“Matthew, it’s a figure of speech.” The old man rolled his eyes. “We do not live in a Walt Disney cartoon, where books stand up and start to sing to us in the voice of Jimmy the Cricket.”
“Jiminy Cricket.”
“Whatever. At least not unless we take debilitating doses of loco weed, or whatever it is you eat when you descend into these pharmaceutical wet dreams.”
“They won’t admit it even to themselves, but in the end it’s a matter of sitting in a quiet place with that object, allowing their subconscious — their right brain — to run a kind of catalogue of the legitimate against the fake, to feel for the vibes.”
“Oh, the vibes!” Richard moved his arms in undulating waves, like two sea serpents about to mate.
“Then they go looking for some reproducible evidence, couch it all in proper technical jargon so they won’t have to admit what really tipped them off was an intuition, they don’t want to end up sounding like your hillbilly grandma talking about haunts and spirits. I’m saying there’s nothing unscientific about throwing your mind out of focus and waiting for an epiphany. How else do you explain someone driving to his mountain cabin at night with his girlfriend asleep in the seat beside him, his mind wandering, and suddenly he says ‘Wait a minute: What if we didn’t have to sequence the whole DNA strand, what if we just copied a part of it …?’”
“We’ve had this conversation many times, Matthew. We each have to follow our own path. Just remember that if you eventually turn the left hemisphere of your brain to jelly, I’ll be happy to come by on Sunday to read you the funny papers and feed you peach puree and wipe where it dribbles down your chin.”
“Thank you.”
“Our affection for you is unbounded. Perhaps Chantal can focus your mind in a more worldly direction.”
“You sure about that date?” Matthew asked.
“For the thirty-ninth pastoral of Athanasius? Gee, I guess it could have been 1066, or maybe 1492. As I get older, all these dates get so mixed up in my head. Is this Wednesday? Have the Turks taken Constantinople? Is it time for my medicine?”
“No, the year in the reign of Tiberius. Most sources put the Crucifixion in the sixteenth year, A.D. 30.”
“The twenty-second year of the reign. Not likely to be a typo, doesn’t look anything like ‘sixteenth.’ How soon can we start getting some good quality copies of these pages?”
“How long will it take?
“There are more than thirty sheets here, about seventy pages. If the Huns were breaking down the door I could take a set of pictures in less than half an hour. But to do it right, adjusting contrast and filters and checking our work as we go along, I’d like a full day.”
“Starting when?”
“Only you know if the wolf’s at the door, Matthew. I was looking forward to a nice lunch, but I’ve gone without, before. We could start now, if you like.”
“I told Lance he could have a look. And I’d like to set up some security. Go have your lunch. Are you leaving town? Can we reach you later?”
“I’ll await your call.”
After seeing them out, Richard padded carefully back to his desk, not wanting to stir the air. On his desk was a small pattern of yellowed papyrus fragments, flaked from the old book as he’d read. Laying hands on a stiff clear plastic envelope — not one of those limp and dreadful baggies — he used a plastic straightedge to sweep up all the fragments and seal them. He then applied a paper label, on which he wrote “Hunter Unident’d Coptic MS,” the date, his name and affiliation, and the words “Carbon-14 ASAP.”
CHAPTER TEN
MIDDAY FRIDAY
Arriving back at the store, Matthew and Chantal found Skeezix standing at the front counter as Marian unpacked a box of books he’d hauled up the street for old Clarence.
“Any good?”
“So far all the Elmer Keiths are signed; Drums Along the Mohawk is a signed first. And wait till you see who They Fought with What They Had is signed to.”
“Douglas MacArthur?”
“You peeked.”
Matthew never looked shocked when such finds showed up. Partly it was years of practice keeping a poker face at auctions and estate sales, when a single “Holy Shit!” could jack to the stratosphere the price of what had previously been a five-dollar book; partly he had simply developed a philosophy that such treasures eventually found their way out of the weak hands of the careless and the ignorant and into the strong hands of those who could appreciate what they were, like the day the homeless guy had found himself in the gravy, hauling in the box he’d found set out for the garbage man with the books signed by Tasha Tudor and the books signed to — not by, but to — Julia Marlowe, and the presentation copy of that science book by some woman no one had ever heard of, Mary Baker Glover.
They’d pay old Clarence at least 50 apiece for most of these, assuming they’d bring better than 200 apiece online. Skeezix would get a finder’s fee, even though he hadn’t had to risk his bankroll. But a MacArthur copy? That would take a little homework, maybe a few calls to dealers who specialized in militaria — at which point old Clarence’s remaining years might get just a little easier.
They saw Marian already had Les busy shelving — an exercise never improved upon as a way to learn the stock and where things could be found.
“The White Company,” Les said, holding up a book, “Fiction under ‘D’?”
“No, the Sherlock shelf under mysteries,” Marian replied.
“I don’t think The White Company is a mystery.”
“People looking for Conan Doyle start at the Sherlock shelf,” Marian explained. “Books go where the most likely buyers will look. Just like non-fiction by Asimov goes in science fiction.”
“Right.”
“Did you ever find Quinn?” Matthew asked as they passed. “Did he manage to keep his mouth shut?”
“I thought he’d choke on his onion soup when Jackson named his price. Told me later it was four times what he was going to ask.”
“Good. He’ll sell?”
“Damned right.”
“How was the onion soup?”
“Always good at the Red Stripe.”
“Good choice.”
“The Reverend White was around,” Marian informed Matthew just before he and Chantal disappeared into the back room with The Book.
“And where is he now?”
“I sent him down the street to Three Rivers for a bite. Told him I’d call him when you were back. Are you back?”
“To Lance, yes. He carries a cell?”
“Matthew, everyone but you carries a cell. Everyone but you and Richard.”
“Tell Lance I may have something interesting to show him.”
“Will do. Les?”
“Marian?”
“I think that’s Chauncey coming up the walk.”
“Oh God. I’ll go hide under the bed.”
“He’ll just keep coming around, dear. Give him 10 minutes, then I’ll put through an urgent call from Chaz Bono.”
“You can do that and keep a straight face?”
“OK, no. From Orson Scott Card, then.”
“OK.”
Young Chauncey, who was accompanied by what appeared to be an alarmingly skinny 15-year-old Japanese peg boy of indeterminate gender, had hair down to his shoulders — he must have slept in rollers the size of tin cans to get that curl. Chauncey was dressed today in a dark green velvet frock coat with wide lapels and shiny black silk facings, green velvet pants with black silk stripes down the sides that ended just below the knee, and white silk stockings, although they could have been acetate or heavy nylon. On his head was a matching dark green hat which was at first hard to describe; Les finally figured out it was a miniature green velvet cowboy hat, probably held in place with an actual hat pin.
“Leslie, I had hoped I’d finally find you in. This is Suji.”
“Hello, Suji.”
Suji giggled in Japanese. Possibly female, after all.
&
nbsp; “Nice outfit, Chauncey. The Oscar Wilde look?”
“An exact replica, actually.”
“Very fetching.”
“Thank you.”
“Your message said you’ve decided to major in literature?” Les asked.
“It’s much more concentrated than that, actually. I’m studying criticism.”
“You’re studying to be a critic.”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t know they’d gotten that specialized.”
“I’m working on a paper right now on the Blue Moon novels, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m very gratified.”
“I suppose you’re wondering about my thesis in this paper.”
“Not really.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, the problem with your books is that the hero is too perfect. He’s tall and handsome, always perfectly dressed, skilled at sleight-of-hand, irresistible to the ladies, always knows the clever thing to say. All amateur authors do this. We call these characters Mary Sue’s or Marty Stu’s. If you’re not familiar with the term, these are fictional characters portrayed in an idealized way and lacking any noteworthy flaws — really just characters made in the image of how the author sees himself in his fantasies. It’s a dead giveaway, very amateurish.”
“He is dead, of course.”
“Pardon me?”
“The protagonist of the books, the Count. Dead.”
“What difference does that make?” Chauncey asked.
“I’ve thought a lot about this objection, Chauncey, and I believe you’re right. In my next novel, the hero will be a one-eyed illiterate child molester who wears a colostomy bag and drools uncontrollably.”
“Really?”
“Slobbers like a St. Bernard. It’s already underway.”
“Well. That’s fine. If you’re serious. The goal being just a little more realism, you see.”
“Of course. In the real world no one is really tall and handsome and witty as well. No one with athletic ability is ever bright enough to figure out the sales tax in his head. Pretty models and flight attendants are all airheads, none of them can ever go on to become successful in business or politics, this is well known. So why make the poor inadequate readers feel bad by making them believe there are people who study hard and work hard, who don’t waste all their time watching TV or drinking pitchers down at the tavern, who can end up physically fit and able to quote Shakespeare? In the real world, no one who’s previously been a guitar-player ever decides to go back to school and get their medical degree and become a great diagnostician, no college quarterbacks ever go on to get MBAs. Why give people false hope that they can ever change their lives through their own efforts? I may give him a limp and an epic case of body odor, too. Vampires avoiding running water, all that. You can go online and order a copy in advance, if you like.”
“I’ll certainly give that some thought, Leslie. Finances, you know. Though the monthly check is due, actually.”
“Meantime, I’m expecting a call, I’m afraid. Was there anything else you’d like to share, Chauncey?”
“Parts of your books are funny.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Well, it’s just that parts of the books are amusing. I mean either a book should be all funny, or it should be serious. Otherwise the reader keeps getting confused, caught off guard. He doesn’t know when he should take the content seriously, and when it’s OK to laugh. This swinging back and forth is unsettling, it’s very . . .”
“Amateurish?”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind. Either all serious or all funny. This has been very useful, Chauncey.”
“Don’t mention it, Leslie.”
“And I hope you’ll drop off some of your own published work. Maybe I can find some more pointers there.”
“Well, of course . . . What with my other time commitments, and I’m sure you know the New York agents and editors can form quite an impenetrable phalanx when you’re trying to present them with something really new, something that doesn’t quite fit their previously established tropes and paradigms.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Les?” There was Marian, finally. “That call from Orson?”
“You’ll have to excuse me, now. Chauncey. And Suji. Feel free to browse.”
Marian sent an eager Lance White back to the kitchen, where Matthew and Chantal had swabbed and dried the table before throwing down a heavy linen cloth.
“You’ve found it?” Lance was wearing another pair of spotless bleached-white cotton slacks, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.
“Professor St. Vincent believes it’s authentic. If somewhat fragile. He wanted to lock it up immediately.” Matthew gingerly removed the volume from its box, then from its makeshift wrappings.
“Is it possible?”
“Probably best to give it just a quick look for now. Then it’s into the safe while we try to track down Rashid. Technically, it’s not clear I have any right to sell it. The professor offered us a humidity-controlled vault, but we’ve got some guy from the Egyptian Cultural Ministry prowling around now, as well as our friends the Inquisitors.”
“Is there still an Inquisition?” Chantal asked.
“Oh, sure,” the Rev. White answered as he took his first, cautious look at the old book, testing the pages to make sure they could be turned without crumbling. He was wearing sandals today, and a different Hawaiian shirt — equally bright, but featuring images of palm trees and old wooden-sided station wagons. “The first way you’d know that is all the historical rehabilitation going on. The Inquisition was never intended to crush diversity of thought or oppress anyone, no no, it was intended to save lives by guaranteeing fair trials, preventing the illiterate mobs from just lynching suspected witches and heretics willy-nilly.”
“They’re really saying that?”
“They’re flooding the online encyclopedias.”
“I thought they tortured confessions out of people and then burned them at the stake.”
“Of course they did, burned a hundred thousand in Germany, alone, and the Protestants were no better. Sex that wasn’t painful, feasting, dancing, any kind of joyful activity, was the cardinal sin. The inquisitors preached that destroying the human body with fire was actually merciful if it saved the soul from the torment of eternal hellfire. Tortured them on the rack and the iron maiden, red hot irons, sliced off their breasts, whatever it took, till they each named twelve associates, in between their blood-curdling screams.
“Thirteen witches in a coven, you see. The first victim’s reward was death; then they arrested those twelve victims and divided their property between the church and the local baron, over nonsense most people today won’t believe even if you explain it. Did you ever dance counterclockwise? Do you own a black rooster? Did you put the evil eye on your neighbor’s cow? Let’s strip you bare and shave off your pubic hair and see if we can find a spot or a freckle; those are caused by having sex with Satan, you know. These guys weren’t too repressed, do you think? Burned them with green wood or charcoal so it took hours for their veins to pop and their heads to explode. ‘Fair trial,’ my ass. Herbal healing and using belladonna and wolfsbane in a topical ointment to create the sensation of flying aren’t crimes. How on earth do you stage a ‘fair trial’ on charges of practicing a different religion?
“And if they’re so proud of their heritage why do they keep changing their name? They were the Holy Office of the Inquisition in 1244, when the Pope’s troops took the castle at Montsegur and burned more than two hundred screaming Cathars, including women and old people on their sickbeds, right at the foot of the Hill. By 1908 they’d morphed into the Sacred Congregation of the Holy Office; in 1965 they became the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. One of my fellow Californians was appointed to head the outfit in 2005, when the previous chief witch-hunter, William Ratzinger, vacated the position to become Pope.”
>
“The head of the Inquisition became Pope?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember that being in the papers.”
“And of course he subsequently retired without doing anything about all those thousands of queer priests pumping their altar boys, after promising up and down he’d take care of it. He was also a Nazi, just for good measure.”
“You mean, he was a strict disciplinarian?”
“I mean he was a Nazi. World War Two. Hitler Youth, then the Wehrmacht. Watched them rounding up the Jews, never said a word. The guy came out against rock music festivals as a heathen cult, for heaven’s sake. Why do you think they called him God’s Rottweiler?”
Chantal sighed. “No one’s perfect, I guess.”
“These leaves are older than the tenth century.”
“I thought you’d spot that,” Matthew agreed. “The good professor says late fourth century, re-bound in the tenth, after the conquest. You looking for anything particular?” Lance was examining pages near the end of the volume, which would have been the beginning except that it was in Hebrew.
“The speculation is that he explains how his brother arranged to survive the crucifixion, arranged to meet with the disciples to serve as his witnesses once he started to recover from his wounds.”
“They wouldn’t have been in on it?” Chantal asked.
“One thing that strikes you more and more strongly, as you read the texts,” Lance was on a bit of a roll, this being his favorite topic, “is that the twelve disciples were not Jesus’ closest confidants. They don’t seem to have been overly bright, for one thing. In keeping with the master’s wishes, none of them tried to write anything down, assuming they even knew how — the folks who wrote the gospels borrowed their names forty to sixty years later. Of course, it’s easy to sit in the comfort of our living rooms today and criticize working-class people who left their chosen trades to follow the teacher, knowing full well they could be arrested and charged with heresy or treason at any time. It’s not like there was some ACLU to come bail them out.
The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) Page 14
