The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  Clara threw a look of gratitude at her husband, took another deep breath, and shakily prepared to proceed. If another of these old fogies interrupted her, she was going to shout them back down. Lord knows she was more than capable of doing it. If her grandfather had witnessed the scene she was going through now, he would have been appalled— and enraged. He had been against her asking the international community for aid. "They're a bunch of arrogant sons of bitches who think they know something," he had said. Her father would never have allowed her to come to Rome, but her father was dead. And now, with the invasion looming, they had to find a way to move forward quickly.

  She scanned the audience briefly and forged ahead. "As I was saying, for several years we concentrated our efforts in Haran, searching for some trace of these other tablets we are certain exist. We found nothing. But on the upper part of the two my grandfather found, the name Shamas appears, clearly written by the same inexperienced hand. In some cases, scribes put the name of the supervisor of the transcription on the top of the tablet, as well as their own name. In the case of these two tablets, there was just the one name: Shamas. Who is Shamas? you may ask.

  "Since the United States declared Iraq its most dangerous enemy, aerial incursions have occurred more and more frequently. You will recall that just a few months ago American planes flying over Iraq claimed to have been attacked by land-to-air missiles, to which they responded by launching a series of cluster bombs. In the bombarded area, between Basra and ancient Ur, in a village named Safran, the explosion revealed the remains of a structure and a wall, and we calculate the perimeter of the wall to be more than five hundred meters.

  "Given the situation in Iraq, it has not been possible to give this structure the attention it deserves, despite the fact that my husband and I, along with a small contingent of workers, have begun to excavate. We believe that this structure may be the storage room for the tablets belonging to a temple or some similar building. We cannot be certain of this, of course, as our work has not progressed far enough to verify any of our findings. We have, however, found many pieces of broken tablets, and much to our surprise, the name Shamas appears clearly on one. Is this the same Shamas associated with Abraham?

  "We do not know, but it may be. The Bible says that Abram, as his name was then, undertook the journey to Canaan with his father's tribe. Some believe that Abraham remained in Haran until his father died and only then began the journey to Canaan. Was Shamas a member of the tribe of Abraham? Did he accompany him to Canaan? These are some of the questions we hope our excavation may answer. However, the spirit is willing, but the funds are weak, you might say.

  "And so, I want to ask you to help us. Our dream is to put together an international archaeological mission. If we were to find those tablets . . . For years I have asked myself at what point Abraham abandoned the polytheism of his contemporaries and began to believe in a single God. These tablets could hold the answer."

  Professor Guilles raised his hand again. The old Sorbonne professor, one of the world's most renowned specialists in Mesopotamian culture, seemed determined to stop her in her tracks.

  "Dr. Tannenberg, I insist that you show us the tablets you continue to rattle on about. Otherwise, please allow those of us who are here with something real to contribute to proceed with the conference."

  It was the last straw. Clara's blue eyes flashed with fury "Professor Guilles, can you not bear for anyone but yourself to herald the glory of Mesopotamia, even to make a discovery? Is your ego so fragile?"

  Guilles stood up slowly and deliberately and turned to the audience.

  "I will return to the conference when we resume serious discussion."

  As Guilles strode from the hall, Ralph Barry stepped forward and took the microphone. He cleared his throat and addressed the remaining archaeologists who, with varying degrees of amusement or disgust, had witnessed the scene between the archaeological legend and the unknown woman.

  "I truly regret all this," Barry said. "I don't understand why we can't all be a bit less inflexible in our positions and listen to what Dr. Tannenberg has to say. She is an archaeologist like us—why such prejudice? She is presenting a theory; I say let's hear her out and then we can express our opinions. Discarding it a priori seems to me not very scientific."

  Professor Renh, a middle-aged woman from Oxford University with a face tanned leathery by the sun, held up her hand to speak.

  "Ralph, all of us know one another here. Dr. Tannenberg has come to us with a story about some mysterious tablets that she hasn't shown us, even in photos. She has presented no supporting evidence whatsoever. She has made statements about the political situation in Iraq, as has her husband, that I personally am sorry she's made, and she has presented us with a theory about Abraham that frankly seems more the result of an overactive imagination, as Professor Guilles so diplomatically put it, than of scientific fieldwork.

  "Let me remind you, we are attending an archaeological conference, not sitting around a campfire. And while our colleagues in other specialties are presenting papers and drawing conclusions in the conference halls next door, we . . . we, I have the impression, are wasting our time. I'm sorry; I agree with Professor Guilles. I'd like to get down to work now."

  "But that's what we're doing!" Clara shouted indignantly.

  Ahmed stood, and as he straightened his tie he addressed the audience without looking at anyone in particular.

  "I would like to remind you all that several of the world's greatest archaeological discoveries have been made by men who paid attention to and followed up on legends. Yet you refuse to even consider what we're saying here today. But you wait—yes, you wait and see what happens the moment Bush attacks Iraq. You are all illustrious professors and archaeologists from the civilized nations, which means that you're not going to stick your necks out to defend an archaeological project that entails actually going to defenseless Iraq. I can understand that, but what I can't understand is the reason for this close-minded attitude that prevents you from even listening and trying to find out whether some part of what we're saying is, or might be, true." Professor Renh raised her hand again.

  "Dr. Husseini, I insist that you show us some proof of what you say. Stop judging us, and above all, stop bringing politics into it. We're all adults here, and we're here to discuss archaeology, not politics. Stop portraying yourself as a victim and be an archaeologist. Show some evidence to support your claims."

  Clara Tannenberg spoke up without giving Ahmed time to reply.

  "We don't have the tablets here. You all know that given the situation in Iraq, we were not allowed to bring them. We have some photos. They are not of the best quality, but you can at least see that the tablets exist. We are asking for your help, help in excavating. We do not have the resources to do it all ourselves. In today's Iraq, archaeology is the absolute last priority—we have enough trouble just surviving."

  A heavy silence accompanied Clara's words this time. Then, one by one, the audience got up and left the auditorium.

  Ralph Barry approached Ahmed and Clara and gestured sadly at the empty hall.

  "I'm sorry. I did the best I could, but I told you when we talked earlier that this didn't seem the best forum for your presentation."

  "Yes, indeed, Ralph. You did everything you could to keep us from speaking," Clara snapped.

  "Dr. Tannenberg, the international situation affects us all. But in the world of archaeology we must keep a wall between our work and politics. If we didn't, it would be impossible to excavate in certain countries. Ahmed, you know that given the political situation, it just isn't feasible for the Mundo Antiguo Foundation to consider an excavation in Iraq. The president would be removed if he did anything of that sort on his own authority, and the board of directors would never approve it. I advised you to maintain as low a profile here as possible and take private meetings, but you've insisted on having it your way. I only hope that news of our little contretemps this afternoon doesn't blow up further and underm
ine the credibility of the conference."

  "We are not politically correct, I know, Ralph," Clara spat out furiously. "Such talk, of course, corrupts your distinguished proceedings."

  "Please! I've been as forthcoming and sincere as I can be." Ralph

  Barry paused. "Even so, don't lose hope. I noticed that Professor Picot was listening very attentively. He's an odd chap, but he's also an authority in the field."

  The moment he mentioned Picot, Ralph Barry could have bitten his tongue. But it was true—alone among his peers, the eccentric professor had been listening to Clara with great interest. Though, knowing Picot, his interest might not have been strictly academic. . . .

  Ahmed and Clara returned to their hotel exhausted, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them. Clara knew her husband was furious. He had defended her, of course, but she was sure he was disgusted with her performance. He had asked her, pleaded with her, tried to reason with her—she shouldn't mention her grandfather or her father; she should give a straightforward presentation limited to the recent discovery of the tablets in the librarylike structure. Given the situation in Iraq, no one there would be checking on what they said in Rome. But she had wanted to credit her grandfather and father, whom she adored and from whom she'd learned everything she knew. Not including her grandfather's discovery would have been robbing him of his due.

  They entered their room just as the housekeeper was finishing tidying up. They spoke not a word until she left.

  Ahmed picked up a glass, dropped in some ice cubes, and went to the minibar, where he poured himself a whiskey. He didn't offer her a drink, so she poured herself a Campari. Then she sat on the couch, waiting for the storm to break.

  "You've made a fool of yourself," Ahmed said, his voice hard. "Talking about your father, your grandfather, and me. Good God, Clara, we're archaeologists; we're not playing at being archaeologists. This wasn't some graduation party, where you have to thank Daddy for all the things he's done for you! I told you not to mention your grandfather, I told you and told you, but you had to have your own way, with no regard for the consequences. You brought this on yourself! Ralph Barry asked us to keep a low profile. He made it clear that his boss, Robert Brown, supports our excavation but that he can't help us directly—his board of directors would have his head. He can't tell the board that he's interested in some unknown archaeologist who's the granddaughter of an old friend and married to an Iraqi in what they call Saddam Hussein's 'inner circle.' Ralph said it loud and clear—Robert Brown would be digging his own grave. And now you've made it worse. What on earth were you thinking, Clara?"

  "I was thinking of my grandfather! Why can't I talk about him and my father—or about you? I have nothing to be ashamed of. Why shouldn't their contributions be recognized? They were distinguished antiques dealers, and they've spent fortunes helping to excavate in Iraq, Syria, Egypt—"

  "Wake up, Clara! Your grandfather and father are just businessmen, not great financial backers of cultural preservation! Grow up! Stop climbing on your grandfather's lap!"

  "You're right, he was a businessman, but he loves Mesopotamia more than anyone, and he passed that love down to my father and me. He could have been a great archaeologist, but he didn't have the chance to pursue that. But it was he and he alone who discovered those two tablets, and it was he who kept them for more than fifty years, who spent his own money so that others could find more evidence of Shamas. I'd remind you that the museums in Iraq are filled with pieces from excavations financed by my grandfather."

  Ahmed gazed at her with an expression of such disdain that Clara was shocked. Her husband was suddenly a stranger.

  "Your grandfather has always been a man who shunned the spotlight, Clara, and your father was the same way. They have never made any gratuitous shows of their money or their archaeology. Your actions today would have disappointed them. It's not what they taught you."

  Ahmed suddenly fell silent and sank into a chair with a look of weariness.

  "The Bible of Clay—that's what my grandfather called it. Genesis as recounted by Abraham," Clara mused in a low voice.

  "Yes, the Bible of Clay. A Bible written on clay tablets a thousand years before it was written on papyrus."

  "It would be an incredibly important discovery for mankind, one more proof of the existence of Abraham. You don't think we're wrong, do you?"

  "I want to find the Bible of Clay too. But today, Clara, you've thrown away the best chance we had to do that. These are the elite of world archaeology. And we do have to apologize for who we are."

  "And just who are we, Ahmed?"

  "An unknown archaeologist married to the director of the Bureau of Archaeological Excavations in a country with a dictatorial regime whose leader has been condemned to fall because he no longer serves the interests of the powerful. Years ago, when I lived in the United States, being Iraqi wasn't a handicap—quite the contrary. Saddam went to war with Iran because that served Washington's interests. He murdered Kurds with weapons that were sold to him by the Americans— chemical weapons prohibited by the Geneva Convention, the same weapons they're looking for now. It's all a lie, Clara, but we have to tread carefully now. But you don't care about anything that's happening around you; you couldn't care less about Saddam, Bush, and all the people who may die because of the two of them. Your world is your grandfather, and that's it."

  "Which side are you on?"

  "What?"

  "You attack the Saddam regime, you seem to understand the Americans, but other times you hate them. Which side are you on?"

  "I'm not on either side, anybody's side. I'm alone."

  His answer surprised Clara. They rarely talked so frankly. She was impressed by Ahmed's candor but stung by her husband's sense of alienation.

  Ahmed was an Iraqi who'd been over-Westernized. Through the years, as he'd traveled the world, he had lost his sense of heritage. His father had been a diplomat, a man close to the Saddam regime who was rewarded with posts at several important embassies: Paris, Brussels, London, Mexico City, the consulate in Washington. The Husseini family had lived well, very well, and the ambassador's sons had become perfect cosmopolitans: They had studied at the best European boarding schools, the finest American universities, and learned several languages. Ahmed's three sisters had married Westerners; they couldn't have stood going back to Iraq to live. They had grown up free, in democratic countries. And he, Ahmed, had also drunk deep from the well of democracy in every new destination to which his father had been sent. Now Iraq was asphyxiating to him, despite the fact that when he'd returned, he lived with all the privileges accorded the "sons of the regime."

  He would have preferred to live in the United States, but he'd met Clara, and her grandfather and father had wanted her near them in Iraq. So he went back.

  "So now what do we do?" Clara asked.

  "Nothing. There's nothing we can do. I'll call Ralph tomorrow so he can tell us just how big a disaster this is." "Are we going back to Baghdad?"

  "Do you have any better idea? I thought you'd be happy to reunite with your grandfather."

  "Don't be sarcastic! But of course—I'm dying to see him. I wouldn't be here at all without him. He taught me to love archaeology."

  "He taught you to be obsessed with the Bible of Clay, that's what he taught you."

  Then there was silence. Ahmed finished his drink in one gulp, then closed his eyes. Neither of them had any desire to talk anymore.

  That night, as she often did, Clara got into bed thinking of Shamas. She imagined him bent over his tablet, intent, as he pressed a thin reed into the wet clay, making his marks. . . .

  3

  in the late morning, as he left the house of tablets,

  Shamas had seen Abram herding the goats, seeking green grass in which to pasture them. He had followed Abram, though he knew that his kinsman preferred to be alone and speak to no one. Indeed, for some time Shamas had found his "uncle," as he called him, much changed. He had become a man who sought
solitude, who shunned even members of his own family, saying that he needed to think in peace. But with Shamas, Abram showed patience, so the boy had dared to pursue him . . . and now he would dare to draw him out, for indeed he delighted in asking questions that sometimes provoked his uncle, even if he already knew the answers himself.

  "Uncle," cried Shamas, as he ran between the slow-moving goats to reach Abram. "Who made the first goat?" he breathlessly asked.

  Abram slowed and crouched to converse with his nephew. "He did." "And why a goat?"

  "For the same reason He made all the creatures that live on the earth."

  "And us, then—what are we for? To work?"

  "It is God's desire, at least for you, Shamas, that you master your stylus."

  Shamas fell silent. He knew he should still be in the house of

  tablets, completing the work that had been assigned him. His other uncle, the um-mi-a—the master scribe—would complain to Shamas' father, and Shamas would once again be scolded.

  "But I am bored at the house of tablets," the boy said, seeking an excuse.

  "Bored? And what is it that bores you? Do you not find your dub-sar's lessons a welcome opportunity to hone your craft?"

  "Hi the scribe is not a happy man. Probably because he has not yet mastered the stylus as well as the um-mi-a Ur-Nisaba would like him to. And Hi does not like children. He has no patience for us and makes us write the same phrases over and over until, in his judgment, they are perfect. Then, at noon, when he demands that we repeat the lesson aloud, he becomes angry if we stammer, even a little, and he shows no mercy in our mathematical assignments."