The Binding

by E. Z. Rinsky

  Dedication

  For Da,

  Who’s still teaching me about people.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Twenty Years Ago

  Part One: Sunday/Monday

  Part Two: Tuesday

  Part Three: Wednesday/Thursday

  Part Four: Friday

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Palindrome Prelude

  Play

  About the Author

  Also by E.Z. Rinsky

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Twenty Years Ago

  Becky was crouching in the alley behind the Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill, smoking a cigarette next to the dumpster, when the back door creaked open and her manager Elaine stuck her head out.

  “He’s here again.”

  “Who?” Becky asked, shooting to her feet, already knowing the answer. She tossed her unfinished cigarette to the ground and smoothed out her apron.

  “The creepy guy. And he just asked for you.”

  Becky’s heart thumped hard beneath her dark green button-up.

  “Creepy guy?” Becky instinctually feigned confusion. She hadn’t told Elaine yet about what happened with Oliver last Friday night. How he met her as she was leaving the restaurant after her shift and tried to kiss her. She had instinctively flinched, backed away, and apologized. He’d just smiled and said he understood completely. No harm done. When she rejected boys in school they got angry at her. But Oliver had respected her decision, which made Becky feel guilty she’d said no.

  If she mentioned what happened, Elaine would flip out and overreact. Probably ban him.

  Becky didn’t want him banned. She liked talking to him. The stuff he said made her think. Sometimes he was funny, sometimes he was serious, and sometimes Becky couldn’t tell. A few nights before the Friday incident, she’d been sweeping the tile floor, and had maybe lingered a little longer than she’d had to by his table. He’d ignored her at first, focused on the page in front of him, but then had suddenly glanced up, locked his bright white eyes on her, and told her that there’s a certain hell where you have to sweep a floor with a broom that loses a few of its bristles every time you use it. So you have to keep sweeping up the bristles that are falling off.

  Sad story, she’d said, hoping she sounded clever.

  Don’t blame me. I didn’t write it.

  Oh?

  God wrote it. I think it’s his idea of a joke. Do you believe in God?

  Yeah.

  Do you believe that He can do anything?

  I guess . . .

  So answer me this: Can God create a rock so heavy that He can’t lift it?

  She’d thought about that question all night, and still wasn’t sure if the question was supposed to be funny, serious or both.

  Elaine folded her thick arms in front of her chest and said, “You know who I’m talking about.”

  “Oh, Oliver?” She ground out her cigarette with the toe of a Reebok sneaker as an excuse to avoid Elaine’s wilting gaze. “He asked for me? What do you mean?”

  “I asked him what he wanted, and he said he wasn’t hungry. Just wanted to talk to Becky. He didn’t even ask if you were working tonight. He already knew. Creepy, Becky. I’m gonna page Joe. This is a whole other level. I’m going to ban him.”

  Becky gathered her long brown hair and tied it back into a tight ponytail, per Rocky Mountain waitress regulations.

  “He’s actually really interesting once you start talking to him,” she replied quietly. The ghostly falsetto of a Backstreet Boys tune hung in the alleyway. Becky’s uniform—sticky from the pre-storm humidity—clung to her body. She didn’t need a close inspection to know she had some pretty serious pit stain action happening. The uniforms were ugly, starchy, and the kind of cheap acrylic that didn’t let your skin breathe, but at least they were dark.

  “Becky,” Elaine sighed. “You’re young. You don’t know about the line.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Fine. You know about it, but you don’t have the intuition for it. I’ve been in customer service for longer than you’ve been alive, and I know the difference between customers who are friendly, really friendly even, and the ones who are bad news. And this guy, the way he looks at you when you’re walking back to the kitchen, you don’t even understand.”

  Becky thought: If Elaine knew about last Friday, she’d call the cops.

  “Relax,” Becky said, squeezing past the much larger woman into the kitchen. She hardly smelled the sizzling onions and burning grease anymore; probably because the smells followed her home every day after her shift; nestling in her hair, clothes and skin like parasites.

  She pulled her ponytail tighter, wiped some sweat off her brow with a paper towel. Breathed deep, then pushed through the cantina-style swinging wood doors. There was Oliver sitting in the same booth he had every single evening since Becky had been hired fourteen months ago. Every night he ordered the same thing from her: rib eye steak with fries, and an extra side of fries.

  These greasy things will be the end of me, he said each time she brought him his food, but would dig in greedily all the same.

  But tonight was different. And it wasn’t just that he hadn’t ordered any food, Becky realized. He wasn’t writing.

  For the first time she could remember, the book in front of him on the table was closed and his writing tools nowhere in sight. Every time previous he’d sat down and carefully prepared his protractor, ruler, drafting pencil, charcoal pencil, blue ink pen as if arranging a place setting, then immersed himself, losing all awareness of his surroundings, surfacing only for a bite of steak or fries.

  She knew the tools well. He’d shown them to her on an evening a month or so ago, when it had just been the two of them in the restaurant for about twenty minutes.

  Why don’t you write with a plain pen like everyone else? Or on a typewriter?

  These are the tools I’m used to. These are what every architect uses.

  So that’s your job? You’re an architect?

  I used to be.

  Why did you stop? Did you not like it?

  I loved it. But this book is more important.

  Tonight, no tools. Just the book, closed, and him sitting expectantly.

  He’d shaved off his beard. Without it, his smile felt unfiltered. He was handsome. She realized her thighs were trembling. His seat was beside the line of windows that looked out onto the mostly empty parking lot. An early moon hung over the mountains, and the Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill was glowing with soft red evening light. There was a family at the other end of the restaurant, near the door, and an older man at the bar. Elaine had followed Becky back inside, and was watching, concerned, from behind the bar.

  “Hi Becky.” Oliver grinned. “Take a seat.”

  He was staring at her more intensely than he ever had, the whites of his eyes so clear that they appeared translucent; two glowing jellyfish swimming in his skull. His small hands were clasped in the universal sign for both pleading and praying. It was hard to tell if his smile was a happy one.

  “Becky, come on. We don’t have long,” he said, glancing at his watch. He said it playfully, but it was an order. Becky found herself obliging, butterflies in her stomach.

  She thought: Oh no. He wants to talk about what happened on Friday.

  “Hi,” she managed weakly. “What’s . . . Do you want to order . . .” She fumbled with her words.

  Oliver laughed a little bit as she squirmed. In clear focus was the fact that, despite countless evening chats, she didn’t really know anything about this man.

  “I want to show you what I’ve been working o
n the last few years,” he said.

  “Um, okay,” she said, relieved to be talking about anything besides the kiss that wasn’t.

  There were three identical volumes resting one atop the other on the greasy table, each without a proper binding, held together with twine. His slender fingers opened the top book to a page roughly in the middle and gestured for her to look inside. Becky stared into the book, for a moment, confused, then looked up at Oliver.

  “I don’t understand. It’s nothing. It’s not English. It’s just shapes and lines . . .”

  “You’re right, it’s not English.” Oliver nodded. “It’s written in the first language of men. It predates Arabic numerals by at least ten millennia. It’s the language we wrote in before the Tower of Babel.”

  “You have three of them?”

  “Yes. There will be twenty-four in the end.”

  “And this one . . .” Becky motioned to the top one, feeling stupid that she couldn’t understand exactly what he was saying. “Is this the first one in the series?”

  Oliver smiled.

  “Wonderful question. No. The answer is that there is no first one in the series. When the twenty-four are complete, they will go in a circle. No beginning, no end.”

  What if Elaine is right . . . A cold started in Becky’s toes and crept up her legs until she could barely feel anything below her waist. It’s nonsense. He’s just drawing nonsense doodles all this time . . . And yet, there was something so calm about his demeanor, so gentle and friendly in his gaze. He certainly didn’t act like a crazy person.

  “I—”

  Elaine suddenly appeared beside the table.

  “I’m going to page my husband.” Elaine was leaning over the table, and the scowl on her huge face was more menacing than Becky would have believed her capable of.

  “Elaine.” Oliver grinned. “Relax. We’re just talking.”

  “He’s way bigger than you, and has a hell of a temper,” Elaine snapped. “If you’re still here by the time he gets here, he’ll break you in half.”

  “I won’t be.”

  “Get out.”

  Oliver cocked his head curiously at Elaine, as if struggling to comprehend the peculiar habits of this subhuman primate.

  “Why don’t you ask Becky what she’d like?” he suggested.

  Elaine, face bright red, turned to Becky and gave her a look like well?

  “Just . . . Elaine, we’re just talking. It’s okay.”

  Elaine took a deep breath through her nostrils. “Alright then,” she said, and spun away toward the phone behind the bar. Oliver turned his attention back to Becky, apparently pleased by her loyalty.

  “It’s not nonsense,” Oliver said, like he had read her mind. “You just don’t read this language yet. But you will someday. This book is full of wonderful stories. You want to understand them, right?”

  “I . . . guess. Yeah.”

  Oliver suddenly reached across the table. She stiffened as the tips of his fingers grazed her neck.

  “Oliver,” she whispered and tried to move away, but he was gripping the small silver crucifix she always wore around her neck. His smooth hands smelled strongly of anti-bacterial soap and something else . . . a salty smell she knew from the kitchen but couldn’t place. Then he dropped the crucifix and sat back in the booth.

  “You believe in God?” he asked, just as he had last week.

  Unable to form words, she just nodded slightly. Somewhere far away Elaine was shouting into the phone.

  “Me too.” Oliver nodded quickly. “God, in his infinite kindness, created us. He did a very good job making this world. This city. This restaurant. You. Overall he did an excellent job. But not a perfect job.” Oliver winked in the way that she usually found charming. But this time something indiscernible was happening to his face that was scaring Becky. His pupils were too dilated maybe? His nostrils flared open for deep, expectant breaths? “And that’s what this book is. It’s a way of taking advantage of God’s little mistakes in order to subjugate him to my will. Do you understand?”

  Becky nodded even though she didn’t. Elaine returned, wielding a wooden broomstick.

  “You need to leave,” Elaine shouted at him, but her voice was wavering. The family at the other end of restaurant had gone quiet and was watching. The old man at the bar seemed disinterested.

  “What happened to your man?” Oliver grinned. “What happened to being broken in half? Listen, I’m going soon. Relax, Elaine.”

  And then, when Elaine failed to relax, he pulled an eight-inch heavy-duty Phillips screwdriver from his bag and trained it on Elaine, the way a headmaster might aim his pointer at an unruly student.

  “You need to leave us alone,” he said sternly. “This evening has been meticulously planned. I only have a few more minutes before the police arrive. So you need to get back behind the bar.”

  Elaine backed away, perhaps noticing what Becky already had: The yellow handle of the screwdriver was flecked with fresh red specks. Not big drops, like from a bloody nose, but freckle-sized splatters that suggested a spewing fountain or high-pressured stream.

  The family at the other end of the bar was silent. Oliver kept the screwdriver level with Elaine’s chest.

  “Go away,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. And Elaine, whom Becky had never even considered capable of experiencing fear, slowly backed away.

  Oliver turned back to Becky. Now white lights flashed in and out of her vision. Her whole body was trembling. Why was she still sitting here? Why hadn’t she taken the opportunity, when he was distracted by Elaine, to shove out of the booth and run like hell?

  “Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, and now me,” he said. “But times have changed. And today, the difference is that we no longer need God. Unlike my predecessors, who spread his message, I have a message for him: Thank you for everything, but your services are no longer needed.”

  A wail in the distance. A siren. Becky’s mind was near paralyzed with fear, unable to process what seemed to be meaningless syllables pouring from his mouth. But some part of her consciousness registered blinking blue and white lights approaching the restaurant.

  Oliver slammed the book shut, and checked his watch.

  “I’m going to prison now,” he said, standing from the booth and gathering his three books and screwdriver into his bag. “It will take me some time to finish writing my books. But when I do, I will come for you and make you my queen and we’ll read them together.”

  Warm tears streamed down Becky’s cheeks. She couldn’t speak.

  Oliver looked out the window, as if to confirm that the police weren’t running late. There were at least a dozen cars.

  “Earlier this afternoon, I killed your family,” he said, watching the police stream from their cars and point their weapons at the restaurant’s facade. “Your parents and your brother. They would have just distracted you. You’ll need to be alone—the lonely are the only ones who turn to prophets in their time. You’ll understand this eventually.”

  Becky’s vision went halfway dark. Elaine emitted a muffled scream from behind the counter. Becky managed to form only a gurgle.

  “God created several rocks he can’t lift. He can’t lift them. But I can. I will,” Oliver said, staring out the window at the dark mountains, face awash in the glow of blaring lights.

  Amplified police voices outside. The restaurant filled with swirling primary colors. Under different circumstances, the normally dull interior of the Rocky Mountain Bar and Grill might have appeared unusually festive.

  Oliver turned to Becky and looked at her with something like disappointment. “You shouldn’t have said no to me, Becky.”

  Oliver raised his hands over his head and walked to the front door. Opened it with his hip, walked out, and smiled knowingly as he was tackled by four burly officers.

  Part One

  Sunday/Monday

  Genesis 39: 20–23

  Joseph’s master took him and put him in prison, the place where the [
Pharaoh’s] prisoners were confined.

  But while Joseph was there in the prison, the Lord was with him; he showed him kindness and granted him favor in the eyes of the prison warden. So the warden put Joseph in charge of all those held in the prison, and he was made responsible for all that was done there. The warden paid no attention to anything under Joseph’s care, because the Lord was with Joseph and gave him success in whatever he did.

  It’s two thirty in the afternoon when I finally force myself from my bottom bunk. Feel gross from sleeping too much, as usual. Moths fluttering around in my skull.

  The other seven bunks are empty. Bright-eyed kids backpacking through Europe, shooting out the front door with that miraculous optimism that accompanies waking up in a new city. They considerately left the shades drawn on the lone window in the dorm room; didn’t want to disturb the token “guy who’s way too old to be staying in a youth hostel.”

  I shuffle barefoot to the window and open the curtain. Rather than a full pane panorama of scenic Budapest, I’m treated only to the stuff that will never make the brochures: A decrepit prewar apartment building across the alley that looks like a clothing rack commercial—it’s like air-drying rags is a passion project for these people. The fire escape that runs down the side of the building ends about twelve feet off the ground, and every morning (read: afternoon) that I see it I imagine a growing pile of broken-limbed lemmings fleeing a fire caused by spontaneously combusting piles of laundry.

  On the ground level of the apartment is a closed metal grate covered in Hungarian graffiti and a spray-painted mural of Tupac. I can’t read the faded letters above the grate, but after countless mornings of observation I’ve decided this shop used to be a bakery, based on what appears to be a cartoon muffin baked into an e on the defaced lettering over the entranceway.

  Frank Lamb and the case of the abandoned store: solved.

  Might not sound like much, but lately the old sense of deduction has been employed exclusively to decipher the alcohol content of foreign beers. In any case, this storefront now seems to be a favorite evening hangout for prostitutes.