CHAPTER 14
Outside the inner chamber of the Tomb of Christ, quiet voices could be heard from within by the two policemen who were very slowly pacing back and forth in front of it, their heads low and hands clasped behind their backs, their measured footsteps reverberating softly on the diamond-shaped rose and black marble tiles that shimmered with the light from giant candles amid a smell of hot wax and incense and the lingering whispers of a million warm prayers. Leaving his hostel at ten-fifteen so that he wouldn’t interfere with the start of night services, Meral had walked quickly up a narrow street that once had shuddered with the clang of Roman armor and the terrifying stamp of marching feet. Only the quietest of sounds were to be heard now: the whirring of a turning TV antenna, the quiet rapping of knuckles on corrugated steel as municipal guards checked the shutters of shops, and, as Meral neared the church, the lilting, satisfied atonal singing of a baker who just before dinnertime had given to the poor, as he did each night, by baking their unbaked bread without charge.
“Was he here? Did he come into the Tomb?”
Meral was questioning Tariq, the third and previously unavailable checker of those who would enter the space where they were standing: a quadrangular chamber hewn out of rock and plated in marble. Six feet wide, seven long, and seven high, it was the burial chamber of Christ. The light of candles and forty-three lamps made of gold and silver danced faintly in Tariq’s dark eyes as his fingers cupped his stubbled chin and he studied Temescu’s driver’s license.
He handed it back to Meral.
“Yes, I think he was here. I think I saw him.”
“Was there anyone with him?”
“Yes, I think so. Absolutely. Maybe.”
“Which is it, Tariq?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“There was somebody with him.”
“A man or a woman?”
“A man.”
“And they were together, you say?”
“Yes, together. I had seen them come in and they were talking. Maybe arguing.”
“I think so. Maybe. I’m not sure. There were gestures, the one who was with him always leaning in close to him. Whispering. Excited.”
“And the dead man? The man in the photo?”
“He was calm.”
“Can you describe the other person?”
“Yes. He had a beard.”
“Tariq, look at me. Look me in the eye. How helpful a description is
that in Jerusalem?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I would like a full description.”
“I cannot remember.”
“You wouldn’t know him if you saw him again?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.Very posssibly.”
“Was there anything distinctive about him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tariq, try.”
“Alright, one thing perhaps. He looked sad. I saw him crying.”
”Crying?”
“Yes, a little.”
“And what time was this, Tariq?”
“I don’t know that exactly. But the end of the day. The last people were going into the Tomb.”
“Did they enter the Tomb together?”
“It could be.”
“It could be?”
“I think maybe.”
“And the man with the beard. Did you see him coming out?”
“I don’t know. Someone called me to the entry door.”
“Who?”
“Someone selling falafel.”
Meral watched Tariq leave, and then crouching down to fit through the low arched access to the Tomb, he entered the chamber and then pensively looked down at the burial couch. Roughly two feet high from the floor, its primitive rock had been long ago covered by a mottled pink and ivory marble slab that was silken and slightly warm to the touch from the crowded profusion of candles and lamps overlooking the burial couch, softly flickering sentinels. Meral reimagined Temescu lying there, as he pondered the puzzling documents he had found in the dead man’s apartment. Among them was another postmarked envelope addressed to Temescu in an unknown hand this one, containing a letter that, in spite of the name on the envelope, was written to someone other than Temescu; or so its salutation seemed to indicate. And there were six other puzzling items. Five of them were passports: one Italian, one British, one Swedish, one Cambodian, and one American, all issued in different names, although none in the name of Temescu; and all bore the photo of a man who, while generally resembling Temescu, also differed from the photo on his driver’s license, just as each differed one from the other: length, style, and color of hair, as well as skin and eye color, in particular in the Cambodian passport photo. Even eyebrow thickness and the prominence of cheekbones differed. Beyond that the expression staring out from the photos was so different in each of them that they were able, at least for some moments, to create the impression of a totally separate and distinct personality. Meral found this especially true of the somehow affecting photo on yet a sixth document. It was a faded Albanian identity card of someone named Selca Decani.