The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (7 page)

I looked up from the bio I had printed from the Internet and down at the room laid out in front of me. The lecture hall was almost full. Students scribbled furiously into notebooks and some typed on laptops.

The professor, Dr. Uri Nevon, paced in front of the long white board as he spoke, his hands clasped behind his back. It seemed at times as if he was talking to himself instead of a room full of students, until a hand went up or someone asked a question. Then the professor stopped dead in his tracks, searched the room for the inquiring student and went to him or her. He would stand beside or in front of the student, address the question at hand, and when he was sure the question was answered fully and they could move on, he resumed his pacing at the front of the room. It was an odd way to lecture, but an effective one, as not one student seemed to lose interest or nod off the entire hour, and only once did a cell phone go off. I even found myself, ten minutes in, reaching into my bag for my notebook.

Dr. Nevon wore loose-fitting khaki pants that didn’t fit quite right, and a faded, dark blue blazer overtop of a light-blue button up shirt. He had brown curly hair, dark eyes and a prominent nose. A few gray hairs around the temples led me to believe he was a little older than me but not as old as I had expected he would be. Forty, perhaps.

I sat in the top row in the far left hand corner of the room, hunched over a desk in order to blend in with the large crowd.  

   A hand shot up in response to a statement Professor Nevon was making about the Twelve Apostles. It belonged to a female student near the front row. Her short, bobbed hair swished side to side as she shook her arm to get the professor’s attention.

“Professor, what about Mary Magdalene?” she called out, still holding her hand in the air. “Was she considered an Apostle of Jesus?”

Dr. Nevon walked over to the student and was about to address the issue when another student spoke up--a boy seated several rows behind her.

“Why don’t you ask the professor what you really want to know?” he asked, mockingly, as if he knew the girl, and her gossipy proclivities, well.

The girl whipped around in her seat and shot him a glare. “Which is?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

“Were Jesus and Mary Magdalene lovers?” the young man asked, drawing out the word ‘lovers.’

There were giggles and snickers from a few of the students.

“Is that what you wanted to know?” Dr. Nevon asked, directing his attention back to the female student. “If Jesus and Mary Magdalene had a relationship beyond that of just teacher and disciple?”

“Well, I guess…” the female student said, squirming in her seat. “I mean, I’ve heard what-if scenarios about them being married and having a child.”

“The simple answer to that question is, we don’t know,” the professor said, addressing the entire class. “The gospels don’t say much about Mary Magdalene, let alone her relationship with Jesus. The early Christian church branded her as a prostitute. Through the centuries she has constantly been reinvented. She is such a mystery that we may never know her true identity. Or we’ll never be
allowed
to know.”

The same male student who had antagonized the female student raised his hand and spoke simultaneously. He ignored the implication made by the professor and went straight to the gutter.

“You mean there’s a possibility that they were gettin’ it on?” he asked, his voice low and sultry like a soul singer’s.

At this, the classroom erupted in a cacophony of commotion. Male students hooped and hollered and high-fived, and female students rolled their eyes and squawked at their classmate’s vulgarity.

The professor shook his head, smiling, as if to say, “kids will be kids.”

“Okay, okay,” the professor called out loudly in order to be heard above the ruckus. He motioned for the classroom to settle down by raising and lowering his hands in unison.

As the final murmurs died down the female student raised her hand once again.

“Certainly the Talpiot tomb has some answers to give,” she said playfully. “Right, professor?”

I couldn’t see her face clearly (I’d been staring mostly at profiles and the backs of heads) but if I had to bet on her expression, I’d say her eyes twinkled at the thought of a secret only she thought she knew, and I imagined her lips were curled up in mischievous delight.  

The whole room fell silent. I sat up straighter in my chair, surprised by the mention of the Talpiot tomb. What would make her bring that up? 

Lev had said Uri never spoke about having seen the Talpiot tomb. Did this student know that he had gained access? And if so, how did she find out?

Dr. Nevon smiled and stared at the floor a moment, probably wondering how to address the sudden change of subject.

“Perhaps it does,” he said finally. “And one day we may know the truth. Until then, the mystery lives on…”

A few of the students exchanged curious glances, and the room remained silent, waiting for the professor to offer more. But he didn’t. He returned to the front of the class and resumed pacing, launching into a new discussion on another one of Jesus’ Twelve Apostles.

Before I knew it an hour had passed and the professor was dismissing the class. I waited until the last student had left the classroom before approaching him.

“Dr. Nevon?” I said, walking down the steps towards the front of the classroom. There was a lectern in front of the white board, and the professor stood at it, loading papers into his briefcase.

“Yes?” he said, not looking up from his briefcase.

“May I have a moment of your time?”

His personal affects finally in order, he raised his head, prepared to deal with whoever was inquiring after him. He set his eyes on me, not unlike the way he looked at his students when they asked a question: deep in the eyes, brows slightly arched in preparation to listen, mouth set squarely.

Up close, I was able to see more of his features: fine lines around the eyes, a thin, yet well-defined nose, a chiseled jaw line. He was, I decided, quite handsome.

The expression on his face changed from inquisitiveness to confusion. 

“Are you a student of mine?” he asked. “I don’t recall seeing you in class.”

“No, um, I’m not a student here,” I said, intimidated but determined. “But I am interested in a comment one of your students made.”

“That would explain why you don’t look familiar,” the professor said. “What comment are you referring to?”

“The comment about the Talpiot tomb.”

“Ah yes, that one,” he said, nodding. “Once in a while someone mentions the tomb in class.”

“I’d like to talk to you about it. About the Talpiot tomb, I mean.”

The professor took his briefcase off the lectern and held it in his left hand. “Is that why you’re here, Miss…”

“Mara Beltane,” I said, holding my hand out to him. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself.”

“Don’t apologize,” the professor said, shaking my hand. “Do you live in Jerusalem?”

“No, I live in the U.S.,” I said, starting to get nervous that we had breeched the issue of my provenance so soon in the conversation.

“Ah, I see,” said the professor. If he meant to ask my nationality, he refrained, perhaps out of kindness, perhaps because, like most non-Americans, he already knew.

He said nothing further, so I delved into my pitch. One that I had made up shortly after meeting with Lev the day before. Now if only I could get through it.

“I’m here on assignment with TIME magazine,” I said. “Do you read TIME?”

“Well, I used to, years ago. But I’m afraid I haven’t the time anymore.” He smiled as if offering an apology.

Relief swept over me, realizing that he wasn’t overly familiar with the magazine I was pretending to work for.

“I’m writing a story about the Talpiot tomb and the controversial ossuaries found inside,” I said, feeling my confidence build and the words flowing out of me. “Since you’re a biblical scholar, I thought you might have some insight.”

“I can certainly try to answer any questions you may have,” the professor said, shifting his briefcase from his left to his right hand. “Just call the Humanities Department secretary and she’ll be able to schedule a time for us to meet.”

He shifted on his feet, as if he was about to excuse himself and leave. But I wasn’t ready to let him go. Sure, I could call his secretary and schedule an appointment, but then I’d have to build my confidence all over again. Dr. Nevon was here right now, introductions had been made, and as long as I wouldn’t be interfering with this schedule, I wanted to get started as soon as possible.

“Oh, well, do you have time now?” I asked. “I only have a few questions…”

Dr. Nevon looked at his watch. “I suppose I have a few minutes before my next class.” He motioned for us to sit down in the front row of seats.

“How familiar are you, would you say, with the Talpiot tomb?” I asked as we both got situated. I had pulled my notebook out of my bag, found a pen, and was starting to take notes when the professor answered.

“I was a young boy when it was discovered,” he said, shifting in his chair so he was facing me. “It made the news and the papers, but as you must know tombs and artifacts are discovered here frequently, so it was not that big of a deal. At least, not at the time.”

“It wasn’t a big deal at the time?” I asked, pretending I didn’t already know this fact.

“No. The tomb is from the first century, and is rather common for a middle-class Jewish family living at that time.”

“And the ossuaries found inside?”

“Ten in all,” Dr. Nevon confirmed. “Six inscribed, four un-inscribed.”

  “I must ask you about the names etched on the six inscribed ossuaries.”

The professor shrugged. “Common Jewish names.”

So far I hadn’t learned anything new. But at least my talk with Professor Nevon hadn’t yet devolved into a disagreement, like the conversation I’d had with Tovah at the Rockefeller Museum. I had been too eager, trying too hard to get to the center of the debate too quickly. My plan had backfired and I had learned my lesson. Best to ease into the conversation, I decided, and try to lead the conversation into the direction I wanted it to go.

“Jesus: wasn’t that a name on one of the ossuaries?”

“Yes.”

“And Mary. And Matthew. And…let’s see…” I flipped back through several pages of notes, pretending I needed assistance remembering the other names.

“…And Joseph, Judah, and another Mary,” the professor said.

“Yes, thank you.” Then I laughed, as if suddenly amused by something. “You know, I can’t believe a silly documentary started all this controversy!”

Writing in my notebook as I said this, I was aware of a sudden calm in the room. The professor was silent and still, and all I could hear were the buzz of the florescent lights above us and the sound of my own scribbling. I dotted an “i” and crossed a “t” and looked up from my notebook.

The professor was looking past me, just over my left shoulder, his eyes fixated as if focused on some object in the distance behind me.

“The documentary,” he whispered.

“Have you seen it?” I asked, still fake laughing, but cognizant of the professor’s change in demeanor.

“I have,” Dr. Nevon said, his eyes still searching in the distance.

“I heard it created a media frenzy here! What do you think of the documentary? Pure lunacy?”

The professor snapped to and his eyes met mine. “Well, you heard what I told my students. The mystery lives on…”

“So are you saying that the documentary could one day prove accurate?”

“Just that more time and research will tell…” he said, shrugging.

“Other than that documentary, have there been any photos or videos released of what the tomb looks like?” I asked, knowing the answer to that question, too.

“The AIA released a report, documenting what was found inside, with pictures of the six inscribed ossuaries. One of the archeologists who excavated the tomb released his own report as well, with detailed sketches of the interior and exterior of the tomb.”

“Is this report accurate with what you’ve seen?”

“What I’ve seen?”

I cringed, realizing what I’d just suggested.

“What…what do you mean?” the professor asked, shifting in his chair.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “What I meant was…you know…”

At that moment I realized I had failed again. With Tovah, I pretended to be an aggressive tourist, and now I was pretending to be an investigative journalist. Neither approach worked. Why hadn’t I just been me? It seemed to work with Lev. It took some negotiating, but in the end being myself had led me to Dr. Nevon. Why hadn’t I just told the professor the truth?   

I sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, professor,” I said, packing my things into my shoulder bag and getting up to leave. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Dr. Nevon stood. “I…I don’t understand.”

I looked the professor in the eyes and decided that the truth was finally in order.

“Lev sent me,” I confessed.

I wasn’t sure the professor would know who Lev was, since I didn’t know his last name and for all I knew the professor could’ve had several students named Lev over the years. Or friends named Lev. Or relatives named Lev. I could be talking about anybody. Or nobody at all.

There was a moment of silence as the professor looked at me, and then at the ground, and then at me again, before finally saying, “Oh, I see.”

“Do you know who I’m talking about, professor?”

“Yes, I certainly do,” he said, smiling wistfully.

“I’m here to write a novel about the Talpiot tomb, a book I thought could be a guaranteed best-seller. I want to see the ossuaries—-and maybe even the tomb--for myself. Lev thought you’d be able to help me.”

I secured my bag over my shoulder and turned to walk away, defeated, feeling as if I had squandered my best, and perhaps only, chance of gaining access to the Talpiot tomb.

The professor reached out and touched my shoulder, stopping me.

“Mara? Is that what you said your name was?” he asked, searching my eyes.

“Yes.”

Professor Nevon scanned the room to make sure we were alone.