Bruno’s cafe was open between five in the morning and one in the evening. He appeared to work the entire shift, without vacations. That was a lie, but when people asked Bruno where he’d been the day before, he’d say the same thing, “In the back! Too busy for you!” Everyone knew he was probably resting at home like normal people. But no one knew where Bruno lived.
And Bruno never seemed to sleep. “Old folks don’t need sleep!” he’d say. “You young’ns sleep and play all day—don’t think there’s anything else to life! Completely forgot we’ve come to this earth to work by the sweat of our brow!”
His customers always wore smiles, and Bruno never lost his energy.
“No books?” The old man said to Porter in his usual voice full of sand and vigor. “What are you in for?”
Though others might argue that a cafe is not conducive to study, Porter found it a pleasant place to do all sorts of research. He often brought in a text, called for the regular, and sat for a couple of hours with his head bent over the pages. He would contort his face and rub his forehead, but Bruno had long ago stopped offering him aspirin.
“Meeting with Dr. Kinnard today,” Porter explained.
Bruno’s body jerked as if in surprise. “About time you got him back here! You’d think he didn’t like my cooking.”
Bruno never forgot a name or a face, so everyone loved the cafe—or all the regulars did anyway. Each had been impressed by the place’s friendly atmosphere. If anyone walked in a second time, Bruno would shout out their name and offer them something special. It was like each of Bruno’s customers belonged to a family they’d forgotten about.
The cafe was warm and usually smelled of fried foods and baked pies. Bruno loved pies. People of all sorts came into the cafe, but mostly those affiliated with the university up the street. Custodians, professors, other faculty, and students came in at odd hours—one often trying to catch another, while avoiding someone else at the same time. Bruno liked the adventure in his shack. He’d seen 241 break-ups, over 300 arguments between students and professors who’d given the former an undesired grade, and the beginnings of over 500 romantic relationships. He’d listened to cops and their cases, without their knowledge, of course. He was familiar with many of Stratford’s problems long before the students found out—like the time when graduation seating was reduced due to construction at the university and poor planning on the part of certain people who should’ve been fired. Bruno knew all the gossip, long before anyone else, and had become the silent key to the success of university journalists.
Porter was eating when Kinnard entered the cafe, but his stomach churned with uneasiness.
“Good morning,” Porter smiled as Kinnard sat down. “Try the fries, they’re wonderful.”
Kinnard slid into the booth by the window, setting his attaché case protectively between himself and the wall. He didn’t look at the food on the table. His eyes moved around the cafe, stopping on Bruno, who quickly looked away to clear a few more tables.
Porter didn’t notice, or rather he did, but chose to plunge another French fry into the sea of ranch dressing and not think about Kinnard’s curious nervousness.
Kinnard barely fit on the seat, or though it seemed. He leaned forward, slouched, and rested his muscular chest against the edge of the table. “I might have something for you, Porter…if you’re interested.”
Porter stopped chewing. He met the gaze of his supervising professor and felt his prayers answered. Realizing that he’d frozen in an awkward position, Porter swallowed quickly and nodded while doing so. His eyes opened, wide and curious.
Kinnard looked down at the table and touched his fingertips together. “What I have is very…unorthodox…but it might be something up your alley. Now, the only reason I’m bringing you this idea is that I trust you as a student. You’re intelligent, and everyone knows it. I’ve read your work, and you go out on a limb all the time. You’re published, and you’re brave. You know my colleagues might consider you a little eccentric in some of your ideas.”
Porter smiled and nodded. He liked the idea of a being a peculiar person. Scholars—including Dr. Kinnard—could disagree with him, but they had to acknowledge that his arguments were good and worth investigating. A lot of people read his material, even when they suspected it would make them angry. They also knew John D. Porter published well-thought out material which others would jabber about, so it had to be read. No one else jeopardized their future career as frequently as Porter. But at the same time, those who read his stuff knew he had all the facts, and those facts would be presented in a manner which couldn’t be shrugged off with the same ease that Porter brought them forth.
“But you’re good at what you do.”
“I enjoy my studies,” Porter said with a smile. He wasn’t being cocky, especially because his position currently looked very unstable. He didn’t want to blow any opportunities Kinnard might present, and the humility showed in Porter’s face.
The smell of cinnamon simmered on the air.
“Do you know Dr. Ulman?” Kinnard said.
“Should I?”
“He’s a good friend of mine.” Kinnard looked at the table. “Always has been. Ulman has found something you might want to use to finish your work at Stratford. It provides a fixed argument, so you won’t have to spend time deciding your point.”
“I’ll use anything I can get my hands on,” Porter said with raised eyebrows.
“What do you know about Mesoamerica?”
“I haven’t studied anything in school,” Porter said, wondering what American history had to do with his dissertation. “But I’ve done a little research on my own…for interest’s sake.”
“I thought you might have,” Kinnard said. Porter was an excellent student. More than that, he excelled in his studies. Yes, he was eccentric, but some of the best professors were those absolutely obsessed with their work. So when Porter said he’d “done a little research,” Kinnard had no doubt that Porter’s grasp on the subject was stronger than his.
“This have something to do with my dissertation?” Porter said, scratching the back of his neck.
“You’re in a real fix,” Kinnard said, his face hardening. “You realize that?”
“Yes I do.”
“My colleagues know what caliber of student you are. It would look real bad on my record as your supervising professor, if you of all people failed to complete the requirements of Stratford University in the last seconds of a long, drawn-out game.”
“Wouldn’t want to blemish your reputation, sir,” Porter said. “I’ll do my best to rectify my situation.”
“That would be wise.” Kinnard said. Porter realized his supervising professor looked as bad today as he had the last time they’d met. Maybe even worse. His hair was askew, his eyes puffy, not to mention his peculiar paranoia.
“So what did you bring?” Porter said. He noticed Kinnard had a difficult time looking him in the eye. Kinnard’s hands fidgeted, and Porter wondered if the professor was taking this a little too personally. After all, it was Porter’s problem, not Kinnard’s.
“Dr. Ulman…my friend…” Kinnard said, “was working on something he found in the southern mountains of Guatemala.”
Porter sat up.
“I understand that at first it didn’t look like much. Another mound, buried in a Central American forest, but Ulman was led on by an ancient tale told by a few of the locals whose small families reportedly lived in the area for the last fifteen-hundred years.”
“A story?” said Porter.
“About a sacred place…destroyed by the hands of an ancient god, or something,” said Kinnard. “Ulman said it was a fascinating tale, all of which he would tell me after he returned to the states.”
“But he hasn’t come back,” said Porter.
Kinnard spoke, staring at Porter’s hot chocolate. “He found something. Wouldn’t even tell me about it at first. He said it was really big.”
“What, a Central American Jurassic Park? I’ve seen movies about lost—” Porter stopped.
With eyes hardening into marble, Kinnard stabbed his way into Porter’s gaze.
“I’m sorry. Dr. Ulman,” said Porter, “he’s an archaeologist?”
“Professor of Archaeology here at Stratford. He was down there for more than six months before he wrote me the first time. A memo.” Kinnard looked back at the table. Porter sensed that his professor’s mind had left the United States and was heading south. “Ulman said he’d written others as well. Seems he found something no one else would believe. Of course, we all like the sound of that, don’t we. But now I realize his words were accurate.”
Porter didn’t nod. Intrigue and questions colored his gray eyes.
“Ulman sent me more, since that time, and…I don’t know how to explain what he’s found. Or what he thinks he’s located.” Kinnard looked Porter squarely in the eye. “
You
might want to explain it.”
“Tell me more,” said Porter, sipping from his scalding mug.
Kinnard sighed. “Seems that Ulman discovered a book.”
“I found one recently in my closet under a pile of clothes I didn’t know was there. What makes this book special?”
A red flush filled Kinnard’s face and the muscles in his jaw flexed. “I’m trying to save you from your mistakes, Porter, remember that! You may be a smart student, but there’s a big difference between intelligence and wisdom. Intelligence will get you through the university, but only wisdom can get you out with a doctorate! Up till now, you have not proven your brains!”
“Dr. Kinnard!” Bruno said, coming to the rescue out of nowhere. Of course the old man couldn’t let fights disrupt the cozy spirit of his place. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Kinnard let all the hot air rush out of him before looking up. He relaxed the muscles in his face as best as he could and said, without eyeing the old man for more than a second, “Coffee.”
Bruno turned with a smile. “One cup, com’n up!”
Porter relaxed, though he hadn’t realized the extent of his building tension.
Kinnard started again. “The book Ulman found appears, according to his analysis, to be a codex dating somewhere around 500 BC.”
“What’s it written on?” Porter said, intrigue in his tone.
“Paper,” Kinnard said without looking up from the fries on which he’d suddenly focused.
Porter waved a hand for him to have some. “A paper book?”
Kinnard shook his head at the food. “It’s not that uncommon.”
“I know. Two manuscripts made of bark paper were found at Mirador, but no one’s been able to separate the fused pages. I believe they dated to somewhere around AD 450. But I am not aware of any other paper codices recently discovered in the Ancient Americas.”
Kinnard nodded, gazing at the table as though ashamed of what he was saying. But that was an absurd idea, Porter thought. “Ulman’s codex isn’t glued together,” said Kinnard, putting a fry in his mouth. “The pages are in beautiful condition. But they hold something we never could have predicted.”
“What’s that?” Porter said. He swallowed the rest of his hot chocolate and put the cup on the end of the table for a refill, never taking his eyes off of Kinnard’s bald spot. “How’d Ulman find a book that wasn’t cemented together? Was it a scroll?”
Kinnard kept his eyes on the table, only looking up once in awhile. “
You
would come up with that, wouldn’t you.”
“Excuse me?”
After a deep breath, Kinnard spoke. “You’re a…a member of the LDS church, aren’t you?”
“I…am,” Porter said, his head bobbing with growing curiosity.
As if to divert any awkward feelings, Kinnard asked, “What does that stand for again?”
“Well, the full name is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It’s that last part which differentiates us from other churches…by name anyway.”
“I had an LDS friend growing up in Illinois. Learned it was wrong to call you ‘Mormons’.”
Porter smiled. “Well, it’s not bad. Most people don’t understand where the term ‘Mormon’ came from. You know that along with the Bible we read the Book of Mormon. Evidently, those who didn’t belong to the church gave us the title ‘Mormons’ based on our scriptures. It may have been an insult a long time ago. Some might even have negative feelings toward the use of the nick-name, but I don’t really care. It’s almost a household word now. Think about it. What do you see in your head when you hear the word ‘Mormon’?”
“White shirts and ties on bicycles.”
“Right,” Porter said, pointing a finger.
Bruno delivered the coffee with a smile and disappeared again. Neither of the customers seemed very intent on eating.
Porter went on. “Mormon missionaries. Clean cut, young, smiling, nice guys that you’d never expect to commit a crime. Kind of the ideal young man.” He shifted in his seat. “I don’t see any insult in that image. If the name brings to mind an old-fashioned all-American reflection, then I don’t mind the name.”
Kinnard nodded. “As a Mormon, then, you believe in transoceanic contact between the Old World and the New, prior to, let’s say, the Viking arrival ‘round the year 1000.”
Porter nodded.
“Well, then you should love this codex.”
“Why…does it back up that argument?”
Leaning forward in his chair, Kinnard said softly, “Ulman’s codex may be something of a Rosetta Stone. The book is written in two languages on every page. That’s a good thing, because Dr. Ulman can barely make out one of the languages. The second he can’t decipher at all. But he says it’s only guesswork at present.”
“You’re giving the book to me,” said Porter.
“You couldn’t be worse off, Porter,” said Kinnard. “Not unless you’d been shot and left to die, anyway. Ulman’s a good man…and he’s my friend. I think he’ll understand after he gets back. You will of course need to give Ulman credit for the physical discovery.”
Porter imagined the writing on this Mesoamerican ‘Rosetta Stone.’ All students of Ancient Near Eastern Studies were familiar with the real Rosetta Stone, the big slab of black basalt found in 1799 by an unknown person. The rock contained a text praising an Egyptian king, Ptolemy V Epiphanes (203-181 BC), written in Egyptian Hieroglyphics, then in Demotic, which some termed New Egyptian or Egyptian Short Hand, and then in Greek. Before 1822, scholars had not yet conquered the Egyptian writing system. But in September of the same year, a Frenchman by the name of Jean-Francois Champollion, realizing the message was being repeated in all three languages and finding specific names in each text, presented a paper deciphering the obscure glyphs for the first time to the
Academie des Inscriptions
. The result was a blaze of excitement concerning Egyptology throughout Europe. Champollion changed the world, an opportunity that both Porter and Kinnard could only hope for.