We wound through the tunnel so long that my back ached; I thought I’d never be able to stand straight again. Finally the monk stopped before another iron door. I heard his keys jangling in the semi-darkness, then the door was pushed open. Warm, salty sea air rushed into the cool tunnel. I passed through the doorway behind Serena and entered a vaulted room cut into stone. The only furnishings were a bed, a dresser, and a porcelain wash basin with a pitcher of water next to it. The monk sighed, with his enigmatic half-cry, half-laugh, “The … maes … tro!” He turned back into the tunnel and locked the iron door behind him, leaving us alone. I set the heavy basket down on the dresser.
“No,” Serena said. “Out here.”
I picked up the basket and followed her through an arched doorway. Suddenly the world opened—we were on a stone terrace cut into a cliff a thousand feet above the sea. Looking straight out the view was limitless, the sky blurring into ocean on the far horizon. I was so taken by the spectacle of this aerie that I was surprised to hear Serena’s voice.
“I have brought the Professor.”
I turned. At the end of the terrace a white-haired man in a wheelchair sat with his back to me. I didn’t quite know how to make my greeting.
“Sir,” I began. “I’m so grateful to—”
The man’s large hands grabbed the chair’s wheels and spun around. It was Zermano. He exuded a forcefulness surprising in a man his age. His penetrating eyes were set off by a white beard. His deep voice commanded:
“Tell me quickly, where did you get that piece of writing you sent?”
“In an old book of Ramón Llull’s.”
“But why that particular piece? Who do you think you are, calling me the fool of love!”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. I meant it in the philosophical sense in which Llull—”
“Damn you!” Zermano gripped the wheels and propelled the chair straight into me, knocking me against a stone wall that prevented me from falling over. My legs were pinned by the weight of Zermano in his chair. I struggled to right myself, but he grabbed a wooden staff balanced on his knees and whipped it into the air, bringing its tip under my chin and pressing it into my throat. I could barely breathe. He pressed harder, pushing my head to the side so I could see the jagged rocks pounded by the sea thousands of feet below.
“Tell me why you are here or I’ll push you over!”
I tried to get my words out. “In … the …”
“What!”
“… basket.”
“I don’t give a damn about your basket! Serena, pick that basket up! I want you to throw it over the side of the cliff if we don’t get the right answer. Professor, why are you here?”
“ ‘I embrace you across … the sea of memory. Your Columbus of the night … sails on.’ ”
“What the hell!” The staff dug harder into my throat. “Where would you have heard that?”
“I didn’t … I read it.”
“Where would a little American bookworm read something like that?”
“In a letter written by … you.”
“Jesus!”
“To Louise.”
“No!”
The pressure on my throat released. I pushed up from the wall.
Zermano’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, staring out to sea, seeming to search for something on the far horizon. He raised his staff and swung it with a bang against the stone floor. The force of the blow recoiled through his body. His shoulders hunched forward and his face fell as tears streamed from his eyes.
Serena knelt next to him, taking his hands in hers, rubbing them tenderly, trying to bring him back.
“Papa, forgive me. I never would have brought him here if I had known. I’ll send him away.”
Zermano said nothing. He sobbed as the waves crashed below. His body began to shake violently as he was pulled away into a sea of memory.
I was afraid to move. Serena was right, this was too much for his mental state, he had suffered enough trauma in a lifetime. I had not intended to spring the idea of Louise on him so suddenly; I had hoped to ease into it. Now I might be the one to have killed him. I turned to leave. My movement alarmed him. His voice was a whisper:
“Do you know how high we are?”
I looked at Serena, not certain I should speak, afraid to say something wrong. She nodded that I should answer.
“No sir, I don’t.”
“So high there are no flies. Did you know that? No flies. But eagles don’t hunt flies.”
How astonishing he should say this. It made me think of the line in Louise’s letter, and I spoke it:
“Eagles don’t hunt flies in a normal world, but this is not a normal world.”
He slowly turned his head, his eyes focusing on me as he spoke.
“The high mountains of Mallorca were once filled with monasteries. When I was a boy I went to one of the last of them. Boys of my age then were expected to go and live with the monkeys—that’s what we called the crazy old monks who never said a word, the monkeys. I was twelve years old when I was sent to live with the monkeys and I learned how to resist the urge to relieve a sensation new to me, a carnal itch growing between my legs. There were no books to read, only the Bible. There was no one to talk to except the priest in the dark confessional. He asked only one question: ‘Have you had any impure thoughts, my son?’ At night I was forced to sleep with a rosary wrapped around my left hand and a skull cradled in my right hand. A skull, a man’s skull! This was their subtle way of warning me that if I scratched my carnal itch I would be condemned to the hell of the temporal world, never to walk through those pearly gates above, where nobody has the itch and all thoughts are pure. What about you, Professor? Are your thoughts pure? Can I trust you?”
I glanced at Serena for a sign. Should I engage him? She nodded that it was all right. I thought I knew where he was going with this talk, what his test was. He was the eagle, he wasn’t going to hunt flies. I had to respond to him in kind.
“I desire to be a fool. I will have no art or device in my words.”
He nodded in agreement. “You know the sentiments of Ramón Llull quite well. I think you know that I desired the same as Llull: no art or device in my painting, just the thing itself, that famous thing not named.”
I knew that for him, that famous thing not named was Louise, but I had to proceed with caution. I spoke carefully.
“Llull said that the way to accomplish this desire for no art or device in the act of communication was with the greatness of love.”
Zermano shook his head in agreement. “Yes, but it’s an unfashionable idea today. And look what happened to poor Llull! When he tried to get all the religions into one universal boat the Jews ignored him, the Catholics betrayed him, and the Moslems stoned him. Llull dreamed of man himself being holy. That was an impure thought for his time. Got the son of bitch killed.”
“It’s still a deadly notion.”
“Let me tell you my religion, Professor. I believe a man and a woman can be holy together. Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The Moors who ruled here centuries ago were right in their philosophy: First you dream, then you die. In other words, wake up! Mallorca was their dreamland, but they knew life itself was the paradise—it’s how we act in paradise that determines our hell or heaven. I stayed alive. I had faith in the holiness. I refused to believe Louise had abandoned our love.”
Zermano’s head slumped and his chin came to rest on his chest as his eyes closed with weariness. Serena was alarmed; she motioned me not to talk, it was enough. But I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t leave him like this. He had to know.
“Sir, I’m here because Louise believed too. That’s why I brought the basket.”
Zermano raised his head slowly, trying to focus. “Basket? I don’t remember a basket.”
“It’s right here. I’ll get it.” I brought the basket to him.
He looked at the basket blankly. “I’ve never seen this before.
”
“No. It belonged to Louise.”
“They told me when she died, she left behind the art and jewelry I gave her. They never said anything about a basket.”
“It wasn’t considered important. They weren’t trying to hide anything from you.”
“I demanded that they tell me everything that was in that little cottage of hers.”
“The basket was overlooked. There were several more. But she wanted them to be found, she wanted you to know.”
“Know?”
“That she didn’t stop believing.”
“Then why?” Zermano’s voice choked. “Why didn’t she ever answer? I kept writing.”
“I know.”
I untied the cloth cover I had placed over the well of the basket to protect the letters. I pulled out the first bundle of envelopes and placed them in his lap. He stared at them, uncomprehending.
“These are the letters you wrote to Louise.”
He seemed to stop breathing. I looked to Serena for help.
She knelt next to him. “Papa, are you all right?”
“I can’t … can’t see.”
“Of course, your cataracts.” She reached into his coat pocket and pulled out reading glasses with thick lenses. She put the glasses on him.
He peered closely at the top letter of the bundle, recognizing the distinctive handwriting. “This is my writing! This is addressed to Louise in Ville Rouge. How did you get these?”
“Louise left them in her cellar, hidden in the false bottom of her knitting baskets.”
“My God!”
“They belong to you. I’ve come to return them.”
“Did you make copies?”
“I did not. No one else knows of their existence.”
“So you’ve come to sell them?”
“They aren’t mine to sell. They are yours.”
“Maybe I was wrong about you, Professor Bookworm.”
“But there’s more. I discovered something more.”
“Aha!” Zermano’s eyes narrowed with suspicion behind the magnifying lenses of his glasses. “I knew it! You’ve come to make your reputation and your fortune! What are you holding back?”
“Nothing. I’ve brought Louise’s letters to you.”
“Impossible!” Zermano raised his staff and swung it angrily. “Louise is dead. How could she write to me?”
Serena’s words came quickly. “Leave us, Professor! It’s over. Leave us in peace.”
I was growing as angry as Zermano. Moving away from his swinging staff, I shouted, “Do you think that all anyone wants is a piece of you? Do you think you have the only truth?”
Serena stepped between us, her own anger matching mine. “Don’t you dare talk like that! What do you know? My father has been abused, cheated, and vilified!”
“Yes! And he’s been stoned by his critics, just like Ramón Llull!”
“Just leave!” she shouted furiously.
“I will leave! I don’t want anything from either of you! I came here because someone else told the truth!”
I grabbed the basket and turned it over. Louise’s letters rained down onto Zermano.
The letters—so anxiously awaited, so long hidden, now finally out in the open—stunned us all into silence.
Zermano looked incredulously at the letters that had fallen into his lap. His hand shaking, he carefully picked up an envelope and peered at the handwriting. It spelled out his name and his old address in Paris. He whispered softly to the letter as if it could hear him: “Dimidium animae meae … half my soul.” He gathered up more letters in his trembling hands. He was holding the weight of his lost world. His tears fell onto the letters. He looked like the most ancient man in the universe. He struggled for speech, his voice weak, his words crushed, almost inaudible. “I must know … what she has been saying … all this time.”
I spoke to Zermano as gently as I could. “You can read them in peace. Louise wrote them for you. I promised her in my heart I would deliver them.” I walked away.
“You can’t go—you love her too.”
Zermano’s words stopped me. I turned.
“Only a person who selflessly loves her, understands her spirit, would make the sacrifice you’ve made.”
“What sacrifice is that?”
“To bring her back to me before I die, expecting nothing in return.”
“She loved you. It was only you. Read the letters, you’ll see.”
He held out a handful of letters. “Please, my friend, you saved them. Will you do me the honor of reading them to me?”
“I’m not sure I can do that. They are so … personal.”
Serena took the letters from Zermano’s hands and brought them to me. “My father’s eyes are too weak to read for long. He would … I would be grateful if you read them.”
I accepted the letters from her. I went through their contents, arranging them in an order that would make some chronological sense. Then I looked at the first line of the first letter: “I have nothing to hide now except myself.” I found I could not speak the words. Not because I didn’t believe in them, but because they needed to be heard in Louise’s voice. They needed the voice of a woman. I handed the letters back to Serena. “These can only be read by you. They are a woman’s thoughts; they are not for a man to speak.”
Serena’s eyes widened in surprise. “But I’m his daughter!”
“It makes no difference. He should hear these as a woman’s words.”
“Daughter,” said Zermano softly, “the Professor is right. You should read them. Perhaps it will help us both to understand.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Terror was in her eyes. “I can’t read the letters of your lover.”
Zermano reached out and took her hand. “I do not know what is in these letters, nor what truths they will reveal. I do know this—and it is a difficult thing for a man to say to his child—but if things had gone differently, if the war hadn’t forced me to make my choice, my agonizing decision, then in another world, Louise would have been your mother. To understand me, to understand my love for you, you must understand the love I have for this woman. It is not a love that betrays your own mother. Professor, tell her it’s the right thing to do.”
“It is right, but it’s her decision.”
Serena gazed at the two of us in anguish. She knelt before Zermano as if to ask his forgiveness. She placed one hand on his knee and picked up the sheaf of letters with the other. Boldly then, in a voice filled with emotion and empathy, she began to read.
“ ‘I have nothing to hide now except myself. Our agreement? It wasn’t our agreement, it was your plan. You seem to think that who you are would put me at risk. Where else should a woman stand in time of risk but next to the one she loves? Could you not see in my eyes the sadness of parting from you? No. You were crazy with protecting me, sending me far from harm’s way. If bombs are to fall why shouldn’t I be a target as well? Why should I be saved? What life is left after separation from the one you love?’ ”
As Serena continued to read, letter after letter, I was struck by the sound of Louise’s words spoken aloud in a feminine voice. It seemed I was hearing their deepest meaning for the first time—the ache, the tears, the tenderness, the rage, the anger. I watched Zermano leaning forward in his chair, attentive to each syllable. It was clear he was hearing Louise’s voice. He was shocked at her pain and outraged by her hardships. Out loud he cursed his blindness to her. He laughed with her, argued with her, suffered with her. He clutched Serena’s hand, thinking it was Louise’s, and shouted:
“Tell me more! I must know it all!”
Serena’s voice kept on, changing in tone, assuming colorations not natural to her but matched to the words on the page as if spoken by Louise’s lips—the revelations of an open heart.
I went to the terrace edge and looked out to sea. Until today Zermano too had gazed at this view, haunted by horrific visions of what might have happened to Louise. Now he was hearing the t
ruth. I gazed down at the cliff below me. In the darkness of a crevice I glimpsed movement. From the crevice’s shadow emerged the curve of a wing. Then there was a flurry of feathers and a giant black vulture appeared, pushing off from the stone escarpment, falling into space before spreading its majestic wings and soaring up into the sky. The sun cut out the prehistoric silhouette and cast it downward onto the water’s surface. Where had I seen this before, this shadow moving across a liquid void in a reversal of light, this black flower drifting toward the infinite horizon? I had seen it in Zermano’s most mystical painting, but I had not known its source. The painting was entitled A Torrent of Black Flowers.
I turned back to Zermano. He was struggling to stand, pushing up on his staff, shaking his fist at the shape of the bird. The agonized expression on his face was a cross between the mystical and the manic, a messianic determination not unlike the look on the statue of Llull in Palma. I was standing between Zermano and the vulture. It was the last place I wanted to be as he swung his staff violently overhead. He began shouting. Did he see me as his tormentor? Did he even see me?
The Day of the Bees Page 24