Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [56]
Alem’nesh is Oromo, the largest ethnic group in Ethiopia. He has sharp features, highlighted by a strong nose—the nose of a pharaoh. And he has eyes that see everything.
“You look good,” I say.
A close perusal—without the prospect of dodging various objects—reveals a touch of salt-and-pepper to his dark hair, and a pudgier face. But he looks largely as he did the last time I saw him, which is largely as he looked when we went to college together. It was then the projectile game took its form, at a time when a silly contest could compensate for the stress built into the lab-partner dynamic—an arrangement made more difficult by the language barrier between us. He has since become fluent in English, and I’ve learned just enough of his language to find a bathroom and count out cab fare. Alem’nesh left the study of archaeology for the ministry the next semester. I had harbored guilt for a while because I was certain it was our pairing that ruined the field for him.
His eyes stray to my right. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure,” he says to Esperanza, extending a hand, which Espy takes in her own.
“Reverend Father,” she says, bowing. “Bless, Father.”
Alem’nesh beams at the proper usage of the honorific, and the customary request for a blessing, spoken in his native Amharic.
“Please, I’m Alem’nesh. Or if you are challenged by relatively simple, if foreign-sounding, names,” he adds, looking at me, “Al will do.”
“Esperanza Habilla. It’s a pleasure, Alem’nesh.”
He leans toward her with a conspirator’s twinkle in his eye. “How does someone like Jack merit a traveling companion so obviously superior to him in every way?”
“Oh, you and I are going to be good friends, I can tell,” she answers.
I can only shake my head and wonder if the fact that I’m always the butt of the joke when people I know meet each other says something unpleasant about me. I feign a pained expression that seems to please them both. What I keep to myself is my own appreciation for Espy’s talents. I learned back on the bus, when I heard her conversing with her seatmates, that she has added Amharic to her language pantheon. And now to find her familiar with the customs of the Orthodox Church on the other side of the world . . . It’s a reminder that even people you think you know can surprise you. I’m hoping—praying is not too strong a word—that Alem’nesh will surprise me.
As if sensing my unspoken request, Alem’nesh releases Espy’s hand and gestures to a pair of chairs facing the desk.
“Come, sit,” he says, taking each of us by an elbow and guiding us to the seats. Once we are situated and he has claimed his own spot behind the desk, he offers a knowing smile. “It’s been a long time, Jack. I was very surprised to get your call.”
“It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years,” I say.
“What’s ten years among good friends?”
There’s a lot of history between us, and I feel a measure of guilt for popping up after so long because I need something. But I can’t spare the time it would require to complete the cultural niceties. Fortunately my old school chum understands Western sensibilities; he’s used to our brand of narcissism.
He is quiet, except I hear him making a clicking sound with his tongue that indicates he is thinking. It would always annoy me when he would do that.
“There is something wrong.”
“I need a favor, Al.” It’s become my mantra, my own personal bumper sticker: Itinerant archaeologist needs a favor.
“You’re not going to ask to see the Ark of the Covenant at St. Mary’s, are you?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Tempting, but no. I’m here for something else.”
“Then tell me. What has brought you to see me from so far away?”
Since I’m in a church, I reason that honesty is the best policy. “What can you tell me about the bones of the prophet Elisha?”
There’s a reason that I wanted to be here when I asked the question. I wanted to see his face, in that instant before lucid thought would provide a mask. I hate the knowledge that our past friendship does not engender sufficient trust so that I would accept his