by Micah Nathan
Chapter 12
I worked through the night, seated at the desk with my schoolbooks laid out in a row. Working for Dr. Lang allowed me access to the faculty files, which meant I saw class syllabi before anyone else, and thus I had bought my books early and completed the semester assignments for two of my upcoming classes. I finished just as the first rays of sunlight crawled over the Gothic skyline of Nove Mesto, running over the pale, snow-frosted buildings and across the river in a cascade of fierce yellow light.
Art slept soundly, fully clothed, sprawled atop the blankets with a pillow over his face. He had started to translate the Malezel book, and he also drank a good deal, emptying five more mini-bottles, three of vodka and two of whiskey, their little plastic shapes scattered around the bed like miniature bowling pins.
I gazed out the window. Bathed in the light of dawn the cityscape appeared two-dimensional, a movie set cut from plywood and painted hues of gray, black, and ashen. I had been in Europe for almost two days, and yet I felt the same. I don’t know what I had expected—a revelation, some instant change in my worldview, a dramatic shift in maturity. I turned on the TV and watched some French film with Czech subtitles. It was awful—a man running around town with a briefcase, getting shot at by men in suits, followed by car chases and secret documents and close-ups of ringing phones. I switched it off halfway through because the one attractive woman in the movie, a French prostitute, had just been stabbed and was dying in the protagonist’s arms.
Perhaps I should have a drink, I thought. I scanned the bottles on the silver tray, found them all unappealing, and finally I settled on a weak mixture of gin and tonic, not enough gin to affect me, just enough to sour my mouth. After two sips I poured it down the drain.
I drew myself a bath and imagined I was some Roman emperor, watching the peach-colored walls sweat steam, running my hands along the smooth swirling marble pillars that surrounded the large oval tub, submerging myself up to my chin and pretending I was at Hierapolis. Maybe I’d catch a coliseum event later, something gruesome—Christian vs. lion, Anatolian vs. Jew. Battle of the criminals for the emperor’s pardon; the marketplace pickpocket vs. the unethical businessman who fixes his scales. Tridents and netting and blood-soaked dirt scattered and thrashed under dusty sandals.
“Luscius,” I said to the wall. “Fetch me the slave girls.”
The faucet dripped in response. Perhaps I should get a call girl, I thought. We were in Eastern Europe, how much could it cost? Maybe I could get two women, give one to Art, or give him both in an even swap for Ellen. I laughed out loud. The funny thing is that Art was the kind of guy who just might have gone for such a deal.
Art has remained my first love—does that sound strange? I fell in love with him before Ellen, and the subsequent women in my life all had to live up to the specter of Arthur Fitch. As far as specters go he remains oblivious: long white coat, five o’clock shadow permanently tattooed across his face, mixing formulas and grinding herbs, hurrying from one flask to the other with ancient cookbook in hand.
My love for Art still remains inexplicable, because it ran deeper than friendship, the type of feelings I’d expect in a marriage of thirty or forty years, all compressed into that one year at Aberdeen. C. S. Lewis wrote that to tell the difference between love of a friendship kind and love of a romantic kind, one must decide whether one would rather spend exclusive time with the beloved, or time within the company of other friends. Friendship love, he said, desires a larger group. Romantic love, however, is jealous, and wants only the lover and the beloved, at the exclusion of everyone else. If this is the case—and I hold anything a Christian writer says as highly suspect—then I must have loved Art, in the Classical tradition of battlefield heroes and lusty emperors. And this is the paradox I’ve struggled with, which is exactly how Art would have wanted it.
In late November an old high school friend of Art’s had come to visit—Charlie Cosman, a lanky, long-haired engineering graduate student at M.I.T.—and in celebration Art organized a bal des ardents in the deep forests surrounding Dr. Cade’s land. We held it at midnight, attended by Ellen and some of her friends, along with Charlie, Howie, Dan, and myself, and we came dressed in costumes of straw and grass and shredded newspaper as per Art’s instructions, masquerading as wild men and women, with twisted horns made of papiermâché and long, flowing beards of burlap and string. Art had cleared a circle in the woods and lit the area with flaming tiki torches, which were supposed to provide an irresistible element of danger to the affair; in medieval times, torch sparks sometimes lit upon the costumed revelers, engulfing them in flames. When we all arrived at the torch circle and saw flames leaping and licking at the night air we all promptly left, all save Charlie and Art, who danced and hooted under a gibbous moon. This stupid behavior, Ellen had said to me on the way back, from a man who won’t touch doorknobs in restaurants because he’s afraid he’ll contract some terrible disease.
He also was prone to sudden moods of a darker nature, however, remaining in his room for days on end, absent from Dr. Tindley’s class, not joining us for dinner, not responding to Ellen’s phone calls or Howie’s drunken implorations. I had no experience with depression up to that point, so I simply saw Art’s behavior as brooding and pensive, maybe even a little sophisticated. It’s the way I envisioned Poe or Milton acting, the role of the genius-madman, cutting himself off from the world, the lone wolf. Christ in the desert. St. Daniel on his pillar. Art in his bedroom.
Art was rooted in both pragmatism and mysticism. A firm believer in the existence of ghosts and malevolent spirits, he scorned psychics and astrologers. Conspiracy theorists of any kind angered him, and he lumped them into the same category as religious conservatives, environmentalists, vegetarians, and peaceniks. He was the sworn enemy of Aberdeen’s political activism club, confronting them at any opportunity—at their semipermanent booth set up inside Garringer Hall (across from the Campus Republicans table), and at their rallies in the Quad protesting America’s trade embargo of certain Middle East nations (Howie often joined him, shouting Long live Charles Martel! during such events).
It quickly became clear to me that Art’s zealous, almost fanatical quest for glimpses of the unknown were due in large part to Professor Cade’s influence, coupled with Art’s personal frustrations at his own limitations. He had claimed to follow Gurdjieff’s teachings, but there was more to it. Art was a sliver short of brilliance—his temperament prevented the necessary emotional maturity inherent in all world-class minds—and I believe he knew this, and I believe it infuriated him, and in some ways, drove him to limits beyond what he was normally capable of achieving. We both possessed a strong, unyielding work ethic, but Art’s sanguine ferocity allowed for little rest. Where I could close my books and be done with them, clearing my mind by taking a walk along the pond or playing fetch with Nilus in the backyard, Art was incapable of shutting down. Any problem required twenty-four-hour surveillance, throwing Art into the worst mood, followed by elation once the problem was solved. But this Roman candle–like burst of joy would quickly fade as soon as another problem presented itself. That’s why I think alchemy suited Art perfectly. It was forever elusive, teasingly fruitful, flitting around on the edges of his vision and impossible to fully grasp.
I remember one dinner in particular, around the beginning of December, with only Art, Dr. Cade, and myself present. We had lost power from a blown transformer at the Fairwich central station, and we’d lit candles around the dining room. Dr. Cade, blue eyes shining in the candlelight, sipping a red Burgundy, spoke on his favorite topic: the limitations of intellect.
“I don’t dispute how far we’ve come because of science and rational thought,” he said, “but I caution those who hold up science as the only paragon of truth, in the same way I caution those religious zealots who blindly adhere to the beliefs of their various churches. Religion and science are, after all, slaves to man, and can only see as far as their tethers stretch.”
Art was
leaning back in his chair, hands resting in his lap, his gaze fixed upon Dr. Cade.
Dr. Cade sipped his wine again. “Agrippa spoke of the occult virtue,” he said. “The inexplicable, inherently powerful elements affecting human existence. What did they reside in? Trees, stones, fire, and comets. The call of an animal and the rustle of wind through a thicket. Agrippa knew that human intellect and reason alone could not discern these potent qualities, that only experience and intuition could. His was a rejection of the notion of absolute truth. He believed that man could have complete and total understanding of the universe through faith and toil.
“But there were others, of course, who believed the path to ultimate truth led to direct knowledge of God, and in doing so, enabled one to achieve immortality. Do you remember Buridan and Oresme’s argument, Arthur?”
“Temporal sufficient truth versus tentative useful truth,” said Art. “Both mere vergings toward absolute truth.”
Dr. Cade nodded. “The alchemists thought it possible to peer behind the universe’s veil and glimpse knowledge of the eternal. What did the Philosopher’s Stone represent but the highest wisdom, the final achievement of emotional and intellectual perfection. It was seen as a direct path to God. Transmutation of base metals into gold mirrored transformation of the alchemist.”
“It was a shortcut,” Art said. “Alchemy was the perfect marriage between the sacred and the profane.”
“That’s one interpretation.” Dr. Cade twirled his glass by its stem. “Discover the Philosopher’s Stone, and all the mysteries of the universe fall at your feet. Of course, in studying the Middle Ages one may be tempted to believe the many absurdities of that era, for they are presented with such sureness by the most celebrated minds of that age. Our modern empiricism can have a similar effect, making us cleave toward the unknown, like children begging their parents to tell them a ghost story. We crave mystery and secreted knowledge. It makes us feel special, and powerful.”
“So you don’t believe the Philosopher’s Stone existed?” Art asked.
Dr. Cade smiled sympathetically. “I have chosen to view the world rationally,” he said. “And to my delight the world has presented itself as such. Everything else is faith, for which I have no use.”
I submit this as a pardon for Art’s later actions: He was a man of faith. For all his failings, he kept a hold on his faith longer than anyone I’ve ever known.
I got out of the bath, wrapped myself in the hotel bathrobe and walked softly into the living room. Daylight had streamed in, washing over the blue carpeting. Art was at the desk, steaming mug of coffee close at hand, the Malezel book laid out before him. A blanket was draped over his shoulders, and he was still in his clothes from the day before, minus one sock.
“We’re taking the four o’clock flight,” Art said, his back to me. “I extended our checkout until three.”
“I thought we were going to do some sightseeing,” I said.
“No time,” he said. “The semester starts in a week. I have to get this translated by Wednesday at the latest.”
He sipped his coffee. I noticed an empty mini-bottle of crème de menthe near the coffee cup.
I got dressed and Art remained absorbed in his work the entire time, even as I slipped on my coat and hat. He didn’t look up until he heard me self-consciously rattle the room key.
“Going somewhere?” He turned, puzzled. Dark circles loomed beneath his eyes.
“I want to see the Hradcany,” I said.
“But we have so much work.” He looked down, at the book, and then at the key in my hand. “I need some translation help,” he said. “I figured you could take over at some point, let me rest my brain…”
“You’ve been here before,” I said. “I haven’t, and I want—”
“Fine, fine. No speeches, please.” He turned away. “If you see the concierge on your way out, have him send up breakfast. Three eggs, lightly scrambled, rye toast, large OJ. And tell him to water down the juice. My stomach doesn’t feel so good, and I don’t think the acidity will help.”
I walked aimlessly for hours, buying a map from a vendor and heading toward the castle until I lost interest, and then I headed back down, toward the river. It was a brilliant day, painfully bright and cold, the sun magnifying off the sparkling snow that had settled overnight into a fine powder that blew off the rooftops in icy sprays. I kept my distance from the throngs of tourists and instead walked along the Vltava. Someone at school—Josh Briggs, maybe—had mentioned he was going to southern France for winter break. He had described it to me on a hot fall day, a day when I had dressed too warmly and found myself sweaty and uncomfortable in the back of French class, and the last thing I wanted to hear about were the beaches of Cannes: white sand, black bikinis, the ocean spread out in a warm, aquamarine haze, scraping softly against a footstep-pocked shoreline.
And now I had the Vltava, a black swath of water, crawling almost imperceptibly along, its surface like a sheet of obsidian. I kept hearing someone behind me—Albo Luschini, I thought, with a gang of angry monks—but every time I looked there was no one. A crow landed nearby, flapping and cawing, and I threw up my hands at its shadow. I thought about Ellen, and whether I’d ever see her again if she and Art were finished. What was the proper etiquette? Would she forever be off-limits, someone tainted by having dated my best friend?
I came upon a street fair, the buttery smell of fresh bread drawing me in, a pig rotating on a long spit over an iron trough filled with glowing embers. I was in a small town square, surrounded by steeply pitched alleys cutting between houses jostling for space like tall trees in a forest canopy. I looked into the faces of those who shouted at me to buy their wares or taste their food; I gazed directly into their eyes and continued past, trying to make myself invisible, just another anonymous tourist. They too were all anonymous, vendors with one-dollar goods strewn over folding tables, cooks working with fingerless gloves, swaddled in grease-laden steam rising from the sizzling pans. I finally stopped at a stand and bought sausage made from some sort of gray meat. It was salty and surprisingly good, tasting of fennel and mint, and then I bought a cup of hot chocolate and sat on the stoop of a church, eating in silence.
The food woke me up some, and I continued my walk, stopping at the edge of the street fair at a table covered with a tasseled, Arabesque rug draped over four poles like a tent. A cone of incense burned inside a dirty shot glass blackened with soot and smoke. An old woman sat alone on the other side of the table, facing the street, dressed in a tattered Boston Celtics jacket, with a brown and magenta skirt. A red paisley babushka covered her head, and before her, on the table, were a row of tarot cards. I smiled at her and she nodded in return, her expression unreadable. It could have been many things: fatigue, disinterest, or even a dreamy languor that only looked sad under the weight of decades marking her wrinkled face.
The tarot cards bore the mark of a popular American toy company, printed across their backs, and I noticed there was a Ouija board at her feet, bearing the same American toy company marks. She beckoned for me to sit, but I walked on. Having my future read with mass-produced divinatory tools was not something I wanted to pay for.
Fatigue seemed to be pulling me into the earth, coaxing me to sit for a moment and close my eyes. I thought if I rested I might freeze to death—maybe an irrational fear but maybe not. Who would wake me, suspecting I was just another American college student suffering from a night of excess, sleeping off his hangover in the threshold of some building?
I rarely drank coffee but decided it would give me the strength to return to the hotel, and so I ducked into the first café I saw, a small shop on the corner of Plaska and Ujezd. I sat at a table and ordered some Turkish blend. The coffee was stronger than I expected, smoky and sweet. I unzipped my coat and sank back into the chair, drinking in silence, watching customers pass in and out of the shop.
Thirty minutes later, bored and jittery from the caffeine, I asked the waitress if she knew where a pay phon
e was. She pointed toward the restroom and I followed, stopping in a narrow hallway with an old pay phone stuck against the wall. Someone had written on the wall in black marker, in English: Nick and Tina were here.
If I knew Ellen’s number I would have dialed it. The memory of her voice wreaked havoc on my stomach. Look at these hands, she’d said, holding my hands on the tips of her fingers, palms up, as if reading my fortune. I remembered seeing the faintest of blond hairs lining the curve of her earlobe. That was the night we made brownies, I thought. And the night of Howie’s accident.
I dialed the operator, reversed the charges to my number at school, and got through to the Aberdeen campus. Nicole’s room. Her phone rang twice and then amazingly, someone answered.
“Nicole?”
“Yeah.” She was chewing gum or something. “Who is this? Eric?”
She sounded closer than I imagined she would. There was a faint hum on the line, and music playing in the background.
“It’s me,” I said. “I’m in Prague.”
“Hold on a sec,” she put the phone down and I heard the music stop. “You’re where? In Prague?”
“Yes.” I leaned against the wall. Her voice was comforting. “I’m on a pay phone in some coffee shop.”
“Shit, that is so cool,” she laughed. “What are you doing there?”
“I’m on vacation with Art. We’re”—I looked toward the picture window facing the street—“sightseeing. There’s a castle near our hotel.”
“Wow,” she said. “Is it cold there? We got nailed with a huge storm—roads closed down and everything. They had to call in the fucking National Guard.”
“What are you doing back so early?” I said.
She let out an exasperated huff. “I’m helping run orientation for spring semester transfers. We’re doing all these stupid icebreaker events…it’s pretty lame. I’m the only one here, me and the international students. They’ve served noodles almost every day for dinner. Hey.” She snapped her gum. “I saw your friend, what’s-his-name, the big redhead.”
