HOW I CAME TO OWN THE
CODEX
When
Nancy and I first met Preston in 1974 in Aschaffenburg Germany (he was a young
chaplain’s assistant then), we had no notion about how our paths would time and
again overlap each other until, many years later, we would meet him one last
time before his suspicious and untimely death on a lonely road – his car
perhaps forced over an edge (he was an excellent and careful driver) - when he
handed over the valise he had told us about with the codex inside.
“Please
get this home safely,” he said. “Everything
depends upon it.” (He was the kind of
person who actually used the word ‘upon’ in everyday conversation).
He was
such a jovial person generally that the change in his demeanor was
notable. To see him there in the bus
station in Cairo where he had just come in from the long journey down from the
north, he looked old and pale and afraid and more sincere than we had ever
known him. “Don’t show it to anyone,” he
finished tersely.
This was
in the year 2000, the year before the twin towers came down, so he was only
forty-eight years old then, the year of his death, but he looked nearer sixty
or even seventy. It was hard to tell how
much of the erosion in his face was from the aging process, how much of it was
the natural wrinkles that had been channeled in from years in the desert, how
much was the dust of travel, and how much was the fear that seemed to be
dripping from him. In fact when we did
get home and heard of his death, neither of us was particularly surprised, though
we were deeply saddened by the news. I
remember Nancy remarking, “When we saw him at the bus station there he had
death written all over him.”
Was
there anything we could have done to help him save himself? Neither of us can think of anything. He was deeply relieved, however, when I took
the valise from his hand and promised to see it home. It was the relief, we understand now, that
comes from having unburdened himself at last from the weight of years of
secrecy and the constant threat of discovery.
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