn't muster the nerve to ask Professor Picot what he'd decided, nor did their casual conversation as they drove to the restaurant and ordered provide any hint. She waited, hiding her impatience, while the waiter brought the food.

  "This is the best hummus in the East," Ahmed declared to Picot.

  "Yes, it's delicious." Picot nodded, as the two men chatted away about the regional cuisine.

  Finally Clara couldn't contain herself. "What did you think of the tablets, Professor?" she asked, striving to maintain a casual tone.

  Direct as her question was, Picot had been expecting it. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and smiled. "Extraordinary. It might not be totally mad to posit a relationship between the Abram of the Bible and that scribe named Shamas. It would be a discovery of immense importance to both science and religion. It's most certainly worth going after."

  "Then . . . you'll come?" Clara asked shyly.

  "Let's say that I see strong arguments for doing so. I've told your husband that I'll give him a decision within the week. I'm leaving tomorrow, but I'll call you from Paris as soon as I've considered everything. This afternoon we'll photograph the tablets. I want to study them more carefully." Picot paused, his expression shadowed briefly with concern. "I'm sorry to leave without meeting your grandfather."

  "He's in bed, resting," Clara said quickly. "He's not well and certainly in no condition to see anyone. I'm sorry too, because he'd have liked to meet you."

  "I'd be interested in hearing how he found the tablets—under what circumstances he came across them."

  "We've told you," Clara replied carefully.

  "Yes, but it's not the same. Forgive me for pressing you on this, but if he improves, I would be so happy to speak to him."

  "We'll tell him," Ahmed said. "Him and his doctors, who are the ones to decide, really."

  Yves Picot sensed they were making excuses for Clara's grandfather, which made him all the more curious. For the moment, he let it rest with their explanations. But if he decided to come and dig, he'd insist.

  Ahmed carefully wrapped the tablets and placed them in a metal box well padded for transport for their return to the Yellow House. Alfred couldn't bear to be separated from them for long; they were, for him, a sort of talisman. He'd even had a safe installed in his bedroom to secure them, where any servant—save Fatima—would enter at the risk of a beating and a swift dismissal.

  "Why didn't Picot want to have dinner with us tonight?" Clara asked anxiously.

  "He's tired, I suppose. He's leaving first thing tomorrow."

  "Do you think he'll be back?"

  "I don't know—if I were in his position, I wouldn't." Clara looked as though she'd been punched in the gut. "Ahmed! How can you say that?"

  "It's the truth. Do you really think it's worth his time to come to a besieged country to try to unearth some clay tablets that may or may not exist?"

  "This is not just about 'clay tablets,' Ahmed; it's about discovering Genesis according to Abram. That's like somebody telling Schliemann that it wasn't worth his trouble to look for Troy, or telling Evans to give up on finding Knossos. What's wrong with you lately?"

  "Don't you see what's happening to this country, Clara? Other people go hungry so that you can live a privileged life. You don't see the anguish of mothers helplessly watching their children waste away for lack of medicine, so your grandfather can hoard all the medicine he needs. In the Yellow House, the real world doesn't exist."

  "What on earth has gotten into you, Ahmed? What have I done to deserve this? You started shunning me in Rome, and since we've come back you've made it clear that you're more and more disgusted and uncomfortable with me every day. Why?"

  They stared at each other, weighing the perhaps unbridgeable distance that had opened between them without their knowing when it happened or quite why.

  "We'll talk about this later. I don't think this is the time," Ahmed said to her finally.

  "I agree," Clara said, turning away from him. "Let's go home."

  Four armed men escorted them back through the city.

  When they arrived at the Yellow House, Clara immediately ran to the kitchen, looking for Fatima, while Ahmed closed himself up in his office. He listened to Beethoven's Eroica, poured himself a whiskey on the rocks, and sat down in an armchair with his eyes closed, trying to pull himself together. He could see but two alternatives: either leave the Yellow House forever and go into exile, or go on dying inside, little by little. If he stayed, he would have to reconcile with Clara, but she was not one to tolerate half measures, especially with regard to her emotions. But could he go on living with her as though nothing were wrong with him, with them?

  He opened his eyes to encounter Alfred Tannenberg's merciless gaze.

  He kept his voice steady. "Hello, Alfred. What's on your mind?" "What's happening?" the old man said, his eyes never leaving Ahmed's.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Where are the tablets, Ahmed?"

  "Oh! Of course! Sorry—I should have brought the box to you the moment we arrived. I came straight to my office; I have a headache and I'm tired."

  "Problems in the ministry?"

  "It's the country that has problems, Alfred. What happens in the Ministry of Culture at this point is irrelevant. There's nothing to do, no matter how well we keep up the pantomime of our normal lives."

  "Are you going to start criticizing Saddam now?"

  "I could, although someone would surely denounce me and I'd wind up in jail."

  "It wouldn't benefit us for Saddam to be killed at this point, Ahmed. The status quo is best for our business."

  "Not even you, Alfred, will be able to change the course of history. The United States is going to attack Iraq, and they will take over the country. You of all people should be able to empathize with their rationale—it'll be good for their business."
br />   "They won't do it. Bush is a bully, a blusterer. All threats. His father could have gotten rid of Saddam during the Gulf War, but he didn't."

  "Maybe he didn't want to, maybe he couldn't. But the past is irrelevant—this time, they will attack. And they'll run right over us. We'll fight, first against them, then among ourselves—Sunnis against Shiites, Shiites against Kurds, Kurds against any other faction, it makes no difference. The die is cast, Alfred."

  "What absolute nonsense!" Tannenberg shouted. "Suddenly you have the gift of prophecy, and we're all doomed!"

  "You know I'm right—better than I do, I imagine. If you didn't, you wouldn't be pushing so hard for this excavation in Safran. You wouldn't have gone public. I've always admired your intelligence and your cool head. You know exactly what's going to happen."

  "Quiet! Not another word!"

  "No, it's best that we talk, that we say aloud what we hardly dare

  think, because that's the only way we're going to be able to avoid making any more mistakes. We need to be honest with each other."

  "How dare you speak to me this way! In my own home! You're nothing, Ahmed—nothing more than I've allowed you to be."

  "Yes, of course. I'm what you've allowed me to be, what you've wanted me to be—never what I've wanted to be. But now we're all in the same boat. I assure you I'm not looking forward to the next few months. But since there's no longer any help for it, I'll try my best to keep our little vessel from capsizing."

  "Say what you have to say. They may be the last words you ever speak in this house."

  "I want to know what you've been planning. You always have an escape route, Alfred. But even if Picot decides to come and dig, the most we'll have is six months, and in that short time there's no way we can uncover anything."