“And every people has a flood myth, but we know now that sometime between five thousand and four thousand BC there occurred a universal phenomenon—the Flandrian Transgression—which caused a sudden rise in sea levels. Through the study of Babylonian texts and the recent application of satellite photography, three ribs of an ark have been found on the south slope of Mount Ararat, just where Noah was said to have beached it. So what was for centuries considered a legend has been supplanted by historicity.

“Water?” He offered me the canteen. I shook my head. “And let’s not forget,” he went on, “that Troy was a Homeric myth until Heinrich Schliemann found it in Turkey, and the palace city of Knossos was a myth until Arthur Evans found it in Crete. And now…” He paused, conjuring up, no doubt, an image of himself as the inheritor of the great tradition, taking up the torch ignited by Schliemann, held high by Evans.

“Before you make any claims, don’t you need a bit more confirmation…?”

“I intend to get it, in Israel. I’m sure the wizards at the Weizmann Institute will come up with something.”

“I hope so,” I said, “and I hope I haven’t offended you with my skepticism.”

“That’s okay,” he said, “I can understand your doubts. I’m proud of you, son.”

Son, he called me, something he had never done before. A shiver of exultation ran through me. “Why proud?” I asked like a ham actor milking a scene, no amount of applause ever enough.

“Not once,” he said, “during my rather lengthy recital did you respond with outrage or hysteria. It’s good to know that you can disagree without being disagreeable. I’m sorry to leave before we really got to know each other.” And to his regrets he added the tribute of a melancholy sigh.

“Must you leave so soon? What about your commitment here?”

“I’m getting nowhere with Qazwini. I don’t think I ever will. But what about you?” he asked. “I don’t know what you’re doing in Coproliabad, but…”

“You never asked.”

“…but whatever it is, you don’t seem to find it all that gratifying. Come to Israel with me.”

He had spoken impulsively; the invitation surprised both of us, but he made no attempt to retract it. “We’ll test our doubts,” he went on serenely. “We might even find convictions.”

It was a tempting offer, a way to bow the hell out of Iraq, to fly over the hills and far away from Abdul and Grady. All I’d have to tell them was of the deep, affectionate bond that existed between my father and me, and there was more than a grain of truth in it, certainly on my part. I’d lost him once. I didn’t want to lose him again. Not after he called me son.