by D J Mcintosh
I hesitated.
He smiled. “I mean of the prescription variety.”
I shook my head.
“I’m recommending you take prazosin. In layman’s terms it’s called Minipress. You may notice some dizziness and tiredness at first. Let me know if that happens.” His voice lowered, taking on a stern, doctorly tone. “And you need to talk to someone, John. See a counselor. I can recommend a good one who’s helped a lot of soldiers. After what you’ve experienced she’ll have a cornucopia of bad memories to sift through.”
“I’ll think about it, thanks.” I left his office with the prescription clutched in my hand. I wished I’d told him everything. I’d tried to convince myself that the sensation of being bound could be my body’s way of interpreting my inability to move, the same way dreams can be simply a reflection of emotions. What I didn’t tell Cass was that along with the terrifying immobility had come an unbidden image of conical houses fashioned from red rock.
A sight I’d only ever seen before in a photograph.
Nineteen
I called Bennet once I was out on the street. “Just checking on how my girls are doing.”
She chuckled at that. “Took Loki to the dog park. She fell in love with a Boston terrier.”
“She played with him? With her cast and all?”
“He was very considerate and didn’t roughhouse.” She paused.
“I’ve finished reading your notes, and I’ve decided to write your biography—a simple article would never do you justice. How you came out of that in one piece I’ll never know. You had to be stretching the truth in places—no?”
“Nope. All in a day’s work.”
“Sure. Is there an accounting of your first time in Iraq?”
“Afraid not. But if you promise to wear the same outfit to bed that you did last night, I’ll whisper it all in your ear.”
“Wouldn’t you be too … distracted to pay attention? How about over dinner?”
“Deal.”
Helmstetter’s former lover, Veronica Sills, lived on the edge of Central Harlem, just east of Morningside Heights. I’d made a note of the address the Conjuring Arts Center gave me. It was close to four-thirty. I decided to stop by on the chance she’d be home.
Her place was an old five-story, red-brick walk-up. The buzzers had no names or numbers, but luckily a kid wearing a backpack who looked as if he was coming home from school held the door open for me. The small square of space serving as a lobby was clean but shabby. Marble steps leading to the upper floors dipped in the center, worn from decades of tenant footsteps, and the ornate iron railings had pieces missing. In the building’s glory days, though, it must have been a splendid entry.
Although the original plates were missing, the number twelve was still faintly outlined in a lighter shade on the stout oak door. My knock echoed down the third-floor corridor. After a minute I heard the slow shuffle of feet. The footsteps stopped, then came the labored rattle of chains being undone and locks freed. The door opened a crack.
“Veronica Sills? My name’s John Madison. I believe Julia Morrow at the Conjuring Arts Center let you know I wanted to talk with you. Might I come in? It’s about George Helmstetter.”
She let out her breath in a cross between a sigh and an exclamation. “Has he been found at last?”
“Not exactly. But I can add something to the information about his last known destination.”
She opened the door. She was dressed smartly in a white silk shirt that revealed a curvaceous figure, tailored navy slacks, a jade and gold bangle. She looked me up and down and then stood aside to let me enter. “You may as well come in. George’s name hasn’t crossed my lips for a very long time, but his memory hasn’t faded any.” She carried herself well; Veronica Sills was hardly the feeble, elderly lady I’d imagined.
We entered a small living room with a wide, bright window facing the street. A sturdy table pushed up against the window that served as a desk for her computer held stacks of files and binders. White bookcases so full there didn’t seem room to add another volume stood against the west wall. Framed prints hung on the other walls; I recognized a Calder and an Albers. Stems of dried white roses, their petals like faded tissue paper, sat in an exquisitely tiled fireplace. Such elegance stood in odd contrast to the high piles of files, newspapers, and cardboard boxes crowding the room. She was a pack rat, but a neat one.
“Can I offer you a glass of wine? It’s almost cocktail hour.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
While she went into the kitchen, I beat a path through the narrow canyon between newspaper piles and took a seat on her honey-colored leather couch, obviously old but of such good quality that the leather had worn beautifully with age.
I jumped when a voice croaked, “Sorry for the mess you’re late.”
It seemed to come from a large palm beside the desk, the only plant in the room. Above it, the plush white plumage of a cockatoo with a yellow crest peeked out. The bird appeared to be perched on a stand hidden by the palm leaves. It tipped its head to one side and said, “Go home now.”
Veronica came back into the room carrying two glasses of white wine. “Shush, Bandit,” she said as she handed me one. “You have bad manners. Say something nice.”
“You’re pretty.”
Veronica smiled rather awkwardly. I sensed she was of a serious turn and smiles didn’t come easily to her. “Bandit’s a sulphur-crested cockatoo, almost thirty-six years old. A gift from George.”
“Helmstetter?”
“Yes. One of the few gifts he ever gave me.” She sat beside me on the couch and leaned forward, holding her glass in both hands. “So what is it you have to say?”
“You’ll remember Lucas Strauss? George’s mentor? He’s hired me to find Helmstetter and a stolen book by a Renaissance abbot named Trithemius.”
If my words surprised her, she didn’t let on. “The Steganographia. Are you some kind of private detective?”
“I’m an antiquities dealer, and sometimes I source rare books.” I handed her my card.
“George vanished thirty-five years ago. Why is Lucas reviving all that old pain now?”
“Some items have come into his possession. After Helmstetter left America he sent them from Kandovan, a remote Iranian village, to his wife. She died recently and passed them along to Strauss.”
Veronica’s face blanched at the mention of Helmstetter’s wife. That old wound ran deep.
I took a sip. The wine was crisp and cool. “Other than the fact that he may have been in the village and had a strange association with Faust, I know little about Helmstetter. Can you shed any light on him?”
She glanced at her desk. “You know I was an entertainment reporter? I still freelance. I’ve met loads of celebrities in my long career and have a good eye for hubris and outright shams. Actors, publicists, agents, writers, performers of all kinds. The entertainment world attracts those who are skilled at pulling the wool over people’s eyes. But Lucas Strauss and George Helmstetter were the real deal. Both frightening and powerful individuals. I wish I’d never met either of them.”
“Why do you call them frightening? And you don’t seem surprised that Strauss thinks Helmstetter is still alive.”
Her eyes darkened. “If you’d known George as I did you’d believe the same thing. He was fascinated by alchemy. Not the trick of turning metals into gold. The alchemists had a second great quest—the search for the elixir of life. George sought immortality through the practice of the black arts. He developed a thirst for profane knowledge, just as his beloved Faust had.”
“How could a man who’s supposed to be brilliant believe such foolishness?”
She took a long draft of her wine, her hand trembling slightly. It obviously cost her a lot just to discuss her former lover even after all these years. “I’m aware of how it must sound to you. And if we were talking about anyone else I’d agree. But we don’t know everything in the universe, do we? And there was something about George. W
hen he claimed triumphantly one day that he was close to finding the solution to immortality, I didn’t doubt him.”
“‘Solution.’ Did he mean a formula of some kind?”
“He kept it to himself. When I questioned him about it, he’d just say, ‘You wouldn’t approve.’”
I took a moment to let her remark register. “Well, after all, Faust regretted making his bargain.”
Veronica toyed with her glass. “You’re referring to the deal with the devil? If George thought he could achieve his aims that way he wouldn’t have hesitated.”
“Faust’s biographers, Marlowe and Goethe, gave him a bad end. What about Helmstetter? Did he leave himself a way out if he changed his mind?”
“There’s always a way out if you know the way in, I should think. George claimed he used Trithemius’s book as his guide, that’s all I know. I consider myself a sensible woman, Mr. Madison.
I was brought up by strict Catholics. They were not people given to fantasies. But George, he reached into my soul somehow. I loved him passionately. I suppose at my age I don’t have to be embarrassed about such a confession. If anyone managed to achieve immortality, George could. I know that lies within the realm of the absurd. But practically speaking, he could easily still be alive. Why, he’d only be sixty-five.”
“Don’t be sad,” Bandit squawked and ruffled its feathers.
We both laughed.
Veronica thought for a moment. “I don’t have any photos of him. George destroyed all the photographs of himself, including those of the two of us. I discovered that shortly after he left. But they wouldn’t have been much good to you; he would have aged a great deal by now. I can tell you one thing, though. Before he visited Kandovan, he wanted to see Pergamon in Turkey.”
“What did he hope to achieve there?”
Veronica stood up and pressed her hand to the small of her back. “I can’t sit for too long on this soft couch. My back kills me if I do—too many years spent in front of typewriters and computers. Anyway. Pergamon was considered by some to be Satan’s dwelling place. George regarded it as a primary seat of power. He said he wanted to visit Satan’s Throne.”
“The letter I saw among the papers you gave to the Conjuring Arts Center mentioned that if what he found at Pergamon didn’t satisfy him, he’d travel to Eden. Do you know what he meant by that?”
“He believed Eden existed. As a real place, not a biblical allegory. And that if he could find it, Eden would be the most potent place of power imaginable. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can tell you. Talking about him has awakened some bitter memories. I wonder if I might have some time to myself now?”
“Of course. You’ve been really helpful. Before I go, did you ever hear from him again—a letter or a note?”
She let out another sigh. “Not a word.”
I stood up and shook hands with her. “Thank you.”
She walked me over to the door and took my hand again. “May I give you some advice? You said Strauss hired you. I don’t know what he’s paying, but no amount of money is worth it. Have nothing to do with this quest of his. It won’t—it can’t—end well.” She glanced over at Bandit. “Have you ever seen cockatoos in their natural environment?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“They’re such exceptionally beautiful birds. In the wild they mostly eat fruit or seeds, but occasionally they’ll prey on insects. In their natural environment I’ve seen those lovely birds tear the wings and heads off creatures to devour them. They have a savage side. If you’re tempted to continue on with Strauss, think on that.”
“Did he ever harm you?”
“Not me—personally, no. But others who were foolish enough to get in his way? He destroyed them.”
Twenty
The rain had started up again. That evening Bennet and I went to Bocca, an Italian place with warm wood accents and varieties of fresh pasta laid out in bowls for the choosing. Back at our table, I told her all about my conversation with Veronica. But when I recounted what she’d said about their love affair, Bennet seemed to lose interest and quickly changed the subject. Odd, given that she was supposed to be documenting everything.
After dinner the rain obligingly stopped. Since it was mild out, we decided to pick up Loki from the apartment and take a slow stroll to Union Square. We got some sodas, spread newspaper on a bench and sat down to people watch, then browsed in the Strand, one of my favorite bookstores. I was still thinking about what Veronica had said about Pergamon, and so I picked up a book called The Origin of Satan by Elaine Pagels. For Bennet, I got a guidebook featuring that ancient city. Fortunately, no one objected to my carrying Loki around. Bennet seemed to enjoy herself equally and was delighted with the book. It surprised me how in sync I felt with her. Still, I needed to try something out.
“I’ve decided to go see Strauss,” I announced on the way home. “I don’t think I want to continue with his project.”
Bennet stopped in her tracks. “Why not? I thought it was all settled.” I could see how surprised she was.
“It’s ridiculous, that’s why. Helmstetter must have died in Iran long ago. After all this time, how could I find anything out? I can’t even speak the language.”
“You could hire a translator.”
“I’d need an army for protection to get there.”
“You just need someone who knows the territory.” She paused. “If you change your mind, I want to go with you.”
I put my arm around her. “That would just complicate matters. We’re talking about Iran. A Western woman would stand out like a sore thumb. Both of us would.”
“We’ll take precautions, John. I want to see this through. Strauss insisted I record your journey, remember? Talk to him about your concerns; maybe he can come up with a solution.”
Although everything I’d said was true, I’d raised the idea primarily to test her reaction. All along, Bennet had seemed unduly insistent on this venture and I’d begun to suspect there was more to it than just her commission. And I did want to see Strauss— I wanted to test him out, too. I could have just called him, but I sensed that a meeting would give me a better idea of where he was coming from.
The rain started up in earnest, heavy as a tropical downpour, just as we reached home. Bennet went right out again for drinks with a friend and I settled down with my book about Eden.
I read that, as nineteenth-century explorers began sending home the magnificent antiquities they’d unearthed, interest in Mesopotamia spread like wildfire through Europe and America. Then came the translation of cuneiform tablets, and interest reached a fever pitch. The tablets not only attested to the actual reign of kings like Nebuchadnezzar; they also recounted old Sumerian legends of a flood remaking the earth—legends that bore a marked resemblance to the Old Testament story. Here, people thought, was concrete proof of the Bible’s historical accuracy. The Bible itself tantalized readers by appearing to give Eden an exact geographical location.
A river flowed out of Eden to water the garden, and there it divided and became four rivers. The name of the first is the Pishon. It is the one that flowed around the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold. And the gold of that land is good; bdellium and onyx stone are there. The name of the second river is the Gihon. It is the one that flowed around the whole land of Cush. And the name of the third river is the Tigris, which flows east of Assyria. And the fourth river is the Euphrates.
Everyone knew the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. But what of the Pishon and Gihon? And where were the lands of Havilah and Cush? People tied themselves up in knots trying to come up with an answer. Serious scientists pointed to the once fertile, irrigated plains of southern Iraq at the confluence of the two great rivers, believing that the Pishon and Gihon might actually be ancient manmade canals feeding into these rivers. Even then, in a more religious age, others thought Eden to be allegorical, not a real place at all.
Personal agendas to prove the scientific accuracy of the Bible spawned hilarious
results. One pastor placed the garden in the Arctic. Another scholar declared it was a serpent mound in the Midwest. Some early Mormon leaders said Eden was in Jackson County, Missouri. Historians suggested the ancient site of Dilmun, an island in the Persian Gulf, or that Eden had been submerged beneath the Gulf waters. Not surprisingly, a lot of money was made off the lecture circuit by these Eden proponents.
I’d become so immersed in my reading that I barely heard the apartment door open. Bennet walked in, or rather tried to put one foot ahead of the other while keeping her toes pointed in the same direction. Tipsy from her night out. “Had a good time, did you?” I remarked. She gave me a salute while balancing her other hand on the armchair to avoid falling over, made it to the couch, and tumbled onto it. “Night,” she said, and closed her eyes. I got the eiderdown from the bedroom and tucked it over her.
The break in my concentration proved fruitful. The name I’d seen annotated in Samuel’s journal—Reginald Arthur Walker— popped into my mind, and I decided to look him up on the web, expecting more wild speculation that he’d found Eden near the Nile headwaters or in the Himalayas. Not so. I should have known as much; Samuel would never entertain such baseless theories. It turned out that Walker had written a paper, “The Land of Eden,” and the brief summary I managed to find was enough to make me sit up and take notice: Walker’s conclusions were ingenious. Apparently the New York Public Library had a copy. I resolved to look it up in the morning.
Twenty-One
February 19, 2005
“I’ve lost a few hours out of my life. I have no idea what I did last night,” Bennet said as she struggled out from under the eiderdown.
“I can only hope it was legal.”
“I’ll never know. Shit. My head is one tremendous crucible of pain.”
The rain continued to cascade down; Loki got soaked when I took her out. Back at the apartment I toweled her dry and fed her, then made extra-strong coffee for Bennet and poured some in a travel mug for myself. “It’ll take me around five hours to get to Strauss’s, and I’m stopping off at the library first. So I’m not likely to get home until late. You’ll be okay with Loki?”
