The Immortal

by Thomas Nelson

  “I don’t intend to live in Rome much longer.” I took pains to keep my voice light. “I am planning to go home soon. I’ll do what Justus wants us to do tomorrow—but then I think my work here will be finished.”

  “I know you’re thinking about your friend.” Asher’s eyes were gentle and contemplative. “I am very sorry for your grief . . . but I must admit, I am almost envious.”

  His admission shocked me. “Why would you say that?”

  The arrival of our dinner put a halt to the conversation. The man who had welcomed us stepped out of the kitchen with two steaming plates in his hands. True to Italian form, Asher waved away the topic under discussion in anticipation of the meal. “I’ll explain later. After we eat.”

  I would have pressed him, but the heaping plate before me assaulted my senses and set my stomach to rumbling. Sick with the news of Rory’s death, I had skipped lunch. The plump sausage before me looked utterly delicious.

  “Zampone,” Asher said, picking up his knife and fork. He nodded toward the meat. “It is a specialty of the house. We will also have fresh vegetables and mozzarella cheese made just last night. If you like, Georgio will make you a pizza.”

  I smiled at the cook, who hovered nearby as if waiting for my critique. “This looks wonderful.”

  Georgio clapped his hands and turned toward the kitchen. “Buon appetito!”

  Asher cut a slice of sausage. “After dinner, we will have fritelle for dessert—perhaps we will take it with us and eat while we walk. I have something important to tell you.”

  For no reason I could name, his words raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  After dinner, the cook brought each of us a waxed paper bag of fritelle, which turned out to be chunks of sweet dough deep-fried in olive oil, then coated with powdered sugar. The sweet concoction reminded me of the funnel cakes my sister and I used to buy at the county fair when we were kids, and I said as much to Asher as we began the walk home.

  “When were you born?” he asked.

  I laughed at the unexpected question. “I’m twenty-eight, if that’s what you really want to know. I’m one of those women who doesn’t mind telling her age.”

  He nodded as a thoughtful expression filled his eyes.

  “You wanted to tell me something after dinner,” I reminded him. “Well—the time is right, and I’m curious.”

  “Let us sit.” He motioned toward a stone bench at the edge of the Piazza della Rotonda, and I sat down, feeling strangely at home when he sat next to me. The atmosphere around us was nearly carnival, for the night was clear and cool, and crowds had come out to celebrate the end of a workday. A bevy of fat, placid pigeons waddled over the stone piazza, hoping for a handout, and from the next block I heard the frustrated wailing of an automobile, probably trapped behind a row of double-parked cars. A horde of high-school students in jeans, leather jackets, and sneakers clustered around the steps leading to the Pantheon, the herd mentality as evident in Rome as it was in New York. Above the dome of the ancient temple, an attenuated moon hung amid a jumble of stars, and the ristorantes and clubs in the streets beyond offered a mix of the ancient, the contemporary, and the tacky. I gratefully drank in the atmosphere, hoping that the prevailing mood of gaiety would prevent Asher from bringing up Justus and antichrists and primeval prophecies . . .

  Asher’s dark eyes flitted over the milling crowd. “I am older than you.”

  “I know that. You’re what—thirty-three? Thirty-four?”

  “No. I am much older.”

  “That doesn’t really matter, does it?” I looked away and pretended indifference, though my mind bulged with a heavy unasked question. Did his comment about our age difference mean he was entertaining some sort of romantic feeling for me? I liked him a lot, I considered him a friend, albeit a slightly odd one, but the thought of a more personal relationship had not even crossed my mind. My thoughts jetted back to an hour ago when I took his arm on the sidewalk. Surely he was not so unsophisticated that he interpreted my gesture as anything significant. An affectionate touch meant virtually nothing, especially in Italy.

  “I was born in Rome,” his gaze moved over the crowd, “in the year of our Lord.”

  I lifted a brow, waiting. A boy rode by on a bicycle, his radio humming with the relentlessly cheerful cadences of Europop, but Asher didn’t finish his sentence.

  I leaned closer, urging him on. “In the year of our Lord . . . what?”

  Lifting his gaze to the star-spangled sky, Asher pulled back his shoulders and raised his jaw. “In the year of our Lord,” he repeated. “In the same year as Jesus the Christ. He was born in Bethlehem; I was born in a village just outside Rome. He grew up in Nazareth; after being orphaned, I grew up in a house on Patrician Street, a major road leading southwest from the Castra Praetoria toward the heart of the Eternal City. My adoptive father was not a great man as the Romans counted greatness, but he had connections in high places. In A.D. 26, I left my father’s house and journeyed to Palestine in the service of one called Pontius Pilate, the man Caesar appointed as prafectus Iudaeae—governor of Judea.”

  I listened with a vague sense of disbelief. For an instant I thought he wanted me to take him seriously, but the words rolled off his tongue like a well-rehearsed poem, and I realized I was listening to an oft-repeated story. This, then, was not a conversation, but a performance.

  He glanced briefly over his shoulder, probably checking my reaction. Though I had no idea what he was reciting or why he felt impressed to recite it, Asher had never been predictable. “Go on,” I urged him, reserving my judgment for the end of this recital. “I want to hear all of it.”

  For a moment his face seemed to open, and I saw surprise and relief in his eyes. “Have you heard, Claudia, of the Legend of the Wandering Jew?”

  I crossed my arms. “I know a plant by that name. My mother used to have a big pot of it hanging on our front porch.”

  He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Not the plant—the man. The one who is doomed to wander the earth until Christ comes again.”

  I looked away, regretting my decision to encourage him. “I was never big on fairy tales or legends.”

  “You should learn about this one. According to the legend, after Pontius Pilate sentenced Christ to death by crucifixion, soldiers led the Savior out through the city of Jerusalem. When he came to the house of a cobbler named Ahasuerus, Christ put out his hand to rest upon the wall of the house. But the cobbler came out and urged Christ to hurry, saying, ‘Get on there! Get moving!’ But Christ, bearing the weight of the world upon his shoulders, looked at the man and replied, ‘I will go, and I will rest. But you will walk until you see me come again.’”

  Asher fell silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “The details are incorrect, of course. First of all, the man was neither a Jew nor a cobbler. He was a Roman called Cartaphilus, a porter in the service of Pontius Pilate. And this Cartaphilus, in an effort to show off for the soldiers who were escorting the prisoner, did not only speak harshly to Christ, but actually struck him. Finally, Christ did not say what is commonly reported. After feeling the sting of Cartaphilus’s blow upon his cheek, he looked at the offending servant and said, “You see me now, but you will live until the day you see me clearly.”

  Asher pushed his hair back, his gaze focused on some distant image. I waited a moment to be sure he had come to the end of his recitation, then I shifted on the bench. That story wasn’t so bad. I definitely preferred it to the Antichrist saga. “That’s an interesting story, Asher. How did you learn so much about it?”

  “I didn’t learn it; I lived it. I am Errante L’Ebreo.”

  I swallowed to bring my heart down from my throat, then crossed my arms. “You’re going to have to translate that one.” I forced a laugh. “It almost sounds like you’re asking me to believe you are two thousand years old.”

  He looked at me then, and in the dim glow of the streetlights an aura of melancholy radiated from his
striking features. “I would not lie to you, signorina. I am the one they call the Wandering Jew. I am Cartaphilus, the one who struck the Savior, and I have been journeying through the earth since the year of his death. I cannot age, I cannot die, and I must beg you to believe I would not lie.”

  Somewhere nearby a woman laughed shrilly and a trumpet blared, but I could not turn toward the sound. Transfixed, I sat in a paralysis of astonishment and stared at a man whose direct eyes, erect posture, relaxed mouth, and motionless hands told me he spoke the truth.

  But professional liars are extremely difficult to detect. And psychotics cannot distinguish reality from fantasy.

  Who was this man?

  “Asher,” I spoke slowly, not wanting to provoke him, “it’s getting late. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll walk home now.”

  His face filled with distress. “I’ve upset you.”

  I lifted a hand in denial, then looked down and shook my head. “You have given me a lot to think about. And tomorrow is an important day for us—we have to go to Brussels and do this job for Justus. What I need to know is—can you do it?”

  His eyes went thin as he looked at me. “You mean, do I feel capable of keeping my thoughts to myself?”

  Afraid to speak, I nodded.

  He looked away, his eyes as flat and unreadable as stone. “I will not disappoint you.”

  He did not protest as I slowly stood. I pulled my purse strap over my head, the way one should always carry a purse in crowds, the only way to be sure a purse-snatcher will not yank it from your shoulder—

  Heaven help me, is he truly mad?

  A muscle clenched along his jaw as he watched me take a tentative step, and at the sight of that involuntary reaction, I took another half step back. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I called, not wanting to upset him. “Buona notte, Asher.”

  Then, before he could object or call me back, I turned and hurried through the crowd.

  TWENTY

  I FRETTED ABOUT ASHER ALL NIGHT, TOSSING AND TURNING UNTIL I wore myself out with worry. Finally, at six, I picked up the phone and dialed New York. I wasn’t about to go to Brussels with Asher until I had talked to Kurt.

  “Kurt,” I switched the phone from one hand to the other, as if trying a new approach would help him understand that this wasn’t a prank call, “you’ve got to help me. I’m sorry for the late hour, but I need your advice. I think I might be in serious trouble with the employee I told you about.”

  Kurt yawned noisily. I closed my eyes, wishing he could see how desperate I was. I held my breath and tried to be patient—after all, it was midnight in New York and I had awakened Kurt from a sound sleep.

  “I don’t need this,” I whispered, dismayed to hear the sound of tears in my voice. “Not coming so soon after Rory’s death. In a few hours we’re supposed to go to Brussels and read some people for Justus. I’m nervous enough about that; I don’t want to worry about traveling with a psychotic.”

  “Is this the guy who thinks he’s the Antichrist?”

  “He doesn’t think he’s the Antichrist. He thinks our boss is. Come on, Kurt, wake up. I need help here.”

  “I’m awake.” Kurt cleared his throat. “And I was sorry to hear about Rory. Terrible break.”

  I swallowed hard. “I know. But I can’t talk about him right now. I’m trying to focus on one disaster at a time.”

  “OK, tell me about this employee.” Kurt’s voice was even now, and deepening into his professional tone. “Does he function well within his work environment? What’s his official role?”

  I closed my eyes in relief. “He’s an interpreter/translator, and yes, he’s fine in the office, though I’ve had reservations about him from the beginning. But he never spins these bizarre stories unless we’re alone.”

  Kurt fell silent for a moment, and I thought I could hear the sound of drumming fingernails on a bedstand. “Have you considered the possibility that this man might be infatuated with you? Perhaps these incredible tales are nothing but a ploy to get your attention.”

  I thought a moment. “I’ve wondered about that, but I don’t get any sense of infatuation from him. I know all the courtship signals, Kurt, even the Italian versions, and this guy uses none of them.” I felt a wry smile cross my face. “He’s probably the only man in Rome who doesn’t flirt with every woman under fifty.”

  Kurt made a grunting noise, then I heard the sound of rustling paper, as if he were searching for something. “You’re gonna owe me for this, Claude. Like dinner at Chanterelle when you get back.”

  “I’ll pay. Just help me out on this.”

  “Do you think he sincerely believes these bizarre stories?”

  “I don’t see any of the usual signs of deception. He could always be a chronic liar, but I think someone in Publications would have noticed before this.” Sitting on the bed, I bent my knees, then propped my forehead on my hand. “From his body language and manner, I’d say he believes he’s telling the truth. That’s why he’s got to be psychotic. He has to be out of touch with reality, but unless I can prove it—”

  “Here it is,” Kurt interrupted. “I knew I had recently read some- thing. This is a case summary from a medical journal.” The sounds over the phone grew muffled for a moment, then Kurt spoke in the even, slightly stuffy tone he used for reading aloud: “‘Once Mr. Jones came to my office and identified himself to the receptionist as the honorable Frederick Jones—but he worked as a plumber. He sat in the waiting room and told my receptionist one incredible tale after another, amazing my staff with his detailed stories. He seemed to have been everywhere, done everything, and met everyone of consequence. My nurse remarked that he seemed to have squeezed ten lifetimes into one.’”

  “That’s him!” I could barely contain my excitement. “That sounds just like Asher. He is always talking about the places he’s been and the people he’s seen.”

  “I was reading a description of a man with Korsakov’s Syndrome. When a patient has entered a state of permanent lostness, he must call forth powers of invention and fancy. He must literally re-create himself and his world in every moment. Of course he sees nothing wrong with himself. He will remember nothing for more than a few seconds—”

  “That’s not him.” Disappointment hit me like a blow in the stomach. “Asher remembers everything.”

  “No defects in memory at all?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “Could he be an alcoholic?”

  I considered the possibility, recalling that nearly everyone in Rome enjoyed a glass of wine with lunch and dinner. But Asher seemed to drink more coffee than wine, and I had never detected the scent of alcohol on his breath.

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “Any severe emotional changes or mood swings? Any pronounced lack of initiative in recent days or weeks?”

  “Nothing. He is a very conscientious employee. Everyone is pleased with his work.”

  “Then I wouldn’t lean toward a diagnosis of Korsakov’s. His condition could result from any number of things—incontinent nostalgia, reminiscence, a delusional disorder, or retrograde amnesia.”

  “It’s not amnesia, Kurt. He remembers things, but they’re impossible things.”

  “That’s the point. He invents memories because he can’t recall his own memories. Each of us, you see, owns a particular past, our own individual lifetime. These memories shape us, color our thoughts, and make us who we are. If a man forgets his past, he has no sense of himself. So, as a means of self-preservation, the amnesiac or Korsakov’s patient is forced to continually invent a past. He will ramble on, sometimes divulging fascinating stories, all in an effort to place himself inside the world.”

  “So,—” I said, struggling with the concept, “if Asher tells me the same story tomorrow—”

  “If he’s a Korsakov’s patient, he won’t tell you the same story. Since your man has a taste for religious personalities, he’ll say he was Noah on the ark, or even the pope himself. But he won’
t remember what he told you today. That’s the trademark of a Korsakov’s sufferer—no long-term memory. That’s the driving force behind the bizarre stories.”

  “But someone like that wouldn’t be able to function in an office. They wouldn’t know who they were from day to day.”

  Kurt grunted his agreement.

  “So that doesn’t fit Asher Genzano. He knows who he is.”

  Kurt sighed wearily. “Listen, Claude, it’s really impossible to make a diagnosis on the phone and in the middle of the night. I’m just guessing. But from what you’ve told me, I’d say you’re looking at one of three situations: the guy is either spinning a story just to impress you, he’s mildly neurotic with a flair for the dramatic, or he suffers from a delusional disorder.”

  I sprang for the latter possibility. “Tell me about delusions. That sounds like it might fit.”

  I heard the rumble of the telephone as he adjusted it. “A delusion is a false belief strongly held despite evidence to the contrary. Patients who suffer from paranoia, for instance, often experience delusions of persecution or grandeur.”

  “He’s not paranoid—I don’t think. He’s got some wild ideas, but I don’t think he fantasizes about people out to get him.”

  “Perhaps his case is not severe. A simple delusional disorder, on the other hand, is characterized by the presence of nonbizarre delusions that have persisted for at least one month.”

  A cockroach began crawling up the wall in my room. I stared at it, too engrossed in the conversation to care about bugs. “What’s a nonbizarre delusion?”

  “Something not outside the realm of possibility. A woman may think her child is about to die, or a husband may be convinced his wife is being unfaithful.” He chuckled. “One of my patients was convinced his wife was a government agent. Any nonbizarre delusion could be true, of course, but they are highly unlikely. And the patient persists in believing them even when presented with evidence to the contrary. Delusionals can be cured, Claude, but you’ve got to make them face reality one step at a time.”