The Holy

by Daniel Quinn

  “I picked up the keys and looked them over. ‘So you’re thinking what?’ I said.

  “ ‘Obviously someone’s been in our apartment when we weren’t there.’ I asked him if they’d checked with their friends, somebody who might have left the keys behind. ‘We haven’t had anybody over for weeks,’ he told me.

  “I asked him if anything was missing from the apartment, and he said not that they knew. ‘That’s what makes it so spooky,’ he said. ‘It looks like someone just came in, put the keys in the bookcase, and left.’

  “Well, I looked at the keys some more. There was nothing unusual about them. They looked like dime-store duplicates on a dime-store key ring, chained to a clear plastic medallion with a violet embedded in it. I told him I thought they belonged to a young girl.

  “ ‘A young girl? Why a young girl?’

  “ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘The key ring looks like something a young girl would buy.’

  “He didn’t think much of this bit of deduction. He wanted to know if I thought he should talk to the police about it, and I told him I didn’t think they’d be too interested. He wanted to know if I thought he should change the locks on the doors, and I said sure, it’d probably help them sleep better.

  “He left looking pretty disillusioned, but he called back the next morning.

  “ ‘It was the baby-sitter,’ he said. ‘She left them here when she was sitting for us last week.’

  “ ‘I see. Didn’t she miss them?’

  “ ‘Yeah, well, not right away. She met her sister going home, and she let them in, so she didn’t notice they were gone till she got home from school the next day, and she figured they’d fallen out of her purse or something.’

  “So I asked him how he found out about it, and he said his wife had thought of the baby-sitter as soon as she heard what I’d said about the keys belonging to a young girl.

  “And that,” Howard concluded, “was Howard Scheim’s Most Baffling Case.”

  Aaron nodded solemnly. “And what’s the lesson of this story, Howard?”

  “It shows the difference between the ordinary citizen and an experienced investigator. The young man who came to me was obsessed—overwhelmed—by what he didn’t know about those keys. Looking at them, all he could think was: why would someone break into our apartment and put those keys in a bookcase? But an experienced investigator doesn’t start with what he doesn’t know. He doesn’t get panicked by all the data that’s missing, so he’s free to look at the data that’s actually there. And that’s all I did.”

  “Ah!” Aaron whispered ecstatically. “Ah, yes.”

  Howard chuckled. “That’s good, is it?”

  “Very good indeed,” the old man said. “As you’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “I’ve got a thing I want looked into, Howard,” the old man said, “and it’s no small thing—nothing like missing silverware, believe me. It’s big, and it’ll take someone like you, someone who’s not overwhelmed by all the data that’s missing.”

  Howard waited, but, having made this announcement, Aaron seemed to lose all interest in it. He sat swirling brandy in the glass poised between his fingertips and smiled gently at his own thoughts. After several minutes he looked up and asked which feast Howard considered the most central to Jewish life.

  The question disoriented him and it took him a few moments to shift gears. “I’d have to say Passover.”

  “Of course. The commemoration of our liberation from Egypt. This occurred in about 1210 B.C. And when do you suppose the first Passover was celebrated in the Holy Land?”

  Howard thought for a moment. “I’d assume it was forty years later, when they entered the Holy Land.”

  “It was six hundred years later, Howard. Not a single Passover was held under all the judges and kings of Israel until the eighteenth year of the reign of Josiah, just a few years before the Babylonian exile began.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Howard admitted.

  “And why do you suppose that was, Howard?”

  “Tell me, Aaron.”

  “It was because during those six hundred years the Israelites worshiped the gods and goddesses of the Sidonians and the Amorites and the Moabites and the Philistines and the Babylonians. During most of this time, if you’d asked them about the God of Israel, they wouldn’t even have known what God you were talking about. I’m not kidding. Their gods were Baal and Ashtaroth and Dagon and Azazel and Mil-com and Asima and Succoth Benoth and Anamelech and Nergal and Kemosh and Moloch. And if you’d asked them to point out a priest, it would have been one who burnt offerings to Baal or who tended one of the hill shrines.”

  “But I thought.… Wasn’t the temple set up in Jerusalem?”

  “Certainly. And inside you’d have found altars dedicated to all these gods and goddesses—except for Moloch; he was set up in the valley of the sons of Hinnom. And attached to the temple you’d have found quarters for the temple prostitutes—male prostitutes. The Mosaic teachings had been abandoned from the outset, Howard—abandoned and then lost. It was Josiah who rediscovered them around 610 B.C., and Judaism as we know it began with this event—not with Abraham, not with the Exodus, not with the Israelites’ entry into the land of Canaan.”

  “I see,” Howard said, feeling like a schoolboy.

  “But this happened too late to save us, Howard. God had already washed his hands of the people he’d chosen to be his own. He’d asked us only to trust him and to be faithful to him, and after six centuries of rejection, he said, ‘No more. You’ve broken the covenant I made with your fathers. I now bring on you the catastrophe I promised—a catastrophe you can’t escape. You’ll cry to me for help, but I won’t listen. Cry for help to the gods you’ve worshiped during all these generations. You have as many of those as towns, as many altars to Baal as streets in Jerusalem. So don’t call to me, because I’ll listen no more. I have forsaken the house of Israel. I’ve cast off my own people.’

  “And so he did, Howard. For two and a half millennia we’ve cried out to no avail. We’ve been scattered, despised, tortured, murdered, oppressed, and in all these centuries God has been silent.”

  Aaron paused to begin the lengthy ritual of lighting a cigar.

  Howard asked: “What about Israel today, Aaron? Where does that stand in your thinking?”

  The old man shook his head disdainfully. “Do the Israelis rely on God to take care of them? I think not, Howard. Their gods are tanks and machine guns and rockets and jet fighters. As in ancient times, they put their trust in the gods their neighbors trust. The gods they worship now are the gods of Russia and the United States.”

  “True, I suppose.”

  Aaron sent a puff of smoke up toward the ceiling. “Now here is a thing I wonder about, Howard. What is it that made Baal and Ashtaroth and Moloch and all the rest so attractive to the Israelites—so much more attractive than the God who delivered them from slavery in Egypt and gave them victory over all the kings in the land of Canaan?”

  “Well … these were idols, weren’t they?”

  “So it was said.”

  “Then I suppose the attraction was that these were gods they could see.”

  Aaron wrinkled his nose in distaste. “That’s a schoolboy’s answer, Howard. The fashion is to imagine that these people were simpletons, just because they lived long ago, but they were no more simpletons than we are. The Israelis don’t worship tanks and machine guns and rockets because they can see them but because they trust them: these things can be relied on to do something for them. The Israelites were just the same, Howard. They were Jews—just like us, hardheads, pragmatists.”

  “So? What are you getting at?”

  “Howard, nowhere in the scriptures does it say that Baal and Ashtaroth and Moloch and all the rest weren’t real gods. Nowhere does it say they don’t exist. What it says is they’re false gods—gods who will play you false, gods not to be trusted.”

  “Okay.”

  “But the Sidon
ians and the Amorites and the Moabites and the Philistines and the Babylonians—and the Israelites—trusted them. The Israelites trusted these gods even more than they trusted the one who parted the Red Sea for them.”

  Howard shrugged. “I still don’t see what you’re getting at, Aaron.”

  “Howard, what would a prophet say to the Israelis today?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He would say, ‘Don’t put your trust in tanks and rockets and machine guns and jet fighters. Throw these idols into the fire, because they’re false gods, gods not to be trusted—gods who will ultimately let you down. Put your trust in the God of Israel, not the gods of the Russians and Americans. The God of Israel—the same God who promised you this land and delivered it to your forefathers—will never let you down.’ ”

  “Okay. I guess I see what you mean.”

  “But the Israelis would pay no attention to such a prophet, would they?”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Because they know for sure what a tank and a machine gun and a rocket and a jet fighter will do for them. They’re not about to trade in these things for a spook in the sky.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “So we come again to my question, Howard. What did Baal and Ashtaroth and Moloch and all the rest do for the Israelites? It couldn’t have been nothing, because the Israelites weren’t fools any more than the Israelis are fools. Therefore it had to be something.”

  Howard nodded grudgingly. “Okay. I can’t argue with your logic on this, Aaron. Maybe somebody else could, but I can’t.”

  “You see what I’m after here then?”

  “Yes, I guess I do.”

  “Good,” the old man said. His cigar had gone out, and he spent a few moments relighting it. Then, squinting through the smoke, he said: “So, Howard. Will you take it on?”

  Howard blinked at him dully, feeling he’d lost track of the conversation. “Will I take what on, Aaron?”

  “This investigation.” He waved his hand through the smoke. “All this.”

  “Aaron,” Howard said, staring at him in disbelief. “You’re not talking about Baal and Ashtaroth and …”

  “I am, Howard.”

  “Aaron, for God’s sake. Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “You know I’m not a kidder.”

  Howard thought about his bed—unmade, sagging in the middle, and with a book lying open beside it—and about the quickest way to get to it. He said: “Tell me again what you’re looking for.”

  “Listen, Howard: for the sake of these gods, our people forfeited Israel. I want to know something about them. I want to know what made these gods so fantastically attractive.”

  “That’s a scholar’s job, Aaron. You’ve got to know that.”

  “No, it’s nothing like a scholar’s job. The answer isn’t in any of the places where scholars look for answers. That much I know for a certainty.”

  “Then where is it?”

  Aaron jabbed his cigar over his shoulder. “Out there, Howard. If the answer’s to be found anywhere, it’s to be found out there.”

  “Aaron, are you telling me you want someone to go to Israel and dig in the hills or something?”

  “Not at all. Definitely not.”

  “Then I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Aaron gazed at him sorrowfully, reproachfully. “I’ve never seen you like this, my friend. It’s like you got your hands over your ears. It’s like you’re sitting there shaking your head and saying no, no, no, no, no. This isn’t like you, Howard.”

  Howard laughed and shook his head. “Okay, Aaron, I’ll give it another try. You say the answer’s out there. The only place I know of to look out there is the public library.”

  “Not the public library, Howard. I’m not talking about things in books.”

  “Then, Goddammit, what are you talking about?”

  His eyes wide, the old man quickly put his hands over his ears. Howard sighed and sank back in his chair.

  “Explain it to me, Aaron. I don’t understand.”

  “Howard, I told you: in the scriptures, it says these were false gods, gods not to be trusted. It doesn’t say they were figments.”

  “So?”

  “So, if they weren’t figments.… Howard, tell me. Do gods die?”

  “What?”

  Aaron shrugged. “Okay, maybe they died. Maybe that’s what you’ll tell me after you’ve looked into it: ‘Aaron, those gods must have died back in the sixth century before Christ, because there’s no trace of them now.’ ”

  Howard stared at him open-mouthed.

  “Or maybe you’ll tell me the opposite. You’ll say, ‘Aaron, maybe I got something. Maybe they didn’t die. Maybe they just aren’t called the same names any more.’ ” The old man frowned into Howard’s incredulous look. “Damn it, haven’t you ever looked for somebody who might be dead? Who might not even be there to be found?”

  “Aaron, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  The old man sighed, pulled himself out of his chair, and went to a desk at the other end of the room. When he returned, he handed Howard two checks, one marked “Advance against expenses,” the other marked “Advance against fee (Retainer).”

  Both were for ten thousand dollars.

  Aaron sat down and picked up his brandy glass. “My children think I’m cheap, Howard, because I get no kick out of spending money on worthless things. When it comes to something important, believe me, I’m never cheap. If you need more than that for expenses, you’ll get it. There’s no rush about this thing. Take a year. Take two years. Get me an answer to my question—satisfy me either way—and your fee will be fifty thousand.”

  Howard was gazing at the checks as if they were photographs of his unborn children. Finally he tore his eyes away and looked up.

  “Aaron, I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” He grinned at him slyly. “You got more business than you can handle?”

  “I mean it wouldn’t be right. I can’t take money for a job that can’t be done. For a job that’s impossible.”

  “I tell you what, Howard. Do a little looking for a month. Poke around—whatever you ordinarily do when you’re starting a job. Then if you still think it’s impossible, we’ll call it quits. You can give me whatever’s left for expenses and keep the retainer. Or if your conscience won’t let you do that, just keep half the retainer. Whatever you say.”

  “Aaron …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s crazy. It’s like … I don’t know what it’s like. It’s all just shadows, just smoke. There’s nowhere to start.”

  Aaron raised his brows in mock astonishment. “Howard, it almost sounds like you’re telling me you’re panicked by what you don’t know here, that you’re overwhelmed by the data that’s missing.”

  “It isn’t that there’s data missing, Aaron. There’s no data at all. Words in a book written two thousand years ago aren’t data.”

  The old man sat blinking for a moment, then he got up and went to the bookshelves for a thick, black-bound volume. He stood paging through it for a few minutes, then handed it to Howard open near the middle. “Baal,” he said, “and Ashtaroth. It’s a popular work, but it brings together the best collection of portraits in print.”

  Scowling, Howard studied the two pictures. “I can’t believe these are ancient.”

  “Ancient? A minute ago you were bitching because all I had was words two thousand years old. These two portraits are something like a hundred years old.”

  “Aaron …”

  “You want ancient?” He snatched the book back and started paging through it again. “There,” he said. “Not exactly ancient, but that’s Ashtaroth in the sixteenth century.”

  Howard glanced at the portrait and shook his head.

  “Aaron, these things are worthless.”

  The old man nodded thoughtfully and sat down. “I understand, Howard. You mean they’re worthless like the key ring in the bo
okcase.”

  Howard sighed and closed his eyes for a long moment. “Okay, let me look again.”

  He spent a few minutes examining the portraits of Baal, Ashtaroth, Moloch, and others Aaron had talked about, then turned the book around to look at the title on the spine: The History of Magic.

  “Okay,” he said. “You’re right. I was being panicked by what I didn’t know. There’s a place to start.”

  “Good.”

  “But why, Aaron? Why do you want to pursue this thing?”

  Aaron sank back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Howard, I understand that, for you, this is all just plain foolishness. A lot of people would agree—maybe even most people. Who cares about the past any more? It’s all dead and gone, so we should just throw it in the trash. Who cares that we were once God’s chosen people? Who cares why we blew it? That’s all just crap, isn’t it, Howard?”

  “I didn’t say that, Aaron.”

  “No, not in those words. But that’s what you meant. You meant: Why do you want to pursue this crap nobody cares about?” Howard stared guiltily at his hands.

  “You want to know why I want to pursue this. Here’s a better question for you, Howard: Why am I alone in this? Why am I the only one who’s ever wanted to pursue this question? In the past two thousand years, a billion questions have been asked. But no one has ever asked this one but me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning Howard spent in a moral turmoil, alternately cracking his knuckles at his desk and staring broodily down at the traffic on Lawrence Avenue.

  Though never a ditherer under ordinary circumstances, he had an almost superstitious dread of meddling with fate: of making decisions that would alter the course of his own life. He preferred to see himself as being swept along in an irresistible tide of events, as when the army took him in 1950, as when he opened the agency with Simon, as when he kept the agency going, year after year, following Simon’s defection.

  Now he was in a stew, because a cross-current had appeared in the tide to baffle his footsteps. Fate had set in his way a job that would give him a finger-hold on the future (and that was all to the good), but it was a job he could only accept at the expense of his self-respect. In spite of his glib talk about having a place to start, Howard knew he could only earn Aaron’s fifty thousand by fraud.