everything—the ocean voyage, the founding of St. Augustine, first contact with the Native Americans, the Matanzas massacre. Everything. But it’s going to take me a while to translate it. Can I do that?”
“Not if it means you won’t be sleeping.” Joe’s voice had an edge to it that contrasted sharply with his usual good-natured warmth.
The women ignored him.
Magda was talking fast, but her eyes never left the manuscript. “Well, you’re good at Spanish, but that doesn’t make you a specialist in Renaissance Spain. So if you’re planning to publish that translation, be prepared for serious criticism.”
“The manuscript, Magda. Should I get the manuscript to an archivist before it self-destructs in my hands? What’s the ethical thing to do here?”
“Where was it stored?”
“In a hot, humid, dusty attic. Just inside a sunny window. On top of a cardboard box.”
“Well, that was a crime against humanity. You’re already on the side of the angels, just because you got it out of that attic. Let me think.”
Magda stooped over the desk and studied the book’s leather binding through the strongest part of her trifocals. “Who owns it?”
“Daniel and Suzanne, I guess.”
“Maybe. If the author is a priest, the Catholic Church may want to argue with them about that. There’s a precedent for ceding ownership of such things to the Church. Or sharing it. But if it gets that far, Daniel and Suzanne might just sell it before the lawyers even get started jousting over the legal fine points, and all the information between these covers could disappear into a collector’s library. With all that in mind, I think you need to do three things.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, keep it here in this cool, dark, humidity-controlled room for the time being. It ain’t the National Archives—which may actually be where this belongs—but it’ll do for now. Do not under any circumstances let those people put it back in that damned attic. Second, convince them to donate it or sell it to someone who will make sure that it’s properly preserved, maybe even to the Catholic Church. And third…you’re going to like this one, Faye.”
“Am I going to like it?” Joe asked.
“Well, I don’t know, Joe. I think Faye should learn as much about this thing as she can, right now, in case it disappears into the collector’s market.”
Joe snorted. “You’re just giving her permission to work all night, and you know she needs her sleep.”
“Tell you what, Joe. I’ll help her with her day job so she can devote some time to this project. You take over responsibility for my rebellious friend at night. Your job is simple: make the woman go to bed at a reasonable hour.”
Poor Joe. Faye had already seen enough of Father Domingo Sanz de la Fuente’s story to know that he would be keeping her up nights for quite some time, despite the efforts of her husband and her best friend to get her to act like a feeble pregnant woman.
***
As Joe watched Magda and Faye fuss over the old journal, he could see that they were going to be very late for work. It was a good thing one of the two was the boss, or else they’d both be out of a job.
When the workday had officially begun at eight a.m., Magda and Faye had looked up from Father Domingo’s memoirs just long enough to ask Joe if he’d go outside and manage the field techs. He didn’t mind. Since he didn’t read Spanish, this suggestion had made perfect sense. Somebody needed to manage the project that would be paying his and Faye’s grocery bills for the summer, and it might as well be him. He knew that nothing short of a shrieking police siren could have ripped the two women from their new intellectual toy.
Two hours later, that siren sounded. Many sirens, in fact, and they all converged directly in front of Dunkirk Manor. The sound was incongruous on this windswept, shady, and affluent street.
Joe saw the cook look out the back door. Seconds later, Magda darted
“Not if it means you won’t be sleeping.” Joe’s voice had an edge to it that contrasted sharply with his usual good-natured warmth.
The women ignored him.
Magda was talking fast, but her eyes never left the manuscript. “Well, you’re good at Spanish, but that doesn’t make you a specialist in Renaissance Spain. So if you’re planning to publish that translation, be prepared for serious criticism.”
“The manuscript, Magda. Should I get the manuscript to an archivist before it self-destructs in my hands? What’s the ethical thing to do here?”
“Where was it stored?”
“In a hot, humid, dusty attic. Just inside a sunny window. On top of a cardboard box.”
“Well, that was a crime against humanity. You’re already on the side of the angels, just because you got it out of that attic. Let me think.”
Magda stooped over the desk and studied the book’s leather binding through the strongest part of her trifocals. “Who owns it?”
“Daniel and Suzanne, I guess.”
“Maybe. If the author is a priest, the Catholic Church may want to argue with them about that. There’s a precedent for ceding ownership of such things to the Church. Or sharing it. But if it gets that far, Daniel and Suzanne might just sell it before the lawyers even get started jousting over the legal fine points, and all the information between these covers could disappear into a collector’s library. With all that in mind, I think you need to do three things.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, keep it here in this cool, dark, humidity-controlled room for the time being. It ain’t the National Archives—which may actually be where this belongs—but it’ll do for now. Do not under any circumstances let those people put it back in that damned attic. Second, convince them to donate it or sell it to someone who will make sure that it’s properly preserved, maybe even to the Catholic Church. And third…you’re going to like this one, Faye.”
“Am I going to like it?” Joe asked.
“Well, I don’t know, Joe. I think Faye should learn as much about this thing as she can, right now, in case it disappears into the collector’s market.”
Joe snorted. “You’re just giving her permission to work all night, and you know she needs her sleep.”
“Tell you what, Joe. I’ll help her with her day job so she can devote some time to this project. You take over responsibility for my rebellious friend at night. Your job is simple: make the woman go to bed at a reasonable hour.”
Poor Joe. Faye had already seen enough of Father Domingo Sanz de la Fuente’s story to know that he would be keeping her up nights for quite some time, despite the efforts of her husband and her best friend to get her to act like a feeble pregnant woman.
***
As Joe watched Magda and Faye fuss over the old journal, he could see that they were going to be very late for work. It was a good thing one of the two was the boss, or else they’d both be out of a job.
When the workday had officially begun at eight a.m., Magda and Faye had looked up from Father Domingo’s memoirs just long enough to ask Joe if he’d go outside and manage the field techs. He didn’t mind. Since he didn’t read Spanish, this suggestion had made perfect sense. Somebody needed to manage the project that would be paying his and Faye’s grocery bills for the summer, and it might as well be him. He knew that nothing short of a shrieking police siren could have ripped the two women from their new intellectual toy.
Two hours later, that siren sounded. Many sirens, in fact, and they all converged directly in front of Dunkirk Manor. The sound was incongruous on this windswept, shady, and affluent street.
Joe saw the cook look out the back door. Seconds later, Magda darted
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