Dante's Equation Part 43

She didn't acknowledge his words. Her back straightened determinedly. It was a strange gesture and signaled a change about her, a new solidity and strength. She was no longer the girl who skulked in the trees.

It pushed him away without a word and made him feel his smallness.

17.4. Thirty-Seventy Aharon Handalman

Aharon had enjoyed several quiet days of study withThe Book of Torment . Well-enjoyedwas maybe too strong a word. The spiritual work was hard, and the tension in the House of Divine Ordinance was like caged electricity. He sensed that things were occurring beyond his ken, wheels within wheels. He longed to speak with Kobinski, but since the night when he'd laid out his heart the kabbalist had not come again. The last day of Festival was the day after tomorrow and the heretic would be killed. Aharon himself felt like a condemned man, waiting for the powers on this planet to notice him again, to sweep them up in their current. And like a condemned man, he tried to make his peace with G.o.d.

He could see the beauty in the system the ma.n.u.script laid out: thesephirot , the ladder, the idea of balance. It had an intuitive right-feeling about it, and that in itself was disturbing. It was so completely different from his old beliefs, from the black-and-white world of the yeshiva. And although those old beliefs had been torn away from him, the memory still lingered of what it had felt like when they were inviolable. Their inviolability had always been the highest principle in and of itself, had it not? Because once you let things slide a little, then where would it stop?

Now he saw that kind of thinking for what it was: a way to keep his mind closed and frozen. But it was still a struggle to let it go. Such a double-edged sword! He decided to put the matter into G.o.d's hands. The ma.n.u.script outlined exercises-prayers and meditations-for balancing yoursephirot . Aharon was willing to admit, at the very least, that he could stand a little more compa.s.sion. So he tried the exercises forchesed , asking G.o.d to fill him with mercy, to fill up his heart.

He remembered the feeling he'd had that night, talking to Kobinski, when his heart had opened up and something greater than himself was pouring compa.s.sion through him. He wanted that feeling again. He prayed forchesed and he thought of Hannah. He thought of all the times he had been cold and hard because she'd failed his image of what a good Orthodox wife should be. Now it was not these things he remembered, not the times when she'd been obedient or silent. What he remembered was Hannah laughing goofily, like a girl, Hannah smart-cracking or stubborn, even that, yes, s.e.xy rebellious pout, like a Jewish Greta Garbo. In expecting an ideal from her he had missed the opportunity to enjoy what she actually was-a crime and a shame, for both of them.

In response to these thoughts, he felt the blood stir in his chest, the almost physical swelling of his heart.Fill me with love, he asked, and he was filled. He had ignored his heart for a long time, he knew, because the tremors of love and compa.s.sion were like the quickening of the dead. But miraculously-and he knew a miracle when he saw one-his heart was not so shriveled that it could not rise again.

He heard the door, soft, quiet sounds, and when he opened his eyes Tevach stood by his chair. Aharon had made himself get out of bed for the past two days, fighting his way to the chair and back. His muscles were stiff and painful, but walking was easier.

"Tevach," he said, genuinely glad to see him. "And how is Ko- How is My Lord?"

"He talks to no one." The Fiore's nose twitched like a rodent's. He seemed to push himself to speak. "I came-I came to see the new Scriptures. I wished you would be sleeping."

Aharon wasn't sure he cared for the wordScriptures , but he had the ma.n.u.script on his lap, and he offered it to Tevach. Tevach gazed down at it in his hands with awe.

"I read a little. The night you came, when My Lord slept."

Aharon was surprised Tevach would admit it, and more surprised that he was able to read Hebrew as well as speak it.

"Hedoes not care for the Scripture." Tevach spit on the floor.

"Tevach, My Lordwrote it."

Tevach looked confused. "He . . ."

"Long ago."

Tevach gazed at the ma.n.u.script with new bewilderment. "I did not understand what I read."

Aharon made anu gesture. "It's not easy. I have a hard time myself."

"Would you teach me?" Tevach cowered, as if expecting to be punished for making such an outrageous request, but his eyes had a mind of their own. They gazed into Aharon's openly.

He felt the answer in his heart. "I'll try to teach you, yes. If you wish."

Tevach looked tremendously pleased. He glanced nervously toward the door. "Would you . . . Would you also please . . . yes? . . . to speak to another Fiore about it? Very important. I could take you tonight."

This was something else entirely. Aharon knew at once that it was a treacherous idea-to leave his room? To speak with other Fiore about something Argeh would consider heresy? And yet the answer was in his heart just as clearly and immediately as the previous answer had been.

"Yes, Tevach. I believe that I would."

Tevach returned long after darkness had fallen. Aharon had spent the time in meditation, struggling with waves of uncertainty and fear. But he felt no better by the time Tevach arrived. The Fiore was carrying one of Kobinski's cloaks and a golden mask.

"This is an old mask he won't miss," Tevach said in response to the look on Aharon's face. "My Lord sleeps now."

"But, Tevach-"

"Fiore can see us in halls." Tevach thrust the disguise at him. "Wear this."

Aharon reluctantly took the things. He'd pictured a short distance to the carriage with almost everyone asleep. Now he was not so sure. But Tevach didn't give him time to change his mind. He helped Aharon into the robe and mask, as he must have helped Kobinski a thousand times; then his hand was around Aharon's waist, supporting him out into the hall.

The guards Kobinski had posted at his door paid no attention to them. They made a show of not looking at Aharon, contemplating the ceiling, the walls, scratching their chins, picking their teeth. It would have been funny if Aharon were not so afraid. He wondered if Kobinski knew how influential his little servant was. They moved through the halls with Aharon's arm slung over Tevach's shoulder, his legs struggling to keep up. They saw no one as they left the House, a blessing for which Aharon gave thanks; then they were out into the icy night.

A carriage was waiting. Inside, Aharon could not make out Tevach's face across from him in the dark. Again his courage failed him. He was suddenly afraid to be alone with this strange beast, defying Kobinski, his only human protector. He was afraid to be back out in the b.l.o.o.d.y streets, afraid of where he was going. He had agreed tospeak, G.o.d have mercy. What would Argeh do to him if he was caught? Would he die in the arena on one of those black devices?

He closed his eyes and gripped the rough plank seat inside the rocking carriage. Where had that quiet, sure voice gone? He prayed again forchesed, fill me with love, but this time fear kept his heart curled tight as a fist.

They didn't travel far. When the carriage stopped they were outside a large building. Its dark stones and craggy lines sent his heart knocking. It was a terrible place; he could feel it-pure evil. Although it was very late, there were guards in front of the door.

"Tevach, what is this?"

"We go see Ahtdeh."

"Ahtdeh?"

"The one from the Festival-you remember. You said, 'No.' "

A terrible understanding filled Aharon. He blanched. "But . . . ! You didn't say . . . ! This is aprison !"

"No worry. My Lord comes here all the time."

"I can't!" Aharon shook his head, looking at the awful place. "No. I can't."

Tevach was quiet. The carriage sat in front of the building. The guards stood outside, glancing at them from time to time. They carried torches, and their faces seemed more b.e.s.t.i.a.l, more demonic, than any Fiorian faces Aharon had ever seen. He kept shaking his head. Finally he looked at Tevach. The Fiore was staring out the window at nothing, his eyes dry, his mouse-face perfectly defeated. It was a face used to defeat, and that only made Aharon feel guiltier.

But the heretic is going to die!Aharon wanted to shout.Why should I teach him? It's useless!

Had he doubted there was a G.o.d? Oh ho! And ah ha! He was there all right, and when He wanted to test you, to see if the "big changes" you claimed to be making were all talk or otherwise, He really knew how to stick it to you!

"Yes, Tevach," Aharon sighed. "Okay, yes, all right already, what are we waiting for?"

Tevach helped him from the carriage, led him up the steps of the prison supporting his weight, just as he supported My Lord's. Kobinski must come here often, because the guards didn't question him. They fell to the ground at the sight of the mask and stayed that way until the two of them were inside. Well. Good then. He might actually survive this night.

Inside, the place was lit by torches. The cramped stone corridors, low-ceilinged and filthy, were empty. There were only the sounds of moans and sobs, enough to curdle your blood. Tevach helped him down several flights of stairs and turned into an arched hall so low Aharon had to stoop. It was lined with cells. Aharon kept his eyes on the floor, knowing that he didn't want to see what was in them. The heretic's cell was at the end of the hall, fitted with a heavy door with a grilled window. This cell had guards, two of them, tough Fiorian priests. But the mask was fierce and confident, even if Aharon was not, and Tevach-thank G.o.d, who could have guessed the mouse had it in him?- spoke authoritatively and the guards let them inside without any fuss.

"I am clever," Tevach whispered gleefully in the darkened cell. "I told them My Lord wished to question the heretic about the vandalism to his images. Is that not clever?"

"Yes, Tevach," Aharon sighed.Clever enough to get us killed.

"Here is Ahtdeh."

As Aharon's eyes adjusted to the light in the cell, he could make out a shape lying in the corner. It looked like a heap of bloodstained rags, but when Tevach went to it and gently turned it over, his paws stroking, soothing low sounds coming from his throat, Aharon recognized the bundle as the Fiore from the arena. The way he looked, he should have been dead, but he was not dead. He responded to Tevach's urgings, gathering himself up slowly from the floor. When he saw Aharon, he stiffened, hate on his face.

Tevach growled and whined in that beast-tongue; then he came over and took the mask away. They looked at each other, Aharon and the heretic, man to man, yes, man to man. If you looked into the heretic's eyes, you knew, without any doubt, that he was a man.

The heretic motioned with his eyes to Tevach, and Aharon had the distinct feeling he had been accepted. He felt his heart stir again with that simple act of trust.

"Teach him the ma.n.u.script, Messenger," Tevach said. "I try to, but I understand little."

"How much time do we have?"

"Hours. Till almost morning. I will tell you."

Aharon nodded. He felt the burden of fear and anxiety slip from his shoulders, as if he were someplace safe, though nothing could be further from the truth. He saw clearly the risks these poor creatures were willing to take, and for what? For the truth. For love's sake-they still had faith in the idea of G.o.d's love. His heart was moved.

He didn't understand what was happening, why he was really here, or if anything he could do or say would make any difference. But as he began to speak, searching inside his own beginner's understanding for the right words, he knew that none of that mattered. He could only let compa.s.sion flow through him and let the consequences fall where they may.

They talked longer than they should have. The heretic was slow but thought deeply. His questions were often basic and sometimes hostile, but he had the true heart of a student. If only Aharon had had such a one among the boys at his yeshiva!

Tevach paced by the door and was literally whining by the time he got Aharon to leave the cell. The guards posted outside did not bother them, but Aharon could feel their eyes pinned to his back as he and Tevach crouched toward the stairs.

Before they had gone up one flight a Fiore was suddenly in front of them, looking at Aharon and bowing up and down from the waist. He spoke rapidly, gestured, and Aharon didn't need to understand the words to know he was being summoned. He froze; Tevach, too. Unfortunately, the wily schemer under his arm had been swallowed up again by the mouse. Aharon had no idea what to do.

"We must go downstairs," Tevach whispered.

"What? Why?"

"We must!"

Down they went. As they moved into the bowels of this vile place, Aharon got the feeling he was descending into a grave and would never climb out again. Every step he took away from the night- if it was even still night outside-away from the relative safety of the carriage was tightening a noose around his neck.

At the bottom of the stairs was a single short hall with a thick door and two guards. And also . . . Argeh. Tevach trembled, his eyes on the ground, useless. Aharon could smell his own stinking sweat. His heart-well, the only good thing that could be said about pain in his chest was that it was going to kill him before Argeh did. Small mercies. He had feared the worst and the worst had come to pa.s.s. He had left his room, he had to admit it, with every understanding of the danger. There was no one to blame but himself. The sages say, "He who takes the bread must pay the baker."

The high priest barked something at him, gave him weird sideways glances. Something was happening, but Aharon had no idea what. So he tried silence. Argeh barked again. Aharon gave an imperious gesture with his hand. Argeh gave him a look like he had completely lost his mind but stomped up the stairs, growling to himself.

The other Fiore bowed his head nearly to the floor and backed away also. The two guards followed. Then it was only Aharon and Tevach and that door.

The House of Cleansing was just beginning to stir when My Lord arrived at dawn. A carriage pulled away from the front steps as his carriage pulled up. My Lord frowned at it. Carriages were few and far between on Fiori-they were too expensive to maintain. Then he realized it must be Gehvis, going to fetch medicines. The message from the physician had been urgent and succinct:He's dying. Come.

Joints screaming, My Lord made his way into the prison. The pending death of Wallick seemed to have infected the whole place. The guards at the door groveled with even more fear and confusion than usual. Inside, Fiore scattered at his presence. Down the treacherous stony stairs he went, each level colder than the one before. And with every step he cursed Tevach, that ingrate. When My Lord needed him most the Fiore had disappeared, forcing him to rely on Decher. As competent as Decher was as a bodyguard, he made a miserable leaning post, always out of step, hesitant in his support of My Lord's weight.

Halfway down, My Lord ran into Argeh. The priest stiffened on the stairs with a look of puzzlement. My Lord snapped at him, not pleased to see him anywhere near Wallick's cell, especially now, "What is it, Argeh? Why are you here?"

Argeh gawked. Then the strangest look came into his face: a wondrous, dreadful, devious look. My Lord did not know what was going on and it frightened him. He pushed past Argeh abruptly. "My presence is required."

At the bottom of the stairs there were no attendants, no guards, outside Wallick's door. My Lord sighed his frustration. Upset after upset, as if it were not enough to have to deal with what was waiting for him in that room.

"I'll go in alone," he told Decher tersely, and pushed open the door.

Kobinski could smell the presence of death. The cell felt somber and oddly respectful. Wallick's rasping, uneven breath was like a broken machine turning its last few cycles. He had been left completely alone, but he was still alive. My Lord was greatly relieved. That look from Argeh-My Lord had half expected Wallick to be dead already.

My Lord crippled his way to the table and looked down at the devastated ma.s.s of tissue. The last time he was here, he'd caught a glimpse of the ruin that could come upon him if he allowed himself to see this situation in just a slightly different way, if he turned his mirror just a touch to the left or right and got another perspective on the two men, two enemies, facing each other over the years in this room. This time, standing here, the mirror was already tilted, and there was nothing he could do to turn it back. He could remember clearly what he'd felt like before, why he had done it, how it had been about justice, how he'd felt he was sacrificing himself for his son's justice. But that rationale now felt as flimsy as-he looked at Wallick-a man's life.

My Lord closed his eyes, willing forth the avenger.Isaac, he thought, willing forth his boy's face. But the face had faded a long time ago. All that was left was the hate that had wrapped around that name, and he saw that clearly, too.

"Ko-binski," Wallick said, his tongue small and hard in his mouth, the syllables distorted.

My Lord opened his eyes. Wallick, only one eye visible at all now, was looking up at him. That lone orb was bright and shiny, almost incandescent. He worked his reddened maw to form words out of some memory that it had once been a mouth.

". . . dying," Wallick managed, ". . . I know . . ."

The maw paused to swallow, to gum itself back to someplace capable of speech.I know. Know what?

That he wasn't already dead and that this wasn't the afterlife? That this had been done to his living flesh? That the G.o.d that had judged him was none other than Yosef Kobinski?

"For-give me," Wallick gasped, "as I for-give . . . you."

My Lord bit his tongue, hard, to stop up the outraged tears that came to his eyes.

That single bright eye gazed up at him desperately, as if it could cling to him, force him to relent.

"For-give me . . ." Wallick tried again, "as I for-give . . ." This time, his speech was given a moment of clarity, just for an instant, the words coming out sharply defined. "You, Yosef . . ." Then the eye fixed itself in s.p.a.ce and the light inside it faded.

My Lord looked at the face for a long time. Wallick's had once been a handsome face, an Aryan ideal, perfect but cruel. Now it was neither. The body was already stiffening into something objectified, the raw, b.l.o.o.d.y aspect of it organic and terrible, terrible and cold, like an animal struck and left at the side of the road, like the shanks of meat in the market square.

Surprisingly, My Lord felt no triumph, no satisfaction, no anger, no remorse. As Wallick turned cold, it was as though the spark of life inside him were cooling also; an era was dying, a reason to go on; an entire history as dense and smothering as a blanket was being pulled away. What was underneath it? Rot. Nothing. He felt empty as a husk, except perhaps for resentment at Wallick for dying, for escaping and leaving him alone to face the void.

Forgive me,Wallick had said.

"I can't, you son of a wh.o.r.e," My Lord said softly. "Because if I forgave you, how could I ever forgive myself?"

On his way up from the cell, Decher tucked under his arm, My Lord heard something. There was a murmur bouncing along the stone walls. On this floor, the screams and cries were uncharacteristically absent; only the murmuring voice could be heard.

My Lord paused on the stairs, his knees trembling with pain, his armpit soaking the shoulder of Decher's rough tunic. He was going to ask his servant what-or who-it was, but the look on Decher's face stopped him, so he just listened for a moment, and then he knew.

It was the heretic. Somewhere down that corridor he was being held for execution, and he was talking-perhaps to his followers, perhaps to his fellow prisoners, perhaps to himself-and the whole ward had stopped its sobbing long enough to listen to his words.

His voice, guttural but soothing, swept across the stones like water.

Around the pious shall go eternal youths, with goblets of flowing wine. No headaches shall they feel therefrom, nor shall their wits be dimmed. They shall have fruits such as they deem the best, and flesh of fowl as they desire, and bright and large-eyed maids like hidden pearls, a reward for that which they have done.