Heritage of Smoke by Josip Novakovich

Author:Josip Novakovich
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Heritage of Smoke
ISBN: Heritage_of_Smoke
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2017-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

In the local travel agencies, he saw a sign: seven-day excursion to Jerusalem, 500 euros. Four-star hotel, guided tours, everything included in the price. Alana encouraged him to go. “If we go,” he said, “there’ll be that much less you’ll inherit from me.”

“Don’t worry about that. All the money you have will be spent on your funeral expenses,” she said. “It’s cheaper if you live than if you die.”

“I’ve seen budget cremation advertised, basically the same price as the trip for two to the Holy Land. It’s a trip for one to Hell.”

“No matter what, you take a trip to the Holy Land. But why not try Jerusalem first. I’d like to see it too.”

“But you’re an atheist.”

“I was raised a Catholic.”

“How many times have you been to church in your life?”

“I think five. Three Christmases and two Easters. Six. Once for Baptism. Missed Confirmation.”

They landed in Tel Aviv on Purim and spent a night there. The city was a carnival, a Rio—people in masks, dancing, singing. The following day in Jerusalem, Purim continued with people dressed in costumes, wearing masks. But the day after that, cleaning crews collected the remaining debris all over the city.

Alana and Davor didn’t want to be with the tourist group, so they walked into the Old City to see the tomb of Jesus and the Western Wall on their own.

“This dry air feels fantastic,” he said. “Sun and dry air, a great combination.”

They entered through the Damascus gate, descending the stairs past oranges and olives and nuts and sneakers and sunglasses stands. The call to prayer blasted at them from all sides over cranky loudspeakers.

“In ancient days, they couldn’t do it this loud,” Davor said. “They probably complain about technology, and then use it to complain about it. But what do I know?”

Walking down Via Dolorosa, Davor was dizzy from all the spices, the sun, the heat. They climbed on huge foot-polished cobbles behind wailing pilgrims from the Philippines. Near the entrance to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, three soldiers in light green fatigues laughed, swaying submachine guns under their arms. Davor and Alana entered the gate and faced the smooth pink-red rock on which the body of Christ had been laid out once he had been torn off the cross. Amazing, thought Davor. He knelt down, as several other people did, and kissed the rock. Thousands of people had kissed the pink marble, why wouldn’t I, he thought. Well, maybe that’s why—all their bacteria frolic on the rock.

“Can you imagine?” Davor said. “His body was right here, on this rock.”

“Yes, I’m visualizing it. Was he still bleeding?”

Deeper in the cathedral, they joined a line coiling around a small ornate chapel. The cathedral contained a chapel, like a Russian doll, which contained the tomb where Jesus resided for three days and three nights.

“Hm, so much gold,” Davor said. “I wonder what it was like without all the gold before.”

“Yes, you kind of have to subtract the cathedral, the chapel, the precious metals, and then see the rock for what it is.

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