“Paul, I recognize it.”
“You do? I didn’t know you were a biblical scholar.”
“I’m not, but my dad is a scholar of military battles and the generals who led them. He’s a big fan of General George Patton.”
“What does that have to do with the passage from the Bible?”
“I remember Dad talking about a poem that Patton wrote. It was called ‘Through a Glass, Darkly,’ and I remember my father reading it at the dinner table one night.”
“Patton a poet?”
“Hold on a sec, I’ll see if I can pull the poem up online and read some of it.”
Marcus looked around the streets of Jerusalem. Women walked by him wearing burkas and dressed in black abayahs, worn from their necklines to their ankles. None looked directly at his face. Tourists crowded around booths and tables of outdoor merchants hawking everything from silk scarves to cheap jewelry and fake designer purses displayed on make-shift folding tables. It was a continuous garage sale on the ancient sidewalks. There was no wind and the air smelled of body odor, goat meat, leather and mixed incenses.
“Okay,” Alicia said. “I have it. Part of the poem written by General Patton goes like this: ‘I cannot name my battles for the visions are not clear, yet I see the twisted faces and I feel the rending spear. Perhaps I stabbed our savior in his sacred helpless side. Yet, I’ve called his name in blessing when after times I died.’”
“Sound like Patton is making reference to Christ on the cross and the Roman soldier who pierced his chest with a spear to see if he was dead.”
“If I remember my Catholic upbringing well, water and blood poured from the wound.”
“Wait a minute…”
“What?”
“Something’s going on.”
“What do you mean, Paul?”
“All of this. A poem, written by General George Patton. The reference to first Corinthians. The spear. He said I wasn’t asking the right questions. Call you back.”
“Right questions? Who said that? Paul? Are you there?”
Marcus walked quickly back in the direction of the coffee shop. He saw some men cutting dead palm fronds from a tree. He stopped, his heart hammering, watching the men use curved, serrated blades at the end of long poles to saw off the dried limbs. Marcus wiped a drop of sweat from his left eyebrow, the scar high on his right rib cage tingling. He punched in Jacob Kogen’s number. “Jacob, the inscription on the Ardon stained glass window—”
“Yes. What about it? Where are you?”
“In the Old City. The inscription references a spear — do you remember it?”
“It’s from Isaiah, and I know the passage well. It reads, ‘He shall judge between the nations, and shall decide for many peoples, and they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks—”
“Thanks. I have to go—”
“Paul, why do you want to know this? What have you found?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll call you later.”
Marcus stood in the heat, his mind racing. He watched older Arabic men, sitting in worn hardback chairs next to their shops. The men studied the approaching tourists, trying to determine their country of origin, and then choosing to greet them in the language of that nation. One man, Marcus noticed, was not watching the tourists. He was younger, muscular body under a stretched T-shirt. He leaned against an ancient stonewall, almost hidden in shadow, and averted his stare when Marcus looked at him.
FORTY-ONE
When Paul Marcus entered Cafez, Bahir was nowhere to be seen. Five customers sipped from small cups and looked up as Marcus walked quickly to the coffee bar. The man behind the counter was young, black hair cut short, wide smile, wearing a T-shirt that read: World Cup with an image of a coffee cup under the letters. Marcus recognized him. He’d seen him the night the mugger held a knife to Bahir’s throat. He was the grandson who arrived in a car after the attempted mugging.
“Where’s Bahir?”
“He wasn’t feeling so good. He went home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You were the American who helped Papa when the man pulled the knife. I recognize you. Papa said when you return to give you your laptop. Here, it’s behind the counter for safekeeping.” He handed the laptop to Marcus. “Would you like some coffee or a pastry?”
“Just water, please. Thanks.”
Marcus took the water to the table, sat down and opened his laptop. He keyed in phrases from the Bible and notes from Isaac Newton, and then cross-referenced them with multiple layers of decoding.
…‘this is he that came by water and blood, even Jesus Christ; not by water only, but by water and blood. And it is the spirit that bears witness, because the spirit is truth. The lamb’s wound shall yield blood and water…then the beast will breathe out a mountain of fire over the waters of the gulf…the sea will glow and become scarlet, as if the ocean filled with blood — destroying life in its path…
…he makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear, he burns the shields with fire…
…through a glass darkly…but then face to face…now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known…
…and they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks…
Marcus stared at the screen, trying to make sense of the information. “What does it mean?” he whispered. He shook his head a moment and looked at his watch. It was after 8:00 p.m. He felt his stomach growling and tried to remember the last time he’d eaten.
Marcus left the coffee shop, his mind on the data revealed and its possible meanings. He walked through the Old City with no destination in mind. Soon he was in the Muslim Quarter. He took a seat at a sidewalk café called Abu Shukri and ordered a plate of kibbe, hummus, pita bread, and a glass of chardonnay. He noticed a security guard standing near the entrance to the restaurant.
As Marcus ate, he heard a shrill yell. An African Grey parrot in a cage near the restaurant door, squawked; and in a perfect Arabic accent said, “Special today baba ghanoush,” followed by a laugh and long whistle. None of the other diners seemed to pay attention to the bird whose talents, amusingly, rivaled a carnival barker.
The waiter, an older man with a shine on his dark face, brought Marcus his check. “Was everything good?”
“Yes, very good. Thanks.”
The man smiled like he was relieved. “I apologize for the delay in getting your food to you. We were very busy and my waiter didn’t show up again tonight. I’m the owner. My wife is the cook. If you know of someone looking for work, tell him to come see me. My name is Radi.” He smiled. “You are from the states, right? Which state?”
“Virginia.”
He nodded.
“If I come across someone looking for a job, I’ll tell them you’re hiring,” Marcus said, counting out the cash on the table. He got directions back to his hotel and walked down the winding, narrow streets. Soon he found himself on a street that had an occasional archway built over it connecting the buildings and walls on either side of the street. Marcus followed the twisting lane, walking west, hoping to find Jaffe Gate and his hotel.
He walked through the Muslim Quarter following the same tight passageway. He looked up under a streetlight and read the inscription carved into the walclass="underline" Via Dolorosa. As Marcus entered the Christian Quarter, he realized there was no one else on the street. He glanced down at his watch: 10:45. He continued to follow Via Dolorosa, the ancient stones underfoot bathed in a warm golden light from the archways. The only sound was the echo of his hard leather shoes against the stone street and walls.