Harry Mulisch - The Discovery of Heaven

"Have you decided in the meantime what you plan to do in Israel?"

"We'll see." Quinten really didn't know. All he knew was that everything would turn out for the best.

"I know a colleague there from one of my former lives," said Onno, making a final attempt without much hope. "He might be able to help us a bit— at least if he's still alive. They've got fantastic laboratories there, where they can clean the stones; on that score there's no better equipment anywhere than in Israel. All Israelis are archaeologists — every potsherd they find is a political argument to justify their state."

"And what about the Third World War?"

"Of course it would have to be done in the deepest secrecy."

"And that colleague of yours. . what's his name?"

"I can't remember. Yes I can: Landau. Mordechai Landau."

"When he sees that he's got the authentic Ten Commandments in front of him, will he keep his mouth shut, then?"

Onno sighed deeply. "He would immediately phone the prime minister."

"Well, then."

Onno said nothing. He was giving up. It was obvious that he would never even know for certain that those two stones were not Moses' stones. Quinten might perhaps hide them in a cave at the Dead Sea, near Qumran, all of which had been searched scores of times and where no one would look anymore; or bury them somewhere, in the Negev, in a place where he himself wouldn't be able to find them again. Israel was small; he could get everywhere on the bus in a few hours — nowadays even into the Sinai Desert.

He could put them back on Mount Horeb and drive straight on to Egypt, thus completing the biblical circle. Then he could finally let himself be shut up in the throne room in the pyramid of Cheops, through which he had struggled on his official visit through hot, stuffy passages, and lie down in the empty, black sarcophagus. According to the pyramid freaks, there were definitely supernatural forces at work there, which would remove him from the earth like Enoch. Onno unfastened his safety belt and put his seat back a little. He must resign himself to the whole episode's taking on the character of a dream, which he couldn't even talk about decently without being considered crazy.

The breakfast that was put in front of them seemed to be of the same substance as the plastic knives and forks with which they had to eat it. Quinten helped his father open the transparent packaging — not because he wouldn't have been able to do it himself, but because he obviously didn't want to know how to do it; and the sort of rage threatened to take control of him that led him even to putting his teeth into the plastic, which could only end in defeat for his teeth.

"This kind of food is the end of human civilization," he grumbled, twisting and turning his large body behind the lowered table.

"But we're in the air now," said Quinten with his mouth full.

When their neatly ordered trays had been transformed into repulsive heaps of rubbish, which were pushed with a smile into steel trolleys, Quinten pressed his forehead against the window. Space. World. Like irregular gray-brown grease stains, the first Greek islands floated into view. Above his head were the Ten Commandments, on their way back: he felt as though he had been working toward this situation from the moment of his birth. What else could happen now? Of course something else would happen — but what then? Simply go on living? Go back to Holland and live to be eighty? Look back at this like an incident from the distant past, an unknown event from the last century? Suddenly the feeling seized him that these might be his last days on earth; but that didn't worry him.

Perhaps everyone had something special to do in their existence and then their life was fulfilled. It might be something very insignificant, or apparently insignificant — for example, helping someone without being asked, without the other person knowing it. Everyone really ought to search their past to see if something like that had already happened; otherwise they ought to think about doing it.

Down below Quinten saw a faint white comet in the blue water: a ship, itself too small to be seen, sailing in the opposite direction. Had the tablets and the menorah and all those things from the temple been taken to Rome by Titus like that, or had they gone overland? Only after he had asked Onno did he see that he'd woken Onno up.

"I'm sorry."

"You won't allow me a moment's rest," said Onno plaintively, and loosened his tie. "How the booty was transported! No idea. To be on the safe side, I'd say overland. Actually, I think you're the one who ought to know that kind of thing by now. But you don't study — you just do what you want."

"Isn't that enough, then?"

"Far too much! But you're right. Anyone can study — there are other people to do that, like me. When I was involved in politics in my modest way, I also knew less about it than the political scientists, who knew more than Hitler and Stalin put together but who hadn't an ounce of power and who would never get it. Except that in your case you go a step further. You're firmly convinced that at this moment you're taking the stone tablets of the Law back to Israel — I can still scarcely bring myself to say it — but if you ask me, you don't even know how your author got his inspiration there on that mountain in the Sinai. You've never read up on it in the Bible."

"No," said Quinten, thinking: they're not stone, but sapphire tablets. "What happened,then?"

"The usual things. In a volcanic production, with thunder and lightning, smoke, earthquakes, blaring trumpets, the voice of Jahweh visible in a dark cloud."

"Visible? A visible voice?"

"Yes, according to Philo that was the real miracle. Jahweh spoke visible words, in letters of light, which were not written on anything. That's what Moses had to do. That visible voice of God, Moses said later, was the greatest miracle since the creation of man."

Even after Onno had finished, Quinten felt that Onno was still looking at him from the side. Probably he really wanted to ask whether Quinten still believed that he had the stones in his possession; but he had obviously lost heart.

Quinten looked back at him and said: "So now the Francis Bacon is the Sancta Sanctorum."

"The Francis Bacon?"

"Didn't you see when we got on? That's the name of this plane."

When they were flying over the Peloponnese, Quinten became sleepy too. With heavy eyelids he looked at the large black fly sitting on the window. It had never flown as fast before without flying — how was it to get home again? Because the creature disgusted him, he brushed it away with his hand, after which it landed a few rows in front on the shoulder of the Orthodox gentleman, who had kept his hat on. Gradually his eyes closed, while the droning of the engines changed into majestic harmonies of gigantic orchestras. .

The voice of the captain woke him from his sleep. He told them in English that Crete was down below on the right. Looking past Onno, Quinten saw the gloomy, violet mountains in the distance, but Onno didn't open his eyes.

"Dad. Crete."

"Don't want to see it," said Onno, with his head turned to one side and his eyes still closed. "I hate Crete."

A few minutes later the sound of the engines suddenly faded and Quinten could tell from his ears that the plane was beginning to descend.

His father opened one eye for a moment, closed it again and said: "Luhot ha'eduth can smell the stable."

"What are you talking about now?"

" 'The tablets of the testimony.' Another way of describing the covenant."

Quinten turned away with a jerk and looked wide-eyed through the plane without seeing anything. It was as though that word testimony were also deep in himself, like a cut, sparkling diamond in the blue earth.