Selected Detective
IUDAEOURUM CANDELABRUM
“YALLA, YALLA. COMEON. WHERE ARE YOU?” Layla glanced at her watch, realizing that every minute would bring her closer. He then stepped back into the shadow fog on the edge of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, his heart rate felt like it was shaking the entire building as if someone had struck his runway with a heavy iron hammer.
Layla had no idea how the detective could find out about the letter sent to her, which contained a request for help to contact Al-Mulatham, Dieter Hoth, anyone. At the moment it is irrelevant. All he knew from the very first sight of the man was that he was dangerous, more dangerous than any Israelite he had ever met, except perhaps Har-Zion. That's why Layla lied to him. That's why she ran away (at that time, Layla saw a BMW parked outside, the same car she had seen several times before watching her apartment late at night). That was also why he came here to meet the Jewish man, which this time was the last exhausting opportunity to shine a bright light on what William Relincourt had found under the church floor. it is a small possibility. The old man was almost crazy or senile. It could be his second too. It's the only chance left. He has to find what he's looking for here. At least give her a hint....
“Come,” he hissed, smashing his fist at the dark pillar next to him. “Come! Where the hell are you?” The next twenty minutes had passed very slow and painful minutes, a disturbing hope full of torture. He had done nothing but surrender, convinced that the old man would not come, when at last, from the other end of the church, it seemed like he heard the voice he had been waiting for expectantly the rhythm of a stick clack from a distance.
The old man entered the Rotunda and, as he had started before Layla saw him, walked towards the sealed cube of the Aedicule. He took out Yarmulke and the little Torah from his jacket and began to pray, his body swaying, his soft and disjointed voice floating into the dome above like the sound of leaves whispering in a gust of wind. Layla remained in her place until the old man finished praying, watching and waiting for her; then, when he put his head hat back on and put the prayer book into his pocket, Layla stepped out of the shadow and, looking at the church gate with a nervous look, walked towards the old man then gently touched his elbow.
“Excuse.” The old man turned his head wobbly like a toy clock whose mechanism was still complete but malfunctioning.
“I want to ask if I can talk to you about a man named William De Relincourt. One of the pastors here said you might know something about him.” Up close, the old man looked even older than he seemed from afar. His body was stooped, his face was so wrinkled that it looked as if a single small jolt would cause him to decompose and disintegrate. The unpleasant smell and a little nausea was smelled from him, unwashed clothes mixed with something more concentrated, more elemental smell of poverty, failure, damage. only his eyes seemed to want to tell a different story, because although they looked withered and red with pain, they were also sensitive, suggesting that even if his body wandered somewhere, his mind was not.
“Not long,” Layla added, while observing the entrance anxiously. “Just a few minutes. Five minutes at most.” The man said nothing, just looked at him, with his mouth half open like a tear on a worn skin. There was a restless atmosphere, the only sound was the sound of hisses and the flapping of the wings of birds as far above them a flying pigeon circled within the dome of the Rotunda painted white and gold; then, with a snort and a head-butt, the old man turned around and moved away. Layla guessed the man would not talk to her and her heart broke. But he was surprised and relieved that, instead of walking towards the church gate, he stepped closer to the seat where Layla sat with Mr. Sergius four days ago. He sat there, and signaled for Layla to come closer to him. Layla looked at the entrance, then sat down next to her.
“You're that Arab woman, ’kan?” he asked as soon as he sat quietly, resting on his staff. His voice broke and hesitated, as if heard from a telephone conversation that lacked signal. “Si Journalist.” Layla admits that, yes, she is a journalist.
the old man nodded. “I know your job.” A moment later, “Omong is empty. Lying, Betrayal, Antisemite. You're making me sick.” He looked towards Layla, then glanced again, dropping his gaze on the floor.
“Although actually, not as much as I'm fed up with myself. Onesh Olamku, my eternal punishment: to live in the world when the only person who will listen to what I have to say is he whom I do not want to say.” The man smiled faintly, an expression that somehow portrayed displeasure, and while bending forward, smacked his staff at the rows of ants lined up along the end of the fault on the floor stone.
“For sixty years I tried to tell them. write a letter, make an agreement. But they don't listen.Why should they want to, after what I did? Perhaps if I have something I can show them .. but I don't have just my words. And they don't want to hear. Not after what I did. So maybe I should be grateful for your interest, even if I doubt if you'll believe it. Not without evidence. And there is no evidence. No photos, no traces, nothing. Something helpless. Hoth kept a secret about the land.” Layla had already gotten to the point of interrupting this rambling monologue, wanting to bring the conversation back to William De Relincourt, who had no idea what it was, he was terrified that at any moment the Israeli policeman would come to the church and arrest him. This last comment stopped him from his tracks. He turned his seat, his fear disappearing once his attention was focused again, like a laser, at what this old man had just said.
“You know Dieter Hoth?”
“Hmmm?” the man was still busy banging his staff on the line of ants. “Oh, yes. I worked for him once. In egypt. Alexandria. I am the expert of the inscription.” A moment Hoth and his team were digging in Egypt, at a site outside Alexandria; the next moment he hurriedly flew to Berlin for an important meeting with Himmler. Layla's stomach tightened as she recalled Jean-Michel Dupont's words. This guy must know something. My Lord, he knows something. Except ...
“I think Hoth is antisemitic.why he wants...”.
“Hiring someone like me?” again the old man's mouth grinned, his fingers clenched and opened at the end of his wand. “Because he doesn't know I'm Jewish, of course. No one knows Jankuhn, Von Sievers, Reinerth. Not one of them. Never suspect.why should they know I'm the biggest Jewish hater in the area?” He let out a sigh, a thin and despairing voice came out from within him like the air coming out of a balloon, and sat down while leaning against the pillar behind him, staring at the dome again.
“I tricked them all. Every one of them. Very ingenious. Go to a rally, sing a few songs, follow a book burn. The perfect little nazi. And you know why? It cringes. “Because I love history. I want to be an archaeologist. Do you believe that? Split my chest because I want to dig a hole in the ground. And as a Jew I did not obtain the necessary qualifications, unlike those of the time. So I stopped being a Jew and became one of them. changed my name, made false documents, joined the Nazi party. Because I want to dig a hole in the ground. What's the surprise that they won't listen to me? A Jew who turns his back on his own people. A Moser. wonder?” He looked at Layla, his eyes moist, then turned back. Layla saw the man so angry, aware that he should have stepped carefully. “Not the time; indeed not the time.”
“What happened in Iskandaria?” he asked, trying but failing to hide the excitement that was heard in his voice. “What do you mean when you say that you have no photos or traces?” He did not reply, only staring at the bright rays of the sun that shot out from the sky on the axis of the dome above, like a thick golden rope.
Layla was silent for a moment, then, more from instinct than from a clear mind that might be able to help the situation, she added, “I know what it looks like. Lying that. Solitariness. I-i understand. We are the same in this. Please help me. Please.” From behind they heard screaming and the sound of rushing footsteps that made Layla turn her head. It turned out that only a few Syrian Jacobite clergymen were rushing to pray, his black robe fluttering around them like wings, and Layla immediately turned her body again. The old man looked at him directly. He kept staring, his eyes like pushing Layla's eyes, his lower lips were shaking a little. Then the almost unbearable silence.
“Four November.” Almost unheard.
“Sorry?”
“That's when we found it. Inscription it.” Her voice was so low that Layla had to advance her body forward in order to hear what she was saying.
“Sixteen years on the day after Carter found Tutankhamun. Ironically, if you think about it deeply: two of the greatest finds in archaeological history occurred on the same date. Our findings are the most important of both. Much more important. almost make all the lies and betrayals worth it, is there.” Then there was more fanfare behind them, human voices, footsteps on the rocks and a group of tourists entering the Rotunda, all dressed in the same yellow T-shirts. Layla hardly noticed them.
“Ya,” the old man muttered, “Almost makes the lie worth it. almost. Not enough.”
He muttered and, raising his trembling hand, removed the corner of his mouth where a small pool of saliva gathered at the corner between his upper and lower lips.
“He marked the consummation and devotion to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,”. “This church. describes Constantine's conversion to Christianity, his offering to the true God, his rejection of all other faiths. Nothing is extraordinary. Except for the last part. The last part is what matters.”
Tourists in yellow T-shirts had gathered in front of the Aedicule where the tour guide was explaining the church's history. One of them, a young man with shoulder-length hair, was taking pictures with his cell phone, which made a ringing noise every time he took pictures.
“At first we won't believe,” the old man whispered, his head swaying left and right. “Lukhnos glass, candelabrum iudaeorum. We think we must have mistaken it, that it refers to something else. Too hard to believe. Everyone thought it was kept in Rome. Gaiseric and the destroyers had taken him away in 455 when they robbed the city.” Layla bit her lip, confused. “I don't understand. bring what? What do you mean?” It seemed that the man did not hear what Layla said.
“Two hundred and fifty years he was there, in the Pacis Templum, or Temple of Peace. Since Titus brought him back from the ruins of Jerusalem. Titus took it from Jerusalem, and two and a half centuries later Constantine returned it.
That's what the inscription says. That's why it's so amazing. The inscription records how he was brought from Rome and immersed in a secret chamber under the floor of Constantine's new church, as an offering to the true God, a symbol of the Eternal Light of Christ.” He held out his trembling hand.
“Just right there, located there. Right there in front of us. For eight hundred years. Hidden. Unforgettably. Until William De Relincourt found him. I have tried telling them when I changed myself again at the end of the war, telling them during interrogations, and continuing to tell them. But they won't believe me, not after what I did, not without any evidence. And there is no evidence. Hoth kept everything. He's right there, right in front of us.”
Layla can hardly control her sense of hopelessness.This old man is very convoluted.
“What's up?” he hissed. “What is stored there in front of us? What was Constantine holding under the church?” The man opened his eyes and looked at Layla.
There was a ringing sound when the haired tourist took a picture with his mobile phone.
“I told you. Candelabrum. Lukhnos. Lukhnos iudieown.”
“But I don't understand!” His voice seemed to fill the entire Rotunda, causing some tourists to look at him.
“What the hell is that? I don't get it!” The old man looked surprised by his fiery spirit. Then shut up for a moment. Then slowly he explained.
“Oh Lord,” he whispered when the man finished telling the story. He remained in his position for a moment, too shocked to be able to move. Then, his eyes fixated on a man with a mobile phone, he immediately got up and moved quickly towards the man.
*****_____*****
Also Read Other Novels Guys "Love of the Old Virgin"
Theme Story about “Love the family is too spoiled and excessive to the big bar boy with a rebellious soul, who met the hard-hearted and wealthy noble lady. Until finally changing the mindset of living alone and do not want to be responsible about anything. Finally had to fall in love with her uncle. Follow the story must be fun...
*Coments and suggestions in the comments column are needed, and do not forget Vote yes…*
By the way, Enjoy it
Follow Instagram on: @itsme.okta
Thanks in Advanced
Best Regards
*****