Onno stopped speaking. Hopefully, he had finally persuaded Quinten by now. "Anyway. . Grisar mentions that he was given permission on May 29, 1905—and I just saw in the Herald Tribune that that's exactly eighty years ago today."
There was a silence.
"Then I'll be seventeen tomorrow," said Quinten in astonishment. He had not thought of his birthday for a moment. Since he had left Holland, the time had assumed the endless quality of earlier summer vacations.
"Indeed!" cried Onno. "That too! The omens are favorable — and we're going to celebrate that, on the dot of twelve at Mauro's on the corner. Just say what you want, and you'll get it sight unseen."
After a few seconds Quinten's voice came from the black window, in which his contour was scarcely distinguishable from the night sky behind him:
"Your help."
"My help? What with?"
"With recovering the Ten Commandments."
"Dear Quinten," said Onno after a few moments of feigned calm. "Even as a joke I don't think that's very good. You're surely not going to tell me that you are really toying with the idea of violence?"
"Yes. That is. . I'm not playing. And violence? No. At least. . if everything that happens without permission is violence then yes, yes."
Onno groped over the table, found a box of matches, and lit a candle. When he saw Quinten's face, with two small flames in his dark eyes, he realized that he was serious. But that was inconceivable! Up to now he had let himself be manipulated by Quinten's enthusiasm, which was as infectious as it was inexorable, as if he had no will of his own; but this was really the moment to call a halt to it.
"That's really enough now, Quinten," he said decisively. "You must know when to stop. It's gradually beginning to show signs of an obsession. Listen, I know exactly what the excitement and the suspense of a new theory are like, particularly if you've formulated it yourself; and I don't need soccer matches or wars for that. But you're threatening to cross a borderline, and that could go completely wrong — you could wind up in prison. And I don't think I can recommend Italian jails to you."
Because his back was starting to get cold, Quinten climbed off the windowsill and closed the window. "Aren't the Ten Commandments worth the risk of prison?"
"Yes!" cried Onno, and raised both his arms. "If you put it like that — of course! Life imprisonment! The stake!"
Quinten gave a short laugh. "Tell me honestly, Dad. Do you think it's a crazy idea?"
"I don't really know," sighed Onno. "An anecdote of Max's about Niels Bohr occurs to me. When somebody once developed a new physics theory, Bohr said, Your theory is crazy, but not crazy enough to be true.' " He looked at Quinten ironically. "As far as that's concerned, yours is in excellent shape."
"So it's almost certainly true."
"So it's almost certainly true. Credo quia absurdum."
Onno felt that he was losing ground again. He got up and started pacing around the room in his threadbare brown slippers with the worn heels, without a walking stick, looking for support as he turned around. How was he to tackle it, in God's name? Now, if it was a question of the treasure of the Romanovs or the Treasure in the Silver Lake — but the stone tablets of the Law! Did Quinten really know what he was talking about? Of course God didn't exist, and perhaps Moses had never existed, but the Ten Commandments existed: there was no doubt about that. On the other hand it seemed as if the existence of the Decalogue — the foundation of all morality — on the one hand crystallized into God, on the other hand into Moses, and in between also into those stone tablets. Was it that what was primary was not things but the relations between things? Did love create lovers, and not the other way around? Could love itself subsequently take on the form of a stone, or of two stones?
"What are you thinking about?"
Onno stopped and was lost for words. Quinten looked at him, half his face in black shadow cast by the candlelight. The calm that the boy exuded suddenly infuriated him.
"Dammit, Quinten, you must be out of your mind!" he exploded. "What are you getting into your head? How do you imagine it happening? How are you proposing to get into the chapel? And then into that altar? Were you going to saw through all the bars perhaps? Read Grisar! In the sixteenth century you had the Sacco di Roma, when the chapel was plundered by French troops, but they could only get in by forcing the priests to open the door. But they didn't have the key to the altar, and there was no other way of getting in. Otherwise even in 1905 all those gold and silver treasures wouldn't have been in there anymore. And you think you can do it? Without anyone noticing?"
"Yes."
"How, then?"
"By opening those locks."
"And you can do that?"
"Yes."
"Without keys?"
"Yes."
"While it's bristling with priests everywhere and the Holy Stairs are full of people?"
"But not at night. Of course we're going to let ourselves be locked in."
"We? Do you really think I'm going to allow myself to get involved in such a crazy undertaking?"
"I hope so."
"But there's bound to be an electronic security system!"
"There isn't."
"How do you know?"
"I checked."
"And do you by any chance know what the Eighth Commandment says?"
"No."
"Thou shalt not steal."
"I don't regard it as stealing."
"And how do you regard it, then?"
"As a confiscation."
"A confiscation — how on earth do you think up these things?" Helplessly, Onno turned half around his own axis and said entreatingly, "Quinten, don't make me unhappy. Till I suddenly saw you at the Pantheon about ten days ago, I lived here like a kind of Lazarus in someone else's grave, if I can put it like that. The only person I talked to all that time was that dear Edgar. You helped me out of that hole, and I'm grateful to you for that. But what you want now really goes beyond all limits! Letting yourself be locked in the Sancta Sanctorum to see whether the stone tablets of Moses are in there! While I'm saying it, I can't believe my own ears. Just imagine the carabinieri suddenly charging in with their pistols drawn: Young art thief caught red-handed in Sanctum! I can already see it in La Stampa."
"Art thief?" repeated Quinten. "And you yourself say that according to Grisar there's nothing left in that altar."
"Yes, just you appeal to the archaeological literature when you talk to the police. Do you really understand what the police is? Anyway, there's something on that altar, you're forgetting that for convenience: the acheiropoeton—Christ depicted by an angel's hand and for more than a thousand years carried through the streets of Rome in procession by one pope after another. You can count yourself lucky if they don't beat you to death on the spot. There are things in the world that it's best to keep away from."