I grant an extension of the agreement of November 8, 1960, for the identical term, at the end of which new arrangements will be made by the heirs.
Agreed to and signed by
John Paul P.P. II
Ben Isaac (and five illegible signatures)
Ben Isaac read and reread the documents. He remembered the negotiations. The cardinals, the prelates, the apostolic nuncios, the simple priests who came and went for two years with recommendations, offers, trivial details, curses, threats… the Five Gentlemen. He never met John XXIII or John Paul II, despite their having signed the documents. Perhaps it had been a mistake. Too many special envoys when it would have been simpler to sit down at the same table and talk. A nuncio came and offered him $2 million for the documents before the first agreement. He doubted that John XXIII had offered so much. Certainly, after the contract was signed, he was never troubled again. So many mistakes made over the course of his life. This had nothing to do with religion. He thought about Magda, tears blinding his eyes, and then Myriam filled his thoughts.
With a final glance at the parchments, Ben Isaac sighed. He looked at his watch. It was time. He left the vault and turned back to the stairs. He was too old for the battle, but he couldn’t turn his back on it. Life was a battle, nothing more.
Time was up. The agreement had expired.
4
The elderly archaeologist coughed and struggled. He didn’t have to wait for the blow, hard and clean, remorseless.
‘The next one will knock you out,’ a voice at his ear whispered, cold, terrifying.
The archaeologist knew he was telling the truth.
He had caught him in the most absurd way imaginable. A telephone call in the middle of the night, unusual, but not crazy. He awoke groggy and bad tempered, but the message woke him up at once. A parchment needed to be translated. It dated from the first century, but the language was unknown. The caller apologized profusely for the late hour, but he would pay whatever was necessary to get such a respected archaeologist to look at the discovery and assess its significance. Nice words his ego seldom heard. The rest was easy. A ticket was waiting at the airport for a morning flight that would carry him to his destination. Idiot, he thought. His mother had always told him you never get anything for nothing.
When he arrived, he took a taxi to the address the caller had given him. He encountered chaotic rush-hour traffic that took almost as much time as the flight, but at last arrived at the designated place. It looked like an abandoned refrigerator warehouse. A strange place for such a meeting.
The courteous greeting that he expected was a hard smack in the face that knocked him facedown on the floor. The attacker, a thin man who wore an elegantly tailored suit, placed his knee on his back and shoved his face into the floor with his hand. Immediately, revealing a vigorous physical form, he lowered his head to the archaeologist’s ear.
‘The rules are simple. I ask and you answer. Any deviation will have consequences. Understood?’
The archaeologist thought the man was going to foam at the mouth like a rabid dog.
‘Who are you?’ he asked in pain. He could hardly breathe.
Another blow drove his face into the dirty floor again.
‘I’m the one who asks the questions, understand?’
‘You’ve got the wrong person. I’m only an archaeologist.’ It was worth the effort to try to clarify things. Attackers are not infallible, like pontiffs.
‘Yaman Zafer. Is that your name?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘See how easy it is? We’ll get along perfectly,’ the man whispered, breathing right over Zafer’s ear.
‘Listen, I…’
Another blow to the neck that left him paralyzed.
‘I ask, you answer. Isn’t that a perfect relationship?’
Zafer shut up. He didn’t have many options. Better to keep quiet and see what the man would do. He could hardly breathe with the knee pressing his stomach to the floor. He was completely subdued.
‘If you cooperate I’ll let you breathe,’ said the attacker. He spoke seriously.
‘Okay,’ he acquiesced. He couldn’t make demands there. Why hadn’t he asked for more information before he got on the plane? Why had he let himself be persuaded so easily? He was so careless.
The attacker seemed to have heard his thoughts. ‘It’s very easy to say what people want to hear. Let’s get to the subject that brought us here,’ he licked his lips. ‘Have you heard of a man named Ben Isaac?’
Zafer shivered, despite the pressure on his back.
‘I’ll consider that a yes,’ the attacker said. ‘I want you to tell me everything.’
He raised his knee a little, and Zafer took the opportunity to breathe in as much oxygen as possible. Zafer raised his hand to his coat pocket, but the momentary relief was over. He felt the uncomfortable pressure against his lungs again. The attacker knew what he was doing.
‘What was the purpose of the project for which you were contracted in 1985?’
‘What project?’
Another hard blow to the neck.
‘I never did any work for Ben Isaac,’ Zafer explained. Maybe he would be left in peace.
‘If you want to be like that,’ the attacker warned, ‘I’ll be happy to make a visit to Monica and Matteo. I’m sure they will adore me.’ He smiled mockingly.
Zafer felt a cold shiver hearing the names of his children. Not them. He couldn’t put their lives in danger. He had lost.
The elderly archaeologist coughed and struggled. He didn’t have to wait long for the blow — hard, clean, remorseless.
‘The next one will kill you,’ the voice at his ear whispered, cold and terrifying.
The old archaeologist knew he was telling the truth.
‘Do I need to rephrase the question?’ the attacker insisted coldly.
‘No,’ Zafer said with difficulty. It was hard for him to talk from the lack of air. ‘I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.’
The knee relieved the pressure, supplying air to Zafer, who gulped it down.
‘I’m all ears.’
Zafer felt ashamed and humiliated. He thought he wouldn’t survive, but he had to protect his children.
Forgive me, Ben.
5
Nothing lasts forever.
Everything is endlessly changing. The river’s water, the sea, the wind, the clouds, the body as it ages, the cadaver as it rots, seconds, days, nights… nothing is static, not even a chair, this chair inside a grimy, brown room with a forty-watt lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, over the chair itself. The chair’s wood is riddled with woodworms; one day it will cease being what it is and turn into something else. The bulb will stop lighting up one day, or one night, but not tonight, and this room inside this abandoned warehouse will be demolished, together with the warehouse, to give way to a luxury condominium, which will later turn into something else.
Everything changes… always.
The light from the bulb failed from time to time, plunging the room into an ominous darkness. At times it flashed like a thunderstorm inside the glass, before glowing again with agreeable intensity, reflected over the chair,
