The Bible of Clay

  If the tablets they are looking for are found, it will not be easy to gain control of them, much less smuggle them out. Men can be bought, of course, but I fear that here, there is always someone willing to better one s best offer—and so it would not surprise me to be betrayed.

  27

  abram was waiting for shamas in the usual place, out-

  side Haran. They had hardly spoken about Terah's death. The boy approached shyly, hoping to find the words to express his sadness, to console Abram's grief. But he did not have to say anything, because Abram squeezed his shoulder in a sign of recognition and motioned him to sit down.

  "I am sorry I will not see you anymore," Abram told him. "Will you never go back to Ur, or even to Haran?" Shamas asked, his eyebrows knitting in concern.

  "No. There will be no going back after the day I set out on this journey. We will never see each other again, Shamas, but I will feel you in my heart, and I hope you will not forget me. Keep the tablets upon which you have recorded our history, and explain to our people what I have explained to you."

  Shamas could only nod, overwhelmed as he was by what Abram was asking of him. It was a humbling sign of great confidence, but it was much to ask of a boy like himself. Shyly, he asked Abram if God had spoken to him again.

  "Yes, the day the women were preparing Terah for his burial in the very ground out of which God molded the first man. I must do what He asks of me. And you should know, Shamas, that my race shall

  spread over the entire earth, and I will be called the father of multitudes."

  "Then we shall call you Abraham," said the boy, an incredulous smile coming to his face, for he knew that Sarai, Abram's wife, had given him no children.

  "Just as you say—I shall be called Abraham by my children's children, and their children, and their children after them, and so on, down through the ages."

  The boy was impressed by the firmness with which Abram declared that he would become the father of many tribes. But he believed him, as he had always believed him.

  "I will tell everyone to call you Abraham from now on," Shamas said.

  "Yes, do that. Now take out your things, for it is time to write. There is much you need to know before we part."

  Once again Shamas and Abraham were surprised by the appearance of the moon at sunset, and they prepared for their walk back to Haran. Abraham helped Shamas carry the tablets. At the door of the house they met Jadin, who invited his cousin into the house to break bread with them.

  The two men spoke of the journeys they were about to undertake, each in his own direction, both knowing that they would never meet again.

  Jadin wanted to put behind him the life of a shepherd and settle forever in Ur, where Shamas would become a scribe in the service of the palace. Ili would be able to finish teaching him the use of the bullae and the calculi, for which Shamas had shown great promise during his years in Haran.

  In the last few years, Shamas had become a young man conscious of the fact that learning required dedication. In addition, the scribes in Haran did not have the patience that his teacher in Ur had had, nor did they encourage his curiosity. And there was still much to learn if he was to become a dub-sar and, after many years as a scribe, come to the end of his life as an um-mi-a.

  Shamas listened in silence to the conversation between his father and Abraham, the suggestions they made to one another. The winter had passed and spring was upon them, bringing forth green leaves and tiny flowers and making the sky bright blue. It was the time of year when men set out on journeys.

  Abraham and Jadin agreed to take their leave of each other by sacrificing a lamb, in the hope that it would please the Lord.

  "Father, when are we leaving?" asked the boy the minute Abraham left the house.

  "You heard, my son—within the space of a moon we will be on our way. We will not be going alone, though; other members of the tribe will return to Ur with us." He studied his son's face. "Are you sorry not to be accompanying Abraham?"

  "No, Father, I want to go back home."

  "This is your home."

  "To me, home is where I grew up, in Ur. I will always remember Abraham, but he tells me that all men must follow their own path. He must do what God has commanded him to do, and I feel that I must return to the land of our ancestors. There I will explain to our people everything I have learned, and I will preserve the tablets that contain Abraham's story"

  "You have chosen your destination and your destiny."

  "No, Father, I feel that God has chosen it for me."

  "I feel that I must return too, my son. As does your mother. Her heart is heavy with homesickness, and she will smile again only on the day we set eyes upon Ur. She wishes to die where her people died. This is our house, but we feel ourselves strangers here. Yes, we must go."

  Shamas nodded happily. Anticipation of the journey gave him butterflies. For him, life was pointless if it became monotonous. They would journey during the day, pitch their camp at nightfall, and the women would bake bread and cook their meals. He could already feel the cool waters of the Euphrates, hear the conversations around the fire.

  He thought of Abraham with a pang of sadness. He would miss him. He knew that his kinsman was a special man, chosen by God to become the father of nations. He did not know how that would happen, since Sarai had given him no children, but if God had promised it, so it would be, Shamas told himself.

  He had written down the creation of the earth as Abraham knew it. And Shamas had no doubt that it was all true. His relationship with God, though, was difficult. Sometimes he thought he was on the verge of understanding the mystery of life, but just as he was about to grasp it, his mind became hazy and he was unable to think.

  Other times, he could not understand God's actions, His anger, the harshness with which He punished mankind. Why was disobedience so intolerable to the Lord? Shamas became upset, even reproachful toward Him at times, but never lost conviction in Abraham's words. Shamas' faith was like a rock sitting upon the ground for the rest of eternity.

  His father had urged him to be prudent when they reached Ur. He could not renounce Enlil, father of the gods, or Marduk, or Tiamat, or any of the other deities.

  Shamas knew how difficult it was to talk about a God who had no face, whom one could not see but only feel in one's heart. So, yes, he would be careful when he talked about Him, and he would not try to supplant the other gods. He would have to plant the seed of God in the hearts of those who listened to him and hope that it sprouted.

  The day came at last for the farewell. Just before dawn, in the coolness of the morning, Abraham and his tribe were preparing to depart from Jadin and his people. The women were loading the asses, and children were running about, their eyes still filled with the dry crust of sleep, interrupting their mothers' work.

  Shamas was waiting expectantly for Abraham to speak to him, and he was happy when the old man gestured to him to step aside, where they could speak.

  "Come, we still have time to talk while the others finish the preparations for the journey," Abraham said.

  "Now that you are leaving, I feel how much I am going to miss you," Shamas told him.

  "I will miss you too and will remember you always. But I want you to do something for me—something I asked you to do several days ago: I want you to guard and protect the story of Creation, just as I told it to you. We men must never forget that we are but a speck of dust, our life breathed into us by the Lord. Sometimes we believe that we do not need Him, yet other times we reproach Him because He is not there to help us when we do."

  "I have struggled with those feelings often."

  "But how can we comprehend the ways of God, Shamas? We were made of clay, like those figures that Terah and I made. We walk, we talk, we feel because He blew life into us, and when He wishes, He can take life away again, just as I destroyed my father's winged bulls. They were gods created by men, and they were no longer gods when my hands destroyed them.

  "No, Shamas, we cannot
comprehend Him, much less judge His acts. I cannot answer your questions because I do not have the answers. I only know that there is a God who is the Beginning and the End, the Creator of all things, He who made us and condemned us to die because He allowed us to choose."

  "May God be with you wherever your journey takes you, Abraham."

  "And you also, Shamas, and all your people. God is everywhere."

  "Whom will I talk to about God? My father demands prudence and discretion, so as not to upset others."

  "Then speak of Him with your father, who carries Him in his heart. With old Joab, with Zebulon, and with all your kin as you set out on your own journey. And with many of those who remained in Ur upon your return."

  "And who will guide me?"

  "There is a moment in life when we must look inside ourselves for guidance. You have your father; you can trust in his love and wisdom. Do that—he will help you and guide you."

  They heard Jadin calling them for the departure. Shamas felt a lump in his throat, and he made an effort not to cry. He thought that if he did, his people would mock him, since he was almost a man.

  Abraham and Jadin embraced each other. They exchanged a few last words, then wished each other the best for the future.

  As Abraham embraced Shamas, the boy could not keep a tear from running down his cheek, but he immediately dried it with a clenched fist.

  "Don't feel ashamed by your sadness over our separation. I, too, have tears in my eyes, though they do not spill over. I will always remember you, Shamas. And I want you to know that just as I shall be the father of many nations, it is thanks to you that men will know the history of the world and be able to tell that story to their children, and their children's children, until the end of time."

  Then Abraham gave the signal to set out, and his tribe began to move. At the same time, Jadin raised his hand to indicate to his people that the hour had come for their own journey. Each tribe went its own way, in opposite directions; some turned to look back, raising their hands in a final farewell. Shamas looked back toward Abraham, hoping the old man would look back too, but he was walking with a firm step, and he did not turn Shamas' way.

  It was only when Abraham reached the palm grove where they had sat and talked that he paused for a few seconds, looking all around, as though remembering. He felt Shamas' eyes on him at a distance, and he turned, knowing that the boy was awaiting this last farewell. They did not see each other, but both knew that the other was looking.

  The sun was at its zenith now, and another day of eternity was waning.

  28

  DUKAIS HANDED ROBERT BROWN PLASKIc's REPORT, AS

  Ralph Barry looked on.

  "Ante has a gift for seeing the big picture," Dukais remarked. "It's the first report I've ever actually enjoyed reading." "So?" said Brown.

  "Well, it looks as though they haven't found anything. I mean your damned Bible of Clay hasn't turned up, even though they've retrieved some two thousand tablets and tons of shards, which might be more worthless than this whiskey."

  "Nobody suspects him?"

  "Maybe Ayed Sahadi. The Croatian thinks he's more than a foreman—probably somebody Tannenberg sent in to watch over his granddaughter."

  "I imagine Tannenberg has men everywhere," Barry added.

  "We've been lucky to have Yasir inside Alfred's organization," Brown said. "He's got at least a dozen men among the workers, plus his direct contact with the Croatian. If Ayed Sahadi is more than he appears to be, Yasir will find out."

  "I guess Tannenberg went so far that Yasir feels he's freed from his loyalty? No ties to bind them?" Dukais asked.

  "Don't be fooled by Alfred; he knows Yasir will betray him sooner

  or later, and you can be damned sure he's having him watched. Alfred's smarter than Yasir—he's smarter than you," Brown snapped.

  After the other two left, Brown had his driver take him to George Wagner's house. He had been told to hand-deliver the Croatian's report and await instructions, if there were any. With George, he never knew. . . . Sometimes he was as cool as a cucumber, but sometimes his steel-blue eyes were as cold as ice. And when that happened, Robert Brown trembled.

  Gian Maria couldn't mask his depression. He felt utterly useless. The spiritual obligation that had led him to Iraq was becoming obscured by the complications he seemed unable to keep from creating for himself—he'd lost control of his own life, and he was beginning to realize that he didn't even know why he was there anymore.

  He hardly slept. Luigi Baretti was making him sweat for the free labor he provided in Baghdad; his workday began at six in the morning and never ended before nine at night.

  He would get back to Faisal and Nur's house exhausted, with no energy to spend time with the twins or little Hadi, whom he had grown to love. He ate alone; Nur would leave out a dinner tray for him, which he'd devour at the kitchen table. Then he'd drag himself to bed and collapse.

  That morning his superior, Padre Pio, had called from Rome. When was he planning to return? Had he accomplished his spiritual mission?

  Gian Maria had no answers, only the feeling that he'd leapt into the dark and had no idea where he might resurface.

  He felt Clara Tannenberg weighing on his conscience; every day he searched the newspapers for any reference to her, any reference to any Tannenberg. He found nothing.

  Time had passed quickly—too quickly. It was now almost Christmas, and he couldn't keep making excuses. His repeated requests to meet with Ahmed Husseini at the Ministry of Culture had been denied. Ahmed was a very busy man, and Gian Maria at last realized that his only way to Husseini was through Yves Picot. He hadn't wanted to use the archaeologist's name—he felt it would only create complications—but he finally had no choice, really: Ahmed Husseini wouldn't meet with him unless someone interceded, and that someone could only be Yves Picot.

  "Today I'll be leaving early, Aliam," he announced to the secretary of the Children's Aid group.

  "What's up?" the girl asked, curious.

  He decided to tell the truth, or at least part of it.

  "I want to contact some friends of mine. They're with a group of archaeologists I met when I first came; they brought me in from Amman. They're excavating in Ur and I was just curious how it's going for them. I'm going to try to locate them."

  "Wow. Friends in Iraq. There's more to you than I thought. How are you going to find them?"

  "They told me I could contact a man named Ahmed Husseini. I think he's the director of the Bureau of Archaeological Excavations in the Ministry of Culture."

  "Oh, my! Consorting with the elite, are we?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Gian Maria, Ahmed Husseini is one of the chosen few, so to speak. His father was an ambassador and he himself is married to a very wealthy woman, a half-Egyptian, half-German Iraqi. Her family's a little mysterious, but rich as Croesus."

  "I don't know this Husseini; I just know that he can help me find my friends. That's all I want to do."

  "Just be careful, Gian Maria—that Husseini ..."

  "All I'm going to do is ask him to put me in touch with a bunch of harmless scientists!"

  "I know, but be careful all the same—those people are dangerous," Aliam said, lowering her voice. "They lack for nothing and they live by trampling on the rest of us. If the Americans invade Iraq, you'll see— they'll escape without a scratch. If the marines freed us from the horror those people perpetrate, it would actually justify the invasion, in my mind."

  "Come on, let's not get down. . . . And if Luigi asks, tell him I'll be back after dinner."

  When Gian Maria called the ministry the secretary told him, as on other occasions, that Mr. Husseini was busy. But when the priest mentioned the name Yves Picot, her tone changed immediately and she asked him to please wait.

  A minute later, Ahmed Husseini was on the phone.

  "Hello?"

  "Mr. Husseini, I'm sorry to bother you. Professor Picot told me that if I needed to get in touch with
him to call you. . . ."

  He answered the questions Husseini asked him, and when the Iraqi seemed satisfied with his responses, he asked him to come to his office that very afternoon. If Gian Maria was willing to join the team, now would be the time. His knowledge could be of great service to them.

  But Gian Maria had no intention of joining Picot, much less undertaking the trip south to godforsaken Safran. The only thing he wanted to do was what he should have done the first day he arrived in Baghdad: ask Husseini about his wife and explain that it was of vital importance that he speak with her. She was the only person to whom he could justify his presence in Iraq. He'd come to save her, to save her life, but he couldn't divulge that without betraying everything he believed in, without betraying a secret he'd vowed to keep for the rest of his life, no matter how badly it tore him up inside.

  Ahmed Husseini didn't turn out to be the fearsome thug Aliam had described. Moreover, Gian Maria noted with surprise that he didn't sport the thick mustache all Iraqi men seemed to favor. He looked like an executive of some multinational corporation more than a government official in Saddam Hussein's regime.

  He offered Gian Maria tea and asked what he was doing in Baghdad, what he thought of the country. He recommended several museums. And then he got to the ostensible reason for Gian Maria's call.

  "So you want to join Professor Picot."

  Gian Maria bit his lip. He had to proceed carefully. He didn't know how this obviously reserved man would react to a stranger asking about his wife.

  "You and your wife are archaeologists too, aren't you?" "Yes, that's right. Have you heard of my wife?" Ahmed asked, his expression cooling as his guest strayed into personal territory. "Yes, of course."