The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  “Anyway, I digress. Now it’s mine.” He clenched a fist when he said ‘mine’ and picked up his glass to take a drink, only to find that it was empty. He shook his head in frustration, went to the grandma’s liquor cabinet and returned with the bottle.

  “Seven-point-five million? My God Jack…”

  He laughed softly and looked at me as if I didn’t understand. Of course, I didn’t. But I couldn’t have understood, for there was no level of understanding that would have satisfied Jack. He was in his own world with his own set of rules. And the only key to understanding them was to think like him. But to think like him was to succumb to insanity.

  Even if I wanted, and had the ability to think like him, going there was a dangerous journey.

  “Are you still taking your meds?” He nearly choked on his Scotch.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ! Don’t you ever give up?” He glared at me, truly angered that I broke his spell with a mild dose of reality. “I swear to God, if you mention the meds one more time, I’ll…” His hand gripped the glass like talons pierce into a belly.

  Admittedly, I was giving him incentive, and in my only defense, it was blisteringly hot and I sweated profusely. The stale mold that wafted through swirling waves of heat was making me nauseous. And over the past year, I had lost all tolerance or patience for bullshit that wasn’t my bullshit.

  “You’ll what?” His grip on the glass relaxed and he seemed to remember himself. He sat back in his chair and stroked his chin.

  “Forget it. Listen, this would have been a steal at twenty million. And you haven’t even seen the piece de la résistance.” I sipped on my Scotch, leaned back in my chair and took a long puff from the cigarette. I nodded and watched him while his mind scurried. I didn’t have the energy to react anymore. I know he toyed with me by showing me the bill for the autobiography. Jack was about to make his real point.

  “Don’t change the subject.” I spoke with irritation. I suppose I should have been intimated by his outburst and near-threat, but I really couldn’t have given a shit. I had seen it far too many times.

  “What nasty little secrets does the book contain?” My interest had been piqued in spite of itself, and I had to know. Jack smiled and looked right through me. Had I ever really known this man? His face broke out with a grim disease and he put down his glass.

  “I know. I’m used to being a little enigmatic when I talk about my collection. One can never be too careful.

  “The Catholic Church’s persecution of him is the primary focus of the book. But he also makes many confessions. The Master’s life – which was heralded as the life of a great visionary by historians, the Government of Italy and the Church of Rome – was all a fraud.

  “He admitted to spending far too much time on paintings and drawings that would never be completed. He was constantly tortured by the pressure to succeed, and the fame and legend that was built around his life. He talks a lot about his desire to be something less than he’d become. You know, a farmer, a blacksmith, something like that.

  “The pressure of being the great artist began to wear at him. And he’s certainly not as forgiving as the historians. He confessed that many of the creations he’s credited for – the helicopter, the submarine, scissors, things like that – were ripped off from other, more capable engineers.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I listened to Jack’s description of the book and while I tended to take him at face value when he spoke with such authority, this time I knew I was listening to a pile of crap. Jack had just been had. To the soulful ballad of seven and a half million dollars. Even if the book was authentic, he was still nuts.

  “I don’t buy that. I spent some time reading up on da Vinci’s life and I think that’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard. My friend, I think you’ve been had. You got ripped off, and I’d be calling my lawyer if I were you.” I drained my glass and reached for more ice.

  Jack glowered at me and deliberately picked up his glass. He drained it in my direction, as if he did it to spite me. And while I didn’t understand the gesture I knew there was more coming, so I decided to shut up and see what came next.

  “Okay. Okay, wiseguy. I don’t expect you to understand. But look at this.” As he said ‘this’ a small package seemed to appear, as if it had been hidden and suddenly procured from Jack’s sleeve by sleight of hand. Jack slapped it down on the table as if he were pounding his fist in defiance.

  I stared at a leather satchel. One which appeared to be quite old. The flap was sealed by a piece of string wrapped several times around a catch on the body of the satchel. Jack unwrapped the string and opened the flap. I took another sip while he gingerly removed a small stack of letters from the pouch. Pushing it aside, he placed the papers on the table. He sat back and watched them while he waited for me to respond. But I couldn’t, for I had no idea what I was looking at.

  They were very old. Several sheets of parchment, maybe seventy of them, very yellowed and frayed. They were in serious disrepair. The edges flaked away from the pages and the effects of time and weather ate away at the bold handwriting. It was foreign to me. Which was to be assumed, I guess, for as I leaned over and looked – I knew there was no way Jack was going to let me pick them up – I couldn’t recognize the script that was before me. But I knew I was looking at something ancient. After examining the page for a moment, I leaned back and took one last puff from my smoke and butted it out by pinching it with my thumb and forefinger. This was driving me nuts. He’s such a drama queen.

  “Okay, so what am I looking at? And how much did you pay?” Jack smiled and lightly stroked his fingertips across the top page. Not touching it, but apparently reveling in the fact that he was so close to it that he could if he wanted to. Suddenly, he seemed to remember himself. Picking up the satchel, he lovingly put the pages back and wound the string around the catch until he was convinced that the letters were safe once more. He placed it on a side table and drained his glass. His eyes rolled back in his head as he poured the last drop into his mouth. Slamming the glass on the table, he looked at me and clenched his jaw.

  “I paid a great deal for it. A great deal more than for the Master’s autobiography. Convincing Signore diGarmo was a challenge, that’s for sure. But everyone has a price. I just had to find his.” As he took the bottle of Scotch he grimaced, as if the memory of the transaction was distasteful to him.

  “diGarmo? You bought both of these from him?” Jack nodded and smiled as he refilled his glass.

  “So why didn’t they show up on the bill?” I don’t know why I thought of that. Normally, it wouldn’t have occurred to me, but I knew Jack. Something else was lurking inside his head. Something that would come out with a climax to rival Manhattan. He closed his eyes and nodded vigorously, grateful that I asked.

  “Let’s just say that there can’t be a paper trail on this.”

  “Why?”

  “Mal, the less you know the better. Anyway, you haven’t asked me what they are.” I tossed up my arms and looked at him with a gesture of utter frustration.

  “Yes, I did! You didn’t answer!” Jack smiled and ignored me.

  “You could have just asked me, Mal. Jesus.” I sighed and leaned my head back on the head rest of the chair. God, this guy drives me to drink.

  “What I just showed you is a certified group of letters and documents written by Pope Gregory VII. They were written between 1078 and 1085 AD.” Jack sipped his Scotch while he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. As if I was supposed to jump up and yell, ‘I’m such an idiot for asking!’ Mockingly, I looked at him.

  “Okay. Well, I’m glad we cleared-up that mystery.” Chuckling, I shook another cigarette out of the package that Jack had given me and placed it between my lips.

  “Mal, Mal.” Jack sighed. “What am I going to do with you? Don’t you know what these represent?” I puffed on the cigarette that I had just lit and shook my head at him. Of course I don’t. Jack acknowledged my nonverbal response and sighe
d again.

  “All right, I suppose I can’t expect you to know everything that I know. But by now, you should. These, Mal, are a series of letters written by the Pope to several of the most powerful and influential rulers of the era. Including William the Conqueror, Philip I of France, and several powerful Cardinals inside the Vatican.” I nodded and twirled my Scotch in the glass in my hand. Taking another long sip, I hoped he would get to the point before the alcohol ran out. But I couldn’t wait, and I was beginning to find the exchange most painful.

  “Okay, so let me guess…steamy love letters from the Pope to William? Mama’s secret recipe for pizza dough? Jeez.” Jack looked at me distastefully, but he was on a roll and I couldn’t derail his tirade, no matter how sarcastic I was.

  “Mal,” he looked at me, trying to engage my eyes, “There is a secret revealed in these pages.” He picked up the satchel and held it on his lap. As if he was afraid that it would fly away or dissolve if he didn’t hold onto it.

  “And I know the secret. A secret that no-one knows. A secret that would change the world as we know it, if it were ever to get out. These letters don’t exist.” He smiled and stroked the leather bag.

  “What do you mean ‘no-one knows’? Obviously, the guy who sold them to you – what did you say his name was? diGarmo? He knows.”

  “Well, perhaps a handful of people know. But as for diGarmo, he did…” He looked off in the distance, away from me when he said that and twirled his warm Scotch around before draining it again.

  “He doesn’t anymore.”

  I stopped in mid-sip and peered at him. What is he saying? Do I want to know?

  “Jack, maybe you need to jump back. I’m confused.” Jack nodded, as if he understood my confusion, and poured another.

  He folded his arms on his chest. He looked seriously hurt, and I suddenly felt badly for being so harsh with him, but dammit, he was nuts. Jack stared at me through slanted eyes, sighed and poured another drink.

  “I guess I should have known that you couldn’t understand this. Even you, Mal. I suppose I hoped that one day you’d be able to share this with me. But I know how unrealistic that expectation is.” He clenched his jaw and peered into the distance, as if he were looking at something. Even thought he wasn’t.

  “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.” I had tensed up when he started to talk about my lack of understanding, remembering the last time we had that discussion. But I breathed a little easier when he acquiesced. I nodded and began to talk, but he interrupted me.

  “I will tell you this. No one would want to acknowledge their existence. They’ve been buried for centuries. They are authentic, and if you’re still in doubt, then ask yourself. Why would people be willing to die and kill for them?”

  “Well, Jack, even if they are authentic, I can’t believe that anyone would die or kill for...” My voice trailed off when I realized the implication of his words.

  “What are you saying? Who died and killed for them? Waitasec, what do the letters say?” I hated the fact that, as normal, he had forced me off-topic. I wanted to know what the Hell was in that satchel that he so carefully coveted. I looked squarely at him, only now realizing that he was holding onto something that was, perhaps, more than any man should dare to hold onto. I wanted to know the secret of the contents. Suddenly I desired to know what Jack – and apparently few others – knew.

  “Why have they been buried?” Jack sighed again, shook his head and closed his eyes. He slouched in his 1960’s era couch.

  “That, I think, is a discussion for another time. I’m tired of talking about it.”

  Chapter 49

  When I returned to Montreal it was with an unsettled heart.

  The image of that monstrous construction was etched in my brain and invaded my sleeping hours. I’d never seen anything like it – there never was anything like it. Jack’s mania had progressed and taken on a new face.

  The implication that diGarmo slept with the fishes worried me intensely. Jack’s violent streak had made itself known in university. But would he actually pay to have a man killed? For the sake of some lousy letters? He could afford it, but was he capable of it? I knew the answer, but my heart told me otherwise.

  I avoided him after that. Several months passed without talking. But his messages were unruly and filled with bizarre observations, nonsensical rants and hateful thoughts. Finally, in late October, he left a message telling me that the house was completed, and that he would be moving in shortly.

  I was shocked. When I saw it in July, it looked like there was still a lot of work to be done. But he did have a lot of workers. I called him back and felt an ill twinge in my stomach as I listened to his trembling voice.

  “Everything’s coming from the warehouse next Tuesday! You have to see!”

  “Uh, Jack, I’d love to, but I can’t. I have too much keeping me here. But I can’t wait to see it once you’re moved in.” While I lied, he pouted like a child.

  “Seriously, Jack, let me know when you’re moved in and we’ll get together for a house warming party.” The place could use some warmth.

  “Alright, alright. I want to share it with someone, and you’re the natural choice. Hurry up and get down here!”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You won’t regret it! The house is everything it was supposed to be! Wait until you see!” I would regret it.

  Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.

  I told him that I’d see it soon, but months passed. Jack kept on inviting me and I kept on making excuses. Winter came early, in a furious manner. And as snow piled up on the streets in thirty-foot tall banks, I tried not to let the season get me down.

  We spoke less and less. I suppose he was getting tired and irritated by my evasion. Occasionally I thought about him and wondered how things were, but life’s little steps kept me occupied.

  ***

  Elizabeth and I spent every possible moment together, and I forgot about everything else. Jack included. I never felt better. I was convinced that we had finally reached our destination.

  It grew, from a relationship that had a strong foundation to begin with, into something beautiful. When we were apart, I dreamed about her. And when we were together, we lived.

  We went horseback riding, on picnics and to amusement parks just for the rollercoasters. We cooked incredible meals together, dined at fantastic restaurants and tasted really good wine. We would get drunk and dance, and then make love until the crack of dawn. Then we’d lie in bed and talk about life, and everything that made our eyes sparkle.

  All this fed my desire and longing for her. And frankly, it made the moments when we did see each other even more spectacular. Our love grew to the point when I knew it was time to do something about it. I could see it in her eyes when she looked at me. It had taken time and hard work to rebuild the trust and understanding. But I just knew it was right.

  And so on Christmas Eve, more than a year after she blew back into my life, I proposed to her in Bloomfield Hills, outside in the snow, at St. Hugo of the Hills Church.

  It was after Six O’clock Mass. Unbeknownst to her, I had hired a professional troupe of carolers to serenade us. They were strategically situated on the path to my car. Just where I had instructed them to be. I chose a secluded area so that we could have some privacy.

  We stopped and held each other while we listened. She was none the wiser as they sang God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and Carol of the Bells.

  But per my instructions, they launched into Jerome Kern’s The Way You Look Tonight. It was a slow and soulful version. The lead singer of the troupe belted out the lyrics in a beautiful baritone voice. And the backup singers fused an a capella version that sounded like a cross between a church choir and angels from heaven.

  It was beautiful, and tears welled in my eyes as I held her and peered down at her face. She frowned with confusion and looked up at me, as they began to sing this beautiful love song.

  “What’s going on?”
I gently grasped her shoulders through leather gloves and turned her to face me. I kissed her on the mouth and held her. God, she was beautiful. Tiny snowflakes danced around her cheeks and eyes. As if they, too, were drawn to her.

  “Do you have a tissue?” I faked a sniffle. She shrugged and reached into her coat pocket.

  “Sure, I always…” she rummaged around in her pocket and stopped in mid-sentence. She gazed up at me, wide-eyed and incredulous as she pulled her hand out. Holding a small box.

  My intense love smiled at her shock and realization while I removed my glove so that I could stroke her cheek. Our breath crystallized in the air and formed small clouds that caressed and kissed each other as we peered into each other’s eyes.

  The trance was broken when she looked down into her hand. As if I didn’t want her to hold it too long – for fear that it might stop being something that bound us and instead drove us apart – I took it from her; opening it to reveal the diamond ring. Along with her eyes (which now watched me again), it glistened in the moonlight.

  I pursed my fingers together and tugged the ring from its box, dropped to one knee and held it toward her. That was the cue as one of the carolers connected an extension cord. White lights illuminated through the snow under our feet, spelling words that had been carefully-placed there earlier that day. ‘Be with me forever.’ In gentle and expressive tones, I commenced my carefully-prepared speech.

  “Elizabeth, from the first day I met you, I realized that no other woman in this lifetime or the next could make me feel the way I feel. You are my friend, my lover, my soulmate. You are the first thing I think about in the morning, and what I dream about when I go to sleep at night. I can’t imagine a world without you in it, and if I were to lose you, I think it would be my last day on this earth.

  “I want to grow old with you and experience everything that life has in store for us. Will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you marry me?”

  I was ecstatic, just to have managed to get the words out without stumbling. I looked at her, feeling a joy that I’d never experienced.