The Psalter by Galen Watson

Father,” Pascal apologized. “We’re being impolite.”
    “It’s an unoriginal story. My father left when I was so young, I don’t remember him. Mother was…well, intolerant. Maybe she saw Dad in me. So I ran away and ended up in foster homes until I was tough enough to run from there. January is cold in New York, so I hid in a church to sleep. Like you, Pascal, a priest saved me. He sent me to a Catholic high school on the Upper East Side, which is where my life and education began.”
    “Now I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s one thing to have your parents taken from you, but quite another to have to run from them.”
    “It was for the best. I found my home.”
    “So we both ended up alone.”
    Isabelle stood up from the table. “It’s getting late, Father, and we still have a document to translate.”
    Romano rose as well and offered his hand to Monsieur Héber, who rose and shook it affectionately. As the priest turned away toward the entry, Pascal called to him, “Where’re you going?”
    “Like your daughter said, we have some work to do.”
    “Of course you do. You have a first-century Aramaic text to translate.”
    Romano was flummoxed. His eyes bolted toward Isabelle, who cleared dishes.
    “Father,” Pascal said with a grin, “I’m the translator.”

11
Gospel of Thomas
    Romano sank into a green, overstuffed chair. His heavy eyes surveyed the walls. Old paint covered uneven plaster. Dark beams jutted from above. The junction of the wall and ceiling had been deformed by centuries of settling. Isabelle handed Romano a demitasse, then held out a silver bowl. He took two sugar cubes from the bowl and plopped them into the cup.
    Pascal Héber sat opposite the priest on the other side of the coffee table. The photograph of the ancient page lay in front of him. He peered at the image through half-moon reading glasses while scratching notes on a tablet. Isabelle had neglected to explain that her father was a retired professor of linguistics at the Sorbonne, where he had been the department head of Arab and Hebrew studies. Most importantly, he had a perfect working knowledge of Aramaic.
    The coffee helped revive the priest, who had become drowsy after dinner. As he savored its aromatic richness, the caffeine awakened his brain. Only then did he realize Pascal was speaking to him as he read and scribbled notes. “This apartment has been in my family for two hundred years.” He didn’t look up as he spoke. “It belonged to my aunt and uncle. After the war, I was the only one left, so I inherited it. Someday, it will belong to Isabelle. She’s a lovely old building, don’t you think? Age adds lines and texture like grooves gouged in vinyl records. I’ve always thought that buildings record the essence of the lives lived in them. It gives them character, like me.”
    Romano gazed over at Isabelle, who appeared and disappeared, carrying dishes from the dining room to the kitchen, casting looks at her father as she passed. Finally, she walked to the sofa and sat next to him, staring at his notes. Romano tried to divine what she read by the expression on her face, but her widened eyes could mean anything.
    Pascal rose and stepped to the bookshelves that covered an entire wall. He pulled down a thick volume and flipped the pages. He scribbled on his notepad and read a little further. Finally, he took off his glasses and folded them slowly. Romano and Isabelle edged forward in their seats.
    “Well, Papa?” Isabelle asked.
    Pascal turned to the priest. “Are you certain this is a first-century manuscript and not a few hundred years later, perhaps?”
    “Positive. Around fifty A.D., plus or minus.”
    Pascal blew out a breath of astonishment. “Then, my boy, let me be the first to congratulate you. You’ve discovered what scholars have sought for almost two thousand years.”
    The paleographer was now wide awake. “Is it a New Testament manuscript?”
    Pascal half smiled. “You found the only