“When I was in seminary,” Lucio says in a scratchy voice, “I was a gospel man, like you.”
I spread the hangers apart. My arms reach inside and edge the photo out. I feel rigid.
“I don’t know what he did with the Diatessaron,” Lucio says. “I could’ve sold many tickets to an exhibit about that manuscript. But once it disappeared, my fears were confirmed.”
The page is nearly as tall as I am. I prop it against the wall, against the pictures of my own childhood. And almost instantly, I feel as if a glass has shattered inside my heart. Because seeing the ghost of the ancient stains that our restorers removed, I understand.
I scrabble in my pockets for the letter Ugo mailed to Simon.
“If you’re looking for a Bible,” Lucio says, “I have one here.” He reaches under his pillow and produces it. “Ignore my notations. I’m sure you’ll see it before I did.”
But all I feel is a lancing pain in my chest. “A pen,” I whisper. “Give me a pen.”
He hands me one from the nightstand.
I kneel and unfold the letter across his cold marble floor. Then I do exactly what the Alogi did almost two thousand years ago. In his letter, wherever I see verses from John, I cross out the text.
3 August 2004
Dear Simon,
Mark 14:44–46
You’ve been telling me for several weeks now that
John 18:4–6
this meeting wouldn’t be postponed—even if
Matthew 27:32
you were away on business. Now I realize you were
John 19:17