He held himself in check and did not move for many minutes. He had no strength. He was trapped in utter powerlessness. Love was indeed a dream that fled at the first cold blasts of reality. As love died, he felt terror rising. Smokrev watched him closely, as a scientist might observe a specimen dying under a glass.
“You have two choices”, said Smokrev. His tone was relaxed and pleasant. “You can run from this room as fast as you can and never look back. But know that we will chase you to the ends of the earth, and there we will eat you alive. The other choice-well, you can do what your emotions prompt you to do—come over here and put your fingers around my neck and choke the life out of me. That’s what you want.”
Elijah said nothing.
“Then you will be master”, prompted Smokrev.
Elijah stood up, his face an expressionless mask over a pool of agony. He took a step toward the bed.
“Good, good”, whispered Smokrev, his eyes slitted, his mouth grinning, exposing yellow, gold-filled teeth.
Elijah knelt down beside the bed and reached his hands up to Smokrev’s head.
“Do it now. End my wretched existence.”
He took Smokrev’s face in his hands, and he kissed him on one cheek, then the other. Deep sighs rushed from the priest’s mouth and tears streamed from his eyes. The tears fell on Smokrev’s forehead. The old man pulled back in horror.
“Get away from me!” he hissed.
“Can I touch your face?”
“Get away. You are not my Judas”, he screeched.
“No. I am not your Judas.”
“You think you can just go around kissing people! This isn’t real! This isn’t real!”
Smokrev’s eyes were terrified. He pushed the priest away.
Elijah reached out and touched his face. “Shhh, dziecko,”
“Why do you want to touch my face?” Smokrev screamed hoarsely.
“Because I love you.”
The darkness fled outward to the farthest corners of the room. Elijah closed his eyes, and he saw an interior image of a small boy in a golden crib. The child was crying in the night. He screamed but no one came.
Smokrev began to shake violently. Elijah put his arms around him and drew him in. He was amazed at the smallness and frailty of this fierce creature convulsing in his arms.
The old man gave a dry retch. A long, pinched wail burst from him. Then a sustained screech that was just above the level of sound, a sound so ugly that Elijah winced and turned his head away from the mouth. When it was finished, he looked again at the face resting against his chest. Smokrev was sweating heavily, trembling. The eyes were closed. The face exhausted. It resembled the expression of a runner who has fallen to the ground at the finish line.
The spotted, clawlike hands gripped his arms. Then Smokrev began to sob. He cried for such a long time that Elijah ceased to think or to note the passage of the night.
Eventually, the old man’s snores informed him that the worst had now passed. He laid Smokrev down against the pillows and pulled the satin blanket up over his shoulders. He removed a brass tube from his pocket, opened it, and wetted his fingers with the oils it contained. He blessed Smokrev’s forehead with the sign of the cross, anointed the palms of his hands and the base of his feet. He prayed over the man, asking for deliverance. When he did so, Smokrev twitched and muttered, then appeared to subside into a deeper sleep.
The nurse, in slippers and nightgown, clutching her throat, met him at the door. She looked worried.
“I heard some awful noises”, she whispered. “Is the count all right? Does he need me?”
“He is asleep.”
“What happened to him? He usually needs his drugs in order to sleep.”
“He is at peace. I will return in the morning.”
* * *
He woke early, feeling exhausted. The strain of the previous night was not relieved until he had said Mass at the window overlooking the city. When he consumed the sacred species, he fell into timelessness, rested in the radiant warmth of the embrace, then prayed the concluding prayers. A look at the clock informed him, to His surprise, that his meditation after Communion had taken more than an hour.
It was midmorning before he arrived at Smokrev’s apartment.
The manservant greeted him coldly at the door. “He’s not here. They took him to the hospital.”
Elijah dug more information out of him and half-an-hour later strode into Smokrev’s hospital room.
The old man was surrounded by intravenous jars and connected to various tubes. A doctor gave Elijah permission to stay for five minutes.
“He is in extremis, Father. He doesn’t have long to live.”
“Is he conscious?”
“In and out. Do you want to give him the last rites?”
“Yes. I need to be alone with him.”
“Of course.”
The doctor went out and closed the door behind him.
The old man wore a green hospital gown, tied around his thin neck. His manicured hands lay alongside his body, palms down on the sheets. Elijah unrolled his violet-colored stole, kissed it, and put it over his shoulders. He repeated the ritual of anointing that he had performed the night before and added the prayers for the dying. When he was finished, he saw that Smokrev was awake, watching him.
“I am dying?”
“Yes.”
“Will you hear my confession?”
“Yes.”
“This time, the real one.”
Slowly, painstakingly, in a weak voice, Smokrev retold the priest the events he had described so luridly the day before He told it simply and added certain facts he had omitted. When he received absolution, two streams of water slid out of the corners of his eyes. This profound weeping bore no resemblance to the hysterical sobs of the night before. It was soundless, and Elijah could see that the old man was resting in deepest peace.
“There is something else I have to tell you.”
Elijah nodded.
“In my confession, I told you about my lies. There were a million lies.”
“Leave it to the past. It is drowned forever in the mercy of God.”
“But the effects of my sin live on. There is one lie, above all, that I must correct.”
He gasped for breath.
“Do not talk. You are very ill.”
“David, David. I beg you to forgive me.”
“I forgive you. Everything is forgiven.”
“I must repair the damage. I can do little now, but I must try. Permit me this consolation.”
“What is it?”
“I lied to you about Pawel Tarnowski. Those things I said about him. They were lies. It was true that I knew him in Paris. But he wasn’t what I said he was. He was good, and that’s what made us hate him. He ran from us when he saw what we wanted. That made us hate him even more.”
“I knew it in my soul.”
“He had many difficulties. He suffered much. He too longed for love, though it was denied him. A man like that! He could have had the whole world. But he wouldn’t take it.”
“You said that he tried to. . .”
“To sell you. That too was a lie. He struck me and drove me out when I tried to buy you. That’s when I destroyed him. I almost destroyed you too.”
“Do you begin to see, now, the structure of the universe? Do you still think there is no reason behind things? Why has God sent the very one you would have destroyed to tell you about His love for you?”
“That is beyond comprehension. Is He cruel?”
“You know it isn’t so. He wants you to know that nothing you can do will ever destroy His love. He has sent a man back from the dead to tell you this.”
“I do not understand.”
“We do not understand because we are small creatures. You and I. All of us. Very small. To hide in His arms, that is the best thing we ever do.”
Smokrev’s lips broke into a weary smile.
“I see why he loved you.”
�
��He loves everyone.”
“I mean Pawel. He loved you.”
“I loved him too.”
Smokrev asked for the oxygen mask and breathed in it. His color improved slightly.
“I left something for you. When the ambulance came last night, I told the nurse you would come back. I told her to give you some things. One of them is the icon of the Apocalypse. It is yours now.”
“I cannot accept it.”
“You must take it. It is not rightfully mine. I bought it from Pawel Tarnowski during the War. It was worth a fortune then, but I paid a pittance for it. I cheated him and he knew it. He sold it so that he could feed you. Pawel Tarnowski gives you this icon You cannot refuse it.”
Elijah tried to speak but no words came.
“There is another thing. A tin box. In it you will find the soul of a man.”
With that, Smokrev began wheezing and gasping. Elijah put the oxygen mask over his face and rang for the doctor. While the medical team did what they could, he continued to sit beside him and hold his hand. He whispered dziecko just loud enough for the patient to hear. He prayed. Eventually, the hand became cool to the touch, and the doctor removed the mask and looked at the priest. He clicked his tongue and said, “Well, the old count is dead.”
XIII
The Conference
The Canaletto was once considered the best restaurant in the city. It had fallen from popular favor in recent years, rivaled by the Bacciarelli in the modern Marriott and by the Wilanow, where tourists could feed, amidst hunting trophies, on roast pork in plums.
But at the Canaletto, situated in the Hotel Victoria Intercontinental on Kralewska Street, one could still dine in old-world splendor, served by waiters in bow ties, accompanied by the music of piano and harp. One could eat wild boar and snails in garlic sauce, smoked trout and mushrooms, and complete his meal with a flaming crepe.
Simplicity, silence, poverty, he thought as he entered the hotel’s main foyer. The environment of the hotel seemed the antithesis of monastic ideals. In spite of himself, he felt disgust.
An elderly maitre d’ spotted him and hurried over.
“Professor Schäfer?” he said in Polish with a French accent. “I am Philippe. Please to accompany me to the banquet room of the ristorante. Your party is waiting for you.”
It was not clear just how the man had recognized him, but Elijah followed obediently. At the door to the banquet room, the maitre d’ pinned a small red rose to the lapel of the dark blue Italian suit that Billy had purchased for him on his arrival in Rome several months before. This was the first time he had worn it, and he hated its luxuriance, hated the expense of it, and the discomfort of a costume that was so removed from the truth of his interior life that he wished to make apologies for it to whoever might listen. He shuddered at the maitre d’s touch and overcame an impulsive dislike for the man’s affected waxed white moustache, the professional eyes, the overfamiliarity of certain kinds of servants who are on a first-name basis with the famous.
Then, as the man fussed with a pin, Elijah looked at him and felt compassion. Few human beings escaped the dictates of their position, he realized; rare indeed was the soul who remained unaffected by his own public image.
“Ah, I see that monsieur is a trifle nervous. Monsieur should not be. The President is a great man, to be sure, but he is a kind man, and a man of the people. Great and small are welcome at his table”, he added with a flourish. “Ah, bon, bon, bon”, he concluded, dusting a skiff of dandruff from Elijah’s shoulders.
“Thank you, Philippe.”
Elijah entered the large dining room and saw before him a gathering of two dozen people. The President rose from the head of the table and came up to him with his arms extended. He shook Elijah’s hand warmly and once again the priest felt a wave of admiration for this man’s sense of presence.
“It is a pleasure to have you join us this evening, Father Schäfer. Are you as unprepared as I am for the talks we must give? Ah, yes, I see that you are! Then I am reassured! We are two actors with butterflies in the stomach, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Come, let me introduce you to some of our fellow sufferers. Tonight the eyes of the world will be upon us, but for the next hour we will calm our nerves and be friends together, without pretense. I believe you may know some of them.”
Elijah was introduced to a heavy-set woman who was the Polish minister of culture. Next came a young Chilean poet, thin and shy; then an American academic who was described as a writer on the Jungianization of culture; followed by the coordinator of the conference, an elegant, middle-aged man in a tuxedo, whom Elijah recognized as the premier of a former Soviet republic, a man hailed as one of the chief architects of the new democracy of the East. His was the first face that failed to convey an emanation of relaxed conviviality. After that came several names he did not recognize, professors, artists, writers, the curator of a British museum—every one of them exuding a mood of quiet elation.
Then a name that he recognized: “A confrere of yours,” said the President, without the slightest change of inflection, “Dr. Felix von Tilman.”
Von Tilman, the theologian, in the flesh, was excruciatingly charming, but Elijah felt certain that his was the practiced charm of a very political animal.
“Archeology, aren’t you?” said von Tilman. “Archeology and spirituality? Fascinating. I look forward to your presentation, very much—very much.”
“As you know, Felix is a co-religionist of yours. He will be speaking on the spirituality of pan-mythology”, said the President.
Elijah cleared his throat. “Pan-mythology?”
“Yes, my dear fellow,” explained von Tilman, “the universality of all religious belief. It is becoming quite a broad field, and of course it is central to any successful transition into the new era. I expect that the substance of our talks will overlap to some extent.”
Elijah was still searching for a reply when the President guided him along to the next guest. His heart skipped a beat. “You have met Anna before, I think.”
“Professor Schäfer, how very nice to see you again”, she said, without rising. She extended her hand, and he shook it.
“It is nice to see you again, Dr. Benedetti”, he replied. His voice was higher than he intended, but he hoped it expressed an amicable detachment.
“Why don’t you sit here”, said the President. “Anna, will you permit me to place him beside you, strategically, out of harm’s way? He is not a social creature.”
He smiled at Elijah and squeezed his arm.
Anna Benedetti replied in the affirmative, using the President’s first name, just as she had done at the party in Rome. “I will make sure he is comfortable.”
“Thank you, my dear. You see, he is a monk, a man without guile. This sort of gathering is totally alien to his temperament, and I want you to tame him.”
“That would be a grave error”, she bantered with a slight smile. “He would not survive any alteration of his essential form.”
The President’s laughter was in no way condescending, merely a jest between equals.
“Please relax, Father. You are among friends here”, he said.
He turned away suddenly, distracted by an oriental man who had just entered the room, looking, if anything, even more uncomfortable than Elijah. He wore an ill-fitting black cotton jumpsuit with enormous lapels. Around his neck draped a purple silk scarf.
“Excuse me, please”, said the President. “There is the representative of the Dalai Lama.” He walked away to greet the newcomer.
Elijah sat down beside Anna Benedetti.
“Once again we are thrown together, like two gawky adolescents at their first dance”, she said.
“If they do not know what to do with me, they should not have invited me.”
“There, there”, she soothed. “He invited you because he is drawn to you.”
“Or because he thinks I will be useful to him.”
She sipped fro
m a wine glass.
“I am sorry. That must have sounded cynical.”
“Only a little”, she said pensively. “You should have more faith in human nature.”
“Please forgive my rash words. The President is a most admirable man.”
“An idealist”, she prompted.
“Yes, even a visionary.”
“A visionary”, she echoed tonelessly.
The candor of her glance disarmed him, just as it had done at their first meeting. He could not have said why she invited his trust. She said some of the things one might expect from a person in her position, apparently a proper devotee. And yet, he sensed that she would always be separate from the general flood of the President’s admirers. She was her own person and would remain so in whatever company she found herself.
“I spoke without thinking. Forgive me, I am very tired tonight, Signora.”
“Please call me Anna. I hardly know you, and yet I feel I have known you a long time.”
“That is because of the generosity of your temperament.”
“I don’t think so. I am not generous by nature. I am generally suspicious, if the truth be known.”
“You should have more faith in human nature”, he replied with a smile.
She gave him a wry look and said nothing.
“And yet, since our last meeting, I have learned that you are a judge. It is in the nature of juridical people to be suspicious, is it not?”
“An occupational hazard. Tell me, don’t you also have a cautious streak?”
“That is because when I was young I too was a lawyer.”
“Oh, yes, I heard that.”
“You did? Who would have told you that?”
“I can’t recall. Tell me why you are so tired.”
“I have been through something of an ordeal during the past few days.”
“Here in Warsaw?”
“Yes, I have been involved with a man who, through a strange chain of events, was connected to my life without my knowing it.”
He recounted the story of Count Smokrev. She listened attentively. She leaned forward when he told her that the man had been responsible for the death of his friend, a friend who had saved him. At the end, when he described the count’s conversion she appeared moved but made no comment.
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