Elisha’s Bones (8 page)
Esperanza remains silent while I take another bite of the steak. When I’ve swallowed and chased it down with a few sips of water, she gives me a curious eyebrow.
“You’re not buying this, are you?”
“The part about the bones having some kind of power? No. But could there be ancient remains that have been passed through millennia?” I shrug. “Stranger things have happened. Who’s to say that in a thousand years people won’t be wondering if Oliver Cromwell’s head is hidden someplace? Or Mother Teresa’s index finger?”
“Don’t poke fun of a nun.”
“Wouldn’t think of it. But you can see what I’m saying.
There are countless cultures that preserved the bodies of their holy men.”
“Not the Israelites.”
“That depends on the period. You’re talking about thousands of years of history, two major captivities, a dozen occupations, and generations of ignorance about Levitical law. They would have handled their dead in lots of different ways, and there only needed to be a small window of time during which the Israelites had to preserve the bones. And it’s possible they lost possession of them within a few years of removing them from the tomb.”
“Your conspiracy.”
“Not mine.”
“It almost sounds as though you don’t
want
to find anything.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that. I’m just not buying into the conspiracy—especially one like this. What would have been the point? Preserve sacred artifacts for thousands of years? Why? If you don’t want the world to have them, just destroy them.”
“Maybe they tried.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but then I don’t believe in them to begin with, so there’s no foul.
“So not only are they holy bones, they’re also indestructible? Like Superman’s?”
“You are so going to get hit by lightning.”
“All I’m saying is that a list of family and organizational names isn’t enough. Unless we find something of real substance, I’ll have to go back and tell my employer there’s nothing to be found.”
Esperanza is silent as I finish the rest of my lunch. It takes two bites and then, almost before the fork is back on the table, quiet young men come to clear our plates and set steaming cups of strong coffee in front of us. Once the seamless interruption is over, she says, “I don’t know what you expect to accomplish in three weeks. It’s just three weeks, right? Then you have to be back in the classroom? Even if you forget about everything prior to the mention of Fraternidad de la Tierra, this is the kind of thing that would require months, if not years, of research.” She sips at the coffee. “What do you want from me?”
I hate a direct question, which is defined as any kind that resists a muddled response, or my immeasurable charm. And more of them than I can remember seem to be aimed at me since my chat with Reese. They are forcing me to learn that I am a man sorely lacking in real answers.
“I’m assuming you want me to skip the obvious?”
“You mean that I’m the smartest Latin woman for five hundred miles in any direction? That I know more about Venezuelan history than anyone? That I speak more than a dozen languages? All true. But you had to have known coming out here that this is an extended research project—the kind you get a grant for so you can spend a lot of time in libraries, or making trips across the continent that will reveal nothing but that will give you the chance to write an update with a lot of big words justifying why you needed to make the trip and why you thought it was profitable, even if you didn’t actually learn anything.”
I remember that when I first met Esperanza, sharing the same study group in our first year Social Anthropology class, I thought her directness was one of her most endearing characteristics. Even when we went our separate ways, the excision was aided by her dislike of anything but frankness. It’s funny how half a decade can change one’s appreciation of another’s qualities. If I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure what’s going on in my head. There has to be some element of truth to what I thought when I sat with Reese a few days ago, that I’m at a watershed moment and ready to face some of the things I’ve avoided for years. Esperanza is certainly one of those things. But I’m nowhere near ready to spill my guts.
Seeing this, she picks up and peruses the bill, which she then slides across the table. “I’m assuming you’ve got this?”
“No, but Mr. Gordon Reese does.” I pull a Reese Industries corporate card from my wallet. It has my name on it, and an expiration date of December 2012. It’s nice to think that, after my assignment is over, Reese’s accountants might forget about this card and let me charge my way to happiness for the next few years. As one of the waiters takes the bill and the card, I notice the look on my companion’s face.
“That’s who you’re working for?” Her tone indicates that she doesn’t quite believe me, yet among the derisive names I’ve earned over the years,
liar
isn’t one of them, and she knows that.
The waiter returns then with the receipt, and I add a generous tip to the paper and slip the card back into my wallet.
When Esperanza stands, I follow, saying, “So, what now?”
“If you’ve only got three weeks, then we need to get started. And we’re not going to learn anything about your mystery organization sitting here.” With that, she heads for the door with a look in her eyes that I remember from those years ago. It’s the one she gets when she’s excited by something, and I know it’s there because of Reese. Even a continent away, the man casts a shadow.
T
he library of the Central University of Venezuela looks more modern than its older cousin back at Evanston. Lines of large windows render the main reading room bright and airy. It reminds me of a cafeteria. The commonality is that paper cuts hurt, regardless of which side of the equator one is on.
It’s been three hours and I’m certain that every square millimeter of each of my fingers has at least one paper cut. A pile of books obscures most of the long table we’re using, the majority of them spent of their usefulness. Espy is scouring a text from the 1930s, and with each rapid page flip, the frown on her face grows deeper. I have to admit, if only to myself, as my sore nose admonishes, that it’s fulfilling to see her growing frustrated. Even though I’m relying on her, there exists a small portion of my psyche that wants some minor recompense for the assault back at her office. And she likely knows that, which would only serve to increase her irritation.
During the short drive here, Espy had slipped into silence, and I hadn’t pressed. This has to have hit her hard, and I’m amazed at her equanimity—the strength of character that has her acting with civility. True, part of her temporary willingness to set aside the past is almost certainly a result of the mystery I’ve dangled in front of her; had I shown up on her doorstep without an intellectual carrot, it is likely she would have done a good deal more violence to my person.
She reaches for a water bottle, her eyes fixed on a page. I’m supposed to be helping, and I’m making something resembling an effort, but I’m out of my depth. She’s admitted that this is like looking for a very large needle in a small haystack—difficult, but not impossible—and I do not bring much to the table. I’m passing the time watching her work, and becoming more amused every time I see her do something that reminds me of the time when we were together. Most of them are small things: the way she purses her lips when she’s deep in thought; the way she absently brushes aside a strand of hair. The collection of mannerisms peculiar to a person. I’d forgotten how much she reminds me of her brother.
Even so, I can’t escape the impression—even taking into account how long it’s been since we’ve been in the same room— that there is something markedly different about her, something I can’t put my finger on. It’s almost as if she’s wearing a metaphysical outfit with which I’m familiar, but she’s accessorized with a new scarf. I ponder this analogy for a moment before returning my attention to the open book in front of me.
After a while, she closes her book and sets it aside. With a sigh, she reaches for another. It’s substantial and I can’t see the name for the faded spine. She opens it and flips through the chapters with the eye of one reconnecting with an old literary friend. I have no doubt that she’s read most of the books on this table, but time would have relegated most of them to the position of third cousin at a family reunion—the one whose name is always just out of reach. The pages of this one give a satisfying crinkle as she turns them. I sink into my chair, giving up even the pretense of helping. I have nothing to do but watch her as she reads. I can think of worse things with which to occupy my time.
“Here it is.”
I give a guilty start, banging my knee on the underside of the table. Ignoring Espy’s smirk, I rise and cross to the other side of the table so that I can peer over her shoulder. Her finger rests on the name: Fraternidad de la Tierra, in bold font. The text is in Spanish. I reach around and move her hand so that I can read the entry. They’ve earned less than a half page in a large book, and the first two paragraphs are close to what Esperanza provided back at the restaurant.
“Not much here,” I grouse.
“I remember there being a bit more to it,” she offers, and I can see a sheepish smile in profile.
My eyes skip down the page until they alight on the material Espy didn’t cover. The only thing I find interesting is that this passage provides, while not the origin of the name, an interesting bit of information about member allegiance to it. Every man who achieved guild membership underwent something akin to what I can only determine was an anti-baptism. Rather than undergoing an immersion in or sprinkling with water, initiates were buried to their necks in dirt and left alone for six hours. It seems that the Brotherhood placed some symbolic meaning in the power of the earth. I find myself trying to draw some correlation between the dust of the ground and the decay of human bone, knowing as I do so that I’m committing the academic sin of feeding a theory without any facts to support it.
I don’t realize that I’m still holding Esperanza’s hand until she pulls it away. With a small smile, I step back, the smell of her hair following me.
“Not a lot there,” I say.
“No. Which is why I find it odd that they should figure prominently in the research.”
I shrug because, to me, it seems quite the opposite. If they were a well-known organization, then any Tom, Dick, or Harry who fancied himself an academic could have picked them from the available records. Someone would have had to have done some serious research to select this group from among the relics of South American history, as evidenced by Espy’s efforts.
“There’s a picto-index here,” Esperanza says, flipping back several pages. “There should be some kind of organizational crest represented.”
I step to her side again as she moves through the pages, hitting the glossy ones that show the black-and-white photos. There are at least twenty pages of these, many with icons that I recognize without having to think about them. Toward the end she pauses, and her slender finger taps a tiny image at the bottom.
At first, I don’t grasp what I’m seeing. It must be a full thirty seconds before I realize I’m not breathing. And I find that Esperanza has turned and she’s looking at me with a curious expression.
“What is it?”
I don’t answer. How can I put into words the amazement I’m feeling? Because I’ve seen this picture before. In fact, I’ve touched the ancient wall on which a duplicate of it is carved. And I know now where I have to go. And I also know that Esperanza was right about one thing: this project might take much longer than I thought.
Romero’s store is closed and he, Esperanza, and I are the only ones in the place. The showroom lights are off and a heavy bar blocks the main entry. We’re in his office, and Espy is sitting on her brother’s table, the heel of her shoe bumping a slow rhythm on one of the slim wood legs. I’m leaning against the wall, my hands in my pockets, but I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. I know Espy feels the same way. The look in her eyes belies her relaxed posture. Romero is alternating between looking at me and studying the small picture in the book we brought from the library.
“You can’t be serious.”
I nod. It feels good to be right; smugness is an old shoe.
“This is from Quetzl-Quezo?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s working back through his memory, trying to see the rock carvings in the chamber below the subflooring. We took pictures with my brand-new camera and then spent weeks analyzing them, but at the time they resisted translation. If I had my files with me, I could pull up a duplicate of what is on the page in front of my friend. I have my laptop but, after five years of teaching, all it holds are tests, grades, and the promise of a satellite Internet connection. I might be able to get someone back at Evanston to scour my apartment for an old CD-ROM that may be buried under mountains of mail, magazines, and old research, but there’s a strong possibility the pictures are lost for all time. The piece I submitted for peer review is long published in a second-rate magazine, and it has spent years alternating between obscurity or as the subject of erudite debates by esteemed but drunken archaeology professors on poker night.
It’s rare that someone in my former profession discovers something like Quetzl-Quezo. In a field built on incremental discovery, where one researcher builds on the work of others, to find something that turns accepted theory on its head is like picking lottery numbers. It’s the sort of dig that, with a little luck, can put one in history books. Without luck, though, finding an ancient temple of probable Mayan design somewhere it’s not supposed to be can turn out to be a confounding riddle—and difficult to study when the dig isn’t sanctioned by the Venezuelan government. Creeping around like criminals, surreptitiously ferrying gear into the jungle, paying the locals to keep quiet—all of these make it difficult to document an excavation. And few journals like to publish articles by young, trespassing archaeologists, because that’s an easy way to find your reporters and photographers harassed at customs.
