Papal decree

29

It’s not a good sign when a ritual changes, especially if it’s repeated, like a sacred act, without variation in content or feeling. The purpose of rituals is to evoke, venerate, and honor relevant events, whether historical, political, religious, or — no less important — personal.

The year 2010 would be registered in Ben Isaac’s storage safe, five hundred feet from the main house, below the toolshed, as the year when it was opened twice, a unique occurrence in more than five decades.

He positioned his eyes in front of the visual reader so that the computer could recognize him as the owner. Another change to the ritual was that this time Ben Isaac would not descend the twenty steps alone, but with two other people. The fluorescent lights came on as they advanced and went out behind them, creating a sensation of endless darkness in front of them and unknown secrets behind them.

‘I cannot believe that you’ve always had this here and I didn’t know, Ben Isaac,’ Myriam complained, alert to every sound, her eyes wide open.

‘I couldn’t tell you, Myr. The less you knew, the better,’ the Israeli argued. It was never a good sign when Myriam called him by both his first and last name.

‘I’m your wife, a part of you. You can’t keep secrets to yourself.’

Myriam was visibly angry and disillusioned with him. Ben knew she was right, but this was how he was, he kept things to himself. It was an immense effort to bring them there.

The mechanism opened the heavy door with a sigh and, for a few moments, they just looked inside without moving. Myriam took the first step decisively. Sarah followed her, and Ben was the last to enter the room.

Sarah had not imagined such a bare space. Three display cases, nothing more, and cold, unadorned walls. She thought she would find shelves full of other singular things, of lesser significance certainly, but full of sacred relics with many stories to tell. She never thought that the large room would contain only three cases. She joined Myriam, who was examining the parchments displayed under glass. She couldn’t understand a single word written there. Elaborate letters written in an ornate style, unintelligible to her.

‘Can you understand anything, Myriam?’ she dared to ask, as if she were creating an explosion in the awkward silence.

Myriam looked at the small document in the first case and shook her head no.

‘No.’ Myriam looked at Ben Isaac. ‘Is it Latin?’

Her husband affirmed it.

‘I didn’t study Latin, but it looked like it,’ Myriam offered, her eyes fixed on the parchment. ‘Yeshua ben Joseph. And it talks about Jesus in Rome,’ she said, more to herself than the others.

She moved to the second case and frowned. Sarah looked at her but couldn’t tell whether or not Myriam understood what was written there. For Sarah it was impossible. She couldn’t begin to unravel whatever was written there. It was not in the Roman alphabet, like the other one, but in a series of strange letters.

‘What is this? Ancient Hebrew?’ Myriam wanted to know. Her voice seemed worried.

‘Aramaic,’ Ben Isaac answered. He had remained behind, observing his wife.

‘Of course Aramaic.’ Myriam looked at the parchment in a different light. ‘I still don’t understand anything all this time.’

‘Aramaic is similar to ancient Hebrew,’ Ben Isaac explained.

‘Is this the gospel?’ Myriam asked in a halting voice.

Ben did not respond. Silence meant yes.

‘Walk over here next to me,’ Myriam said, more like an order than a request.

Ben approached her step by step, slowly, timidly, as if walking on shaky ground, until he was next to Myriam, who continued looking carefully at the gospel. For a few seconds no one said anything.

‘Read it to me,’ Myriam finally ordered.

‘Myriam,’ Ben sighed, as if it were a painful experience.

Myriam gave him a hard, pained look. ‘Read it.’

Ben hesitated. It troubled him to reveal something only he and a few others knew about. Myriam needed to know what the text said. If that piece of lamb or calfskin was worth more than a human life, than that of their son, their Ben, who had left her heart weeping in such a deep sorrow.

‘Uhh…’ Ben began.

Whether it was divine intervention or the coincidence of fate, a providential ringing of a cell phone interrupted Ben’s reading. It was his own.

‘Excuse me, dear,’ Ben said, moving away a little.

Sarah hugged Myriam. ‘Be calm. Everything is going to work out.’

Ben Isaac took out his phone. Some instruction from the kidnappers. Poor little Ben. He remembered the image of his son tied to a chair, tortured, bloody. He shivered. He looked at the screen and opened the message. He couldn’t wait to read it. His heart began to beat faster suddenly. How can this be possible? Who are these people?

He read the message again in the hope that he had read it wrong, but no. The text was the same.

If you want to see your son alive again, get rid of the journalist.