Page 56 - Three Adventures
P. 56

The Nazarene Foreskin


          “Cohn-Diaz. Violet Anne Cohn-Diaz. But please call me Vi. I’m a
        graduate  student  from  the  States,  University  of  South  Kansas.  Art
        history is my field, and I’m here doing research for my thesis on the
        iconography  of  Levantine  amphorae—you  know,  ancient  pottery
        jugs, often highly decorated.”
          Scoop  scowled.  “The  only  jugs  in  here  are  decorated  with
        pretentious French wine labels. There is a civil war in progress, Miss
        Cohn-Diaz. I’m surprised a cab driver would even bring you to this
        end of the Green Zone.”
          “Oh.” Her lips puckered poutingly or pensively. He could not tell
        which. “I know that fighting sometimes breaks out in the city, but I
        didn’t think it was really dangerous.”
          “Well, it is. Those are not fireworks you see and hear throughout
        the night, see and hear them even in a room darkened at midnight
        with  blackout  curtains,  see  and  hear  them  asleep  or  awake,  sober
        or—” He shrugged and raised his glass.
          “I’m sorry,” she said, just audibly. “I’ll find someone else to take
        me to the Old Church of Saint Elias.”
          She lowered her eyes and swung her left leg away from the bar.
        The pivoting action enabled by ball bearings again briefly engaged his
        barely analytical mind.
          “Wait  a  minute.”  Scoop  reached  for  her  arm,  checked  himself
        again, hunched back over his drink. “If you read my dispatch then
        you know that Saint Elias took a mortar round in the buttress and
        collapsed a few days ago. You can scratch it off your list of tourist
        attractions.”
          Vi regained her perch and looked across and slightly down at him
        with something like hope in her eyes.
          “But that is precisely why I am interested in it. According to your
        article the buckled nave exposed parts of the  structure not seen in
        centuries, underground rooms and passageways.”
          The newsman leapt to her conclusion. “And you think some old
        jars might be down there in the catacombs?”
          “Yes.”  Her  words  tumbled  forth,  accelerated  by  youthful
        enthusiasm. “According to my research Saint Elias was built on the
        ruins  of  a  much  older  holy  shrine,  an  early  Christian  church
        constructed  in  the  Byzantine  era  when  the  city  was  known
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