‘I don’t think it’s standard practice for men so prominent in the church to seek out women in their hotels, drive off with them in their cars, and bring them to a palazzo. We’ll have to talk about that eventually, Cardinal William,’ she said, settling on a half title.
The cardinal looked at Sarah and smiled. Then he stepped forward to a display that showed a poster of Jesus Christ, a common image, recognized by everyone regardless of his or her faith. At the bottom was the title of the exposition in large letters. Sarah found them curious: THE FACES OF CHRIST.
And in subtitle: Artistic Representations of Christ Through the Centuries.
An engraving dating from the first century A.D. was next to the poster. An image of the Nazarene in a somewhat crude sketch that was faithful to the idea of Christ at that time.
Curious, Sarah thought to herself.
‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ William asked.
‘Very,’ Sarah agreed, still looking at the artistic representations.
‘We have an image so associated with Him that we don’t realize that it came from the mind of an artist, and later from others, and so forth through the centuries,’ William explained. ‘Look at this one,’ he said, pointing to a painting in the third display that showed a powerful man with a sparse beard and his hand on the head of a kneeling man.
‘Is that Him?’ Sarah asked, curiously. ‘It doesn’t look like it.’
‘But it is. An artist’s vision.’
Sarah had not expected an evening like this, wandering through a room in a palace side by side with one of the most influential cardinals in the college.
‘Why’d you bring me here?’ she asked, a variation on the question she’d asked before, like an artist creating something different from the same motif.
William pointed at the various images in the exposition. ‘For Him.’
Sarah looked puzzled at the different representations. Maybe William had not explained himself clearly. ‘For whom?’
‘For Yeshua ben Joseph.’ He proclaimed. ‘Jesus, the son of Joseph.’
She still didn’t understand. What was she there for? She waited for William to continue.
‘Sarah has a special talent. Rare in journalists, let’s say. Discretion.’ He praised her.
Sarah decided to stay silent. She didn’t know how to respond to the observation.
‘It’s not just journalism that lacks discretion. A lot of other professions could use it. Seriousness, too.’
‘Is the church discreet and serious?’ Sarah asked.
‘There are times when it’s not, I confess. Times we don’t like to remember, but today I’m proud to belong to an institution that excels in both qualities.’
Sarah didn’t doubt that William believed what he was saying, but she did doubt the complete honesty of his assertion.
‘According to the Holy Father, Sarah also excels in those qualities.’
Would the pope speak about her qualities? This remark left her perplexed, internally; externally she remained impassive. She’d learned not to show her feelings with Rafa… Oh, forget him.
‘The Holy Father?’ Sarah smiled. ‘Surely he has more to worry about than my qualities.’
‘Everything, Sarah. The Holy Father is a man who worries about all the sheep in his flock.’
‘Please, Cardinal William. I’m sorry, but I’m not a sheep in the pope’s flock.’
‘You have two books that prove it. That show you want to know the problems, that you want them to be solved, that you worry about them,’ the prefect argued.
‘Two books that, probably, the congregation over which you preside would censure if the Index Libro-rum Prohibitorum still existed,’ Sarah replied. She never thought she’d be speaking on equal terms with a cardinal.
‘The Holy Inquisition continues to exist, my dear. And it’s important that it does. But with respect to your reply, let me tell you that the Roman Catholic Church never for a moment opposed your books. There has not been one unfavorable review or angry sermon. Nothing.’
Sarah wasn’t convinced in the least. ‘Sometimes silence is the best remedy. The church is a master at letting time erase what it doesn’t want remembered.’
‘Let me remind you that you are alive because of this church you reproach and this pope you criticize.’
Sarah respected the remark. It was true. Twice. It suited the church to intervene in her favor, but, yes, it had done so.
‘Has the time come to collect?’ Sarah asked, frowning. Was that it?
William didn’t answer. He continued to walk along, looking at the faces of Christ. Some were very similar, others added something more: an athletic bearing, a physical detail, different hair, now blond, now brown, shorter, longer, thin, good-natured, smiling, suffering, contemplative, miraculous, enigmatic, angry, frightened. There were innumerable representations of the same person, each different and yet all the same, if that were possible.
‘The church needs you, Sarah,’ William concluded. ‘We’re in a war and under secret attack. It’s not a payback but an urgent request.’
Sarah was even more confused. What service could she provide for a church that made a cardinal look for her personally at her hotel?
‘In 1947 a Bedouin named Muhammed ehd-Dhib happened to find some parchments inside some jars while he was looking for a lost sheep,’ William began.
‘Qumran. The Dead Sea scrolls. I know the story,’ Sarah informed him.
‘Well, that story’s completely false.’
This was news indeed.
‘The person behind the expedition was an Israeli named Ben Isaac. Ever heard of him?’
Sarah searched her memory, but found nothing. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s lived in the same city as you have for more decades than you’ve been alive,’ he said with a sad smile. It wasn’t a story he liked to tell. ‘He fabricated the story of the Bedouin to be able to investigate more thoroughly what his team had discovered. He was ingenious. In the ultimate analysis it was providential. The hunt for the scrolls began. Complete and partial parchments were sold on the black market for millions of dollars. Total fraud in the majority of the cases.’
William continued the detailed account. The church had its own agents in all the markets of the Near and Middle East looking for any documents relevant to the Holy See or the history of the West. Sarah imagined Rafael as one of these infiltrators, with turban and dagger, or saber, in a white tunic negotiating in the hot sands of Damascus, Amman, and Jerusalem. Of course he wasn’t old enough for this.
From time to time there was talk, whispers only to interested parties, about some fragment that appeared in some place in the possession of some person or another. Offers came in from all sides, always in a tent, never in the heat of the sun, and the church managed to acquire some of these fragments of history in exchange for large sums of money. They were translated and authenticated. The Dead Sea Scrolls do in fact exist. For some time they were not seen or heard of by anyone, but then two or three appeared at the same time. Ben Isaac released a few he deemed sufficiently provocative, but harmless.
‘And how was it they discovered his scheme?’
‘It was God.
‘They might never have been discovered. Ben Isaac was an intelligent man with an acute, discreet mind. But one of the archaeologists who was part of the Israeli’s team quarreled with his supervisor and resolved to abandon the project. Despite a pledge of secrecy, he sent an anonymous accusation to the secretary of state. It was the pontificate of the good Pope John that tried to verify the information. It was confirmed.’
William was silent for a few moments to let all this sink in for Sarah, who listened attentively.
‘But the story of the Bedouin prevails today,’ Sarah objected.
‘In the beginning we decided not to reveal the false story, until we saw what was going to happen. It turned out to be advantageous to both sides.’