Note: The following characters, depictions and events are somewhat true
"It's not the act of death that bothers me," she said, "it's its unanimity." And she laughed as she said it.
Sure, I thought it a curious place for a laugh and I told her as much. But she shrugged her shoulders in that familiar form and the irony of what she had said fell off of me like a meaningless insult.
I went on telling her the story. So it's true, there is no real concept of hell in the old testament. It's a rather ambiguous place called Sheol. It's there the patriarchs went after they died. So when the Nicene creed reads Jesus descended into "hell" it probably doesn't mean what we think it means.
She thought for a moment and asked, "so it's kinda like when we say the underworld?"
Something like that, yes; I replied.
"Do you think maybe the Hebrews got the idea from the Egyptians? you know when..."
Just then, a knock broke the intensity of our conversation. We stared at each other, almost as if we had done something wrong. Or perhaps it was that we hadn't heard a knock at all. Then the jolting sound of the doorbell; followed by a distant knock echoed through the hall into my room. It was the front door we finally surmised. I was halfway to the door when I realized it was a Fed-Ex delivery.
"Something from Amazon.com for you, sir!"
He was a tall pale fellow, rather lanky. His hair was styled to be messy and jet-black; almost as if he had colored it the night before and the true color hadn't taken just yet. Considering the myriad of tattoos covering his arms, I thought it quite fitting.
It seems early 90's 'grunge' has yet to die out, I thought to myself.
As I signed for my parcel, it struck me that his jovial nature and the excitement with which he had presented himself was at odds with his styled look.
"Last name?" he asked.
Oh, Al-va-rez I retorted.
"Is that with an 'S' or a 'Z'?", he clarified.
A 'Z,' I returned.
"Cool, thanks man!" was his outro as he jogged away.
And before I could say anything in return he was in his truck and off to his next delivery.
As I made my way back to my room, Ariana called out "I'm over here!"
I stopped mid-step and made a 180. What are you doing in the kitchen? I asked.
"I figured I'd make us some iced tea, what do you think?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
Sounds refreshing! was my first and only thought.
"Is that the book? Huh...huh. is it...is it??" she inquired playfully.
Yes...yes...yes it is; it's finally here!! I said matching her silliness.
It was a book of photographs I encountered while browsing Amazon.com. Very specific pictures; it was a collection of black and whites of two 3rd century catacombs: one from Jerusalem and one from Rome. Early Christians used the underground necropolis for burying their dead; some say they also took refuge. And some say they even had fellowship there; that the earliest expressions of the Eucharistic Mass took its form in that underground world.
Whatever the case, they left their mark in wall carvings and in frescoes and mosaics. What was of interest to me was the specific manner in which they depicted Jesus, the miracle worker. Whether it was Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead or Jesus multiplying the loafs and fishes on the Mount of Olives, invariably these early pictographs placed in Jesus' hand a thing which can only be described as a magician's wand.
I had become interested in the subject after reading a work called 'Magic and Meal.' In it, the author, a former Roman Catholic Priest, expounded upon the sociological difference between a "miracle worker" and a "magician." He had come to the conclusion that there was really no substantive difference between the two; it was a matter of semantic nuance.
His cross-cultural analysis of societies had persuaded him that the only real difference, in whether a person was called a miracle worker or a magician, was the difference between official and unofficial religious practice. That is, within an official accepted religion the harbinger of wondrous deeds was called a miracle worker and within unofficial and unaccepted religious practice, the harbinger of wondrous deeds was called a magician. Or as he put it "...'we' practice religion...'they' practice magic'...'we' say prayers; 'they' cast spells."
With the dark smell of brewing tea hanging in the air and the gurgling cadence of percolation breaking the silence, I tore open the package. The book was not of an impressive size; a clue that the photos within were not heavily laden with text from an editor's hand. A chamber from the Roman catacombs of St. Callixtus adorned the cover. The fresco's that bordered the ancient loculi were small given the size of the book but enough was revealed to tantalize.
Seeing my excitement and taking advantage of my inattention, Ariana grabbed the book from my eager hands.
"LET ME see it!!" she barked as she ran off in a giggle.
Annoyed, I gazed at her making sure she noticed the offense. It took a moment for me to realize, yet again, that such attempts at passive aggression were futile. She had always found a way to cast them aside; usually like a moody teenager by rolling her eyes. But this time she perked up, looked back at me square in the eyes.
"What?" she asked with utter bravado.
"This book will always be with you; but me you may not always have." she said as she turned again toward the book.
Then she halfway looked up again and through her hair she flashed a muted smile; wanting to know if I had picked up on the gospel allusion. In fact, I had.
As I approached the sanctum of her remark, I noticed she paused on a certain page. And gazing at the picture of the "Cubicle of the Sacraments" she asked pointedly,
"you know, isn't it more important to study what they said of themselves rather than what we say about them? of all the images they could have used to commemorate their dead, why these? A Shepard, a communal meal,..."
As she pointed to the frescoes which surrounded the four loculi hewn into a wall she continued,
" even if you find anything approaching Jesus the magician in these pictures, wouldn't that just tell you about the people who made the paintings and not Jesus himself?"
That is one of the aspects I'm looking for, I replied. Either way, a picture emerges.
"Well you'll have to do that on your own, I have to go" and she cast the book aside on the couch.
As Ariana gathered her things, I reminded her that these catacombs were from the 4th century and even if it could be proven that what Jesus held in his hand was, in fact, a magician's wand and not a walking stick, it would still be required to account for how far back the idea went.
"Good luck with that one geek!" she spat off in her pithy humor and left, closing the door behind her.
The Bell
South Texas is a place where memories linger. Legend says that the flat land, where one can see for miles all around, allow the memories of its people to wander; for there are no mountains to guide them upward into infinity. I had often wished to be born elsewhere. Rome or Greece, I had thought, would be the best place to be born. It was so rich in history and memory that to walk the streets under the Parthenon or the Colosseum on any given night was to walk where ancient people had walked. And that had always struck me. It was a far cry from South Texas to be sure. Our history went as far as the arrival of the Spaniard in the 1500's. As impressive as that can be, it was an age away from those great city-states.
I had come to the Bell Library in Corpus Christi on the cusp of a memory. Years ago I had come with a friend- Juan Solizeno had invited me to peruse the family history section of "the Bell" as he had come to call it. He was particularly interested in a set of papers collected in early 1760. The Englehardt Papers preserve, in four journals, the travels of Daniel Englehardt, whose journey along the Rio Grande, gives us the first glimpses of the families living along the great river. He details a number of family names, local customs, laws and other information that had remained unknown until Englehardt's journals were discovered in the 1930's.
"Here it is." mumbled Juan. "This is why I love the Bell, a 18th century collection cherished and preserved as if it were from the 1rst."
"Here put these gloves on." he insisted.
I obliged and while he removed the journals from the safe-box, I imagined we were archaeologists viewing the documents for the first time in history.
"I want to tell you of the first time I encountered these journals." he said mysteriously.
"I was 34 years old when these journals were brought here. I was teaching English at the high school when the city hosted the event in conjunction with this library. It was a huge deal when the choice was made to house them here." he recalled, savoring the residue of the memory.
"I thought it would be a good idea to somehow incorporate these journals into my lesson plans. So when the hoopla was over I would read them an hour each day after school."
He continued, "One day I came across this page."
He pointed halfway down the page. The irony of primary sources struck like a gong within me. I could not read the handwritten text. My eyes were not accustomed to deciphering quickly the cursive handwriting of Mr. Englehardt. Noticing my struggle, Juan took liberty.
"Allow me: "...some miles south of the River, encountered a most curious regional aspect. head of the household proudly boasts his family as first to bring the printing press to the region. A quaint little ranchito called El Solizeno. All manner of material printed by their nimble hands...."
I looked at Juan with a puzzled look. That is your last name!
"Yes...yes it is. This is where genealogy became real to me. My curiosity soared! It was the start of a long journey-a journey I continues to this very day."
"I remember sitting on the porch with my grandparents, aunts and uncles. They would tell stories about our family. Most of the time it was boring but there were times I couldn't help but listen. One story was about 'el jacal abajo de la casa.' Way back when our great-great grandparents lived on a ranch and under their house was a shed. The details as to what was in there differed from telling to telling; some say gold and silver, others say jewels. Based on this Engelhardt account, I think it was books they stored."
My recollection suddenly burst, "What are you dooooing?" asked Ariana in her stylistic playful greeting.
I'm trying to find a book.
True to form she added, "That shouldn't be too hard here in a library."
No silly. I'm looking for a book I found years ago while here with a friend. It was my first time here at the Bell so I wandered. I came across an archaeological report about a site on the Gulf Coast, here in Corpus. I remember there was found the remains of a shipwreck. In my rush to take in the facilities I only quickly read through it. But I seem to recall it stating that Roman denarii were collected and that it might be dated to Roman times. The only evidence of a Roman ship on the shores of Corpus Christi. But that is all I remember, so, I'm trying to find it and read the full report.
