Angelology

by Danielle Trussoni

Celestine took a deep, labored breath and adjusted herself in bed before continuing.

  “The angels who remained on earth were extraordinary in many respects. It has always struck me as wondrous how human they seem. Their disobedience was an act of free will—a very human quality reminiscent of Adam and Eve’s ill-conceived choice in the Garden. The disobedient angels were also capable of a uniquely human variety of love—they loved wholly, blindly, recklessly. Indeed, they traded heaven for passion, a trade that is difficult to fully comprehend, especially because you and I have given up all hope of such love.”

  Celestine smiled at Evangeline, as if in sympathy for the loveless life that lay ahead of her.

  “They are fascinating in this respect, wouldn’t you say? Their ability to feel and suffer for love allows one to feel empathy for their misguided actions. Heaven, however, did not demonstrate such empathy. The Watchers were punished without mercy. The offspring of the unions between the angels and women were monstrous creatures who brought great suffering to the world.”

  “And you believe they are still among us,” Evangeline said.

  “I know they are still among us,” Celestine replied. “But they have evolved over the centuries. In modern times these creatures have taken cover under new and different names. They hide under the auspices of ancient families, extreme wealth, and untraceable corporations. It is hard for one to imagine that they live in our world among us, but I promise you: Once you open your eyes to their presence, you find that they are everywhere.”

  Celestine looked carefully at Evangeline, as if to gauge her reception of the information.

  “If we were in Paris, it would be possible to present you with concrete and insurmountable proof—you would read testimonies from witnesses, perhaps even see the photographs from the expedition. I would explain the vast and wonderful contributions angelological thinkers have made over the centuries—St. Augustine, Aquinas, Milton, Dante—until our cause would appear clear and sparkling before you. I would lead you through the marble halls to a room where the historical records are preserved. We kept the most elaborate, intricately drawn schemas called angelologies that placed each and every angel exactly in its place. Such works give the universe order. The French mind is extremely tidy—Descartes’ work is evidence of this, not the origin—and something about these systems was extremely soothing to me. I wonder if you, too, would find them so?”

  Evangeline did not know how to respond, and so she waited for further explanation.

  “But of course times have changed,” Celestine said. “Once angelology was one of the greatest branches of theology. Once kings and popes sanctioned the work of theologians and paid great artists to paint the angels. Once the orders and purposes of the heavenly host were debated among the most brilliant scholars of Europe. Now angels have no place in our universe.”

  Celestine leaned close to Evangeline, as if relaying the information gave her new strength.

  “Whereas angels were once the epitome of beauty and goodness, now, in our time, they are irrelevant. Materialism and science have banished them to nonexistence, a sphere as indeterminate as purgatory. It used to be that humanity believed in angels implicitly, intuitively, not with our minds but with our very souls. Now we need proof. We need material, scientific data that will verify without a doubt their reality. Yet what a crisis would occur if the proof existed! What would happen, do you suppose, if the material existence of angels could be verified?”

  Celestine lapsed into silence. Perhaps she was tiring herself, or perhaps she had simply become lost in thought. Conversely, Evangeline was beginning to be alarmed. The turn Celestine’s tale was taking was frightfully concurrent with the mythology Evangeline had schooled herself in earlier that afternoon. She had hoped to find reason to dismiss the existence of these monstrous creatures, not confirm them. Celestine appeared to be slipping into the kind of agitation she had displayed earlier that afternoon.

  “Sister,” Evangeline said, hoping Celestine would confess that all she’d said was an illusion, a metaphor for something practical and innocuous, “tell me that you are not serious.”

  “It is time for my pills,” Celestine said, gesturing to her night table. “Can you bring them?”

  Turning to the night table, Evangeline stopped short. Where earlier in the afternoon there had been a stack of books, now there stood bottles and bottles of medication, enough to suggest that Celestine suffered from a serious and protracted illness. Evangeline picked up one of the orange plastic bottles to examine it. The label gave Celestine’s name, the dosage, and the drug name—strings of unpronounceable syllables that Evangeline had never heard before. She herself had always been healthy, her recent problem with chest colds being the only experience she’d had with illness. Her father had been hale until the minute he died, and her mother had disappeared in her prime. Certainly Evangeline had never witnessed someone so ruined by illness. It struck her that she had not thought about the complex combinations of remedies needed to maintain and soothe a damaged body. Her lack of sensitivity filled her with shame.

  Evangeline opened the drawer below the night table. There she found a pamphlet explaining the possible side effects of cancer medications and, clipped to it, a neat column of medicine names and dosage schedules. She caught her breath. Why hadn’t she been informed that Celestine had cancer? Had she been so selfishly absorbed with her own curiosity that the condition had escaped her? She sat at Celestine’s side and counted out the correct dosage.

  “Thank you,” Celestine said, taking the pills and swallowing them with water.

  Evangeline was consumed by regret at her blindness. She had resisted asking too many questions of Celestine, and yet she had been desperate to be enlightened about all the old nun had said earlier in the day. Even now, watching Celestine struggle to swallow the tablets, she felt a terrible yearning for the gaps to be filled in. She wanted to know the connection between the convent, their rich patron, and the study of angels. Even more, she needed to know how she was a part of this strange web of associations.

  “Forgive me for pressing you,” Evangeline said, feeling guilty for her persistence even as she pressed onward. “But how did Mrs. Rockefeller come to help us?”

  “Of course,” Celestine said, smiling slightly. “You still want to know about Mrs. Rockefeller. Very well. But you may be surprised to learn that you have had the answer all along.”

  “How can that be?” Evangeline replied. “I learned only today of her interest in St. Rose.”

  Celestine sighed deeply. “Permit me to start from the beginning,” she said. “In the 1920s one of the leading scholars in our group—Dr. Raphael Valko, the husband of my teacher, Dr. Seraphina Valko—”

  “My grandmother married a man named Raphael Valko,” Evangeline said, interrupting.

  Celestine regarded Evangeline coolly. “Yes, I know, although their marriage happened after I left Paris. Long before this, Dr. Raphael uncovered historical records proving that an ancient lyre had been discovered in a cavern by one of our founding fathers, a man named Father Clematis. The lyre had until that time been a source of great study and speculation among our scholars. We knew the legend of the lyre, but we did not know if the lyre itself indeed existed. Until Dr. Raphael’s discovery, the cave had simply been associated with the myth of Orpheus. I’m not sure if you are aware, but Orpheus was in fact an actual living man, one who rose to prominence and power due to his charisma and artistry and, of course, his music. Like many such men, he became a symbol after his death. Mrs. Rockefeller learned of the lyre through her contacts within our group. She funded our expedition with the belief that we could take possession of the lyre.”

  “Her interest was artistic?”

  “She had wonderful taste in art, but she also understood the value of artifacts. I believe she came to care about our cause, but her initial assistance arose from financial concerns.”

  “She was a business partner?”

  “Such involvement does not d
iminish the importance of the expedition. We had been planning the expedition to uncover the lyre for many years. Her assistance was used only as a means to an end. We always had our own agenda. But without Mrs. Rockefeller’s assistance, we would not have made it. With the dangers of the war and the ruthlessness and power of our enemies, it is remarkable that we undertook the journey to the cavern at all. I can only credit our success to assistance and protection from a higher place.”

  As Celestine struggled for breath, Evangeline could see that she was growing tired. And yet the old nun continued.

  “Once I arrived at St. Rose, I gave the case that contained our discoveries in the Rhodopes to Mother Innocenta, who in turn entrusted the lyre to Mrs. Rockefeller. The Rockefeller family had such vast sums of money—those of us in Paris could hardly imagine such fortune—and I felt a great sense of relief that Mrs. Rockefeller would care for the instrument”

  Celestine paused, as if contemplating the dangers of the lyre. Finally she said, “My part in the saga of the treasure was finished, or so I thought. I believed that the instrument would be protected. I did not realize that Abigail Rockefeller would betray us.”

  “Betray you?” Evangeline asked, breathless with wonder. “How?”

  “Mrs. Rockefeller agreed to shield the Rhodope artifacts. She did an excellent job. She died on April fifth, 1948, four years after they came into her possession. In fact, she did not disclose her hiding place to anyone. The location of the instrument died with her.”

  Evangeline’s feet had grown numb from sitting. She stood, walked to the window, and drew back the curtain. There’d been a full moon two days before, but that night the sky was black with clouds. “Is it so precious?” she asked at last.

  “Beyond reckoning,” Celestine said. “Over one thousand years of research built to our findings in the cavern. The creatures, who have thrived on human toil for so long, flourishing from the labor of mankind, mimicked our efforts with equal vigor. They watched us, studied our movements, planted spies among our numbers, and occasionally—just to maintain a level of terror among us—kidnapped and killed our agents.”

  Evangeline thought immediately of her mother. She had long suspected that something more had happened to her than her father had disclosed, but the thought that the creatures Celestine described could be responsible was too horrible to imagine. Determined to understand, Evangeline asked, “But why only a few? If they were so powerful, why didn’t they kill all of you? Why not simply destroy the entire organization?”

  “It is true that they could have exterminated us with ease. They certainly have the strength and the means to do so. But it would not be in their best interests to cleanse the world of angelology.”

  “Why is that?” Evangeline said, surprised.

  “With all their power, they have a remarkable flaw: They are sensual creatures, wholly blinded by the pleasures of the body. They have wealth, strength, physical beauty, and a ruthlessness that is hardly believable. They have ancient family connections that buoy them during the tumultuous periods of history. They have developed financial strongholds in nearly every corner of the globe. They are the winners of a power system they themselves have created. But what they do not have is the intellectual prowess, or the vast store of academic and historical resources, that we do. Essentially, they need us to do their thinking for them.” Celestine sighed once again, as if the topic caused her pain. Struggling to continue, she said, “This tactic nearly worked in 1943. They killed my mentor, and when they learned that I had escaped to the United States, they destroyed our convent and dozens of others in search of me and the object I’d brought with me.”

  “The lyre,” Evangeline said, the pieces of the puzzle coming together suddenly.

  “Yes,” Celestine said. “They want the lyre, not because they know what it can do but because they know we prize it—and that we fear their possession of it. Of course, it was a hazardous endeavor to unearth the treasure at all. We had to find someone who could protect it. And so we entrusted it to one of our most illustrious contacts in New York City, a powerful and wealthy woman who vowed to serve our cause.”

  A look of pain flickered in Celestine’s expression.

  “Mrs. Rockefeller was our last great hope in New York. I have no doubt she took her role seriously. Indeed, she was so adept that her secret has remained hidden to this day. The creatures would kill every last one of us in order to discover it.”

  Evangeline touched the lyre pendant, the gold warm against her fingertips. At last she understood the significance of her grandmother’s gift.

  Celestine smiled. “I see you understand me. The pendant marks you as one of us. Your grandmother was right to give it to you.”

  “You know my grandmother?” Evangeline asked, astonished and confused that Celestine should know the precise provenance of her necklace.

  “I knew Gabriella many years ago,” Celestine said, the faintest hint of sadness in her voice. “And even then I did not truly know her. Gabriella was my friend, she was a brilliant scholar and a dedicated fighter for our cause, but to me she has always been a mystery. Gabriella’s heart was one thing nobody, not even her closest friend, could discern.”

  It had been ages since Evangeline had last spoken with her grandmother. As the years had passed, she began to believe that Gabriella had died. “Then she is alive?” Evangeline asked.

  “Very much alive,” Celestine said. “She would be proud to see you now.”

  “Where is she?” Evangeline asked. “France? New York?”

  “That I cannot tell you,” Celestine said. “But if your grandmother were here, I know that she would explain everything to you. As she is not, I can only try, in my own way, to help you to understand.”

  Pulling herself up in her bed, Celestine gestured for Evangeline to go to the opposite side of the room, where an antique trunk sat in a corner, its leather trim scuffed. A brass-plated catch gleamed in the light, a padlock hanging from it like a piece of fruit. Evangeline walked to it and held the cool lock in her hand. A tiny key protruded from the keyhole.

  Checking to be sure that Celestine approved, Evangeline twisted the key. The lock popped open. She unhooked it, set it lightly upon the wooden floorboard, and pushed open the trunk’s heavy wooden top the brass hinges, without oil for many decades, creaked with a sharp feline whine and gave way to the earthy smell of stale sweat and dust mixed with the more refined, musky smell of perfume that has begun to soften with age. Inside, she found a layer of yellowed tissue paper placed neatly over the surface, so light it seemed to hover above the edges of the trunk. Evangeline lifted the paper, careful not to crease it, and found pressed stacks of clothing beneath. Taking them from the trunk, she examined them one by one: a black cotton pinafore, brown jodhpurs stained black at the knees, a pair of women’s lace-up leather boots with the wooden soles worn down. Evangeline unfolded a pair of wide-legged wool trousers that seemed better suited to a young man than to Celestine. Running her hand over the trousers, her nails catching upon the rough fabric, Evangeline could smell the dust trapped in the material.

  Digging deeper, Evangeline’s fingers brushed against something velvety soft at the bottom of the trunk. A mass of satin lay crumpled in a corner. When Evangeline unfurled it with a flick of the wrist, it opened into a fluid sheet of glossy scarlet fabric. She draped the dress over her arm, examining it closely. She had never touched material quite so soft; it fell across her skin like water. The style of the dress was like something in a black-and-white film—bias cut, with a plunging neckline, a tapered waist, and a narrow skirt that fell to the floor. A series of tiny satin-covered buttons climbed up the left side of the gown. Evangeline found a tag sewn into a seam. It read CHANEL. A series of numbers were stamped below it. Holding the dress close, she tried to imagine the woman who wore such a dress. What would it be like, she wondered, to wear this beautiful gown?

  Evangeline was returning the dress to the trunk when, nestled in a fold of old clothing, she foun
d a bundle of envelopes. Green, red, and white—the envelopes were the colors of Christmas. They had been fastened together by a thick black satin band, which Evangeline slid her finger over, the slick track soft and smooth.

  “Bring them to me,” Celestine said softly, the extent of her weariness beginning to weigh upon her.

  Leaving the trunk open, Evangeline carried the envelopes to Celestine. With trembling fingers Celestine untied the ribbon and returned the envelopes to Evangeline. Flipping through them, Evangeline found that the cancellation dates corresponded with the Christmas season of each year, beginning in 1988, the year she became a ward of St. Rose Convent, and ending with Christmas 1998. To her amazement the name on the return address read “Gabriella Lévi-Franche Valko.” The letters had been sent to Celestine by Evangeline’s grandmother.

  “She sent them for you,” Celestine said, her voice tremulous. “I have been collecting and saving them for many years—eleven, to be precise. The time has come for you to have them. I wish I could explain more, but I am afraid that I have already pushed myself beyond my strength this evening. Speaking of the past has been more difficult for me than you can imagine. Explaining the complicated history between Gabriella and me would be even more so. Take the letters. I believe that they will answer many of your questions. When you have read them, come to me again. There is much we must discuss.”

  With great care Evangeline tied the letters together with the black satin ribbon, securing the knot in a tight bow. Celestine’s appearance had changed dramatically over the course of their discussion—her skin had become ashen and pale, and she could hardly keep her eyes open. For a moment Evangeline wondered if she should call for assistance, but it was clear that Celestine needed nothing more than to rest. Evangeline straightened the crocheted blanket, tucking the edges over Celestine’s frail arms and shoulders, making sure she was warm and comfortable. With the pack of letters in hand, she left Celestine to sleep.