The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (6 page)

“I’m…I’m not sure, exactly,” I mumbled, more to myself than Lev.

Lev’s gaze went from suspicious to curious. He stared at me a moment, and, I think, finally decided I was not a threat.

“There are some who believe the tomb of Jesus Christ has been found.”

“Really?” I said. “Is that what you believe?”

Lev averted my eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“Of course it does,” I said. “This is a part of your history. Don’t you care?”

“I did at one time. But…well, things change.”

This Israeli boy was hiding something. I could see it on his face: the fear, the suspicion, the way he avoided my eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Lev said, busying himself with some paperwork on the counter. “It turns out I can’t help you after all.”

I stood there a moment, contemplating my next move. I couldn’t blow my second chance. I needed to try to befriend him, earn his trust.

“Your English is impeccable,” I said finally. “Did you learn that in school?”

Lev didn’t look at me. He continued scanning pages of text with a pen as he spoke.

“Yes, English is our second language. You’ll find almost everyone in Jerusalem speaks it. Children learn it in school from a very early age.” 

I wondered how old he was. Lev had an appearance that made deciphering his age a challenge. He had the deep voice of a man, the lanky frame of an adolescent, and the smooth face of a young boy. 

“Are you still in school?” I asked.

“I’m in my first year at Hebrew University. I’m studying business.” 

“What are your plans?”

He looked up from his paperwork. “Plans?”

“Yes, what do you plan to do with your business degree?”

“I will take over this store from my father when it is time,” Lev said, returning his attention to the paperwork in front of him. “Other than that, I don’t know.”

“And you’ll take over this shop by choice, or obligation?”

“I feel it is my duty to follow in my father’s footsteps, plus I like it. So I study business.”

If I wanted to find out what Lev knew about the Talpiot tomb, if I was going to ask for his help, I would have to help
him
in return.

I walked over to the shelf where I’d admired the olive wood trinkets, grabbed the nicest rosary, and made my way back towards the counter. Lev watched my every move from the corner of his eye, his head lowered. I placed the rosary gently on the service counter, on top of Lev’s paperwork, directly under his nose.

The young Israeli boy looked up from his paperwork.

“Do you gift wrap?” I asked, eyeing him.

He returned my steely gaze. “That depends, Miss Mara.”

“On what?”

Lev crossed his arms. “Are you going to tell me who you really are?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

When Thomas told me he wanted a divorce I was devastated. It was a year and a half ago. The school year had just ended and I was preparing to write another novel, my third. Thomas came home from work one day and announced, while I was cooking dinner, that we needed to talk.

My fork shook as we ate because I didn’t know what to expect this time.

The first time we “needed to talk,” Thomas danced around the painful thing he needed to say. He hinted at it, and did so for years without coming out and saying it. I guess he assumed I knew what he wanted, what he needed. I eventually connected all the dots, but by then it was too late. 

So when Thomas and I sat down to dinner that June evening, I had a feeling the end was near.

“I think it’s best we go our separate ways,” Thomas had said, looking me directly in the eye.

“Is there someone else?” I asked, knowing full well there wasn’t.

“There’s never been anyone else.”

“Then why?” I asked, my voice small, my whole body starting to tremble, the tears not far behind.

“I love you, Mara,” Thomas had said. “I just can’t be with you.” 

Angry and shocked but too proud to beg him to stay, I said, “Fine, if that’s what you want.”

Thomas claimed it was because I didn’t want children. But I think it was more than that. I think it was because I had already had children, of a sort. Without him.

My novels absorbed so much of my time. When I wasn’t teaching or grading papers or spending time with Thomas (which, admittedly, was less and less as time went on) I was writing frantically on my laptop, or editing, or researching, lost in the world I had created, for hours on end. At those times I was unreachable, unreliable and non-communicative.

Thomas was supportive in the beginning; writing was my true passion and he said I must make time for it, to prove myself in the industry and work my way up, even if it meant that he had to pick up the slack. But as time went on--and I published my first book and then the second and was embarking on the third--he grew more and more weary, upset by my mental absences, my obsessive talk about fictional characters I imagined were real people, the weeks-long publicity tours. I had proven myself now, Thomas had said, so why must I still work so hard? I loved Thomas dearly, but he would simply never understand the life of a writer.

Thomas was already complaining that I didn’t give him enough of my time, and now he wanted to add children to the mix?  There was no way I could balance being a novelist, wife and mother, all while working a day job. Surely other women do it, but I hadn’t the physical or emotional strength. Besides, I thought myself too selfish to be a good mother. No, I decided, motherhood just wasn’t for me. I told Thomas all this. We fought about it. He said he’d take on more of the responsibilities.

Sure, he would’ve supported me in the beginning, taken on the additional duties of being a father, while also being a husband to a neurotic writer. But after awhile he would’ve grown weary, just like he did when I started gaining success as a writer. He’d grow to resent me and my career. I knew him well enough to know that that would happen. I would’ve given him what he wanted, children, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

My books had become my children. Since he had no part in their creation, and since he had no claim to them, he was threatened by their existence. He sensed my need to produce books was greater than my desire to produce children. And he believed, correctly, that I probably couldn’t give it all up if he asked me to. So he didn’t ask. After five years of marriage, he decided to leave rather than force me to make that decision.       

So when Lev, the young Israeli shopkeeper, asked me who I was, what was I to tell him? That I was a failure as a wife because I put my career before my husband’s needs? That my selfishness cost me the man of my dreams? That I thought a trip to Jerusalem to write a novel about the Talpiot tomb would boost my career and help me get over Thomas? 

How was I supposed to explain to Lev that even though we were strangers I needed his help? And that his help might require an element of danger and put his personal safety at risk? It was ridiculous, really. How stupid, how selfish of me to think he would even consider such a thing. But I had to come up with something quick, because the young Israeli boy was standing in front of me, asking what my intentions were. 

“Where are you from?” Lev asked, leaning on the counter.

“Philadelphia,” I said. “Have you been to the States?”

“No, but I want to. New York City, Boston, Los Angeles, maybe Philadelphia. What do you do there?”

“I’m a--”

I was about to tell a shameless lie, alter my profession, become the journalist I’d told myself I could morph into because I was far enough away from home to get away with it. My “credentials” would enhance my trip, I thought, give me access to people and places that would otherwise be denied to me. But looking at the young man in front of me, the one who’d already proven he was leery of journalists, I decided that I could not, in fact, get away with an identity transformation. My conscience, and, suddenly, reason, wouldn’t allow it. Because one lie would beget a second, which would produce a third, until finally I’d become someone I didn’t recognize anymore. That would be harmless for transient relationships in Jerusalem, but people I hoped would become friends and trusted partners? Best to leave the fiction at home where it belonged in my novels.

“I write novels,” I said.

“What type of novels?” he asked, ringing up my purchase.

“Novels for women.”

“Like romance novels? The kind with half-naked people on the cover? My sister reads those.”

“No, not exactly. Mine are more…chaste,” I said. How could I explain the chick-lit genre to a teenaged Israeli boy? “They’re mostly about single young women in their twenties and thirties trying to succeed in life and love.”

“Oh, okay,” Lev said, looking a little confused.

“But the new book I’m writing is a departure from what I’m used to. It’s a mystery about the Talpiot tomb.”

“Will it also be a novel for women?”

“Well, no. It won’t be entirely for women,” I said, handing him ninety shekels for the rosary. “I’m hoping to attract a broader audience.” I doubted if Lev knew anything about the publishing industry, and I wasn’t about to bore him.

“I see.” Lev put the money in the cash register and dashed behind a blue-curtained door behind the service counter. He re-emerged carrying a piece of wrapping paper, tape and scissors.

“Oh, you don’t have to gift-wrap it,” I said, surprised that he had remembered that detail from our conversation. “I was joking. Besides, I’d never get a wrapped box past Customs.”

Lev nodded in agreement and reached under the counter for a bag. He gently put the rosary in the plastic bag and handed it to me.

“Are you going to say in your book that the Talpiot tomb is the final resting place of Jesus Christ?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so,” I said, folding the plastic bag and placing it inside my shoulder bag.

“And you’re here to do research, talk to experts, find out if it’s at all possible?”

Lev probably wouldn’t understand why I felt I had to write this book, and would probably never help me. But I had to try.

“I’ve come here to do research, yes, but I also want to see the ossuaries for myself.” I left out the part about wanting to see the actual tomb, as well. Best not get ahead of myself.

Lev eyed me, sizing me up, perhaps, trying to see if I was serious and sincere. Finally he said, “Uri Nevon.”

“What?”

“Dr. Uri Nevon,” Lev clarified. “You need to talk to him.”

I immediately went for my bag and pulled out my notebook. “Who’s he?” I asked, rummaging for a pen.

“He teaches religion classes at Hebrew University,” Lev said, watching my actions as if memorizing them for a test.

Finding a pen, I wrote the name down in my notebook. “Do you know Dr. Nevon?”

“I took one of his classes recently--History of Early Christianity. You can find him in the Humanities Department.”

“Why should I talk to him?” I asked, jotting down more notes as Lev spoke.

Lev leaned across the counter as if to share a secret. “Professor Nevon seems to know more than anybody about the Talpiot tomb,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Some would say he’s obsessed!”

“Do you think he’s obsessed?” I asked, intrigued by this piece of information.

“No. I think he’s just very passionate about the tomb, and his line of work, too.”

“Has he seen the tomb?” I asked innocently, almost subconsciously, the questions flowing out of me as if I really was a journalist.

There was a pause, a moment of silence. My hand hung in mid-air above my notebook, the pen poised to write. I stared at the page, at the words starting to fill it line for line, waiting for Lev to respond. But there was only more silence. Why wasn’t Lev saying anything?

I looked up, distracted—-perturbed--by the sudden interruption in the flow of our conversation. Our eyes caught for the briefest of moments before he looked away.

“I…well, um…” he said, stammering, lowering his eyes to the counter. 

I tilted my head down to his eye level, hoping he’d see me attempting to make eye contact. “I’ll take that as a yes?” I asked slowly, as if doing so would encourage him to look at me, will him to speak the truth.

Lev sighed deeply. “Fine,” he said, straightening his shoulders and training his eyes on me. “But I don’t want him to know I told you…”

A smile broke out on my face, realizing that I was on the cusp of a breakthrough.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured Lev, with an even tone in my voice, even though I felt like my insides were about ready to burst through my skin. “I’ll tell him I found out some other way.”

Lev bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

I might have sounded nonplussed, but my mind was off and running. I was already thinking about what I was going to tell this Dr. Nevon when I met him, and enacting a plan as to how I was going to get inside the Talpiot tomb.

“Did Dr. Nevon talk about the tomb in class?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” Lev said, shaking his head forcefully. “Never.”

“Why not?”

“Miss Mara, you must know that the tomb is off limits. It’s been sealed up for a long time!”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Admitting that you’ve seen the Talpiot tomb isn’t something you advertise!” Lev said, his eyes wide. He was gripping the counter as if preventing it from flying away. “He hadn’t been invited! What he did was dangerous! What we…I mean, what he did was illegal!”

He didn’t think I heard him but I did.

We
. What
we
did.

I had one final question for the boy.

“Lev, if the professor never talked about the Talpiot tomb in class, then how do you know he’s seen it?”

Lev shrank back, a look of surprise on his face. He had said too much and he knew it. But then his body relaxed and he smiled, a devilish look in his eye.

“Miss Mara,” he said, grinning, “who do you think got him inside?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dr. Uri Nevon is a biblical scholar and historian, and a professor of biblical history courses at Hebrew University. He has given lectures at Harvard and Yale, as well as other colleges and universities around the world. He frequently contributes to biblical journals, and has authored two books, “Women of the Bible” and “The Case of the Missing Gospels.” He studied Jewish and biblical history at Bar Ilan University in Tel Aviv, where he earned a bachelor’s degree. He also holds a master’s in education (M.Ed.) and a doctorate in archeology and ancient near east from Hebrew University.