The Memorist

by M. J. Rose

  Twenty feet wide and thirty-two feet high, this mural illustrates the first chapter in the 1000-year-old history of the Slav nation.

  In the center of the canvas, under a starry sky, the figures of Adam and Eve cowered and hid from ghostlike, fearsome figures atop horses, spears at the ready, galloping toward them. Deep in the background a village burned, the orangered flames glowing like sunrise. According to the pamphlet, there were twenty of these heroic paintings on display, all created by the Art Nouveau painter Alphonse Mucha.

  As instructed by his contact, David walked through the galleries, examining each of the paintings as if they indeed interested him. He was not to approach anyone. At the right time, they’d find him. He’d reached the second to last room without anyone making contact and was about to walk out when the lights flickered off. Then, just as quickly, flickered back on.

  David entered the last exhibition room where, dwarfed by its size, he regarded the only remaining mural: a triumphant ensemble piece, full of victory. His older son Isaac would have wanted to dissect the symbolism, discuss the ways in which the artist had created the sense of hope with specific colors and explore every inch of the painting with his father. Ben would still be off, sliding across the room.

  David wanted to put his fist through the canvas as if it were the painting’s fault he was thinking of his children. This was just a romanticized picture of war, and peace, of death and triumphant life.

  Behind him he sensed someone had entered the gallery and turned to see a young man walking toward him holding a black nylon knapsack.

  “I think you left this in the other room.” His accent was thick but the words were clear enough.

  “How stupid of me,” David said out loud. It might very well have been any man’s reaction to leaving his pack behind. “The lights…?” he offered by way of explanation but it came out as a question.

  “Yes, the lights.” The other man was about twenty with acne on both cheeks and stringy black hair hanging to his shoulders. His jeans were ripped, his gray sweatshirt rumpled but his trainers were clean. “It was just a fuse, they said. You must have been worried to have left this.”

  “Yes.” Reaching out David took the proffered knapsack. It was light. He knew from his research how potent Semtex was and how little he needed. All it took to blow up Pan Am Flight 103 was 200 grams. At least in the paintings here at the castle the enemy was painted in dark tones and came at you with brandished swords so you had a clue who was who. David shifted the backpack to his right shoulder. Everything that was wrong in the world weighed less than a pound and was in this backpack.

  “You should be more careful,” the messenger warned.

  Was there subtext to this? A message? David couldn’t translate the inscrutable expression on the young man’s face. He was waiting, his eyes challenging David, his smirk admonishing him. Naive amateur, the look said. The transaction, David realized, wasn’t completed yet.

  “I want to give you a reward. For finding my bag.”

  “I won’t say no.” The man smiled sincerely as if this was all very normal.

  David had prepared the bills the way he’d been instructed; four one-hundred-euro notes enclosed in ten-euro notes. There were no cameras but in case anyone happened to be watching they’d only notice a ten. So little money to destroy so much. “Please accept this as a thank-you.”

  While the young man stuffed the money in his pocket in front of Mucha’s last heroic mural, David walked out of the gallery thinking how the painting’s gargantuan shadow cast the messenger in darkness, and that he could use that image in the article he was writing about this saga. He even knew where it would appear: at the beginning of the end.

  It was drizzling outside and David dreaded the long drive ahead of him on unfamiliar roads in the rain in a rental car that should have been retired ten thousand kilometers ago. Opening the door, he slid in behind the steering wheel and gingerly put the knapsack on the passenger seat. This wasn’t the time to look inside the pack in case he was being followed, but he couldn’t hold back.

  David didn’t know what he’d expected. Brown wrapping paper? A manila envelope? Anything but navy foil imprinted with frosted cakes with white candles. The irony wasn’t lost on him. It was a birthday party that had started this journey, and explosives wrapped up like a birthday present that would end it.

  Chapter 31

  Vienna, Austria

  Monday, April 28th—12:48 p.m.

  The Memorist Society had only been open for fifteen minutes when Dr. Erika Alderman arrived to have lunch with Fremont Brecht and found him already in the clubroom and glued to the television. “You need to see this. The gaming box was just stolen,” he said without bothering to greet her.

  On the screen Jeremy Logan stood outside of the Dorotheum auction house, being interviewed by a reporter explaining that a smoke bomb had apparently been used as a distraction while the thieves got away with the antique. Behind him police cars and fire engines continued pulling up to the scene with lights flashing and sirens shrieking. Meer stood off to her father’s side; her chin-length dark hair was tousled and her wide eyes looked haunted. There was dirt on the collar of her white shirt and a black button was hanging by a thread from her blazer.

  “Damn it, Fremont,” Erika said. “How many close calls must we have before you do something about what’s going on here? Someone is spying on what we are saying.”

  “You’re forgetting about the article in the newspaper. The Beethoven connection made both the letter and the box worth stealing.”

  “But three robbery attempts in three days and two people dead over Beethoven relics? I don’t think so. Someone out there is very ruthless and determined, and I think it’s because they know something.”

  “We will just have to be more ruthless and more determined,” he said. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of anyone owning the gaming box but us. I’ve said that from the beginning.”

  “How can we get it if it’s no longer for sale?” Erika was confused.

  “We find out who stole it,” Fremont said matter-of-factly. “And then we’ll steal it back.”

  Chapter 32

  Monday, April 28th—12:54 p.m.

  At Global’s temporary offices on the second floor of Vienna’s main concert hall, Bill Vine watched a red circle slowly moving across a section of Moravia, Czech Republic, on one of six computer screens. On a second screen, there was another red circle holding on the western tip of Serbia. On a third, the dot was stalled in central Slovakia.

  “No, we don’t have any info yet on what kind of explosives were purchased in any of these transactions. I should have that information for you later this afternoon,” Vine said, reporting to Tom Paxton, who reacted impatiently.

  “But we’re seeing all the purchasers?”

  “Yes. And following them, without any problem.”

  “What do you make of the fact that there’s been no activity for six days and suddenly three transactions occurred almost simultaneously?” Paxton asked.

  “It suggests a shipment came in as much as anything else. Or it could just be a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Neither do I,” said Vine. “Except when they are coincidences.”

  “How soon will you be able to get people in the field to start following these bad boys on the ground too?”

  “They’re on their way and we should have everyone covered within two hours, three at the latest.”

  “Too long.”

  Vine didn’t react to the criticism. “We don’t get the addresses of the drops, Tom.”

  “For what they’re getting paid, all these suppliers should be giving us that too.”

  “Requires too much communication with us. Don’t underestimate the coup you’ve pulled off here. Bribing the enemy’s no small feat. Even if we don’t know yet if any of these purchases are headed our way, it’s one helluva insurance policy.”

  “You’re sure ther
e won’t be more than a three-hour wait? I want people on their tails, not just machines.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Is there anything else we need to worry about before we move on?” Paxton asked.

  “Nope, nothing,” Vine said, without any indication that he’d heard the question a thousand times before.

  Chapter 33

  Monday, April 28th—1:16 p.m.

  Jeremy took Meer to his doctor, whose office was only a short car ride from the auction house. While they sat in the waiting room, she perused a magazine, unaware of what she looked at. Her mind was filled with too many kaleidoscopic images for any new ones to make an impression. The last forty-eight hours had been filled with shocks and memories that couldn’t be her own, but felt just like her own. She knew that was why false memories were so insidious; they masqueraded as authentic recollections.

  Once the doctor saw her, the examination was brief. He assured her—and then afterward in the waiting room assured Jeremy—that the bruises blossoming on her left arm and thigh weren’t serious.

  “Now, why don’t you let me give you a quick exam, Jeremy,” Dr. Kreishold suggested.

  “You’re far too conscientious. I’m fine.”

  “Jeremy, let me just look you over—” the doctor insisted.

  “If anything starts to hurt, I’ll be back for a bandage, I promise,” Jeremy interrupted.

  “Come on, Dad, you should be examined too,” Meer said.

  Jeremy kissed her on the forehead. “I’m fine—don’t worry about me, sweetheart. They examined me in the hospital in Switzerland after the attack. I’m all right.”

  As they walked out of the office and into the dark hallway, Jeremy told Meer that while she’d been in with the doctor, Malachai’s secretary had called. “She booked him into your hotel. If you’re not too tired, he’ll meet you in the lobby at six and the two of you can come to my house for a quiet dinner. So you should get some rest now,” he added.

  “Aren’t we going to Ruth’s funeral now?” She ignored the fatherly concern.

  “I told you—it’s not necessary for you to come.”

  “I want to, for your sake.” She paused. “Ruth died because of me, didn’t she?”

  Jeremy stabbed the elevator button again, once, then twice. “No, of course not, why would you—”

  “If I didn’t have a connection to that gaming box, would you have been so interested in it? You find old Torahs, menorahs, Haggadahs and Kiddush wine cups. What kind of Jewish artifact is a gaming box from 1814?”

  The elevator arrived with a groan and the door opened slowly.

  “This is much bigger than you know, sweetheart.”

  “And I can’t know if you don’t tell me.”

  Her father nodded and looked away. “You’re right.”

  While they walked toward his car, Jeremy started at the beginning and told her about the call from Helen Hoffman. Despite Meer’s irritation, her father’s raconteur style, full of details and curious asides, was as compelling as ever and she had a sudden memory of him sitting by the side of her bed at night and telling her about his most recent adventure. His voice filled the silence when she was a child—the silence she feared and hated because it was in those quiet spaces between words that memories and music she couldn’t quite catch hold of or make sense of scared her with their insistence.

  Meer knew how emotional these finds were for her father. People who did what her father did weren’t just on a treasure hunt to find and preserve objects, they were reclaiming their heritage. “We owe it to the memory of those who came before us to discover what they left for us to find,” he’d once told her, and she’d heard the pride in his voice. She always loved her father, but she liked him the best when he talked about his work.

  Jeremy eased the car out of the parking spot and at the next corner turned into the traffic. As they crept ahead Meer watched yet another section of the city reveal itself while she listened to her father describe seeing the gaming box for the first time.

  “It was a shock. I’m sure you can imagine just how bizarre it would be to walk into a stranger’s house to examine a holy relic and see something that had so much significance to me and to you. There are no accidents of fate,” he said. “Every act has a reaction through lives, through time. Déjà vu and coincidence are God tapping you on the shoulder, telling you to pay attention, showing you that you are walking in the footprint of your own reincarnation.”

  “You’ve always been so sure…”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Faith.”

  She shook her head; for her it wasn’t a sufficient answer.

  “And now, just like Malachai, you’re convinced the music—my music—has some connection to the flute that Beethoven wrote about in the letter?”

  Jeremy looked surprised. “How do you know what was mentioned in the letter?” Then, realizing, he shook his head. “Malachai told you, didn’t he? I’m sorry. When I told him, I should have asked him not to tell you about it. I wanted to show it to you myself when you got here.”

  Meer let that explanation stand. “What, exactly, does the letter say?”

  “That the box holds the clues to where the flute was hidden.” His voice sounded resigned as if this was a conversation he wished he could avoid.

  Meer shuddered. The image of Beethoven holding the flute was impossibly clear and the burden of finding it weighed on her shoulders. Except it wasn’t her burden. Her husband wasn’t lost and sick. Her rising panic and urgency to find him was a manufactured emotion. And then Meer realized something tangible that really was urgent. “Do you believe the person who stole the letter from you and Dr. Smettering also stole the box and now is looking for the instrument?”

  “Yes. A story broke here in the newspaper on Friday about a Beethoven letter being found in the gaming box, which is reason enough for someone to steal both of those objects. But I think they’re after the flute.”

  “Did the article go into those details?”

  “No. And I didn’t discuss them with anyone other than my fellow board members and Malachai.”

  “But then how…?”

  “There are hundreds of reincarnation scholars, musicologists and archaeologists around the world, not to mention members of the Society here who know about the memory tools and the history of Beethoven’s connection to an alleged memory flute.” Jeremy’s fingers clenched around the steering wheel. “Either whoever was responsible for stealing the letter also stole the gaming box, or the contents of the letter reached someone else who organized this morning’s theft.”

  They’d stopped at a light. To the right was a stone church with spires reaching high into a cloudless blue sky. As they waited the bells began to chime, the ringing reverberating inside Meer’s body. “Why did you send the catalog and the drawing to me through Malachai? Why didn’t you call me and tell me what you were involved in and warn me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Did you call Malachai after I left his office to find out how I’d reacted?”

  “Of course, because I wanted to make sure that you were all right. I knew it was going to be a shock.”

  “I don’t want to be your guinea pig.”

  “You’re my daughter. All I’ve ever wanted to do was help you and protect you. That’s all Malachai wants too.”

  “And in the process use me to prove your theories.”

  “Reincarnation is not my theory or his.”

  “You act as if it is.”

  “It’s part of my belief system.”

  “A part of your belief system that you want to prove.”

  This was as blunt a conversation as Meer had ever had with her father on this or any subject. The last forty-eight hours had provoked it.

  “Meer, sweetheart, you’ve always had it backward. Before you started hearing the music, I was never very religious. Yes, I searched out lost pieces of Judaica but I was an antique dealer. I went to temple on the high holy
days but out of routine and respect to my heritage. I’d never studied Kabbalah. I didn’t even know how important the concept of reincarnation was to the Jewish faith. I learned about all of this after you started to have problems.”

  “So you did it all for me?” she said more sarcastically than she’d intended.

  “To understand, so I could help.”

  “I’m sure you think that.”

  “Did you ever see a movie called Total Recall with Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

  Meer looked at her father with surprise. “No.”

  “The character Arnold plays can’t trust his memories—can’t tell what’s real or false. When he’s asked what he wants, he says, ‘to remember,’ and when he’s asked why he wants to remember he says, ‘to be myself again.’ That’s all I want for you. To remember, so you can be all your selves again.”

  They sat in silence for the next few minutes until Jeremy reached the Praterstrasse and Meer noticed the familiar Hebraic signage on some of the buildings. This was where she’d wandered on Saturday night. “Where are we?”

  “The old Jewish ghetto. Most of it has been restored by Jews who’ve moved back to Vienna,” he said as he turned off the main street and drove down a narrow lane. Glancing over at her, he asked: “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I’m fine.”

  Jeremy pulled into a parking spot. Without waiting for him, Meer got out of the car, turned right and started walking down the block.

  “You don’t know where—” He broke off to hurry and catch up to her just as she stopped in front of the nondescript building at 122 Engerthstrasse. “How did you know this was where we were going?”

  Chapter 34

  Live so that thou mayest desire to live again—that is thy duty—for in any case thou wilt live again!

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  Monday, April 28th—1:25 p.m.