Faustus Resurrectus

  ***

  For now we see through a glass, darkly.

  The morning after he’d done the impossible, Valdes stared at himself in the mirror of his private bathroom. He looked into his reflected eyes, and a smile grew across his face.

  We like the view just fine.

  He dressed quickly, took the Vade Mecum Flagellum Dei book and left his room.

  When they’d returned from the resurrectus maledicat, Coeus brought the sorcerer’s unconscious form down to where they’d held the CYA executives. Keeping Faustus sequestered seemed the smartest bet. Whatever he’d been in contact with since he’d disappeared that stormy night in Germany, it couldn’t have been humanity. Who knew how he would react to people now?

  “A man of uncontrolled appetites” is how Marlowe described him, Valdes thought. Will he be a slob, interested only in food, sex and material things? Did Hell—whatever that is—burn his appetites away?

  Or did the writers get it wrong? Was the real Faustus a scatterbrained scholar in over his head? Was he a professor who snapped under pressure? And how did the resurrectus maledicat affect him? Is he normal, conscious and capable? Or is he an unstable aggregate of twelve personalities nominally controlled by the spirit of a long-dead magician?

  Valdes chuckled.

  Does it matter? He’s real.

  At the door, he knocked twice and entered.

  “Herr Doktor?”

  He seemed to have walked into the guest room of a medieval castle, complete with working fireplace. A pointed arch framed the doorway and the room’s plasterboard walls had been replaced by solid gray stone, displaying rich red velvet tapestries and dozens of shelves groaning with books. A small table held a chest the size of a portable TV. Next to it stood a life-sized marble statue of a man in a toga, who looked to one side in appreciation of the four-foot wrought-iron crucifix hanging in an alcove on his flank. Three standing candelabras formed a triangle around the room, casting overlapping illumination, while a smaller fourth sat on the long table occupying the room’s center. The table served as a desk to hold an inkwell and quill, parchment paper, a rough-edged, translucent, sky-blue crystal paperweight as big as a softball, more books of all sizes and textures, and a wreath of laurels crowning a human skull.

  A log dropped in the fireplace, burping a cloud of sparks that died on the stone floor. Although it was June the fire felt appropriate; something chilled the air more effectively than an air conditioner.

  A man emerged from shadows. “Wer ist es? Was wünschen Sie?”

  One look told Valdes there was nothing unstable about the man. Contrary to the image suggested by Marlowe’s description he wasn’t fat—just the opposite. Standing about five-ten, Faustus had a slim, sinewy build given the illusion of bulk by the scholarly robes he wore. His ruler-straight posture suggested self-assurance bordering on arrogance, and as he approached Valdes his movements and demeanor described control, not indulgence. Only in the sorcerer’s face did Valdes get a sense of what the writers sought to convey—beneath his smooth scalp, Faustus’s chiseled Teutonic features glowed with intelligence. Disciplined, cobalt-blue eyes saw and recorded everything around him. He had presence to burn and Valdes felt the intensity of his focus. For an instant he felt privileged to be its subject until his own suspicious nature warned him not to fall victim to star-struck manipulation.

  Faustus stared, waiting for an answer. Questions filled Valdes’ mind. He maintained a friendly, low-key demeanor. “My name is Cornelius Valdes. I brought you here.”

  Faustus’s eyes narrowed. “Valdes? Ist diese irgendeine Art vom Trick, Mephistopheles? Denken Sie mich sind noch so dumm?”

  “My apologies, Herr Doktor. I don’t speak German.”

  “Nein? Sie wirklich sprechen nicht Deutsches?”

  “But…you seem to understand English?”

  “Conjuring requireth an enrichment of tongues,” the sorcerer’s features hardened, not giving an inch, “which thou, evidently, hath not. And without tongue to conjure, how dost thou command the presence of Faustus?” Without waiting for an answer, he peered about the room and said, “Loathe am I to understand how it is I am free of Hell and its torments,” he shot Valdes with another look, “unless I am not free? A new twist to an old game, eh? Feh! A poor jest. Faustus doth recognize the hand of Mephistopheles.” He circled the table before knocking his knuckles on it impatiently. “Show thyself, devil!” He glanced around the dark corners of the ceiling. “Pray end this round of amusement and begin anew the persecution of a sinner!”

  “This isn’t Hell. At least, not as you understand it.”

  Faustus peered at him suspiciously.

  “My name is Cornelius Valdes, and yes,” he acknowledged, “‘Cornelius’ and ‘Valdes’ were the names of the sorcerers who taught you. An amusing irony, but nothing more.”

  “The eternal torment of Faustus serves as thy amusement? Mephistopheles hath indeed wrought these circumstances! What manner of Infernal underling art thou? Begone; Faustus doth dismiss thee and thy ‘irony’!”

  “I understand your confusion, Herr Doktor.” Valdes nodded. “You’ve been taken from what you knew and thrust into a strange new world. Believe me, I understand that. But I assure you, this is not Hell. This is the world you left—my best guess—almost five hundred years ago. At least, it is geologically. Politically, intellectually, physically, spiritually…” He smiled gently, softening the blow. “Let’s just say there have been a few changes.”

  “What is the year?” Valdes told him. Faustus’s head cocked, unsure whether to believe. “A new millennium?” He went to the portable TV-sized chest and took out a stack of newspapers. Valdes recognized them as the ones he’d left for Paolo and the others. “No props, then, art these? The paper quality? The printing, from a Gutenberg press?” He rubbed his fingers together. “Ink that stains the fingers?”

  “The modern world,” Valdes agreed.

  Faustus regarded the papers with some trepidation. “And…the stories within? The misery, the pain, the joy? Pictograph carvings, but printed as simply and accurately as life itself, all contained within pages also proclaiming items for sale? E-lec-tronic devices? What are those? Shops upon shops of such things Faustus hath not encountered.”

  “A little overwhelming, I know. The world you left is gone, evolved by human nature, intellectual enlightenment and,” he nodded, “shops filled with electronic devices.”

  The sorcerer examined him, not totally convinced. “Mephistopheles possesseth a keen wit, to be certain. Why ought Faustus accept these things on their face?”

  “You don’t have to—I’ll show you.” Valdes motioned towards the door. Faustus hesitated. “There’s no shame in caution, Herr Doktor.”

  “Faustus hath faced the terrors of Hell. Naught beyond these walls holds fear.”

  “Perhaps. However, with caution and a guide, all sorts of paths are opened. I offer my services as your guide.”

  Faustus recoiled. “Ah, Mephistopheles! Thou art revealed!”

  “Not at all, although I would barter my services to you.” Valdes gestured around them. “As strange and new as my world is to you, this world, your world, is strange and new to me. I’ve lived my whole life with blinders on, and for a time I was happy, unable to see the walls around me. Things changed. And like you, reaching the limits of my world has driven me to do things neither condoned nor accepted by those in power.” He showed a self-deprecating smile. “Unfortunately, I have no Cornelius, no Valdes to show me the way beyond where we now stand. My resources in this aspect are limited. However, my desire isn’t.”

  “Why hast thou contorted thy life to engage Faustus, Valdes?” Faustus thrust himself away from the table, into the shadowy alcove where the crucifix resided. He stared into the face of Christ’s cast-iron agony. “What seeketh thou?”

  “An even exchange, Herr Doktor. In my world, new perspectives have emerged and intellectual frontiers have expanded. Opportunities you never imagined are present in the
most mundane aspect of modern life.” Valdes smiled. “Instruct me in your world, and I’ll instruct you in mine.”

  “As Faustus sought the counsel of Cornelius and Valdes, now Cornelius Valdes seeketh the counsel of Faustus? Thou art my devil this incarnation, I see.”

  “Your guide, Herr Doktor. Your guide. As you’ll be mine. And to show my good faith, I’ll get you some history books, to help you place all of this in some kind of context. Would that be agreeable?”

  Faustus looked him over, wintry eyes without mercy. Finally he gave a single shake of his head. “Nein. Faustus hath no interest in aiding the damnation of another.”

  “That’s more my concern, I think. Your concern is that I don’t care what interests you. I may not be the expert you are, but I’ve learned enough to pursue my goals.”

  He tossed the Vade Mecum Flagellum Dei on the table. Annoyance in Faustus’ expression melted into fear. Back in control, Valdes smiled.

  “Let me explain in a bit more detail why I’ve summoned you…”

  ***

  Donovan spent the day trying to decipher the meaning of Wissex’s symbols before heading in to Polaris at five o’clock. Mondays were slow at the restaurant, allowing him to repeatedly unfold the sketches and look at them.

  Around nine o’clock things were dragging. Guzman approached him. “Mind if I go?”

  Donovan surveyed the thirty-foot long, L-shaped bar. The stools were all empty. “I think I can handle the crowd.”

  Guzman chuckled and began to count his money out. Donovan wandered to the service end and inspected the sparsely populated dining room.

  “Give me a Johnny Black, rocks.”

  Behind him, at the juncture of the “L,” Fullam now sat expectantly. A file lay on the bar next to him. “Nice silent entrance,” Donovan said, coming down to greet him. “Batman has nothing on you.”

  “Have a nice ride home last night?”

  Donovan reached for the square bottle of scotch. “It was a little unexpected to get a ride home from the NYPD Chief of Detectives, yeah.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What happened with Wissex, more or less.”

  “Wissex is the guy who killed the kid?”

  “Supposedly. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” Fullam drank. “You got a menu?”

  The door opened, and a warm night breeze brought with it a hint of Joann’s perfume. Donovan glanced up and saw her enter the restaurant with Father Carroll.

  “Hey, babe. Father. This is an unusual surprise.” He leaned over to kiss her and shake the priest’s hand, then glanced at Fullam. “And I thought Chief Yarborough said we were finished helping you?”

  “A man is allowed to have dinner with colleagues,” the sergeant said. “Catch up on the day-to-day events in everyone’s life.”

  Joann took the seat on the short side of the “L,” next to the wall, while Father Carroll sat on the opposite side of the sergeant. Without asking, Donovan took a mixing glass and uncorked the bottle of Chopin vodka. “What can I get you, Father?”

  “A beer to begin, I think. Something dark.”

  Donovan poured the martini for Joann, a pint of Guinness for the priest, and handed menus to both of them. Joann set hers down. “Mesculin salad, porcini crusted mahi-mahi.” She sipped her martini, her smile pronouncing it perfect.

  “I’ll have a Caesar and the ribeye,” Fullam said. “Medium. Sides of asparagus and truffle mashed potatoes.”

  Donovan nodded, taking the order in his head. “Father?”

  “The rack of lamb, medium-rare. A Mesculin salad as well, and perhaps a glass of cabernet with the meal.”

  Donovan reached for a bottle and handed it over with a smile. “We just started carrying it by the glass.”

  “What is it?” Fullam asked.

  The priest looked at the label and chuckled. “A cabernet sauvignon from Napa Valley, called Faust.”

  Joann smiled. “Really?”

  “Why is that funny?” The sergeant looked at Donovan.

  “Donovan did his thesis on the Faust legend,” she said.

  “Well, Faustus,” Donovan clarified over his shoulder as he put their order into the computer. “He came first.”

  “The guy who sold his soul to the devil? There was more than one?”

  “There’re a lot more than one. Most people know either Marlowe’s The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus or Goethe’s Faust.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “In both of them he sells his soul, but at the end of Goethe he’s saved by God because he was so noble in his search for knowledge; in Marlowe, he’s a sinner too proud to ask forgiveness, so he’s dragged off to Hell during a violent storm. My paper discussed predestination and free will in Marlowe—was Faustus destined to go to Hell, or was it his choices—his free will—that led him to ruin? I came down on the side of ‘free will.’”

  From the back of the wine bottle, Fullam read:

  “‘If feelings fail you,

  vain will be your course and idle what you plan

  unless your art

  Springs from the soul, with elemental force’

  —Faust (Goethe).

  Romantic. The wine any good?”

  “It is, actually.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a glass, too.” Fullam set the bottle aside. “But as much as I enjoy waxing poetic, I’d rather discuss Mister X, aka Charming Man, aka,” he opened the file next to his elbow, “Cornelius Lawrence Valdes.”

  “Cornelius Valdes?” Father Carroll repeated. He and Donovan exchanged a look.

  “Do you know him?” Fullam asked.

  “Cornelius and Valdes were the two sorcerers who taught Faustus how to conjure.”

  “Uh-hunh.” Fullam stared at them. “I’m letting you two in on all this for some concrete leads on action, not obscure literary references.”

  Donovan started to speak but Father Carroll cut him off with a look. “Of course, Francis. Thinking aloud about these things occasionally sounds peculiar. Please continue.”

  The appetizers came. Fullam waited until Donovan set them down before going on. With the salads, the runner brought out a shrimp cocktail. Donovan looked at Corey, who shot him with a finger-gun. On the house, he mouthed.

  “We know who Valdes is because of the saliva DNA we found in Donovan’s wax, and confirmed it with Joann’s sketch from the aquarium.” He handed around a picture. “Here’s the mug shot.”

  “Mug shot?” Donovan asked.

  “Valdes was released from Danbury Federal Penitentiary this past March. Embezzlement and attempted extortion raps, eighteen years, out in fifteen and change.”

  “Embezzlement?” Donovan repeated. “Extortion?”

  “Not exactly the crimes of a satanic mastermind.”

  “Quite a run of beginner’s luck he’s had, then,” Father Carroll said.

  Donovan touched the file and looked at Fullam, who nodded. While the others began to eat, Donovan skimmed the papers. “Degrees in hospitality, business, sociology, and…classical literature? Comparative Religions? Philosophy?”

  “Earned the last three in the joint. In his trial transcript he swore he was being screwed over when he just wanted to help; maybe he wanted to figure out why bad things happen to ‘good’ people. Maybe he was just bored.” Fullam paused with a forkful of salad in front of his mouth. “Valdes is a go-getter, even when incarcerated. Orphaned at age six, he brought himself up on the street after running away from a couple of foster homes. Put himself through school with telemarketing and fundraising jobs that earned him the nickname ‘The Cold Call Conqueror.’ Supposedly so persuasive he could get money out of Jews and Muslims for a Christian charity.”

  “Charming Man,” Joann said.

  “Graduated Magna Cum Laude from Columbia, went to work for the American Arthritis Foundation, then the Cancer Society. Didn’t seem to like illness, so he moved sideways into f
undraising for the homeless.”

  “The Christian Yeoman Association,” Donovan read.

  Father Carroll glanced up. “Really?”

  “You’ve heard of it?” Fullam asked.

  “Their cause is primarily indigent and domestic violence shelters. The Church has done some work with them.” He took a bite of shrimp. “It makes sense he’d end up there. They’re his people. But what engendered his downfall? Weakness? Human nature?”

  “He was a scumbag.” Fullam shrugged. “Pardon my language. I got a certain picture of the man from interviewing co-workers, subordinates and superiors who knew him before he went Inside. Valdes had a knack for finding people’s weak spots and hitting them on an emotional level to get them to do what he wanted.”

  “Pretty handy for fundraising,” Donovan said.

  “When you do it to advance your personal agenda at other people’s expense, it makes you a scumbag.” Fullam was firm on this point. “Apparently Valdes decided he could do more to help ‘his people’ if the charity he worked for got bigger and more powerful. According to his trial transcript, he stole money from that charity to set up a kind of sting operation. He planned to blackmail executives from other charities so they would be absorbed into one giant institution that he, Valdes, would run. He got caught—couldn’t charm his way out of it—and sent away when his superiors found out.”

  “Their home office is in Brooklyn,” Joann said. “One guess which shelter, when it first opened, was their greatest success. Twenty years ago Dinkins was considered a model of efficiency and dignified aid for the temporarily displaced. One more guess who was the driving force behind its creation.”

  Donovan thought she rarely looked as beautiful as when she was totally focused on the moment, even if it was work. “Valdes.”

  “After his success with the Dinkins Shelter, Valdes tried to strong arm his way into control of CYA. He stole money, got caught and sent away. When he got out, he went to see his old bosses about restitution or maybe a job and was rebuffed. He decided to do whatever it is he’s doing, and went to a place where he figured he could recruit help. In order to cover his tracks, he started a riot that killed people and destroyed the shelter.”