Background
If John Morgan were a tree, he'd be an oak; others find shelter from his strength. A character firmly rooted, drawing others to his circle of family and friends: under the shadow of the Eden Tree.
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Wiping a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand, the flower seller spoke in a faltering voice, "Please don't be worried; I'm not insane. I am a mentsh, a man of honour. Years have passed while my brother and I waited for you. Today I'm so happy."
He looked cheery, which shocked me. I touched my wedding ring and scanned the area; my eyes roamed for a quick exit. Crowds shopped a few yards away; the cafeteria owner was within earshot.
"I know what I've said must sound strange," Joseph said, "and what I'm about to tell you will appear the ravings of a lunatic or the tale of a schlemiel...a fool. Please hear me out, John." I nodded and felt goosebumps all over.
'OK', I thought, 'John James Morgan, here comes the spiel.' With some reluctance, I decided to give him a chance, settled into the white chair, and chewed toast with butter sliding down my chin. The awning flapped in the breeze, which made me start.
Leaning forward, he lowered his voice, taking a deep breath. The fresh soap smell greeted me again.
"My elder brother, Simeon, and I were born and raised in Jaffa," he said. "As young men we worked in our family business, buying, clearing and renovating houses. Years rolled by. We bought the properties and chattels to rent or sell, making a good living. We were comfortable until fate pulled the rug from under us. Oy vey! What a day!" Joseph interrupted his narrative and wiped his curly beard with a paper serviette. I looked at my watch.
He persevered and said, "In a house in 1992 we made a remarkable discovery. The house had a cellar and there we found a hidden antique box. Inside the box were secreted very ancient manuscripts and parchments and a white cloth bag with drawstrings. When we opened the bag, it revealed a few ounces of a dark brown powder."
"Drugs! You must be kidding!" I rose from the chair, pushing it back roughly. "I thought this was some con." I felt my cheeks burning with indignation. From the corner of my eye, I noticed other shoppers had stopped and were watching us.
"No, no, please, John," he said. "Please listen to the rest of my story." The flower seller looked visibly hurt. He lowered his voice. "It has nothing to do with drugs, I promise." I sat down and indicated warily he could carry on as I pulled my jacket tighter.
"At the time, John, my brother and I were as astonished as you are. We took out the documents one by one, shining our torches on them. Our throats were dry like dust."
"Yes I can believe it," I said. "In fact I'm dry as a board now." I called to the cafeteria owner. "Do you have Mellow Birds?" He shook his head. "OK, decaf for me then please." Joseph also gave his order. The cafe owner returned minutes later.
We sipped our hot drinks and Joseph asked me if he could continue. I nodded and watched him.
He continued. "On the fragile scrolls were drawings and maps. Alongside the script were hieroglyphics and scrawled inscriptions. Devout Jews, we did recognise some of the words, but neither of us were experts in ancient Aramaic. We did understand the gist of some of the text, especially the phrase in the heading of the top page."
The flower seller paused. "John," he said. "It leaped out as a message from the gods. In first century Aramaic text it stated the scroll to be 'the last will and testament of Simon Peter', disciple of Jesus Christ of Nazareth."
"What?" I said. "Come on, my friend. First it's dark powder and now this! I wasn't born yesterday. I've read about stuff like this: Dead Sea Scrolls...Da Vinci Code...the Lost Ark, and all that. C'mon...pl...ease."
"Please, John. Your hand is the sign. Please listen," he said earnestly and urgently.
"OK. Carry on." I sipped my coffee, feeling mystified.
He continued. "Our hearts beat quickly. We were like drunken men, finding it difficult to believe our good fortune. Our immediate thoughts centred on selling the box. Museums and collectors would part with substantial sums for the rare artefacts. We agreed, however, we had urgently to get the whole text properly translated. The box and contents needed an expert's inspection. Our Uncle Caleb, in Cairo, lectured in mythology and archaic languages at the University of Egypt. We were sure he would help."
"And did he help?" I asked, hoping the preposterous lunatic would hurry up. I looked at my watch again.
Joseph nodded and narrated the rest of his tale about the visit to Caleb Weingart, Professor of Ancient Languages and Artefacts at Cairo University.
I sat back and rocked in the flimsy cafeteria chair and laughed, nearly splitting my sides. 'I needed a laugh,' I thought, 'and this is it.'
At the nearby cafe, several diners were staring at us. Stretching my hands above my head and yawning, I told the stall-holder that I swallowed none of his tale.
I said, "Two thousand years ago St Peter's box and sacred maps were hidden in a box with magical leaves? I've seen some tricksters in my time. What an unbelievable tale!"
"But the sign," Joseph said, with a puzzled and desperate look.
Rising to leave, I said, "I'm sorry, my friend, but you must be deranged! What made you assume I would believe you? And what do you want?"
"The sign," he pointed to the tattoo on my right hand. "It is kosher. You are the one. The tattoo is identical to the box lid. The rabbi said in the parchments that what is depicted on your tattoo would be a sign." Lifting my hand, he held it before my eyes. People around the flower stall and cafe must have assumed a lovers' tiff. I felt the heat rise to my ears.
"It's OK," I said to our audience, "flower prices, huh?" They dispersed gossiping, looking mystified.
Looking at the golden angels surrounded by green leaves tattooed on my right hand, I saw and felt I understood his predicament. Shivers went down my spine before I slumped down again. My mind went back to the day Sean and I had got our tattoos.
*
remembered that one night in Afghanistan, in 1990, when Sean decided we would each get a tattoo. He had several, including the SAS insignia. I had none.
"Come on, John, it'll be fun." Sean placed his arm around me and steered me towards a tattoo parlour in downtown Kabul. A moment of madness at a mad time.
Every day, Soviet military commanders ferried me to harvest roadside graveyards of tanks, APCs, jeeps, and mortars. The tough Afghan people were a hard nut to crack, as Mother Russia had discovered, leaving behind enough scrap to keep Morgan Steel very busy.
Sean was busy too. He had told me something of his history. He had been a soldier as an 18-year-old, later a paratrooper, then he'd served in the Falklands in 1982, on his 20th birthday. He'd joined the SAS, where he gained promotion to captain. With the Mujahedeen in Afghanistan, acting secretly as an advisor, he met with tribal elders in their villages and hills. When I met him, he was a civilian and worked in personal protection.
I recalled saying, "Look Sean, I know you like a drink, but you must get it under control. I'm missing my family and I have a pregnant wife, so try soda or juice, huh?"
"Jesus! Going into a bar for soda? That's like winning a blind date with The Corrs and getting the brother!" he said, referring to the Irish band consisting of the Corrs siblings.
Gradually he cut down his drinking and we became great friends. I returned home to the UK with Sean and a tattoo.
"I quite like him," said Liz, stroking her hair behind her ears. "He's tough and sometimes over funny, and he's mixed up and hard like concrete."
"Yes, and he's permanently set: we won't change him."
Liz shivered. "Yes, but do you think he'll be OK with Becky when you take me to maternity?"
Holding her close, I patted her bump. "Yes, she'll be safe in his hands; even the tattooed one. He can stay in the guest room."
After our visit to the tattoo parlour in Kabul, an image of a golden angel amidst green leaves gleamed on my right hand. A yellow serpent wrapped around a crimson devil shone on Sean's left hand: a matching pair. My first and last tattoo.
Someone speaking brought me back from my memories. The flower seller was repeating, "The sign is on your hand, and also in what you said. You asked if I had a cure for cancer. It all fits. I'm not a pharmacy; I sell flowers! Everything the rabbi told Peter. My brother and I have waited 20 years." Beads of perspiration moistened his beard.
After two hours of Joseph's persuasion and pleadings, I trekked home with a bunch of flowers, a photo of Joseph's brother Simeon and a phone number in Tel Aviv. I had promised Joseph I would discuss the matter with my family, and then call his brother. I never break a promise.
I could hardly wait to see the reaction at home when I rehearsed my tale. They were used to my daydreams and imagination but this story, I sensed, would beat them all.
