Frannie sat in a conference room, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap. Through years of practice, she knew her face was expressionless. She’d be damned if she would give the pompous ass across from her the satisfaction of knowing how furious she was.
She had called a local seminary to request the assistance of a professor who taught biblical linguistics. Assured that Alistair Poindexter was their best, Frannie called him, told him she needed something translated, and he agreed to meet her at the office.
Frannie and Alistair were antagonists the minute they laid eyes on each other. She thought him a middle-aged, chauvinistic, woman-hating Brit, stuffed with his own egotistical importance, acting like he was infinitely superior to her and the entire United States population. He thought her a castrating slut, who was probably sleeping her way up the ladder in a man’s profession, a product of over-indulgent, liberalistic policies, what Yanks referred to as “Affirmative Action.”
He’s doing this on purpose. Frannie’s body was rigid, her teeth, clenched. She barely restrained herself from leaping over the table and clawing that smirk off his face.
With a condescending smile in her direction, Alistair played the edited tape for the fourth time. You fucking turd, Frannie seethed. If you think I’m going to beg you to write something down, we’ll just wait until the Second Coming before I give you that satisfaction!
Alistair must have sensed that Frannie was about to pounce on him and ram the recorder up his rear end, because he finally took pen in hand and began to write. She smiled, satisfied that he must have realized how close he’d come to mutilation.
Finished, he pushed the paper across the table in Frannie’s general direction, making sure she had to uncross her legs and stretch to retrieve it. As she began to read, he stood up, reaching for his cap and umbrella.
Frannie glared at him through lowered brows and said, “Have a seat Professor Point-Dexter. I might have several questions for you once I’m through.”
He sank down, bristling from the deliberate mispronunciation of his surname. His hands came to rest across his hound’s-tooth waistcoat, and he heaved the sigh of a martyr while his fingernail tapped against a metal button.
Frannie read almost one letter at a time. Let the bastard wait, she thought, just like I had to.
Despite her desire for some small revenge on Poindexter, she was mesmerized by his neat script which captured the text of the solemn words. She remembered Mariah Carpenter’s husky voice, the tones rising and falling with passion—and something else that Frannie was not able to identify:
You are the Light in this world. Keep this in sight, and give your Light to everyone. Do not deny the Light by going along with the crowd, allowing those who sin to dim your Light. Do not explain the Light to others. Do not ignore the needs of others. Let your Light shine before men that they may see your good deeds, but when you do something for those who need you, do not announce it with trumpets to be honoured by men. Your motive must be pure with no thought of benefit in return.
Frannie glanced up and said, “Professor, I’d like to know if the person on this tape is comfortable with the language they’re speaking. By that I mean, does it sound like they’re translating from any language into this ... this Aramaic/Hebrew stuff, as they go along, or are they speaking it like it was their native tongue?”
“Well, Miss Manzotti” (Alistair smirked, knowingly committing three sins at one time; mispronouncing her last name, not addressing her by her Bureau title of ‘Agent,’ and using ‘Miss,’ rather than the modern business address of ‘Ms’)“I must say this tape intrigues me. It is Biblical Hebrew, which, at that time, was Aramaic. The dialect is archaic, the inflection and intonation used today only by biblical scholars.” Forgetting his previous hostility, Alistair leaned forward, his eyes gleaming behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Not only spoken perfectly,” he said, his tone hushed with reverence, “but the vernacular of the educated. No peasant slurrings, no colloquialisms. If I were to make an educated guess” (drawing himself up, Alistair Poindexter reminded her of a male grouse fluffing his feathers) “I would venture to say this man is a rabbi, a teacher, who is speaking before his students. More to the point, what he imparts is the teachings of Christ himself, ‘Lessons in Life’ from the Sermon on the Mount.”
Poindexter stared into Frannie’s eyes, his superior attitude gone. “I would deem it a great honour,” he said, “if I could meet the man who spoke these words. He not only speaks the ancient dialect fluently, he thinks in it; and, to answer your prior question, it is most definitely his native tongue.”
Frannie was surprised. She would never have expected this stuffed shirt to humble himself before her. She felt a twinge of pity for this middle-aged man who had dedicated his life to a language forced on those who only needed it to get their theology degree.
Frannie said, “I’m sorry, Professor Poindexter, I can’t reveal the name of the person at this time. But I promise that, if and when the Bureau is ready to make this public,”—waving the translated text— “I’ll make sure the person is aware of your desire to meet.
“Thank you for your time. I hope I may call upon you if we need your assistance in the future.”
She stood up, a signal that the meeting was over and he was dismissed. Obviously disappointed, Poindexter nevertheless thanked “Agent Manzetti” for her promise, picked up his cap and “brolly,” and was escorted out of the FBI building by the department secretary.
Back at her desk, Frannie reread the translation, a sudden chill causing an involuntary shudder. If she wasn’t careful, she might be persuaded to become a born-again Christian.
Frannie’s mother, Theresa, had tried to raise her four children in a semi-strict Catholic home. Her father, Sal, never attended church except for Christmas Eve and Easter. Her mother went three times a week, probably trying to atone for her father’s absent soul. She was forced to eat fish every Friday for dinner and to go with her mother to church on Sunday, but the rest of the time she pretty much did what she wanted.
Frannie had very little use for God: like Mariah, she believed He was not nearly as interested in women as He was in men. But then again, her opinion on a lot of issues was being challenged these days.