Gospel (90 page)

“What?” she asked, happy to discomfort him for a change. “Do I hear a recantation coming on?”

“Bah! Everything I wrote is true, I just shouldn't have written such a thing…” He trailed off, but Lucy waited for him to continue. “You see, little girl, in 1972, 1973, Jews for Jesus was making big inroads at Hebrew University and I had a nightmare vision of the Jewish state losing its youth. I wrote it in response to Moishe Rosen and the Jews for Jesus crowd but my attack … my attack made the rounds and found itself in publication. I didn't get a cent for it.”

Lucy considered this. “But I thought you wrote a preface for this edition.”

The rabbi, sinkingly, closed his eyes. “That's right. I have blocked this whole episode from my mind. A limited edition was brought out and—eh! To hell with it. You give it to me and I'll give you some money for it. It was not intended for a Christian audience.”

Lucy decided she wouldn't annoy him about this further. But she also had no intention of giving him back the book.

*   *   *

O'Hanrahan in the white BMW now studied the man who was giving him a lift to the New City: a good-natured, spherical German with red cheeks and yellow hair with an unlikely golden beard in King Tut fashion. He was dressed in a continental white linen suit, painstakingly tailored to his bulk, and several of his fingers had ostentatious rings.

“Patrick O'Hanrahan, at lahst ve meet!”

The professor merely eyed his host cautiously.

The man laughed a laugh higher than his speaking voice, composed of clearly enunciated “ha” sounds. “
Zu treffen ist sehr gut, sehr gut
 … Will you be so kind as to have a drink with me?”

O'Hanrahan had hoped to sober up, for after all, this day he had taken the pledge—

“A supreme white wine, I assure you,
ja
?”

“Ich möchte, mein Herr. Viel Dank,”
O'Hanrahan agreed. Well hell, there was plenty of time to sober up before his reunion with Lucy, lest she ridicule him about his alcohol-free pledge so easily broken.

The white BMW made its way up the Mount of Olives to the Intercontinental Hotel, which overlooks the Old City and possessed a balcony famous for its sweeping view. O'Hanrahan let himself be led through the lobby to a terrace table with two chairs, all prepared as if they'd both been expected.

“I never travel without my wine cellar,” the gentleman said, communicating the burden of his luxury. A Turkish young man of almost feminine beauty skipped out to see what his employer wanted. “Bodo,
der Trockenbeerenauslese, bitte. Ja.
” The fellow ran with great energy to fulfill this order. “Herr Professor, we have almost met twice and now the consummation!”

O'Hanrahan assented with an odd look.

“Thomas Matthias Kellner,” he said, putting out a pudgy hand. O'Hanrahan noticed a very expensive gold watch on his pink wrist. “We met almost in Rome,
ja?
And almost in my own hometown of Trier, when you were there this year making your researches.” Herr Kellner added coyly: “About you know whooo, hah-hah hah-hah…”

“I'm not sure I know what you are talking about.”

“Oh but you do. Herr Matthias and his amazing document,
nein?
Of course, I know all about it. I am a former owner of the document.”

O'Hanrahan reviewed the information: when Gabriel tried to steal the scroll in Rome and the Italian dealers swiped it back, the next buyer was a German man. The Ignatians bought it from him, before the Franciscans took possession of it. “Did you not get a good price, Herr Kellner?” the professor asked.

“Who can put a price on such a treasure?” he responded as the wine arrived. Bodo the houseboy set out glasses and assembled an ice stand. “As I said, I take my wine with me everywhere, lest I have to drink something local and dreadful. Palestine used to be famous for its grapes; still one can taste the Cabernet from Carmel, Special Reserve, but really, sir, you would with me agree … mediocrity. Now the making of wine is a scientific process,
mein Freund …
” Bodo uncorked a bottle of this exceedingly rare dessert wine of the Mosel from 1976 and poured a golden mouthful into Herr Kellner's glass to sip. “And where science is required, the Middle East eliminates itself … ahhh,
annehmbar,
not too presumptuous, as you might say.” With a nod, Bodo was directed to fill O'Hanrahan's glass.

“Prosit,” they said, toasting each other.

“Delicious,” savored O'Hanrahan, never having had a more expensive white wine. He noticed the label listed the vineyard as Heilig Matthiaskirche and there was what looked to be a Byzantine imperial insignia.

“You are a vintner, sir?” O'Hanrahan guessed.

“Yes,” he said, not elaborating. “Herr Tennyson's doggerel about having loved and lost is not true in antiquities collection, Herr Professor. This scroll vas in my hands, it vas out of my hands. I was convinced by an expert that the Matthias Gospel, for which I have searched for the last twenty years, was not what I bought. That I had been cheated. This expert claimed it was a pseudo-gospel from the 1200s.”

“I'm sorry, Herr Kellner.”

“So I thought I had been swindled in Rome,” Herr Kellner went on. “How lucky then that I so quickly found a buyer for the thing. A simple Irish churchman attempting to build a library in Ireland, I understood. Ach! It was all a charade.”

“Herr Kellner, there has been a man since Ireland in a German rented car following us through Italy and, I wouldn't be surprised, here to Jerusalem itself.”

“No, he's not mine,” he said, a little disappointed. “Oh, I do hope there are not too many people after this scroll.”

O'Hanrahan delighted in torturing him. “Very many, sir. There is a Mad Monk, we think, following our every move, intent on destroying this blasphemous document.”

Herr Kellner fumbled in his pocket for a German brand of antacids. “No, you mustn't tell me such things … Perhaps I shall accompany you? Two great minds are better,
ja,
than one,
glauben Sie nicht?
”

“Do you speak Meroitic?” asked O'Hanrahan, before devoting five minutes to encapsulating the century of vain effort that preceded them both.

“A lost language is a setback, I must admit,” said Herr Kellner, now taking from his pocket some prescription medicine.

O'Hanrahan barely hid his amusement. “Well sir, I still do not possess this scroll, despite what you might have heard. I foresee a trip to Wadi Natrun outside of Cairo, to the national library at Khartoum. Moslem countries,
mein Herr …
”

His lip turned down in Hapsburg fashion. “Yes,” he said mournfully, “where the barbarians do not allow the consumption of wine. The waste places!” Herr Kellner popped a handful of antacid tablets into his mouth, washing them down with wine. “You have no idea how deeply my folly is felt, Herr O'Hanrahan. Every part of my body is distressed. I sleep horribly, waking up to dreams of self-ridicule. My appetite is gone!”

O'Hanrahan imagined that particular hardship for his host.

“But I am brave. I shall join you in exploring this monastery in Cairo, you say? There are many fine hotels in Cairo.”

O'Hanrahan hadn't painted a sufficiently grim portrait. “As pilgrims we should only be allowed to sleep outdoors in the caves of the Libyan Desert. And Khartoum, Herr Kellner? The rigors of the Third World?”

The German undid his bottle of prescription medicine. “Ach, perhaps I shall leave the travel to you,” he conceded, changing tacks. “Let us broach then the subject of money. How much do you suppose this
Gospel of Matthias
would fetch in an open auction, hm? How much higher the price goes when one considers private collectors such as myself.”

“Tell me,” asked O'Hanrahan, “what possible enjoyment could you get out of simply owning this relic? It should be seen publicly, studied by scholars, put on display in a museum. How could you enjoy it collecting dust in a case in your library? Surely you don't want it merely because St. Matthias is your namesake.”

“
Ja,
it is a small part of my interest. I was baptized in the Helig Matthiaskirche forty-five years ago, Matthias Kellner.”

O'Hanrahan was struck by what a youthful ruddy face the gentleman had for being forty-five, if he was telling the truth, his fat somehow preserving him.

“
Ja,
I intend to put it in a museum. That scroll is the premier relic of the Holy Roman Empire, Herr Professor—perhaps of Christianity herself. But I tell you what you already know.”

“No,” said the professor, more eager to learn than to bask.

“Let us go back to the time of the Emperor Constantine and the 300s. Trier was the northernmost Roman capital, an ancient city of which there are yet a few remains, having avoided utter destruction for 1600 years by the Huns as well as American air assaults.”

O'Hanrahan wondered if this pause was intended for him to apologize for America's role in World War Two.

“Constantine possessed numerous relics of the Disciples, any and all he might have wished, indeed. But the only Disciple's relic he chose to take north of the Mediterranean was that of the obscure St. Matthias, thirteenth of the Twelve Disciples. Constantine's own librarian, Eusebius of Caesarea, pronounced the
Gospel of Matthias
lost and heretical—an odd thing, to be so sure of the heretical nature of something one hasn't read, hm? The truth is, Eusebius possessed a copy of
Matthias.
It is my theory that he owned
all
the so-called lost gospels and kept them in an
apokryphon,
a secret library,
ja
? And I believe that that secret library was built by Constantine in Trier.”

O'Hanrahan questioned, “But was placing an
apokryphon
in Trier wise, sir? With the invasion of the Huns and barbarians—”

“The exact opposite is true, forgive me. Trier was a perfect outpost for controversial matters. A few priests each generation made hidden the treasure of secret works, away from the Mediterranean squabbles and fights. Almost every library of note in the Mediterranean world was sacked or burned between 300 and 500, yes? The Huns wanted treasure—what did they care for scrolls and texts?” he added, as if he had been there. “I would like to point out to you an odd piece of
l'histoire trevaise.

“It is said that a convent guarded the scroll, protected by the Masons and Templars from Crusader times, during which the scroll was first translated, and its authenticity realized. The women could be expected to protect it since it suggested matters very,
wie sagt Man?
Feminist. A female Holy Spirit, an ascendancy of Mary the Magdalene, tales of a secret library for Christian women alone where the true revelation of Christ existed … many curiosities,
ja?
And so it was guarded by the Matthiasine Sisters and the Masons through the ages.”

This was all new to O'Hanrahan, and he wasn't sure he believed it. “So the contents of the gospel are known.”

“Oh, the translation has been lost for centuries, and only a few fragments, rumors perhaps, come down to us. I merely tell you what my own mother…” Herr Kellner looked to the clouds briefly, deeply moved. “… my own mother, who spent her final years in the Matthiasine convent herself. And passed to me, on her deathbed…” Again, emotion threatened to overtake this recital. “… these centuries-held secrets. From that time I have made the procurement of the
Gospel of Matthias
my life's goal.”

“Yes,” said O'Hanrahan slowly, gently, “but might this gospel, Herr Kellner, after all our troubles prove to be as inauthentic as Eusebius said? A latter-day fake?”

His host seemed impatient. “But truly, Herr Professor, we both know that the gospel is not a work of fiction. And the Matthiasine Sisters and Masons who guarded the secret library knew it was not a fiction. Indeed, tragedy struck Trier simply because too many people knew of the
Gospel of Matthias
and its secrets. The Jesuits, no less antagonistic then as now. There came…” A sickened, disgusted look transformed Herr Kellner's appearance. “… that devil, Bishop von Schoneburg. He was to lead the assault against the women of Trier and the surrounding villages in what was the worst witch hunt in European history.”

(The Trier Witch Hunt of 1587 to 1593 led by the Jesuits, Archbishop von Schoneburg and Bishop Binsfield, both currently reliving each execution exquisitely in Hell. In six years no woman remained untortured, some 368 witches were burned outright. Two women survived, an old woman they thought harmless and an orphaned idiot-child they thought ridiculous.)

Herr Kellner encapsulated the history of the Witch Hunt of Trier, concluding, “But the
Gospel of Matthias
was sewn by the old woman into the skirt of the idiot-child. Or so my dear mother…”

O'Hanrahan permitted himself to pour another glassful of the golden elixir while his host regained his composure.

“… my mother told me in her fevered final revelations of her deathbed.” A pink silken handkerchief was produced from his white linen jacket and he blew his nose. Then he said quite normally, “The convent there has known of these mysteries for 1700 years!”

O'Hanrahan was dismayed his own thorough research had missed this information. Why hadn't he visited the convent?

(Because it didn't occur to you that women could be the key to the
Gospel of Matthias's
mysteries. Just the Crusty Old Bachelor Fathers.)

“Herr Professor,” said the rich German seriously, “I invite you to research what I am saying. Jesuit accounts of the witch hunt reveal women claimed these so-called witches said the Holy Spirit was female and that God had a special mission for women—this sort of thing, with St. Matthias as the source. The secrets of Matthias were known only by a precious few after the witch hunt, but then we come to the World War Two.”