The Psalter Read Online Free PDF Page B

shared the same interest in Giovanni, the medieval scribe I told you about. He asked me to find every prayer book in our Archives copied by this scribe. I thought it odd in the beginning, but it became sort of a hobby. We enjoyed long discussions trying to imagine this monk. A few of the parchments weren’t erased well, and some of the original words were visible under ultraviolet or infrared. This one, on the other hand, had been erased exceptionally well.”
    “And you want to read what’s written underneath?” Isabelle Héber spoke more sympathetically.
    “Yes. I’m convinced the Pope’s Secretary was looking for a particular scroll.”
    “You realize, of course, that all New Testament manuscripts were composed in Koine, a dialect of Greek.”
    “But Jesus spoke Aramaic.”
    “You should know that this palimpsest might be anything, so don’t get your hopes up.”
    “You’ll help?” Romano asked hopefully.
    “After the Archive closes. Can you come back at six?”
    “I’ll be here.”

5
IsyReADeT
    Father Romano walked down the rue des Francs-Bourgeois through a canyon of chic apartments and private mansions from centuries past in one of Paris’ oldest quarters. He often felt out of place outside the Vatican. But passing trendy boutiques where his reflection gaped back from the windows, an unshaven, heavy-eyed cleric toting a knapsack, he looked more like a hobo than a man of the cloth. Romano noticed pedestrians staring. “Humility,” he muttered to himself.
    His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since he’d left Rome. He searched for a bistro, café, or even a local bar where he could order a quick sandwich, but saw only shops and historic buildings. Wandering out of the chasm of apartments into an open space, he found himself in the seventeenth-century Place des Vosges , Paris’ oldest square. A rectangular brick arcade surrounded the plaza, with pale stone residences above. The Place was the French capital’s first attempt at community housing. Richelieu had lived in number 21, and number 6 housed the Victor Hugo museum. Now, the interior of the square was a green space lined with trees and paths, with a play area in the center. Children ran and squealed as they kicked soccer balls, rode on teeter-totters, and climbed up the slide.
    The aroma of dark coffee floated to Romano’s nose and lured him to bistro tables filling the sidewalk. A few couples sat, chatting while they sipped from demitasses and savored tarts and pastries. Romano found an empty table furthest from the snackers. A graying waiter in dark trousers, white shirt, and a black vest, balancing a small round tray approached. “Good afternoon, Father. May I bring you something to drink?”
    “A Coke and a large glass of water.”
    “Would you like a menu, Father?”
    “What’s the plat du jour ?”
    “ Poulet rôti or Andouille sausage.”
    “I’ll take the chicken. Could I get fries?”
    “Of course.”
    Romano set his knapsack on a chair and pulled out a note pad and pen. Glancing up, his eyes met the waiter’s, who had not budged. “Yes?”
    “Excuse me, Father, if I’m impolite, but you look terrible. Are you all right?”
    He rubbed the two-day stubble with his hand. “I’ve been traveling. I’m just tired.”
    “We have a bathroom inside if you’d like to wash up. Turn left at the door and down the stairs.”
    The considerate word from the sympathetic waiter cheered Romano a bit. “You’re very kind.” He snatched up the backpack and headed inside, descending narrow, winding steps to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face, he rubbed liquid soap from the dispenser on thick, black whiskers. He pulled a disposable razor from an old leather case and began to scrape away two days’ growth. Patting his cheeks dry with the continuous towel in the white holder, a loud ring startled Romano. His hand groped along the bottom of his pack until he grasped his vibrating phone. “Hello?”
    “Father Romano?”