Elisha’s Bones (6 page)
Through a break in the clouds I see the ocean as a patch of darker blue. I came near to growing up on boats, and the sea has been a comforting image for me for as long as I can remember. My dad was a nautical spirit trapped in the body of a skinny, bespectacled inventor. I don’t know how many patents he held, but there was more than enough money for him to be able to launch the boat when the weather warmed, and then to keep my mom, brother, and me sailing the Florida Keys all summer. When I think about the man, I see him on the deck of some long-lined wooden beauty, wearing a contented smile. Through the eyes of a child, he seemed larger when azure blue seas surrounded us, when the wind caught the mainsail, and the bow sent spray over my face. It’s that snapshot of my dad that I carry in my mind.
He’s been gone for almost a decade, but I wonder what he would think about this trip. I can see him leaning back in the brown leather chair in his office, his index finger tapping the armrest. He would look at me for a while, then ask a simple question. Something like, “Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?” Reasons were important to the man. He was as concerned with motivations as he was with results. He was fond of saying that doing something extraordinary for the wrong reason was worse than doing nothing. Of course, he had firmly established opinions concerning what constituted a right reason. Everything he did was filtered through the lens of his religious upbringing. If the end result, as he saw it, did not mesh with his faith, then it shouldn’t be done. That’s it. No room for argument. If nothing else, knowing my father’s conviction made me think long and hard before I answered any question he asked. I probably have him to thank for my interest in Greek philosophy, especially Aristotle’s treatises on logic. In this case, provided my answer was satisfactory, a gleam would have appeared in his eyes as he imagined the possibilities for adventure that a trip like this promised. That’s another one of the gifts my dad gave me: a sense of adventure, a need to explore. Mr. Reese called it curiosity.
The man snoring in the seat next to me shifts position and slumps closer and I can smell the salt and vinegar potato chips on his breath. An exploration of the man’s culinary tastes is not the sort of adventure I have in mind and I give him a shove sufficient to send him invading the personal space of the unfortunate Korean gentleman in the aisle seat. The latter gives me a helpless look before shifting his shoulder so that the sleeping man is forced to perform some unconscious straightening maneuver or face the prospect of toppling over and testing the integrity of the seat belt. With a last hearty snort, the man achieves a precarious balance within the boundaries of the invisible walls rising up from his armrests. My Korean companion and I watch for a few seconds, avoiding each other’s eyes, but ready for a resumption of the human Ping-Pong game that is international air travel.
I’m a bit surprised at the demographics of the flight, because—granting that it has been several years since my last trip to this part of the world—I cannot remember an instance prior to this one when the passenger profile was not ninety percent Latin American to ten percent white tourist. There are at least six American businessmen in the first-class section of the 767, along with a number of the wealthier tourists. I’ve also counted at least half a dozen Asians, a large number of North Americans of more modest means, a smattering of Europeans of dubious origin, and one young couple sitting in the row behind me who speak Arabic in quiet voices. I’ve grasped enough of the hushed conversation to know that they’re recently married and have already been to Paris and New York. The flight reminds me that much has changed since I was here last, and that Venezuela—or at least Caracas—has made impressive progress toward becoming a modern city. This is a caution to remain alert, and to realize it might take some time to clear the cobwebs from a long-unused portion of my skill set.
I console myself with the knowledge that what I’m doing here amounts to little more than advanced library work—even if Gordon’s research, exhaustive to the point of obsession, makes a compelling case. Maps, symbols, ancient texts—all of it seeming to form a blurry multimillennial snapshot of something with great significance. It’s the most intriguing prospect I’ve ever been presented, regardless of the fact that it cannot possibly be true. Do I believe God exists? Sure. Do I believe the Bible is the arbiter of theological knowledge? There it gets a little hazy. The Bible contains hundreds of fantastical accounts presented to us as fact. But can a reasonable, modern man accept that the earth was created in six days, or that Jonah survived in the stomach of a large fish, or that Joshua stopped the sun from moving? And since these things are presented to us as truth, how can we determine what, in the Book, is factual? Do I believe that a prophet of God died and that his bones contain divine power? That these bones can bring people back from the dead? The simple answer to that question is no.
Nevertheless, Gordon’s documents have brought me here, and it’s up to me to either disprove or corroborate his theories. My belief is that I will catch my return flight having done the former, and I’m not sure if I can even hope for the other outcome. It’s not the existence of the bones that I find troubling. Civilizations have been known to pass holy artifacts through the generations. Rather, what troubles me is the man’s faith in the bones. The supernatural power he longs to find is a figment, and maybe it’s the sympathetic part of me that thinks it would be better not to find the artifacts at all, rather than to deliver them to the man so that he can see his folly revealed.
My musings are interrupted when the plane’s jostling sends my neighbor sliding into my personal space. After a deep sigh, I serve to the Korean and then sit back, a small smile on my face as I wait for his next move.
Caracas sits in the oblong bowl of an open valley floor, lush green mountains rising up along the north and east. It is like an old friend. After a long separation, and after the initial awkward phase, I can slip with ease into its eddies. It’s a city teeming with industry and purpose, as well as a certain necessary aimlessness woven into the fabric of any place that lures throngs of people into close proximity. The feeling I have now, walking down Avenida Lecuña, is the same one I have when traversing Third Avenue in New York, or Beale Street in Memphis, or Merchant in Dublin. It’s individuals, with their small stories, producing something larger than the sum of their parts, something buzzing with expectant energy. It’s the cold fusion of urban life.
As the car-filled street grinds to a halt, save for the motorcycles that slip around and through the gridlock, I’m glad that I’m on foot. A half mile back I let the car go that Reese rented for me, so that I could beat the pavement and relearn the feel of the city. One thing I’d forgotten is how the streets rival those of San Francisco in their steepness. My calves start to burn as I make my way uphill.
I turn off Lecuña onto Bolivar, a street that reminds me of those accidental side streets in Europe, where a foreigner can eat and shop like a local and still remain steps away from streets designed to ease anxiety in the same manner a kindergarten hallway reassures children on the first day of school.
I pass three businesses that share a common weathered redbrick front. After the last doorway and before the long wall gives way to a narrow alley, followed by a similar arrangement of stores in off-white stucco, a darkened entrance appears, one absent of any identifying marks. A set of stone steps lead up to an unlighted corridor. I enter and start up the steps, trailed by the scent of wet rock and mold. Once I reach the top, the corridor forces me to the right, to a single windowless metal door coated with an old layer of thick brown paint. It’s hardly the sort of setup most business owners concerned with foot traffic would prefer. But Romero has never been interested in mass-marketing his wares. He caters to an exclusive clientele, the kind with a lot of money, and the refinement to understand the quality of his products. Me? I’m neither refined nor have I ever been loaded enough to fit Romero’s customer profile—at least until now, when I’m playing with someone else’s money.
I grasp the door handle and give a sharp tug and it opens with a metallic creak that must be audible back on the sidewalk. The thing that hits me first is the smell. It’s flowery—lilacs, I think. What it means is that Romero has a wealthy client who has expressed an appreciation for the flower. And for the money many of his regulars drop here, he does not mind going out of his way to tailor the shopping experience to their liking.
When I enter, I see my friend do the classic television double take and I smile at the surprise on his face and give him a little wink. I walk along the display of burial masks lining a portion of the street-side wall while I wait for the proprietor to finish with his customers. I imagine he’s giving them the short sell now, just trying to get them out of the place. I run a finger along a well-preserved interment façade from Southeast Asia and wonder at the use of archaeology as interior design.
Most of his merchandise comes from this continent, with arrangements by period and by region. Past the burial masks is an assortment of Aztec and Toltec totems, their squat and grotesque bodies acting as scene markers for some events that can give me the willies if I really think about them. I like that he’s left the shop as it has always been—free of clutter, decorative color, or unnecessary artwork. Instead, it is mostly white walls, gray carpet, and black metal lighting fixtures. The minimalism suggests a proprietor who has confidence in the product selling itself.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the old couple leaving, the man’s hand in the small of the woman’s back. Their body language suggests that Romero has made them quite a deal, and the buyer wants to get out before the seller realizes he has made a mistake.
I am still facing the burial-mask display when I feel Romero come up behind me.
“It looks like you just made those folks very happy,” I say as the door shuts behind the couple.
“Curse you for showing up unannounced and forcing me to undervalue my merchandise.”
“With the prices you charge, consider it a rebalancing of your karma.”
And then there are strong hands pulling me around and into an affectionate, too-tight hug. When he pulls away, Romero’s hands remain on my shoulders and he regards me with warm eyes. Romero Habilla is a large man, but still refined. I would almost call him elegant, except that word is appropriate for someone of slighter frame. He is a well-groomed bull.
“You don’t visit for six years and you expect me to concentrate on a sale?” He claps my upper arm and looks me up and down. “You’ve gotten heavy.”
My arm stings.
“One of the curses of academic life.”
He turns but leaves a hand on my arm, directing me toward a doorway on the other side of the showroom.
“Yes, I heard you were teaching. At first I didn’t believe it, but then I pulled up the Web page of your university and there’s your picture.” He squeezes my elbow and adds, “It’s not a very good picture.”
Romero’s office is a mirror of the man in its understated sophistication. It is small and sparsely furnished but the few items in it are high-end. There is no true desk, but rather an immaculate teakwood table on which sits a dual-monitor computer, a phone, and a single notepad and pen. A comfortable-looking leather chair is behind the desk, and there are two smaller matching ones on the opposite side.
Romero leads me to one of the guest chairs and lowers himself into the other.
“It’s good to see you,” he says.
“It’s nice to be back. A little strange, but nice.”
“Yes, we’re cosmopolitan now. Courting the world.” He gives a dismissive wave. “It’s veneer, my friend. The city is no different.”
“That’s not really what I mean.”
He looks at me in silence for a moment before grunting and leaning forward.
“I’m sorry about Will. When Esperanza told me, I . . .”
He trails off and I give him a small smile—one that tells him I appreciate the sentiment. I think he feels guilty about not getting hold of me after it happened, but then I didn’t make it easy for anyone to find me.
“My mom appreciated the flowers.”
“It was the very least I could do. If I’d had more notice, I would have made the trip.”
“Me too,” I say, then wave off his questioning look. My body was there for my brother’s funeral, but my mind was a world away. It’s almost like trying to remember a dream. I see flashes of the people who filed into the church, the blue of the sky at the grave site, my mom in her black dress for the second time in four years. It’s the scenes from the Valley of the Kings that are as vivid as the shots from a digital camera, and I’ve advanced frame by frame through them often enough that I see no reason to do it again, even for the purpose of commiserating with an old friend.
“Your store still looks like it belongs in one of those back alleys off of Red Square.”
Romero takes the cue and plays along. “When you’ve got a good thing going.”
I laugh at that, because it’s just what I said to Angie a few days ago. Was it only a few days ago? “How’s your sister?” I ask him.
It’s the only sore spot between us and I immediately want to kick myself for mentioning her. But what choice do I have? I need to see her, or else my trip here will be handicapped by a factor of ten. Still, it bothers me to see Romero’s face darken.
“What do you need?” he asks after a measured moment.
There is no hint of irritation in his voice—just an acceptance that something beyond the pleasure of his company has brought me here from North Carolina.
I shrug. “I’m not sure. It depends on what my subject-matter expert can tell me.”
It hangs in the air between us while I watch his face. It darkens a shade more.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
He lets out a long sigh—one that denotes a weighing of undesirable responses. Finally he says, “She may kill you.”
“I wouldn’t blame her.”
