Chayim Wichs is tugging at the hem of her coat.
“Rebbe is asking for you!”
The Rebbetzin smiles and raises a hand. Go. I’m all right.
She allows Wichs to drag her to the center of the dancing circle, where Rebbe waits with his arms out. She clasps his hands, taking great care to be gentle, and they turn in a circle of their own. He’s huffing and puffing, perspiration streaming down his long, lean face, but when she tries to slow down, he pulls her closer, presses his body to hers, rocking against her, murmuring into her shirt, “Don’t let me go. Don’t ever let me go,” and she hears the weakness in his voice and realizes that he’s not sweating. He’s crying.
And it pains her to know that she cannot reflect his love back to him. She raises her head and stares out, hating herself, and that is when she sees the men.
There are three of them.
Three variations on tall, the middle one enormous, towering above his companions, above everyone—rising nearly to her level. Gaunt as a reed, long-eyed in the firelight, he sports tufts of white hair above his ears. Wind ripples a rough-spun robe more suited to a cave-dwelling hermit than to a man of urban Prague.
The men with him are like two burlap sacks stuffed with potatoes. The dark one grimaces and shifts. The mottled red cheeks of his counterpart bunch in a secretive smile.
You’d think that three strange giants would attract a certain amount of attention, but nobody else appears to notice them. Standing near the rear of the crowd, they resemble a kind of human orchard. Yet they are not human. They cannot be. They have no auras. Amid the riot of color created by the partygoers, they hover in a chill vacuum, pitiless and tranquil, and the sight of them fills her with horror, drawing the binding around her tongue tighter, and tighter, threatening to cut the flesh in two pieces, like a wire through clay.
They’re watching her.
“That’s enough, now, Yankele, enough, please.” Rebbe’s voice calls her back to herself. He releases her from his embrace and beckons her to kneel. She does so reluctantly. Her back is to the men, and she feels their long invisible shadows on her.
Rebbe places his hands on her head. For barely a moment his gaze flicks over her shoulder and his face tautens with apprehension.
He sees them, too.
He smiles. “It’s all right, my child.”
The blessing streams from his lips.
May God make you as Ephraim and Menasheh.
May God bless you and guard you.
May God light up His face to you and be gracious to you.
May God lift His face to you and establish for you peace.
He kisses her on the forehead. “Good boy.”
Warmth permeates her, cradling the space where her heart ought to be.
The musicians strike up the mezinke. Chazkiel elbows forth wielding a broom, which he thrusts into Rebbe’s hands. She rises to clear out of the way, searching the crowd for the tall men. They’re nowhere.
—
“I WON’T LIE,” PEREL SAYS. “I’m glad it’s over.”
A week and a half after the wedding, life has returned to normal. In the wake of the frenzy, the streets feel eerily vacant, the filth more pronounced than usual. Residual heat raises a scummy fog off the river; it oozes in the twilight as she and the Rebbetzin return from the riverbank bearing a fresh load of clay.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for her. You know that.”
She nods.
“I woke up this morning and the house was so quiet. Yudl was already gone, and I lay there, waiting for Feigie’s footsteps. The silliest thing is that I wasn’t longing for her as she is. I was thinking about the sound her feet made when she was a baby. It’s ridiculous, it’s weak, I can’t help it. I think that’s my right, don’t you? I raised her. Twenty-nine years I’ve been raising children. I think I deserve a little time to pity myself.”
She nods, careful not to spill the mud. I know.
“I know,” Perel says, “it’s not as if she moved to another city.” She laughs. “Well, enough of that. We’ve got work to do. I promised Feigie I’d finish making her new dishes. No reason to panic yet, we’ll get it done. Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll go in shifts. Every circuit, you stop in and collect what I’ve done and bring it to the blacksmith for baking. We’ll work through the night if we have to. Does that sound good? We’ll stop at the house first to refill the shed.”
They turn the corner, onto Heligasse. Among the murmurs of the evening, the familiar sounds of the Loew household filter through. The slap of a wet rag as Gittel, the maid, yawns and scrubs the kitchen floor. The scurry of the mice that live under the stairs. The sough of a fire.
And from the open window of the study, Rebbe’s voice, strained and urgent.
I understand. I understand. But—
The voice that interrupts him is a tired whistle, and it stops her dead in her tracks.
There is nothing more to discuss. At your request, we gave you the week of celebration.
Plus a few days extra adds a second voice, gravel in a jar.
“Yankele?” Perel says. “What’s wrong?”
I’m well aware of that Rebbe says. I appreciate it, more than I can express. But you must believe me. It is not yet time. We still have need of him.
Her the gravelly voice says.
Your sisters and brothers are highly displeased the whistling voice says.
I beseech you Rebbe says. We are in need. An extension—
There are no more extensions.
Perel’s fingers clutch at her arm.
A new voice—round and sympathetic but no more inclined to bend—says It has been two years.
And for two years we have had peace Rebbe says. Take him away—
Her the gravelly voice snaps.
—and it will not last. I guarantee you that.
Every evil shall be dealt with in its own time and place the whistling voice says.
But if we can prevent it from happening to begin with—
I knew this would happen the gravelly voice says. I said it, didn’t I?
We are not in the business of prevention the whistling voice says. It is not granted to us, nor to you.
I said he’d get attached, and I was right.
It’ll only get harder if you wait the round voice says.
The balance of justice the whistling voice says demands a correction.
Beside her, Perel has grown still. She is listening, as well.
Forlornly, Rebbe says Where will he go?
She the gravelly voice corrects. And that’s not your concern.
Somewhere the need is greater the round voice says.
The need to flee is sickeningly primal, a kind of nauseous gravity. But she cannot move: Perel’s fingers lightly clasping her wrist are like an anchor.
Rebbe says It will be done.
She looks down, wishing her blank face could show the sorrow she feels, now that their time together has come to an end. The Rebbetzin is staring at the house, in the direction of the voices, and her green eyes are fixed and calculating.
Perel says, “Come with me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Don’t tell me that,” Priscilla Norton said, gesticulating like an auctioneer as she shouted into the phone at her landlord. “Don’t tell me I need to hire a housekeeper, I keep it quite clean, thank you.”
Cross-legged on the floor, an ice pack pressed to his head, Jacob watched her stomp around, glad and guilty that she had chosen to vent her distress at someone other than him.
“I resent the suggest—excuse me. Excuse me. I resent the—don’t you tell me that. Don’t tell me it’s my fault. I’ve never had bugs in my life, not a fly.”
She was naked save the woolen throw carelessly draped over one shoulder, and he could see bruises splotch
ing her milk-white skin: shins, arms, collarbone, wherever the beetle had hit her.
She jabbed the cordless with a thumb and hurled it to the sofa. “Bloody bastard. Accuse me of poor housekeeping.”
“Asshole,” he said.
“It had a horn, for God’s sake. You don’t get things with a horn from not taking out the bloody rubbish.”
Jacob began to stand to offer her comfort, but she shook her head and backed away. “I need to take a shower.”
She hurried into the bathroom and shut the door.
He sank down, listening to the water run, examining his own body for marks. In addition to the soft lump at the side of his head, he had a rug burn on his stomach and another on his flank. No bruises.
It had reserved its true wrath for her.
His lips still tingled where it had touched him.
The water cut off, and minutes later Priscilla appeared in pajama bottoms and a hoodie, her hair tied back severely.
“Do you need more ice?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. “Thanks. How’re you?”
“I’ll live. Time for bed.” She paused. “Are you coming?”
“Mind if I stay up a bit?”
She looked relieved. “Can I get you anything? Hungry?”
“No, thanks.”
She retreated without an argument.
Jacob sat on the couch, staring at the jagged hole blown in the window.
Behind her bedroom door, Priscilla tossed and turned and mumbled.
His jeans, puddled near the door, began to vibrate. He crawled over to them, turned them right side out, and dug out his phone.
Maria Band said, “I’m keeping track of the favors you owe me.” She sounded noticeably friendlier, though.
Among the events Casey Klute had worked on in the weeks prior to her murder was a cocktail reception for the annual conference of the North American Architectural Design and Drafting Society.
“That help?” Band asked.
“A lot. A whole hell of a lot. Thanks.”
He put down the phone. He got up, went to Norton’s bedroom, opened the door softly. He stood there for a while, watching her small form rise and fall, the duvet pulled up to her neck.
She said, “Who was that?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Miami PD.”
“What did they have to say?”
He told her.
“That’s good news,” she said.
He nodded.
“Are you coming to bed at some point?”
“I’m not really tired.”
She pushed herself up against the headboard. “Should we talk about what happened.”
“What part of it?” he said.
He tried a smile. It felt artificial, and she didn’t return it.
“It hurt,” she said. “When you went inside me, it felt like—”
“I was stabbing you.”
She grimaced. “You haven’t got some horrible disease or something, have you?”
Not a physical one. “No.”
“Then . . . ?”
He said, “I don’t know.”
She emitted a strange, hiccupping laugh. “I’ll tell you what I know. I know we’ve both had far too much to drink on an empty stomach, followed by far, far too much excitement.”
“Agreed.”
A silence. He reached for her hand but she withdrew, hugging herself, rubbing her upper arms. She wasn’t looking at him, so he couldn’t tell if she was angry or cold or what.
She said, “I want to tell you something, but I’m worried you’re going to think I’m mad.”
“I won’t think that.”
“You will.”
“I promise,” he said.
A silence.
She said, “I saw . . . I mean, it wasn’t like normal seeing. More like, I felt it. I don’t know how else to describe it.” She paused. “I can’t say it out loud without feeling like I am mad.”
Now when he reached for her hand, she was ready to give it to him. He waited.
“I saw a woman,” she said. “Behind you. Standing behind you. For half an instant, if that. Like lightning, sort of, in the shape of a person.”
“What did she look like?”
“Please don’t mock me.”
“I’m not,” he said.
“I feel crazy enough already without you—”
“Pippi. I swear to you. I am not mocking you.”
She fell silent.
“Tell me what she looked like,” Jacob said.
“Why?”
“You saw her,” Jacob said. “Tell me what you saw.”
“Yes, but . . . I mean, she wasn’t real.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
“She—are you really asking me this?”
“I really am.”
“Well . . . She was beautiful, I suppose.”
“How?”
“How beautiful?”
“What made her beautiful?”
“Everything. Just—I don’t know. I know a beautiful person when I see one. She . . . She was perfect, I reckon. But I really don’t see what—”
“Hair color? Eye color?”
She made a frustrated noise. “Why are we discussing this?”
“You told me—”
“I told you because I can never tell anyone else, can I, or they’ll cart me away, and to be honest I should never have said a thing to you, either. It’s over and done with and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Pippi—”
“I’ve nothing else to say, Jacob.”
“She was beautiful,” he said. “That’s it.”
“She looked angry,” she said.
Pippi Norton, smart cop, clever girl, began to cry. “She looked jealous.”
—
SHE LAY ON HER SIDE, curled away from him while he rubbed her back, talking softly to her. She was right: the whole thing was best forgotten. He spoke as much for his own benefit as for hers. He steered her back to the case, emphasizing how much they’d discovered together, shoring up her bravado. She promised she’d follow up with Scotland Yard. He promised he’d send DNA profiles. They were not coauthors of a shared delusion; they were not failed lovers; they were two cops, absorbed by details, and their parting was cordial, hinged on a tacit agreement to never again discuss the matter.
“It certainly has been a terrific adventure knowing you,” she said.
“You, too.”
“Should you chance through these parts again, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.”
“Long as you call an exterminator.”
“Believe you me,” she said, “it’s top of my list.”
—
BACK AT THE HOSTEL, he packed his belongings by the light of his phone while his roommates grumbled and clamped their pillows over their heads.
The lobby was deserted. He sat at a computer kiosk and unfolded his transcription of the Prague letter on the table. As before, it was a slog. He frequently stopped to consult the Internet for definitions. No solution for missing words, so he guessed.
The Maharal’s fondness for allusion made it difficult to determine where his personal voice ended and Scripture began. Jacob kept a running list of sources. The clacking of the keyboard made a lonely sound.
It was nearing five a.m. by the time he’d finished.
With the support of Heaven
20 Sivan 5342
My dear son Isaac
And God blessed Isaac so may He bless you.
As a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so may God rejoice over you. For the sounds of joy and gladness yet ring in
the streets of Judah. Therefore this time I, Judah, will praise Him.
And I say to you now, what man is there that has married a woman but not yet taken her? Let him go and return to his wife.
But now let us remember that our eyes have seen all the great deeds He has done. For the vessel of clay we have made was spoiled in our hands, and the potter has gone to make another, more fit in her eyes. Shall the potter be the equal of the clay? Shall what is made say to its maker, you did not make me? Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, you know nothing?
But let your heart not grow weak; do not fear, do not tremble.
For in truth we have desired grace; it is a disgrace to us from God.
In blessing
Judah Loew ben Bezalel
Shivering, he folded the note up and put it in his pocket and went to check out.
The clerk asked if he had enjoyed his stay in Oxford.
“Yes and no,” Jacob said.
“More yes than no, I hope.”
Jacob handed over the white credit card. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
They were waiting for him beyond customs.
Subach grasped the handle of Jacob’s bag. “Allow me.”
Beneath a loud L.A. sun, they rafted pockets of exhaust toward the short-term parking lot.
“Nice of you guys to pick me up.”
“Beats the SuperShuttle,” Schott said.
“America greets you with open arms,” Subach said. “How was your flight? Watch the movie?”
“Kung Fu Panda 2.”
“Any good?” Schott said.
“Not like the first.”
“They never are,” Subach said, punching the elevator button.
Schott said, “I hope you brought a book.”
Jacob shrugged. He’d spent the majority of the journey reviewing his notes and studying the page torn from the yearbook, inoculating himself to Pernath’s stare. He’d read the in-flight magazine cover to cover, done the crossword and the sudoku, browsed SkyMall. Even after he’d run out of reading material, he had not looked at the letter, nor at his translation.
A smooth crossing, devoid of turbulence, everyone else serene, while around him the tube of the cabin spun, endlessly contracting.
Sucking thin recycled air, he’d loosened his seatbelt as far as it would go, watching the dot of the plane as it skipped across the Atlantic Ocean, touching the tingly strip of skin where the beetle had pressed itself to his lips, raising his finger at every approach of the drink cart, grateful for the lack of judgment in the flight attendants’ faces as they sold him his nth eight-dollar mini-bottle of Absolut.
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