by M. J. Rose
“How? Let’s say I believe the unbelievable and every one of the women I’m drawing is someone I knew in a past life and mistreated. Even if we find out who they were, what good will that do me now? From what I’ve been reading about reincarnation and past-life therapy, don’t I have to know these women in this life to work out my karmic responsibilities with them?”
“Basic theory suggests that we come back in each life into a circle of souls we’ve been with before. We don’t have to go searching for them. They’re the primary reason we were born into these fragile envelopes in this time and place.”
“Envelopes?”
“I think of our physical bodies as envelopes. Poor, fragile holders for our real beings—our souls. When we pass on, it’s our envelope that’s ripped up and thrown away, not our souls. Those move on, find a new envelope, slip inside and start again.”
“You’re sounding a lot like a preacher.”
“Too spiritual? Okay, let me put in it in more scientific terms. We’re made of energy. Energy can’t be destroyed, only transformed. So what happens to our energy, our potential, when we die? Isn’t it possible that it moves from body to body? Deepak Chopra calls it a creative, quantum nonalgorithmic jump and says life doesn’t end, can’t end, because it never began.”
“You’re asking me to adopt a new belief system.”
“Chopra uses a wonderful analogy. The you in your present life, your last life and your next life are all the same—and that you is your soul. He says to think of it as water. A drop of rain and a pond are both water, and water doesn’t lose its wateriness no matter its form. If it’s an ice cube, a drop of dew or the vapor in a cloud, it’s still water, beyond beginnings and endings. It’s transformations.”
“This is all theory. Dreams I don’t understand and can’t remember wake me up every night and propel me to draw this crap.” He kicked the pad Bellmer had returned to him and that he’d put on the floor. It slid across the room. “You said you could help me.”
“I can.”
“How? With more hypnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Does a soul have to be reborn in an infant?”
Iris looked confused by the non sequitur but answered without hesitation. “No, souls can enter a host body that’s already been born and settle there. Usually it’s a body in a state of unconsciousness, but there have been cases of drug addicts, alcoholics and attempted suicides who’ve given over their bodies to another soul, and the new entity has gone on to have a productive life.”
“Unconscious as in a coma?”
“Yes.”
“Why not be reborn in an infant?”
“Sometimes it’s because the soul belonged to someone who died before their time, was in the midst of accomplishing something important and is impatient to come back. Is something about this bothering you, James?”
“Not at all. I read something and was curious.” He settled back in his seat and in defeat said, “We might as well do this.”
There was a frustrated, plaintive quality to his voice that reached Dr. Bellmer. She reacted to this patient more personally than most, almost as if she’d known him in another lifetime and had been one of these women he was drawing. She pointed to the spot between his eyebrows with her fingertip and suggested that he focus on his third eye while she talked to him in a voice that she hoped would be soothing.
Once he appeared to be deeply under, she asked him to think back to a time when he knew the woman he’d drawn that morning. When his forehead creased into a frown, she asked him if he’d found her.
“Yes.”
“You see her?”
“She’s angry.”
“Where are you?”
“In the crypt.”
“Where is the crypt?”
“In Shush.”
She didn’t recognize the name. “Where’s Shush?”
“Persia.”
Persia? Wasn’t he in Greece?
“What year is it?”
“1885.”
Bellmer felt a jolt. This was a different lifetime. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Serge Fouquelle.”
“And what are you doing in Shush?”
“I’ve been here for two years on an archaeological excavation being financed by my country.”
“What country is that?”
“France.” He sounded surprised she didn’t know.
“Have you made any discoveries?”
“Many…but this one is the most important because it’s the first site that I found on my own.”
“You must be proud.”
He wasn’t; he was angry. “This stupid old woman and her husband are trying to stop me from performing my duties and taking what’s mine.”
“What have you found?”
“A cache of very rare old pieces—jewelry, pottery, serving pieces made out of silver and gold and the pièce de résistance is a rare sculpture. It must be at least fifteen hundred years old and is quite extraordinary. Wooden sculpture usually rots over time, but this piece is intact. Perhaps being buried down here in this cave, it had more of a chance.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the crypt. I broke through several weeks ago and have been making preparations to remove these antiques since.” He frowned again.
“What’s wrong?”
“The couple who live in the house above this place claim all of these pieces belong to them.”
“Do they?”
“Of course not. I am not a robber, madame. The minister of culture said that they have rights to the house but not the land itself, and certainly not what is buried beneath it. His position, which I think is well taken, is that these Jews did not bring these treasures here, did not know they were here when they built their house on top of them and so cannot claim ownership, no matter how long they have lived here.”
Serge laughed derisively.
“What is it?” Iris asked.
Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN
Shush, Persia, 1885
“You’re on my property.” The old man yelled at Fouquelle and waved his fist in his face. “Leave or you will be arrested for looting. My sons are on their way with help. They’re bringing the whole ghetto with them. If you don’t go, you’ll get hurt.”
“These give me the right to excavate here,” Fouquelle said, offering the second set of official documents that the minister of culture had given him. Hosh had ripped up the first set; he pushed these away, as well.
“This is my property, and I order you to leave. All of you.” He pointed to the nether end of the crypt, where Fouquelle’s band of Persian workers stood at alert in the flickering lantern light, all of them armed with knives, all focused on the frantic Jew.
“It’s you who is the thief,” Fouquelle argued, “you who are hiding ancient treasures here that belong to Persia, to history and to mankind.”
“Is that what you are going to do with them? Give them to mankind? Or are you going to sell them to collectors in Europe and America? Don’t think I’m a fool because I’m old. We all know what happens to the antiquities that are dug up in our land.”
Hosh shook his fist in Fouquelle’s face. “Whose law? What law takes away a man’s property?”
The Frenchman had had enough. He was going to profit greatly from the find and had no time for this feeble old man’s argument. Fouquelle’s countrymen had been here for years digging up the ancient cities and benefiting from the partage system, and now it was his turn. He’d been promised half of the half France was getting for all his hard work, and he had a wealthy American collector waiting by the docks for these broken shards of pottery and slivers of history.
“Step away, sir,” he said. “I would prefer not to hurt you.”
Hosh was as immobile as the giant sculpture.
Fouquelle turned to his men. “Move these pieces out of here. Now. You four take the sculpture and try to keep from breaking it. You two, the pottery. The rest of you t
ake the smaller items. And I know exactly what’s down here. So if there’s anything missing I’ll know one of you has it.” He turned back to Hosh. “Get out of my way,” he shouted, aware he was running out of time. He didn’t doubt that the man’s sons were collecting a populist army from the ghetto to come and fight the removal of these works of art. Fouquelle wanted to be gone before they returned.
Hosh didn’t move. Not a single muscle in his hand or his neck twitched. Not even his eyes blinked.
“For the last time, get out of my way.”
Hosh pulled his knife from its sheath. The blade shone in the archaeologist’s lamplight.
“Is your life so worthless to you that you would throw it away on these objects?” the archaeologist asked in a gentler tone.
When Hosh didn’t answer, Fouquelle nodded at two of his men, who stepped forward. In their eyes was the assuredness of the very young and very strong.
“Get out of our way,” the younger of the two Persians said, each of them taking Hosh by an arm, lifting him and tossing him to the floor.
Fouquelle watched the foolish man get back on his feet. With a burst of anger he lashed out, surprising the Persian on his right and nicking him on the arm with his blade. The wounded man looked down, noticed the trickle of blood and almost casually shoved his knife into Hosh’s ribs.
The man staggered and fell. He put his hand up to this chest as if his frail fingers could stop the flow of blood.
Out of the darkness, a bent and wizened woman came rushing at them, shrieking. She threw herself at Fouquelle, beating his chest with her small fists, cursing at him and crying at the same time.
He brushed her off brusquely and gave orders to his men to begin the removal, but the woman righted herself and threw herself at him again, spitting at him and scratching him with sharp, clawlike nails. First he tried to slap her away, and when that didn’t work he kicked her. Finally she collapsed, shrieking atop her husband’s body.
“Be quiet!” he yelled.
But her wailing only increased. The sound of sustained agony filled the chamber.
Fouquelle’s anger was building. Everything depended on his ability to get these treasures out of here before the neighbors arrived and the woman’s screams were paralyzing his men.
With a single sharp tug, the archaeologist yanked the knife from Hosh’s chest. Hesitating only a moment, the blood still dripping from its blade, he shoved it deep into the woman’s back.
“Hurry now. Hurry,” Fouquelle bade his men. In silence they set about removing the giant sculpture, the jewelry and the artifacts. The only things they left behind were the two bodies that lay still in the dust and debris of centuries.
Chapter
THIRTY-EIGHT
Balthazar was a large and noisy bistro that could just as easily have been on the boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris as on Spring Street in SoHo. Ali Samimi watched Deborah Mitchell take in the smoke-stained room, bustling waiters and crowded bar, waiting to see if she was pleased or not with his choice.
“Ali, this place is delightful. I can’t believe I didn’t know about it. I definitely don’t come downtown enough.”
Samimi smiled and gave his name to the maître d’, who showed them a booth in the corner. They slid in and sat on the worn brown leather facing each other across the white tablecloth.
“There were a lot of people waiting. You must come here often,” she said, making him happy that he’d used up his lunch hour to come down here and slip the maître d’ forty dollars.
“Mostly for breakfast meetings. Lately it seems as if I have been too busy to go out to dinner as much as I would like to.” He didn’t want her to think he was a player. “Would you like to have a drink? Or perhaps some wine?”
“Wine would be great.”
Samimi perused the list, then motioned to the waiter and, when he approached, ordered the Morgon Lapierre 2006. The waiter recited the specials, then left to get the wine, and while Deborah read the menu, Samimi studied her over the rim of his glass. She caught him looking, and a faint blush rose on her cheeks. He smiled in a way that he hoped suggested he found her charming without it being a come-on.
“How is the renovation of the Islamic wing progressing?” he asked.
She shook her head sadly and he almost regretted the question. The last thing he wanted to do was cast a pall on the evening, but he was supposed to find out what was happening inside the museum from the curator’s side, not just what they knew from the workmen.
“Did you read about what happened?”
How to answer? He wasn’t sure. If he said he had, would he appear too interested in the doings at the Met? “No. I must have missed it. I hope nothing bad?”
“The head of the construction crew was killed.”
“What a terrible thing. May I ask how?”
“He fell onto the subway tracks on his way home from work.”
“Could it have been a suicide?”
“The police have been investigating and don’t think so. I knew him. He was a wonderful man…”
“Was it possible he was pushed? I have heard of people with mental problems doing things like that to perfect strangers.”
She shuddered. “Anything’s possible.”
“I am so sorry for your sadness and loss. How long had he been working for the museum?”
“Technically, he doesn’t—didn’t—work for the Met but for Phillips Construction. They’ve done all the renovations at the museum for the past sixty years. He’s worked on eight renovations.”
“Did Keither have a family?” he asked just as the waiter returned with the wine and glasses and set to uncorking the bottle. Samimi was furious with himself. How could he slip up like that, using the man’s name before she’d said it? Had she noticed? Would she realize it later?
“Yes. Two sons. A wife. I’ve met them all. The workmen are bereft. Aside from the tragedy, it’s also a problem for the museum. No one wants this to slow down the work on the wing, but it’s inevitable that it will.”
He appreciated that she’d used the word bereft. Her intelligence was part of her appeal.
The waiter poured Samimi a taste of the wine. He took a sip and nodded. As the waiter filled both glasses, Deborah and Samimi were quiet for the moment and ambient noise filled the void. The silence between then was neither forced nor uncomfortable.
Once the waiter was gone Samimi picked up his glass and held it out, suggesting a toast. “To the new wing without any more tragedy,” he said, keeping the evening on work terms for now.
“Thank you.” She took a sip. “Good choice, it’s excellent.”
He nodded. “I’m glad that you like it.”
She put her hand out, resting her fingers on his arm. “Thank you for tonight. It’s so nice. I haven’t had much of a social life for a while with the renovation going on.” She blushed again.
Samimi was touched by the intimate gesture and the words. “My pleasure. And while I’m sympathetic to you working too hard, I must say that I still envy you your job.”
“What do you do at the mission? Don’t you enjoy it?”
“I do,” he said, answering only half her question. “But it’s not as esoteric and interesting as your job. To be able to spend your life in the Metropolitan among treasures, masterpieces. No matter how ugly the world gets, you have your refuge.”
She seemed to disappear for a moment, and he let her drift, gave her a moment to deal with her thoughts. He was being sensitive to her needs. It was an expression one of his first girlfriends in New York had used when he’d asked her what she wanted most from a man. She’d told him it was even more important than how a man performed as a lover. Samimi tried to pick up at least one lesson from each of the women he dated. He’d started out as an awkward rube when he’d first come to New York three years ago, but the last woman he’d bedded had called him debonair. He’d had to look up the word but was inordinately pleased by what it meant. Yes, he wanted to be debonair.
“The museum is a refuge, but sometimes that has its downside. You get tricked into believing that there are people devoted to art who aren’t all about commerce and power.”
“But there are, aren’t there?”
She shrugged. “A small handful. Not enough.”
“God said one was enough.”
“Quoting the Bible?”
“Are you surprised?”
“A little, but I shouldn’t be. Please forgive me…you’re very well educated and I should have expected you’d have read the Bible.”
“Is it impolite for me to ask you where your ancestors were from?”
She laughed. “No, not impolite, but let’s talk about the present, not the past. Tell me more about this mysterious man who wants the Met to put his cup on display.”
Samimi’s father had once told him that nothing was more appealing than a woman who kept secrets. He’d never understood what he meant, but now, sitting across from Deborah, he had his first “aha” moment. This woman probably had a lifetime of disappointments, interests, frustrations and hopes that Samimi couldn’t even guess at, and the idea of them fascinated him as much as her full hips, heavy breasts, her dark hair and shyness.
“Have you decided what to order?” the waiter asked, appearing at the table, pad and pen in hand.
While Samimi listened to Deborah order the French onion soup and then the roasted chicken, he wondered if it was a good thing to allow himself to feel anything for her: if the plan failed and they were forced to set off the explosives, he’d be responsible for her death.
Chapter
THIRTY-NINE
“We’ve found invitations from Trevor and Davenport Talmage to Frederick Law Olmsted, Bronson Alcott, Walt Whitman and other transcendentalists to come and dine in this very room. There is one box with nothing but handwritten menus prepared by the Creole chef who worked for the family for over twenty-five years and thank-you notes for the meals that include references to spirited discussions on ancient reincarnation beliefs. Elgin even found the bill for our Tiffany wisteria chandelier.” Malachai Samuels glanced up at the lavender and green stained-glass lamp. “The entire history of our first hundred years is chronicled in the correspondence.”