She didn’t ask any more questions, wanting to enjoy the moment and frightened about what he might say if she tried to find out what the future held for them. He was grateful to her because he did not know how he would answer her without his own heart breaking.
*****
Later that night, Joe and Sophie were on the long flight from Auckland to Tel Aviv. He was wearing dark glasses and an Arab headdress and she had her face modestly covered in a black scarf. They stopped over at Sydney and Hong Kong but at no stage did anyone on the planes or in the airports recognise them. The anonymity suited them because they were both enjoying being in one another’s company while also holding tightly to the pain in their hearts. They would have found it hard to strike up conversations with anyone else. The following day, Joe hired a taxi to drive them from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.
The driver dropped them a couple of streets away from the archaeological site and Joe paused to breathe in the evening air. He squeezed Sophie’s hand and smiled at her. She could see that he was content to be back in the city he had such fond memories of. They strolled round the corner, hand in hand, stopping at a bakery on the way. Apart from the addition of exhaust fumes and engine noise, the smells and sounds of the streets were very much how Joe remembered them from two thousand years earlier and how Sophie had imagined they would be: a heady mixture of cooking and spices and multiple languages.
The last of the day’s tourists and academics were leaving the premises at Lazarus’s house, their departure overseen by the stooped figure of the night watchman, who held the gate as they passed and pretended to be counting them out.
Joe waited until the last of the visitors had gone and sauntered up to the entrance.
“Excuse me,” he called out to the old man as he shuffled away towards his shed. “Is this the place where the scrolls were found?”
“We’re closed,” the old man shouted back without turning. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I would like to talk to you,” Joe said. “Perhaps we could have a cup of tea together.”
The old man paused and turned slowly. “You want to talk to me?” he said, obviously finding it hard to believe. “I’m just the night watchman. I don’t know anything.”
“I would still be interested to hear your views. I have brought some rugelach.” He held up a bag of sticky chocolate pastries that he had purchased from the bakery.
“Rugelach?” The old man was interested now and shuffled back to the gate with a jangling of keys.
Inside his shed there was an old mattress, which he gestured to Joe to sit on. Sophie did the same, even though the old man had ignored her entirely. She kept the scarf across her face and her head lowered, playing the part of an invisible, dutiful wife, unsure what else Joe expected of her. The only other furniture in the shed was a small table supporting a battered electric kettle and a small television. The old man busied himself with making some tea before sitting beside Joe on the mattress and accepting a pastry in return for a steaming cup. He did not feel it necessary to offer the quiet woman anything and looked surprised when Joe offered Sophie his cup to sip from.
“So, what do you make of these scrolls?” Joe asked.
“I am not a scholar,” the old man shrugged, obviously more interested in the pastry than the history. “If you want scholarly talk you need to come back tomorrow.”
“I am not a scholar either,” Joe said and laughed.
The old man seemed to recognise the sound of the laugh and peered at him more closely. “You are him,” he said.
“Am I?” Joe laughed again.
“You are him. I have seen you…” He gestured to the television and then, overcome with confusion as to what the right etiquette should be for entertaining the Son of God in a shed, he placed his cup on the floor, pushed the rest of the pastry into his mouth and prostrated himself at Joe’s feet.
“There is no need for that,” Joe said, helping him back into a sitting position. “I am just a man like you.”
“I don’t think so,” the old man said. “Why are you here?”
“In Jerusalem? There is no city in the world that is closer to God.”
“I wouldn’t know. I have not been to any other cities.”
“You don’t need to. This is the one,” Joe assured him and the old man nodded proudly at the thought that his city was so important. “I wanted to come back and see it one more time and to say a final goodbye to my best friend.”
Sophie felt a stab of pain her heart. Was he referring to Lazarus or to her?
“So much has changed,” the old man sighed.
“Of course, as it has everywhere,” Joe agreed. “But there is no need to give up hope.”
Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes and he rolled forward again, bringing his lips to hover above Joe’s feet.
“Thank you for the tea,” Joe said as he stood up and walked to the door. “Do you mind if we just walk outside for a moment?”
The old man sat back on his mattress and gestured for Joe to go ahead, jiggling his prayer beads in his calloused hands as Joe stepped out into the night, tightly holding Sophie’s hand.
“You’ve brought me here to say goodbye, haven’t you?” Sophie said as they walked through the moonlit ruins to the spot where Joe remembered last seeing the body of Lazarus.
“Still the visionary?” he laughed.
“I don’t think it will be easy for me to go on without you,” she said, her voice choking on the words. “My heart is still broken and the pain is so bad.”
“I will be watching over you,” Joe promised. Seeing the hurt in her eyes made tears come to his, as they had the last time he had stood by the grave of Lazarus. It felt like he was stabbing her to death just as the Ukrainian had done, letting her down as surely as he had let Lazarus down. “I have no choice but to go where my father wants me to go. God moves in mysterious ways and he knows that you must help the Twelve to fulfil their destiny. I have other flocks to tend to. You are a great teacher; don’t let those talents go to waste. We will be together in Heaven.”
They talked beside Lazarus’s grave for an hour and then Sophie held onto him for as long as she could, neither of them able to stem the sobbing that seemed to rise up from their souls and convulse their entire bodies. Eventually they were both drained, with no more tears to shed, and Sophie had no option but to release her grip and allow him to go. It felt like her soul was being torn physically from her chest.
As the old man in the shed sat alone on the mattress, he tried to focus on what had just happened. If it hadn’t been for Joe’s empty cup and the crumbs left from the pastry, he would have been willing to believe that he had dreamed the whole encounter.
Through the small window of the shed, he saw a flash of light outside and pulled himself to his feet as quickly as he could manage. Opening the door, he had to shade his eyes against the dazzling brightness of the sky. He could hear shouts coming from all around as people tried to work out what had happened. Had the sun spun round to the other side of the world? Had someone ignited a bomb which had lit up the whole night sky? Was this the end of the world?
The old man looked around for Joe but there was no one there apart from the woman holding the scarf tightly around her face as if to hide her tears. Joe had vanished into the light. A few moments later, the darkness of the night returned.
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About the
authors
Martin van Es wants our children and grandchildren to be able to enjoy our planet as much as he does. But that means something radical must be done. What, he wondered, would happen if Jesus returned to put everything right? He spoke with a wide range of experts including scientists, economists, politicians and religious leaders and the result is Call Me Joe. It will encourage every reader to consider what they would do to save humanity if they had the necessary power.
Andrew Crofts is one of the world’s best-selling ghost writers having published more than a hundred books.
Call Me Joe Page 32
