Gospel by Wilton Barnhardt Page A

didn’t find his name, but diplomatically let the occasion to inform him pass. She reached into her carpetbag to her side and found her ever-present notepad. She went on, “Rabbi Hersch holds the Rosen Chair of Ancient Languages at Hebrew University. What would this man want, I figured, with some Greek Christian document? Perhaps, I got to thinking, this work is contemporary with Josephus, his specialty.”
    Good detective, thought the professor, before reminding himself never to discuss anything in public with anyone again on this subject. “Is that all?”
    â€œNo. I talked to the head of the Theology Department back at Chicago, Dr. Shaughnesy?”
    â€œThat moron? He did his lousy doctorate on Freemason rituals, copied it out of a book! I mentioned the Rosetta Stone to him one time and he thought it was the Hispanic cleaning lady who came in on Fridays. Reads everything in translation. A ninth-rate mind presiding over the first-rate department I created!”
    (That’s no way to talk about the man who conferred professor emeritus upon you. Out of kindness, let Us add, since you gave him nothing but abuse toward the end when he successfully got you out of the department and saved the entire program from ruin. What’s more, you know the truth!)
    â€œYou got nothin’, baby,” O’Hanrahan said momentarily. “A thousand scholars, such as myself, are hoping to acquire for their institutions a thousand scrolls at any given time. I’ve been involved in the papyrus trade for a half-century now.”
    This was Lucy’s opening to read from the notepad again: “Dr. Shaughnesy says you have a sister who says you’ve hocked everything you own to pursue this project, including your house—”
    â€œThe old witch probably thought she was getting it when I die. Ha!”
    â€œThe university knows you’ve cashed in your life insurance plan. You began two months ago with the department credit card—”
    â€œThe bastards canceled it.”
    â€œâ€”before they canceled it, and you racked up expenses of $2,243.86 in places such as Rome, Assisi, Jerusalem, Damascus, Trier in West Germany, Antwerp, Jerusalem again, Rome again—”
    â€œGod, they’re getting off cheap! Only $2000 for a trip like that!”
    â€œAnd they’re worried about Gabriel—”
    â€œI told you never to mention that little faggot to me again!”
    Lucy hunched down in her seat, positive that “faggot” carried to the rafters. “And they’re worried about your … your state of mind.”
    O’Hanrahan laughed richly. “So they think I hold the Alzheimer Chair in Ancient Studies, right? They’ll wish they had treated me a little better when this whole thing is over.”
    Lucy reached into her carpetbag again and produced two letters. “This is from your sister, and this is from Dr. Shaughnesy.”
    â€œBurn them.”
    But Lucy held the letters out to him. He took the one from Dr. Shaughnesy, used his butter knife to open the envelope.
    â€œHumph,” he said, skimming. “Just what I expected. They want me to come back to Chicago, stop spending my money, the department’s reputation, blah blah blah, they’re worried for my reputation, et cetera et cetera…” He handed the note back to her. “Those swine wouldn’t know an important scholastic find if the Hand of God led them to it.”
    At this juncture the petite béarnaise arrived with Lucy’s English breakfast on an oblong, silly-looking trolley with a squeaking silver hood. Lucy looked down at her plate of bacon and fried eggs, fried bread—buttered bread deep-fried in the breakfast grease, she felt her arteries tighten—and this fried potato cake with shreds of cabbage inside it.
    â€œThat’s bubble and squeak,” explained O’Hanrahan, happy to switch subjects. “That’s a banger, the