The Jerusalem Diamond (18 page)

“It may not be a runaround. When you deal in tiny objects worth huge amounts of money, reluctance to do business in an insecure place becomes commendable.”

“We now go back to Jerusalem and wait in the hotel?”

“We now go back to Jerusalem. If they call and I am out, they'll call again. Will you show me the city?”

She smiled at him. “I shall be happy to.”

He never had visited the Via Dolorosa and the churches, he told her as they drove back.

“I don't like East Jerusalem. There are more interesting things to see in the New City.”

“I really want to see the Via Dolorosa.”

She nodded. But by the time they reached Jerusalem, she had developed a headache.

So he went alone. He entered the Old City through Herod's Gate, literally walking from the West into the East, a labyrinth of narrow alleys. They were crowded with people, noisy with the quarrels of bargainers. Except for television antennae rising from ancient stone roofs, and the anomalous signs of Coca-Cola and Singer Sewing Machine, he was certain it hadn't changed since the Crusades.

Within a few minutes he was approached. “Guide, sir? Via Dolorosa and the churches? Seven pounds?”

The guide was an Arab with five people already in tow. Harry nodded and paid. He followed a French family—mother, father and adolescent daughter—and two American boys upon whom the daughter bestowed furtive glances. The First Station of the Cross, where Jesus was sentenced to death, was now a grammar school. The guide showed them, carved into the flagstones, traces of games played by the Roman soldiers.

They passed the Second Station, where Jesus received the Cross, and the Third and Fourth Stations, where the prisoner fell and met his fainting mother. The Fourth Station was now an Armenian Church. Coming from it was a priestly procession.

“Each Friday morning at this time,” the guide said, “priests from all over the world, as guests of the Franciscans and the Russian Orthodox Metropolitan of Jerusalem, reenact the crucification of Our Lord.

“Note the different costumes, each denoting a separate religious order. The two gentlemen in the white cassocks and white skull caps are Cistercian abbots, more commonly known as Trappists. Those in
ash gray are Franciscans. The man in blue is a Capuchin. The Black cleric in the wide red hat is a visiting cardinal.” In addition, there was a priest in tropical white suit and shoes and black breastpiece, and several who wore black business suits.

The priest burdened by the heavy wooden cross was playing his role too well. He stumbled and nearly fell. As he staggered, he turned. His face was so suffused by effort that for a moment Harry didn't recognize him.

Then he knew him without question. He took a step toward the procession.

“Peter.”

The eyes of the man carrying the cross were dazzled by an experience so strong and so private that Harry drew back.

When the procession moved down Via Dolorosa toward Station Number Five, he went after it.

“Sir!” the agitated guide called. “It is too soon. We shall first go into this Armenian church.”

He waved the words away. He followed the priests through nine more stations and then sat patiently in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, watching Peter Harrington assist the cardinal and give the host.

When the Mass had been celebrated, he moved to where the priest had finished his farewells. Harry touched his arm and he turned. “Hello, Father.” He saw quick pleasure in the other's eyes, along with something disturbing. The wariness was gone in a heartbeat but it had confirmed for him that he had found the opposition in the form of a friend.

Of course, they went to dinner.

Peter Robert Harrington had discovered the voluptuous pleasures of food and drink while still an undergraduate at Mount Saint Mary's in Baltimore. Stone crabs and German beer had seemed indulgences without danger. He had needed a few indulgences then; he worked hard. An endurance for study and a tough intellect had carried him to the
Collegio Americano del Nord
to take the Licentiate in Sacred Theology. In Rome he succumbed totally to classical art and Italian
cooking. After ordination, eighteen dull months as assistant pastor of a church in a Baltimore suburb helped considerably—stone crabs were not quite so irresistible after he had known ossobuco with gnocci.

But he was sent back to Rome and the North American College.

At first he expected to take graduate work in theology, which his superiors invariably spoke of as “the queen of the sciences.” To his pleasure, his advisors encouraged his interest in art and he was enrolled in the Accademia di San Luca, where in due course he defended his thesis (“Sacred Art Objects as Symbols in the Writings of the Early Fathers of the Church”) with enough scholarship to allow him to wear the four-peaked hat of black silk adorned with the purple pompon, the doctoral biretta.

He was assigned to work in the
museo
under the Administrator for the Patrimony of the Holy See. In his daily duties he associated with donors and gallery managers, people who habitually dined in fine restaurants.

When first he raised the subject of his weakness in the privacy of the confessional, Fra Marcello had comforted him. “Surely you are overconcerned. Increase your prayers, dine more wisely and desist before the fourth strong drink.”

But when he returned again and again to confess that he had overimbibed or had gloried in rich food as though it were a sacrament, the smile disappeared from the voice that came from the dark.

His confessor had ordered half an hour of nightly meditation concerning the sin of gluttony, plus a rosary to be recited every day and dedicated to the intention that his appetites would be controlled. In addition, Father Harrington had imposed penance upon himself. After each lapse he fasted for two weeks, giving up desserts and breads, of which he was inordinately fond. He began to jog every morning, fighting his weakness with exercise, abstinence and prayer.

One day he had noticed another runner in the Piazza Bologna, a young American. That afternoon Cardinal Pesenti had introduced them. Something had clicked; they had become friends almost immediately. During Harry's Vatican stay they dined together often, in a variety of restaurants. They argued amicably and constantly, each recognizing a tough, resilient mind that was at the same time an
attraction and a challenge. From the priest, Harry learned about food and wines.

And he had taught Father Harrington a great deal about diamonds.

The priest took him to a place on King George V Road. It was an American bar, of the type provided to catch tourist dollars in many large cities in the world.

“It's the only place here that serves Irish whiskey.”

They each ordered a double.

“
L'chaim, chaver
.”

“Your health, Father.”

“No longer Father. I have been Monsignor for almost two years, Harry.”

“Tomorrow, the red hat.”

“No, no. I made the mistake of going to headquarters as a junior officer. Any soldier could have warned me.”

“You don't really give a damn about advancement, Peter. I saw your face as you carried the cross.” He leaned forward. “You were born lucky, one of the chosen.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Peter said softly. Harrington's eyes measured him and then turned to the menu. “I recommend the goulash.”

“Israel isn't beef country.”

“This place has beef flown from Chicago.”

When it arrived it was hot and spicy. “Better goulash than you get in Chicago,” the priest said.

“Well, here they use imported meat.”

The monsignor grinned, but not with his eyes. “Remember the veal in Rome?”

Harry sighed. “At the Le Grand. Is it still wonderful?”

“Yes.” Monsignor Harrington toyed with his napkin. “Have you been shown the diamond?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. I've been waiting at the Pontifical Bible Institute like a lump, for two weeks.”

“It's as though someone else has it all tied up, and they're keeping us around as reserves,” Harry said uneasily. He glanced at his old friend. “Can the police do anything for you?”

“Not outside Italy.”

“Was it insured?”

“What museum carries insurance? When something is in transit, sure. But within the museum's walls? Never. Our objects and paintings are priceless. The annual insurance bill would be staggering,” he said gloomily.

“Still, you're trying to buy it back?”

Monsignor Harrington shrugged. “We want Alexander's Eye. It isn't a question of money. Even though they have a bill of purchase, for us it's like buying a child back from kidnapers. Shall I tell you what we don't understand, Harry?”

“If you'd like.”

“We can't understand why you're not working for us.”

“This diamond has a great Jewish history.”

“It's ours! It's a stone that was stolen from us!”

“It's been stolen more than once. I'd like you to keep that in mind, Peter.”

“Have I been wrong about you? Are you the kind of man who buys stolen goods?”

“Blood is thicker than water,” Harry said. “It's thicker even than holy water. Nowadays you can't force me to work for you. You can't burn me alive or keep me in prison.”

“That's bullshit,” Monsignor Harrington said in disgust. “It's ancient history. You people never let go of yesterday.”

“We
learn
from yesterday. Let's look at yesterday, Monsignor. How did the Church get that diamond? Whose was it before it belonged to the Church?”

“You sound like a Zionist talking about Israel.”

“That's it, it's exactly the same thing! That's precisely why I have to buy this diamond. Something precious was taken away from us, and now you condemn us for getting it back and keeping it.”

The priest shook his head. “This is ours. There's a beautiful mitre back in my museum with a gaping hole where that diamond should be. That mitre is worn by
popes
. I'm going to beat you, Harry.”

“No, Peter,” he said gently.

“Yes. For my vocation, of course, for the Church. But mostly for me. That's not very Christian, is it?”

“It's very human. You have my sympathies.”

“The Hopeman confidence. What a Jesuit you'd have made, Harry! Pity you're not a Catholic.”

“I was born lucky, too. One of the chosen.”

They stared at one another, shaken by the bitterness that now separated them.

“I'd better buy us a couple of brandies,” Peter Harrington said regretfully.

“Desserts aren't much in this country. But you'll miss some good breads when you do penance for overindulgences.”

The corner of Peter's mouth twitched. He threw back his head. Harry was laughing, too.

“Oh. Crazy Jewish bastard,” Peter said at last.

He called for the drinks. Their eyes met and Harry broke up again, a reaction to the stress. They swayed back and forth, wheezing. His stomach muscles began to hurt.

The priest pointed a wavering finger. “ … Beat you.”

“In … nonkosher pig's ass, Monsignor,” Harry managed clearly.

“What did you expect? …
Imported!
”

They looked at one another and roared. Harry doubled over. The bartender was laughing with them without knowing why.

12

MASADA

In the morning, when the Yemenite woman called, his head was beating out an urgent message,
do not drink with priests
. He swallowed aspirin and tomato juice and accepted her offer to be his guide. She took him to the museum, where the galleries were cool and soothing and the guards called her by name and treated her like royalty. She was knowledgeable, her comments illuminated the beautiful objects and filled him with pleasure. At the end of a very nice morning his spirits were high and he felt better.

“Where shall we go for lunch?” he asked her.

They took a taxi to the Jaffa gate and she led him to a small stone building with half a dozen outside tables.

“It would be cooler inside.”

“They don't like women to go in.”

One of the tables was in the shade and they took that. At his request, she ordered, a variety of ground salads which they ate with pieces of pita used as scoops, and minted tea.

Within the café, the men roared. They were playing a game with
dice and tiles. She called it
shesh-besh
; when she explained it, he realized it was backgammon.

“I thought you didn't like this part of Jerusalem.”

“I love it. But I lived in this quarter once. It was a bad time for me.” She looked at him. “I brought you here because I remembered last night that you can't run from things you fear.”

“I do it all the time,” Harry said.

The waiter came and offered him a
nargillah
. Two Arabs sat nearby and smoked the water pipes, which gurgled whenever they puffed. Harry shook his head.