Elisha’s Bones (17 page)

Across the aisle, Espy is sandwiched between two young men who look like students. She wears a smile, and I can tell it’s not manufactured. Even though twenty-two people are jammed into a vehicle built to seat twelve, and the air is filled with a dense mixture of unpleasant smells, and the weyala—in between collecting fares—is making off-color remarks about her, and one of her seatmates keeps smelling her hair, she seems to be having a great time. It’s a full cultural immersion; more than that, it’s an embrace of her circumstances. I have to smile, despite the fact that cell-phone guy has turned so he’s shouting directly into my ear.

The fact that she’s on the bus is a testament both to her stubbornness and my inability to hold the line against a hostile front. It encourages me to know that even her brother had been unable to keep her from coming along, and for as much as he maintains a fear of his sister, he can be an impassioned and convincing orator. In the end, after more than an hour spent arguing the matter, it boiled down to the bruise on her leg. She has a stake in this; her pain is her ante.

The fact that I’m on the bus is a testament to something else. I’m no longer on Reese’s payroll, which means I’m working for free. But there is an understanding between Espy and me that we’ve invested too much to give up. Now I just want to find the bones, regardless of any power they possess. I want to spite Reese. Too, I want to see the things that Will may have died for.

The driver navigates the turns to get us onto King George Street without going anywhere near the brake, and we ride the wrong lane for the few harrowing moments it takes for us to slip back into the flow of traffic. Through my window I have a clear view as the Arat Kilo monument—a monolithic structure that sits in the center of the square—comes into view and the bus screeches to a halt. But our destination is beyond this; I can see a dome beckoning. The weyala shouts “Mercado!” several times into the crowd, announcing the destination for the return trip, and a few people climb aboard before the bus lurches and speeds off to its last stop before returning to the open-air market.

When Esperanza and I are, to my relief, deposited within a short walk of our objective, I take in a large draught of air and execute a sleepy stretch and then start down the narrow access road—almost a long driveway—that will take us to Trinity Cathedral. Espy is in step and, in contrast to my condition, she looks energized. Some people just travel well, and I’m a bit envious of that.

Most descriptions of the massive church ascribe European sensibilities to the structure. But to my eye, there’s a visible, if minimal, classical North African element evident amid the Old World lines. In terms of most sacred buildings in Addis Ababa, Trinity is new—completed in 1941. But the builders stayed true to all that makes Orthodox construction unique. The details are beyond exquisite, showcasing a love of iconic imagery and ornate design.

As we enter the courtyard, its borders defined by a low stone gate with spaced pillars joined by chains, I notice Espy running appreciative eyes over the architecture. Our progress is slow through the courtyard; we almost dawdle as we pass the statues of the four writers of the Gospels.

Finally we reach the entrance, where there’s a steady stream of people entering and exiting—tourists and the devout carrying cameras or prayer books. Espy and I slip into the tourist line and pay the fee.

It takes my eyes some time to adjust after entering, and I bump into someone I can’t see enough to avoid. After turning down a tour guide who appears out of nowhere, we both remove our shoes and walk deeper into the cathedral. I’m taking in as many of the details as I can while still remaining mindful of the reason I’m here. After spending some time appreciating the cathedral’s interior, we head toward one of the two doors on either side of the altar, my right hand running along the back of a wooden pew. Ignoring the few men and women praying in various parts of the sanctuary, I disappear through the door, Esperanza in tow, before someone tries to stop us.

Following the directions he gave when I called from the plane, I proceed to the end of the hall, make a right, and stop at the second doorway.

Alem’nesh Wuhib must have a sixth sense, because a tennis ball is in the air before I’ve cleared the threshold. I catch the ball a few inches from my face, somehow doing so without dropping my shoes.

“Hello, my friend,” Alem’nesh says with a wide smile. He stands and comes out from behind a desk and gives me a warm embrace. I’m still clutching the tennis ball at eye level.

“Hello, Al.”

As he steps back, I toss the ball into the air between us and he fields it and, as smoothly as a magician, slips it into a pocket of his sticharion.

Alem’nesh is Oromo, the largest ethnic group in Ethiopia. He has sharp features, highlighted by a strong nose—the nose of a pharaoh. And he has eyes that see everything.

“You look good,” I say.

A close perusal—without the prospect of dodging various objects—reveals a touch of salt-and-pepper to his dark hair, and a pudgier face. But he looks largely as he did the last time I saw him, which is largely as he looked when we went to college together. It was then the projectile game took its form, at a time when a silly contest could compensate for the stress built into the lab-partner dynamic—an arrangement made more difficult by the language barrier between us. He has since become fluent in English, and I’ve learned just enough of his language to find a bathroom and count out cab fare. Alem’nesh left the study of archaeology for the ministry the next semester. I had harbored guilt for a while because I was certain it was our pairing that ruined the field for him.

His eyes stray to my right. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure,” he says to Esperanza, extending a hand, which Espy takes in her own.

“Reverend Father,” she says, bowing. “Bless, Father.”

Alem’nesh beams at the proper usage of the honorific, and the customary request for a blessing, spoken in his native Amharic.

“Please, I’m Alem’nesh. Or if you are challenged by relatively simple, if foreign-sounding, names,” he adds, looking at me, “Al will do.”

“Esperanza Habilla. It’s a pleasure, Alem’nesh.”

He leans toward her with a conspirator’s twinkle in his eye. “How does someone like Jack merit a traveling companion so obviously superior to him in every way?”

“Oh, you and I are going to be good friends, I can tell,” she answers.

I can only shake my head and wonder if the fact that I’m always the butt of the joke when people I know meet each other says something unpleasant about me. I feign a pained expression that seems to please them both. What I keep to myself is my own appreciation for Espy’s talents. I learned back on the bus, when I heard her conversing with her seatmates, that she has added Amharic to her language pantheon. And now to find her familiar with the customs of the Orthodox Church on the other side of the world . . . It’s a reminder that even people you think you know can surprise you. I’m hoping—
praying
is not too strong a word—that Alem’nesh will surprise me.

As if sensing my unspoken request, Alem’nesh releases Espy’s hand and gestures to a pair of chairs facing the desk.

“Come, sit,” he says, taking each of us by an elbow and guiding us to the seats. Once we are situated and he has claimed his own spot behind the desk, he offers a knowing smile. “It’s been a long time, Jack. I was very surprised to get your call.”

“It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years,” I say.

“What’s ten years among good friends?”

There’s a lot of history between us, and I feel a measure of guilt for popping up after so long because I need something. But I can’t spare the time it would require to complete the cultural niceties. Fortunately my old school chum understands Western sensibilities; he’s used to our brand of narcissism.

He is quiet, except I hear him making a clicking sound with his tongue that indicates he is thinking. It would always annoy me when he would do that.

“There is something wrong.”

“I need a favor, Al.” It’s become my mantra, my own personal bumper sticker:
Itinerant archaeologist needs a favor
.

“You’re not going to ask to see the Ark of the Covenant at St. Mary’s, are you?” he asks with a chuckle.

“Tempting, but no. I’m here for something else.”

“Then tell me. What has brought you to see me from so far away?”

Since I’m in a church, I reason that honesty is the best policy. “What can you tell me about the bones of the prophet Elisha?”

There’s a reason that I wanted to be here when I asked the question. I wanted to see his face, in that instant before lucid thought would provide a mask. I hate the knowledge that our past friendship does not engender sufficient trust so that I would accept his answer as gospel. The truth is that when one buys into a religion, protecting that belief system can become more important than anything else. Alem’nesh is a man I haven’t seen in a decade; and he’s not Romero.

The moment comes and goes, too quick, but what I catch, what I see fly past his eyes, is enough to incline me in one direction. Unless I’m clinging to something that’s not there, and his expression was the simple result of an odd question.

The answer he gives is of the one-size-fits-all sort. “You came to see me so that I could tell you a Bible story?”

“I came to see you because you’re my friend. And because you’re the only Ethiopian Orthodox priest I know well enough that I can ask strange questions without feeling like a complete idiot.”

Alem’nesh appears to digest this, and he starts that tongue-clicking thing again. I can’t read his face. Finally he says, “You must help me understand your question. You do not wish a recounting of the biblical story, but what more could I give you?”

It’s a valid point. Fortunately, Espy saves me from the duty of clarification.

“What we want to know, Reverend Father, is if the bones of the prophet Elisha are part of some international conspiracy spanning over twenty-five hundred years, several families, the ancient Egyptians, the Coptic church, and at least one South American trade organization.” When she finishes, she offers a smile, yet it does nothing to fill the silence that settles on us. If I’m grateful for nothing else, it’s that Al has stopped making that infernal noise.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but what I see on Al’s face isn’t it. There is something resembling incredulity, that’s certain, only it seems the degree is off a bit. I imagine my expression looks more surprised than his—a result of hearing how outrageous my hypothesis sounds when stated so concisely. No, what I see in Alem’nesh is something else—not fear, but something like it. Worry, perhaps?

I don’t know how much time passes, but it seems like a great deal. During the interval, the worry, if that’s what it is, melts away, replaced by something I can’t qualify. The eyes that see everything are also able to reveal nothing. I’m comfortable waiting for him to speak. I suppose that’s a result of bearing up under so much of Duckey’s scrutiny.

He’s the one who breaks the silence. Al leans forward in his chair and steeples his fingers on the desk. I can’t read his expression; I can only acknowledge that there are a number of things fighting for premier placement.

“I do not know how to respond to something like that, Ms. Habilla,” he says. “Where did you come up with such an engaging story?”

“Al, I have the evidence,” I say. “It’s not enough to prove anything in court, and it wouldn’t stand up under peer review. But I can follow clues as well as the next guy.”

“Clues that say we are involved in the preservation of holy relics over a period of more than two millennia?”

“In a nutshell.”

“Preposterous.”

“Why? Your church makes no secret of the fact that you have the Ark of the Covenant. Now, you never let anyone actually look at it, but you say you have it.”

“Careful, my friend,” he says after a few beats. “There is no cause for insults.”

“That’s not what I meant, Al.”

“I know what you meant.” He sighs. “I’m not certain what this is all about, why you are chasing phantoms, things with no substance, but I cannot help you in this.”

There is finality to the statement, and in retrospect I’m not sure what I was expecting. He’s a priest, one who will never become a bishop because he chose to marry. Why would he be privy to one of his faith’s most well-kept secrets? I’d hoped that because of the church in which he was placed, and the fact that he has a talent for cultivating the right contacts, and because there are always rumors whispered in the dark, he would know something. Still, I have one more card to play.

“What’s at Lalibela, Alem’nesh?”

He reacts with a start—one that no amount of preparation could have kept in check. He knows now that I’m not just fishing, that I have some of the pieces to the puzzle. I watch as his eyes darken in resolve.

“Again, I cannot help you, my friend.”

“My brother died because of them,” I say.

He looks as if I’ve pained him. I’m not even certain he knew my brother was dead. I go on to tell him about Egypt, about the man I saw there, and how I saw the same man in Rubio. I leave out most of the details, telling him just enough to get him to see the connection. I’m in the risky position of needing this man’s help yet having to be wary of revealing too much to him. As I speak, the effect of my words is obvious; it’s akin to the way things changed for Espy when she stood in front of the symbols in the temple, instead of flipping through pictures in a book. When I’ve finished, Al is quiet, but I can see that he’s deep in thought.

“Alem’nesh,” Espy begins in near-perfect Amharic, “people have died because of these things.”

It elicits a sad smile from the priest. “People die for many things, Ms. Habilla.”

I do not add anything. I’ve said all I can say, and Espy has provided support. It’s now Alem’nesh’s decision, and I will not fault him whatever choice he makes. For once, the eyes that see everything, show everything, and it’s a fierce battle—a weighing of allegiances. It’s a painful thing, this reconciliation of past loyalties and current responsibilities. The silence, broken only by the sound of a ringing telephone in another office, is so complete that I almost jump when he speaks.