The Lost Years

7

Charles Michaelson and Albert West had driven together from Manhattan to pay their respects to their old friend and colleague Jonathan Lyons. Both men were experts in the study of ancient parchments. But the resemblance between them ended there. Michaelson, impatient by nature, had a permanent frown in the creases of his forehead. Added to that, his imposing girth was enough to strike fear in the hearts of unprepared students. Sarcastic to the point of cruelty, he had reduced many PhD candidates to tears during their defense of doctoral theses they had submitted to him.

Albert West was small and thin. His students joked that his tie brushed against his shoelaces. His voice, surprisingly strong and always passionate, captivated his listeners when, in his lectures, he introduced them to the wonders of ancient history.

Michaelson had long been divorced. After twenty years his irascible temper became too much for his wife and she left him. If that event caused him any heartache, he never showed it.

West was a lifelong bachelor. An avid sportsman, he enjoyed hiking in the spring and summer and skiing in the late fall and winter. As often as possible he spent his weekends on one of those activities.

The relationship between the two men was the same one they had shared with Jonathan Lyons—it was based on their passion for ancient manuscripts.

Albert West had been trying to decide if he should share with Michaelson the call he had received from Jonathan Lyons a week and a half ago. He knew that Michaelson considered him a competitor and would be offended if he learned that Jonathan had consulted Albert first about a two-thousand-year-old parchment.

On the way back from the luncheon, West decided he had to ask the question. He waited until Michaelson had turned onto West 56th Street from the West Side Highway. In a few minutes Michaelson would be dropping him off at his apartment near Eighth Avenue and then driving across town to Sutton Place, where he lived.

He decided to be direct. “Did Jonathan talk to you about the possibility that he had found the Arimathea letter, Charles?” he asked.

Michaelson glanced at him for a split second before stopping the car as the light changed from yellow to red. “The Arimathea letter! My God, Jonathan left a message on my cell phone that he thought he had found something of tremendous importance and would like to have my opinion on it. He never said what it was. I called back later the same day and left word that of course I’d be interested in seeing whatever he had. But he didn’t get back to me. Did you see the letter? Did he show it to you? Is there any chance that it’s authentic?”

“I wish I had seen it, but the answer is no. Jon called to tell me about it two weeks ago. He did say he was convinced that it was the Arimathea letter. You know how calm Jonathan usually was, but this time he was excited, sure that he was right. I warned him how often these so-called finds turn out to be fakes and he calmed down and admitted that he might be rushing to judgment. He said he was showing it to someone else and would get back to me, but he never did.”

For the next few minutes the men were silent until they reached Albert West’s apartment building. “Well, let’s hope to God that if it was authentic, and he had it in his home, his crazy wife doesn’t come across it,” Michaelson said bitterly. “If she did, it would be just like her to tear it up if she thought it was important to him.”

As Albert West opened the car door, he said, “I couldn’t agree with you more. I wonder if Mariah knows about the letter. If not, we’d better alert her to look for it. It’s beyond priceless. Thanks for the ride, Charles.”

Charles Michaelson nodded. As he steered the car away from the curb, he said aloud, “Nothing, not even a letter written by Christ to Joseph of Arimathea, is priceless if the right bidder can be found.”