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‘Now I dig.’ He takes a small spade and pushes it into the sandy bedding, shovelling out the dirt and casting it aside into a small, tidy mound.
Dig? How far down? We could be here for months. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes,’ he grunts.
‘How?’
‘Shut up.’
I chuck him a disgruntled look and resign myself to doing exactly that while Becker digs for what seems like forever. The mound of dirt is getting higher, and the rain is getting harder, pounding the piazza beyond the porch. My hope is dying with each shovel of dirt Becker tosses to the side, yet I won’t be the one to ask at what point he gives up. Jesus, he’s been looking for this damn sculpture for years. Something tells me that he won’t give up until he reaches Australia. He’s already had four slabs up. There are dozens more.
I study him quietly, seeing clearly that he’s getting more and more frustrated with each plunge of the shovel into the ground, sweat pouring from his perfect brow. ‘Damn it,’ he spits, throwing the shovel into the pit aggressively. It bounces off something, creating a loud clatter, and we both audibly gasp. I look at Becker, and Becker looks at me.
‘A stone?’ I ask, not wanting to let my hopes get too high.
‘It’s a big fucking stone.’ He drops to his stomach and plunges both hands into the hole, stretching, starting to move the dirt with his hands. I wait with bated breath, beginning to shake with a mixture of apprehension and excitement as I crane my neck to see into the pit.
‘Is that a rag?’ I ask, seeing a piece of cloth poking up in the corner.
Becker moves his hands towards it and starts shifting the dirt from around the area. Glancing up at me, he grins. ‘Could be a dead body.’
‘Don’t.’ I shiver, wondering how many bones there could be beneath this ancient church. ‘Pull it,’ I tell him, my impatience and uneasiness growing.
‘Don’t you think I’m trying? It’s wrapped around something.’ His head goes into the hole, grunts coming thick and fast. ‘Something hard.’
‘The sculpture?’
‘I don’t know. Fucking hell,’ he breathes, heaving upward on a strained growl, fighting with whatever he’s found. All of a sudden, Becker is on his knees, and then he’s flying back, whatever he’s fighting with dislodging. He falls to his arse, a bundle of tatty material landing on his lap.
I scramble to my feet and rush to him. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Super.’ He starts to push the heavy bundle from his thighs, and it lands on the slabs with a thud. He winces. ‘Shit.’
I laugh, probably inappropriately. I’m putting it down to nerves. ‘Could you imagine after years of searching and you go and break it?’
Tired eyes climb my body to my face, and I force an awkward smile. ‘No, I can’t,’ he mutters, getting to his knees and starting to unravel the material. I hold my breath. Is this it? Is it the long-lost sculpture? All the time and pain, and this moment could be the difference between our lives moving forward, Becker at peace, or our lives stuck in limbo, Becker constantly wondering and searching. I’m not stupid. He might have promised me that if this turns out to be a dead end he’ll let it go, but I don’t trust his promise. He’ll never let this go.
I start to pray to all the Greek gods.
Becker’s crowding the heap, his shoulders high, indicating his own held breath as he carefully peels back the material with tentative hands. ‘Well would you look at that,’ he whispers, sitting back and revealing what he’s found.
‘Oh my God.’ I slowly move in closer, mesmerised by what I’m faced with. Dirt is tarnishing the surface, embedded in the crevices of the face, but there’s no denying what we’re looking at. I turn my stunned stare onto Becker’s profile, and he slowly turns his onto mine. And we just stare at each other, neither of us able to talk, leaving an eerie quiet lingering, the rain a distant thump in the background. This is it. It’s over. His search is finally over.
Becker reaches for my hand and takes it, standing and pulling me to my feet. And we stand over our discovery, staring down at it for a long, long time, absorbing it, taking it in, coming to terms with this colossal moment. I smile, feeling years’ worth of wonder and anxiety literally draining out of the man holding my hand. It’s palpable.
‘It looks nothing like the fake you crafted,’ I say mindlessly as I stare at the sculpture. Yes, it’s ugly like the fake Becker forged, but definitely not evil-looking.
‘I know.’
‘So what now?’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Becker admits, still just staring. ‘All these years, and now I have it, and I don’t even know how I’m feeling.’
