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.
|
I sat back - rocked in the flimsy cafeteria chair - and laughed; nearly splitting my sides. 'I needed a laugh,' I thought, 'and this is it.'
The cafe over my right shoulder had several diners who stared. Joseph - my newly acquired friend - and I, sat outside at a white picnic table. Debris from toast and cups of coffee littered the plastic table. Cafe customers, attracted no doubt by the guffawing noises, came to the door and looked our way. Around the nearby market stalls shoppers stopped - gawking. Stretching my hands above my head and making a yawn I told the market-trader 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 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 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 and appeared 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 got our tattoos.
I remembered that one night in Afghanistan, in 1990, 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, APC's, jeeps and mortars. The tough Afghan people were a hard nut to crack as mother Russia discovered; leaving behind enough scrap to keep Morgan Steel very busy.
Sean was busy too. He had told me something of his history. On exercises from an eighteen year old soldier, later a paratrooper, then he served in the Falklands on April 2nd 1982: his 20th birthday. Sean joined the SAS where he gained promotion to be a 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 had become 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 have a pregnant wife, so try soda or juice huh?"
He said, "Jesus! Going into a bar for soda: that's like winning a blind date with The Corrs and getting the brother!"
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," Liz stroked 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. He's also like steel wool: OK to touch gently with fingers, but those who make an enemy of him - by rubbing him up the wrong way - experience severe pain."
Liz shivered. "Yes but do you think he'll be okay 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.
Sounds of words brought me back from my memories. The flower seller was repeating: "The sign is on your hand, and also what you said. You asked 'do I have a cure for cancer'. It all fits. I'm not a pharmacy: I sell flowers! Everything the Rabbi had told Peter. My brother and I have waited twenty years." Beads of perspiration moistened his beard.
In February we were sitting outside and enjoyed our fourth coffee as Joseph answered my concerns. I discovered that market traders - and Jewish ones called Joseph especially - are the best hagglers on planet Earth: convinced his twenty year wait was over, and he had found the one chosen to receive the box.
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 Jaffa or Tel Aviv. I had made Joseph the promise 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 day-dreams and imagination: but this story, I sensed, would beat them all.
