Excerpt from “Alex Green: The Clay Letter” (2023)

Vasiliy V. Rosen
10 hours ago
5 min read

Preface to the Excerpt from “Alex Green: The Clay Letter” (2023):

Alex Green, a meticulous analytical chemist, and Asher Singer, a legendary maverick Professor of Archaeology, have formed an unlikely alliance to authenticate a sensational artefact: a 2,500-year-old clay tablet from the fall of Jerusalem. This "Clay Letter" becomes a scientific and political flashpoint, as its contents challenge the very foundations of religious tradition and national myth.

In this scene, the two men sit on a quiet bench outside the university after a gruelling media interview. Here, their professional collaboration shifts into a rare personal encounter, as they step away from the "chemistry of clay" to confront the chemistry of the human condition—grappling with the weight of mortality, memory, and the search for meaning in a world of shifting truths.

Professor Singer and Alex sat on a bench near the institute entrance. As they walked down the walkway, it seemed to Alex that Asher was dizzy. He had offered to steady him by the elbow, but Singer had politely withdrawn—insisting he was fine. The air smelled of heated pine needles. The afternoon heat was fading.

"Alex, I wanted to tell you something," Singer began. "For the next three weeks, you'll have to work on this project without me."

"You're going abroad?"

"Not exactly. I'm going in for treatment. You see, I have cancer. And during the procedures..." He trailed off. "There's simply no strength left for work. Age, you know."

"Asher..." Alex felt genuinely lost for words.

"I wish I could say it's nothing," Singer said. "But then again, a historian should see it that way—as nothing, as something fleeting." He adjusted his glasses with a familiar gesture. "Do you know what life's greatest tragedy is? The body ages, but the soul does not. You stop aging mentally at some point. You freeze at one particular age. For me, it's been thirty-five for years now. Maybe thirty. And every morning I see a stranger in the mirror. A stranger's face. And I ask myself—who is this?"

He paused.

"You know what a thirty-five-year-old wants? Everything. Grand, sweeping plans. Love. So many books left to read. Theatres to visit. Films to see. Beautiful places to go! All of that remains intact inside me. Only..." He looked away. "Only time is running out."

"Asher," Alex said quietly. "Maybe it will work out?"

Singer shrugged.

"Perhaps. Medicine is not an exact science. Anything can happen. But even if it does... it will be postponed. Set aside for a while." He was silent for a moment. "My wife, Nomi, left three years ago. I never learned to live without her. I just... exist. Do you have a wife?"

"No. I never did."

Singer looked at him with surprise.

"Is that so? I thought we'd gotten rid of old bachelors in these parts. But you're still young. Everything's ahead of you. Love too." He smiled slightly. "Though you probably think you already know what love is?"

Despite the grim conversation, Alex smiled back.

"I think I do."

"No, my friend," Singer said. “Real love isn't about heroic acts done for the sake of a beautiful woman. It's not about tearing a dragon's heart out bare-handed and bringing it to her. Love is something else entirely. It's when you get a terrible diagnosis and don't tell anyone. Not to frighten them. Not to upset them. You walk to the hospital on your own two feet. You know, almost certainly, that you won't come back. But you pretend everything's fine. A little treatment and all will be well. With our medicine, ho-ho!"

His voice grew quieter.

"That's what Nomi did. I didn't know. No one knew. Not until..." He stopped. "Do you know what was hardest? What was truly unbearable? Not the funeral. Not the week of mourning. It was going through her things. Her closet. Her clothes still smelled of her perfume. I opened the door and it was as if Nomi stood beside me. Silent. Smiling. And I had to give it all away. To charity."

His voice trembled. He fell silent and lifted his face to the sky, studying the blue that showed through the pine needles. After a long pause, he spoke again in his usual businesslike tone.

"I seem to have said more than I intended," he said, and glanced at Alex almost apologetically. "In front of that woman—Ilana, wasn't it? I hope it doesn't cause trouble."

"Asher," Alex said, grateful for the change of subject, "I've read several of your papers. And I've been thinking..."

He paused carefully, choosing his words. He truly didn't know how to express his sympathy without falling into the trap of sentimentality.

"Ilana was right," he continued. "From your work, it follows that the official version of our history... The one we're used to. It's... how should I put this... deeply misleading."

"That's true," Singer said. "But I and many of my colleagues who arrive at similar conclusions? We never state it directly. We don't cross that thin line between science and shrill politics. What we say here, in the lecture halls? We'd never say it publicly. You'd lose your position. And the general public doesn't read academic papers. Too complex."

Alex nodded slowly.

"Then I want to ask something," he said. He'd been formulating this question while reading Singer's work. Especially his popular book, At the Sources of the Bible—where Singer discussed the deep connections between Judaism and Babylonian cults. The book had earned him sharp criticism from the nationalist press.

"Why does religion persist?" Alex asked. "After everything we've learned about how the world works? After all that religious dogma has led to? How is it possible?"

Singer was quiet for a long time.

"Good question, Alex. I ask myself the same thing constantly. The truth is, our lives are meaningless. And that troubles us. So there are always a few clever men who manage to invent meaning for our ordinary existence. Higher meaning, naturally. Why settle for less? Of course, all these searches—like looking for a cat in a dark room—they end in sacrifice. Someone else's lives first. Then their own. But that doesn't frighten them. They know they'll be inscribed in the rolls of heroes. Canonized."

He looked directly at Alex.

"That's who we remember as the great men of antiquity. All these mad obsessives. All these men drunk on their own importance. Men who love to drive crowds to the slaughter. Then they stand over the warm corpses with their hands raised to heaven: 'Look! See what offerings we bring you?' Then it starts again. New generation seeks meaning. They are served ready-made schemes on a silver platter. Seasoned generously with the blood of ancestors."

He leaned back.

"How do you refuse such an offering?"