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Authors: Jefferson Bass
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against the molar with a slight click.
“So where’s the C-14 lab?” I asked. “In Paris?”
“ Non, mon ami . Guess again.”
“Oxford? That’s one of the places that tested the Shroud of Turin, right?”
“Wrong again. I think you will not guess. We send the teeth to Miami.”
“Miami? Florida? Why on earth?”
“Because the world’s biggest C-14 lab is there. Beta Analytic. They have offices in Europe—and Asia and Australia—but they’re just offices. The only lab is in Miami. They have two AMS systems and fifty-two liquid scintillation counters.”
“What’s a liquid scintillation counter?” Before he could answer, I waved my hand. “Never mind—I don’t need to know. How long does it take? A week? A month?”
“ Pas du tout —not at all! Days. One or two days, after they get the sample. Last year I sent them a goat bone from a first-century site in Turkey. Four days later, voilà, I get the results.”
“That’s faster than I can grade a batch of test papers,” I said. “Must be expensive.”
“Not so bad. This will cost eight hundred euros. Twelve hundred U.S. dollars. Sure, it’s a lot. But if these are the bones of Christ, that’s a small price to pay to find out, n’est-ce pas ?”
“Jesus!” Miranda exclaimed, then laughed at her unintended double entendre. “Just imagine—if the Virgin Mary on toast can fetch thirty thousand bucks…”
“Excuse me?” I felt a step behind her in the conversation. “The Virgin Mary? Toast? What are you talking about?”
“The Sacred Sandwich.” Now I was two steps behind. “Don’t you pay any attention to the world outside the Body Farm?” She rolled her eyes happily; one of her great joys in life was giving me grief. “Some lady in Florida takes a bite out of her grilled cheese sandwich and then she notices the BVM—”
“The what?” Three steps.
“The BVM—the Blessed Virgin Mary. A portrait of Mary’s face was scorched into the bread. So the woman seals the sammy in Tupperware and keeps it on her nightstand for ten years. Then she sells it on eBay. Some online casino buys it for thirty grand.”
“That’s so bizarre,” I said, “on so many levels.” A host of questions popped into my mind: White or whole wheat? Why Tupperware rather than a Baggie? Didn’t Mary mold? But I decided there was no future—no worthwhile future, at least—in delving further into the Sacred Sandwich. “I am amazed, and know not what to say.”
“I say, ‘Praise the Lord and pass the pickles,’” she cracked. “Anyhow, if somebody will pay thirty K for the BVM on loaf bread, think what the bones of Jesus might fetch. Not, of course, that you’d sell him on eBay, right, Stefan?”
“ Non, never.” He smiled ironically. “People who shop on eBay can afford a sandwich sacré, maybe, but not the bones of God.”
IT WAS A JUXTAPOSITION OF ANCIENT AND MODERN, in more ways than one.
Avignon’s hospital was a complex of concrete-and-glass buildings located several miles outside the stone wall ringing the city. The contrast between the medieval city and the new suburbs was more than just striking; it was deeply disorienting, given how far back into the past I’d traveled in the space of twenty-four hours. Sure, the battering ram of modernity had smashed through the city’s ramparts; in addition to ancient buildings, the walls encircled cars, computers, even a few Segways. But those were trivial, fleeting artifacts; they seemed to skim the city’s surface like water bugs on a pond, without penetrating its depths or altering its medieval essence. Outside the walls, though, Avignon was not so different from Knoxville, and this hospital could have been transplanted to any suburb in the United States without looking out of place.
A deeper, more interesting juxtaposition, though, was the one about to transpire within the hospital—specifically, in the Clinique Radiologique, where we were bringing the skull for a CT scan:
“So where’s the C-14 lab?” I asked. “In Paris?”
“ Non, mon ami . Guess again.”
“Oxford? That’s one of the places that tested the Shroud of Turin, right?”
“Wrong again. I think you will not guess. We send the teeth to Miami.”
“Miami? Florida? Why on earth?”
“Because the world’s biggest C-14 lab is there. Beta Analytic. They have offices in Europe—and Asia and Australia—but they’re just offices. The only lab is in Miami. They have two AMS systems and fifty-two liquid scintillation counters.”
“What’s a liquid scintillation counter?” Before he could answer, I waved my hand. “Never mind—I don’t need to know. How long does it take? A week? A month?”
“ Pas du tout —not at all! Days. One or two days, after they get the sample. Last year I sent them a goat bone from a first-century site in Turkey. Four days later, voilà, I get the results.”
“That’s faster than I can grade a batch of test papers,” I said. “Must be expensive.”
“Not so bad. This will cost eight hundred euros. Twelve hundred U.S. dollars. Sure, it’s a lot. But if these are the bones of Christ, that’s a small price to pay to find out, n’est-ce pas ?”
“Jesus!” Miranda exclaimed, then laughed at her unintended double entendre. “Just imagine—if the Virgin Mary on toast can fetch thirty thousand bucks…”
“Excuse me?” I felt a step behind her in the conversation. “The Virgin Mary? Toast? What are you talking about?”
“The Sacred Sandwich.” Now I was two steps behind. “Don’t you pay any attention to the world outside the Body Farm?” She rolled her eyes happily; one of her great joys in life was giving me grief. “Some lady in Florida takes a bite out of her grilled cheese sandwich and then she notices the BVM—”
“The what?” Three steps.
“The BVM—the Blessed Virgin Mary. A portrait of Mary’s face was scorched into the bread. So the woman seals the sammy in Tupperware and keeps it on her nightstand for ten years. Then she sells it on eBay. Some online casino buys it for thirty grand.”
“That’s so bizarre,” I said, “on so many levels.” A host of questions popped into my mind: White or whole wheat? Why Tupperware rather than a Baggie? Didn’t Mary mold? But I decided there was no future—no worthwhile future, at least—in delving further into the Sacred Sandwich. “I am amazed, and know not what to say.”
“I say, ‘Praise the Lord and pass the pickles,’” she cracked. “Anyhow, if somebody will pay thirty K for the BVM on loaf bread, think what the bones of Jesus might fetch. Not, of course, that you’d sell him on eBay, right, Stefan?”
“ Non, never.” He smiled ironically. “People who shop on eBay can afford a sandwich sacré, maybe, but not the bones of God.”
IT WAS A JUXTAPOSITION OF ANCIENT AND MODERN, in more ways than one.
Avignon’s hospital was a complex of concrete-and-glass buildings located several miles outside the stone wall ringing the city. The contrast between the medieval city and the new suburbs was more than just striking; it was deeply disorienting, given how far back into the past I’d traveled in the space of twenty-four hours. Sure, the battering ram of modernity had smashed through the city’s ramparts; in addition to ancient buildings, the walls encircled cars, computers, even a few Segways. But those were trivial, fleeting artifacts; they seemed to skim the city’s surface like water bugs on a pond, without penetrating its depths or altering its medieval essence. Outside the walls, though, Avignon was not so different from Knoxville, and this hospital could have been transplanted to any suburb in the United States without looking out of place.
A deeper, more interesting juxtaposition, though, was the one about to transpire within the hospital—specifically, in the Clinique Radiologique, where we were bringing the skull for a CT scan:
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