The Book of Q

by Jonathan Rabb

  Granted, the gnosis here wasn’t quite as deviously hidden as with the “Perfect Light”—no letters and cross-references to construct the map. Then again, the earlier Manichaeans had had five centuries to devise their puzzle. Ribadeneyra had taken a few months. An effort certainly worthy of their legacy.

  Pearse quickly came to appreciate the beauty of the game, its precision. Everything was there from the start, no landmarks to be found, no mechanisms to be unhinged. A genuine alchemy, the gold trapped within the obscurity of a language waiting for release. A strange taste of the Sola Scriptura. Discovery in its purest form.

  Pearse knew Angeli would have needed, at most, a few hours for the entire lot; he had taken the better part of four days. Even when helping with the refugees, he’d been aware that his subconscious was continuing to play with the clues, flashes of understanding bubbling to the surface at the strangest of moments, often a word or two in conversation enough to spark revelation. Though frustrating at times, the process nevertheless gave him a real sense of satisfaction, each of the entries offering up tiny moments of triumph. Given the mayhem of the last week, such fleeting brushes with resolution were deeply rewarding.

  Still, he had yet to penetrate even one of the five-line entries, none of them coming close to anything he had seen on the computer. More than that, he had come to recognize that the last of the categories held the key to the entire puzzle. As with the acrostics, the rest remained meaningless—a mishmash of abstract phrases and words—without something to tie them together. With “Perfect Light,” it had been the prophetic letters. Here, it was the five-line entries. Another map waiting to be discovered.

  An image of Angeli came to mind, her plump little hand sweeping along the sheets of yellow paper, eyes staring up at him, so eager for him to see what she herself had already detected. The elation at her discovery. Her impatience with his thickheadedness.

  He couldn’t afford to keep her waiting too much longer.

  At this rate, though, he had little to bolster his confidence. He had no idea as to what would help to unlock the last of the entries. He needed to clear his mind. More than that, his eyes needed a rest. The vibration from the van was hardly making the reading easy, his head still battling the last vestiges of the concussion.

  He flicked off the flashlight, let the paper drop to his lap, and set his head back against the seat. After a few minutes—eyes gazing out at the blackened landscape—he said, “You’re wrong, you know.”

  Not sure what Pearse was referring to, Mendravic remained silent.

  “About your friends in the KLA,” he clarified.

  “Ah.” Mendravic kept his eyes on the road. A return to the conversation they’d started over two hours ago.

  “They’re as much to blame for the refugees now as the Serbs were a year ago.” Pearse continued to stare out.

  “Five days in the region and you’re an expert.”

  “They’re a bunch of thugs, Irish Provisionals, Kosovo-style. Except maybe a little more brutal.”

  “I see.” Mendravic nodded to himself. “I’ve always had trouble distinguishing Milošević from Tony Blair.” Before Pearse could respond, he said, “A year after a peace accord, and the Serbs are still ‘encouraging’ people not to return home. I don’t say I agree with everything the KLA does, but at least they’re doing something.”

  “Like killing Serbs?”

  “Yes. Like killing Serbs.” He waited, then looked over at Pearse. “Not all that enlightened, I know. But there it is.” Focusing again on the road, the hint of a grin now on his face, he added, “We’re a sort of an eye-for-an-eye kind of people. Never really been that much room in this part of the world for turning the other cheek.”

  Pearse smiled to himself. “I wasn’t aware the KLA set its policy based on scriptural debate.”

  “Just the overall strategy,” Mendravic said. “Too many different kinds of scripture floating around these parts to map out the day-to-day game plan.”

  It was remarkable how easily they slipped into the familiar sparring, even after eight years. Pearse was about to let loose with his next jab, when he suddenly stopped.

  Instead, he flicked on the flashlight and looked down at the pages on his lap. Something in what Mendravic had just said. Scriptural mapping.

  “What?” prodded the Croat.

  Lost in the pages, Pearse slowly realized that each of the five-line entries had a peculiar quality to it, something he would never have seen had he continued to attack each one as an individual cryptogram. Reading them as continuous phrases, he saw that each of them produced a kind of singsong cadence, almost a lilting meter, as if it was meant to be spoken aloud.

  So do I stretch out my two hands toward You,

  All to be formed in the orbit of light.

  When I am sent to the contest with darkness,

  Knowing that You can assist me in sight.

  The fragrance of life is always within me.

  Like a piece of Scripture. Like the verse of a prayer.

  He felt a swell of satisfaction, quickly doused by the realization that he had no idea what it meant. This was no verse he recognized. Pieces of Scripture or not, the five-line entries remained a mystery.

  He was about to tell Mendravic, when he noticed a sign indicating a split in the road just ahead: east to Visegrad, west to Rogatica and Sarajevo. From there, another twenty minutes to the “town on the Drina.”

  When Mendravic opted for the Rogatica turnoff, Pearse shot up in his seat. He began to point in the other direction.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “It’s after ten,” said Mendravic. “Visegrad’s not exactly a tourist spot since the war. Much better chance of finding a hotel nearer the city.”

  Watching the Visegrad road disappear, Pearse knew Mendravic was right. After all, what could they accomplish tonight? He was too tired to make sense of the recent discovery. He needed sleep to clear his mind.

  They drove for another half an hour, Mendravic intent on the roads, Pearse with his head in the book. Surprisingly, Mendravic was rather familiar with Rogatica and its surroundings. Mumbling street names to himself, he seemed to be in search of a specific hotel. After several miscues, they finally arrived at what looked like an apartment house, six stories of dull gray brick.

  “This doesn’t look like a hotel,” said Pearse.

  Maybe it was his preoccupation with the final set of entries, or the cumulative effects of the last week, but it wasn’t until he saw Mendravic smiling back at him that Pearse realized where he had been taken.

  “You’re not very bright, are you?” asked Mendravic.

  The Croat leaned forward in his seat and peered up at the building through the windshield. “Fifth floor. Second in from the right.”

  Pearse couldn’t bring himself to lean forward.

  “This was your second request, wasn’t it?” Mendravic sat back, the grin once again in evidence. “Shall we see if the two of them have room for us tonight?”

  Doña Marcella pulled the half glasses from her face and placed the papers on the coffee table in front of her. She waited for Blaney to finish reading.

  She hadn’t been to his rooms off the Giardini del Quirinale in years, the priest, by the look of them, well taken care of by his Chicago archdiocese. Thick velvet drapes hung across the twelve-foot windows, the furniture distinctly Edwardian, a bulky mahogany roughness befitting the man seated across from her. Browns on browns, with a hint of maroon here and there. What few splashes of color he permitted came from a pair of large vases standing on either side of a rather dour sideboard.

  “Am I actually supposed to believe this?” she asked when he finally looked up.

  “I don’t think you’re the one they’re trying to convince,” Blaney answered.

  “It’s all tabloid.” She reached for the paper nearest to her. “ ‘Gelli’s Ghost Returns,’” she read. “Complete nonsense.” She tossed it back onto the table. “The morning papers won’t b
e so quick to swallow all of this. Who’s going to believe Arturo capable of such things?”

  “He was found with the papers, the discs.”

  She waited before answering. “If what they say is true, this will make the whole Calvi business look like a minor inconvenience. This isn’t going to be the usual mop-up. I’m going to need time, and I’m not sure I have it.”

  “That’s not what worries me,” said Blaney. “Weakening the bank only makes the church more vulnerable, raises the specter of corruption. Which makes the job of the ‘Hodoporia’ all the easier. The question is, did he leave anything on those discs to link us with the bank?”

  “That’s exactly my point; the church isn’t the issue.” Frustration forced her up from her chair. “Tell me he wouldn’t have been that stupid, John?” Blaney started to answer. She cut him off. “What does Erich say?”

  He shook his head dismissively. “No idea. He’s unreachable. The novemdieles concludes tomorrow morning. They’ve already started to convene the conclave.”

  “Not the best timing.”

  Blaney nodded. “Unless it’s what he was planning all along.”

  It took her a moment to respond. “And what is that supposed to mean?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed him. “You can’t be serious? Why would Erich have had any part in this?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not so sure his faith in the ‘Hodoporia’ is what it once was.” He let the words sit for a moment. “He’s very fond of reminding me that it’s a ‘complicated world.’ And a complicated world demands complicated answers.” Again, he shook his head. “There’s very little I’d put past Erich now. Despite all of Arturo’s fidgeting, he was a remarkably fit man. Prided himself on it. He was also something of a hypochondriac. A man like that doesn’t suddenly collapse in the Piazza di Spagna for no apparent reason.”

  “And you think Erich would have …” She couldn’t finish the thought. “Why?”

  Blaney sat back and let his eyes wander. For some reason, they stopped on a small crystal lamb nestled within a group of pictures—a gift from his very first parish. Something long forgotten. He stared at it, then turned to the contessa. “Because the thought of anyone else having something to do with this is even more unsettling.”

  She had sounded excited over the intercom, Mendravic announcing only himself, the real surprise left for upstairs. It had taken a good ten minutes for Pearse to get out of the car, the prospect of meeting his son somehow less daunting than seeing her again. He had no idea what to expect from the boy. With Petra, though, he knew what he wanted to hear, what had been running through his head since this afternoon. Nothing to assuage. No attempts to let him off the hook, tell him it had been for the best. He had outgrown that kind of coddling.

  Inside, he quickly fell behind, nearly a full flight below by the time Mendravic reached the fifth floor. Moving slowly, Pearse heard the chirped “Salko” from above, an excited Petra at the top of the stairs, the sound of an embrace, an instant of laughter. He stopped, listened for a moment, then continued on. Rounding the final turn, he saw her arms clutched around Mendravic’s enormous bulk, her face resting on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, a moment to see her as she was, as he knew she would be.

  And then her eyes opened. No change in expression. No hint of movement. Only the eyes peering down at him.

  Somehow, Mendravic sensed it. Without a word, he pulled away and moved off down the corridor, the sound of a squealing hinge in the distance a few moments later.

  The two of them continued to stare.

  Whatever image Pearse had carried with him for the last eight years came to life as she looked down at him. If she had aged, it was only around the eyes, one or two creases. The battle with her hair continued to rage on, the familiar wisps draped along her cheek. She wore a simple shirt, skirt—something he had never seen before, never even imagined on her—ankle-length, bobbing atop her bare feet.

  She leaned back against the railing. Silence.

  “Hey,” he said finally, regretting the choice before the word had even left his mouth.

  “Hey,” she answered.

  “You look—”

  She nodded to herself before he could finish the thought. “I look great, right?”

  Again, he realized how stupid it must have sounded. He tried a smile. “Right.”

  She shook her head. “You still don’t look like a priest.”

  “I guess some things never change.”

  “No, I guess they don’t.” She waited. “Amazing how long you imagine this, and it doesn’t make it any easier, does it?” Again, she waited. “Why are you here, Ian?”

  He wanted to move to her but couldn’t. “It’s a long story.”

  She continued to stare at him. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “I know.” Another stab at the smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”

  “Neither was I, for a while.” She was about to say something else, then stopped.

  Another awkward silence. Finally, he spoke: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “Salko told you.” A dismissive laugh. “Of course he told you. That’s why you’re here.”

  “It’s not the only reason.”

  She’d become preoccupied with something on the step, her foot rubbing away at it. “I didn’t know the last time we spoke.”

  “So why didn’t you get in touch with me when you found out?”

  Again, silence. When she turned to him, her expression was far from what he expected. Her own attempt at a smile. Not terribly convincing. “Right to the tough stuff,” she said. “That isn’t fair, is it?” He tried to answer. “Look, Salko’s probably halfway through the fridge. Why don’t you come inside?” Not waiting for him, she turned and headed down the hall.

  The apartment was much as he’d expected it—living room, galley kitchen, narrow hall, rooms somewhere beyond. A low overstuffed couch took up much of the far wall, Mendravic now taking up much of it, already a plate of something in his lap. A small table perched under the near window, half of it reserved for a rather ancient television—an even older video game hooked up to its back—two chairs around the far end for mother and son. A bookshelf—slanting just a bit—stood by the entry to the hall, a wide assortment of knickknacks, pictures, and books atop its six shelves. Pearse recognized a few of the faces, Mendravic’s the most prominent, one shot of him caught in midlaugh, the boy clutched in his arms, outside, winter hats.

  “He was four in that picture,” Petra said, noticing where Pearse’s eyes had come to rest. “It’s a park in Sarajevo. Veliki. I think you were there once. It still had some trees left. Near where we lived.”

  “Dusanov,” chimed in Mendravic, his mouth busy with a piece of orange. “It was Dusanov, the other side of the river. Remember, he cut himself when he fell?”

  Petra shook her head and moved toward the shelf. “That happened in Veliki.” She picked up the plastic frame, slid the picture out, and flipped it over. A moment later, the smile on her face signaled her capitulation. “‘November fifth, 1997,’” she read. “‘Dusanov Park with Salko.’” She looked over at Mendravic. “How do you always do that?”

  He shrugged as he finished off the wedge. “Must be that I love him more than you do.” A smile peeked out from behind the rind.

  “That must be it,” she said. She was about to put it back in its frame. Instead, she handed it to Pearse.

  He looked down into the child’s face and realized he was staring into Petra’s eyes, tinier versions to be sure, but the same deep charcoal, the same long black lashes above, that pinch at either end when lost in laughter. The cheekbones were hers as well, sharply contoured around the dollop of nose, lips already hinting at his mother’s fullness. But where the individual features were hers, the shape of the face was not, most notably in the jaw, its curve more pronounced, its line more angular—a child’s size of one Pearse knew all too well.

  Five minuscule fingers squeez
ed at Mendravic’s large nose, the howls of laughter from them both almost audible.

  “He’s beautiful,” Pearse finally said.

  “Yes, he is.” She waited for him to hand back the picture. She looked at it for several seconds, then slotted it into the frame and placed it on the shelf. “He’s asleep,” she said. She looked at Pearse, the first hint of softness in her eyes. “You’ll have to be quiet.” Not waiting for an answer, she started down the hall, Pearse at once behind her.

  With a finger to her lips, she quietly opened the door, the mustiness of a sleeping seven-year-old at once rising up to greet them. Waiting a moment for her eyes to adjust, she led the way through, a tangle of clothes and toys scattered along the path, a sliver of shadow cutting across the room through a slit in the curtains. When she reached the bed, she remained perfectly still for several seconds, Pearse at her side.

  The boy lay curled up on his side, hands nestled under his chin, a thin blanket draped along his back, only his feet peeking out at the edge. Beneath the cover, a small shoulder rose and fell, the sound of gentle breath on pillow. Nothing else to break the silence. A few years older—the chin more pronounced, the lips having lived up to their promise—the face remained hers. Pearse couldn’t help but marvel at him, the quiet wonder of this boy. He had a sudden need to reach out to him, hold him, equally desperate not to disrupt the moment’s perfect serenity. Torn between the two impulses, he crouched down and brought his face to within a hair’s breadth of the boy’s cheek, the closeness almost unbearable. Shutting his eyes, he felt the warmth just beyond his grasp, and a sense of overwhelming loss.

  Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to hold his son, no matter how great the need. He hovered on the brink, eyes now open, his own breath growing shorter and shorter. When it became too much, he pulled himself back and turned to her. She had been looking at him all along. She continued to stare, her eyes unwilling to give into the tears.