Poe Page 21

  “Take the day,” says Mac. “We’ll hire a temp to cover.”

  Myrna sniffs loudly into a tissue, and now Mac is nervously at a loss for words, as if this is the extent of his experience with female consolation. Both he and Nate notice me at the same time. Mac looks relieved to have something else to talk about. Nate glares.

  “Look who’s here,” says Mac, coming over to grip my elbow, as if I’ve suffered a loss, too. “Great story you dialed in the other day. Made me crazy that it was so late, but worth it, kid. You’ve got the knack.”

  Nate crushes the paper cup in his hands and throws it at a trash can. He misses.

  “Tough on Myrna,” says Mac in an even softer tone. “They can’t have the funeral until the autopsy is done. Specialists coming in from DC. Myrna said it’d be weeks.” Then, even more quietly, Mac whispers, “And you were right; we’re doubling our ad rates. Maybe when Myrna has had a chance to, you know…”

  Myrna blows her nose loudly into the tissue. It sounds like someone just strangled a goose.

  “Get a little past her grief,” continues Mac, “you could do an interview. Victim’s side of things. Could be very touching.”

  I can hear him mentally subtracting his net from his gross; it’s making me sick just to stand next to him. Instead of replying, I walk over to Myrna.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, and she peers at me with more than just a little distrust. I’m ashamed to say I’ve earned it. “Your sister was”—What’s a positive word I can honestly use here?—“special. One of a kind.”

  Apparently that works well enough, because Myrna starts to sob again, but she also holds out a hand appreciatively and grasps my arm before dabbing at her eyes with the same tissue.

  Obviously this is all more than Nate can take, because, looking furious, he digs his hands into his jacket pockets and storms out to the stairway without uttering a word.

  “A sensitive kid, my Nate,” says Mac wistfully.

  Sensitive, my ass.

  After I stay on the third floor for what seems to be an appropriate amount of time, I start to quietly make my way for the elevator—God knows I don’t want to take the chance of running into Nate on the stairs.

  If I thought the third floor was quiet, then the basement is like a tomb. No one is sitting at the gray metal desk, and I have a brief panicky moment where I think maybe Ernest finally went and died, which would make me the winner of the office pool, but a holder of indecipherable texts. Then I hear soft shuffling footsteps in the utility closet. A waft of smoke drifts out. He’s, like, ninety-five, and he’s a smoker?

  “Ernest?”

  Ernest pokes his head out of the closet and sheepishly waves away at the small cloud that follows him. “Bad habit. Going to kill me one of these days.”

  “You are going to outlive us all.”

  “One can only hope,” he says dryly. He drops the cigarette on the floor and rubs it out with his heel. “Now,” he says with a raspy voice, “out with it. What do you want? You look like a student who deserves a C but wants me to change his grade to an A.”

  I do a cursory check behind me—looks like we’re alone, so I decide to start with what should be the easiest to translate, the inscription in my father’s pocket watch. I take it out and gently pull off the back to reveal the inscription. “Can you tell me what this means?”

  My heart starts to pound. Is this just another pointless clue that will lead to another that will lead to another, like some kind of karmic Möbius strip? Or will it actually reveal something of consequence about my father?

  Ernest gives me a hard look. “I take it you didn’t study the classics?”

  I shake my head.

  “I swear, the state of education today,” he mutters, taking the watch and examining it closely. “You need to get this fixed. You notice it’s going backwards?”

  “I had noticed that, thanks.”

  Then he doesn’t say anything; he just stares quietly, not even blinking, and I start to think maybe he’s one of those old people who fall asleep standing up with their eyes open.

  “Umm, and the inscription says?”

  “This would have taken one of my students about six seconds. ‘Glance into the world just as though time were gone, and everything crooked will become straight to you.’ Nietzsche.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Hell if I know,” he says brusquely. “I taught languages, not philosophy.”

  Great—this is just great. I hold back with difficulty the impulse to take the watch and throw it against the wall—a measure that would at least provide me a small amount of gratification.

  Ernest moves on to what must be his new crossword puzzle and pulls a chewed pencil from behind his ear. “Nine-letter word, convert to vapor,” he mutters.

  “Sublimate,” I say. I wonder if there’s any point in even showing him the books.

  He looks at the word going down. “You’re right,” he says, as if this is a big surprise. Then he sighs. “Okay, what else do you have? There’s something in the bag, right, that you want to show me?”

  Feeling particularly hopeless, I pull out my book and the battered pages wrapped in dusty velvet, which maybe someone tried to burn because trying to decipher them was a freaking waste of time.

  Ernest weighs the leather book in his hands, turns it over, and runs a finger down what’s left of the spine. “Hand sewn, I can tell you that,” he says. With a little more interest he carefully opens it to the first gilded page, measuring the thickness of it between his thumb and forefinger. “Nice paper. The Russian print looks like moveable type, but the Greek is much, much older…” Then, most surprising of all, he lifts the book and takes a deep, almost perverted whiff. I wonder if maybe Ernest has some kind of book fetish.

  “You’re smelling my book.”

  “Nothing like the smell of an antiquarian book, son. Nothing like it. With this binding, I’m going to take a stab in the dark and say that they’re the same book, just different translations from different time periods. The Russian pages are early twentieth century, but the Greek, hard to say. The paper almost feels like papyrus. Of course, that would be completely blasphemous to cut and bind such a rare document with a newer text. Possible though. And the title, of course, is very interesting.”

  “The title, perfect. What’s the title?”

  Ernest puts his head on one elbow and glances at my ring. “You realize that the watermark is the same symbol on your ring?”

  “Yes, I’d noticed.”

  “No need to take a sarcastic tone. Now why do you have a ring with this particular symbol?”

  I swallow hard. “I don’t know. One of the reasons I was hoping you could translate the book… now you said the title—”

  “Is very odd,” he says, pushing his glasses back with his forefinger.

  I try to restrain the part of me that wants to leap over the counter and wrap my hands around his ninety-five-year-old neck, and I take a deep breath instead. “And the title is—what?”

  “The Secret Grimoire of Grigori Rasputin: The Book of Seraphs.” Ernest carefully flips through the next few pages.

  “So it’s about Rasputin?”

  “Mmm, no. It’s attributed as being written by Rasputin. Very odd, because as far as I know Rasputin never published anything. But all this looks very hand done.” He glances at me over his glasses. “Which would mean it’s the only copy. Or one of only a few. And if that is true, then this is a very, very expensive book. Where did you say you got it?”

  “I didn’t,” I say brusquely. “But why is it in Greek and Russian?”

  “Well, whoever translated it from Greek obviously wanted to keep the original text. Always good to keep the source material in case there are errors in the translation. But I am very curious as to how you obtained—”

  I push the velvet-wrapped pages toward him. “This might be another copy actually. But the pictures are different.”

  Ernest raises an eyebrow and casts a
glance over his shoulder, like we’re in the middle of some kind of illicit drug deal, but he can’t resist and unwraps the velvet. As soon as he sees the charred first page, he sucks in his breath.

  “Oh my,” he whispers.

  “Is it the same book?”

  “No, no… I wish I had some tweezers to lift the pages. These are in very bad shape indeed. But so… compelling.”

  My heart starts to race. “So then what’s the title of this one?”

  “Fascinating” is all he says.

  “Ernest?”

  “Oh. Yes. The title of this one is The Secret Grimoire of Grigori Rasputin: The Book of Fiends.”

  “What’s a grimoire?”

  “Well, to really say what these are”—he gently lifts a page and turns it over, completely absorbed—“I’d need some time to fully study them. Weeks maybe. There’s so much here…”

  I lean in closer. “Ernest, I really don’t think I have weeks. If you can’t—”

  Quickly he clutches my arm. “No, I didn’t say I couldn’t, just… well…”

  “Well, what?”

  But already Ernest is feverishly talking to himself, as if I’m not there at all. “It’s not like I’m exactly overwhelmed in The Stacks,” he mutters.

  “Ernest!”

  He jumps, completely startled, and almost drops the pages.

  “Ernest,” I try in a quieter tone. “What is a grimoire?”

  “A grimoire is a book of spells.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Why on earth would I be kidding? Wouldn’t be such a far stretch to think that Rasputin was intrigued by the occult, given his reputation. It was quite the rage all through the late eighteenth to early twentieth century, back when the division between science and mysticism was not so clearly defined. Technically, the translation is ‘experiment,’ but not the kind of experiments you’re familiar with. Science has its genesis in alchemy, you know. All those attempts to turn lead into gold or create an elixir for immortality led to modern chemistry. Even Newton dabbled in—”

  “So you’re saying I have a book of spells,” I say, interrupting. “Perfect. Just what I always wanted.” My heart sinks as my mind conjures up images of green-skinned witches with pointy hats and a peculiar hatred of girls from Kansas with small terriers. Or worse yet, the Wiccan sort who attend Renaissance festivals and wear blousy peasant shirts.

  Ernest reads my tone. “They aren’t those kind of spells.”

  “Nothing about eyes of newts or toes of frogs?”

  “Macbeth,” he says, obviously impressed. “Your education wasn’t a complete disgrace. No, these are much more interesting than anything even Shakespeare could imagine. Basically, you have one book for conjuring and releasing seraphs, or angels as they’re more familiarly called, and then another for conjuring and releasing fiends, or demons. Should make for a fun Halloween party one of these days.”

  “Halloween—not exactly my favorite holiday.”

  “Oh right, of course. Apologies. I forgot about your near-death experience,” he says cheerfully. “I’d say the real value of these—besides the price you could probably get at auction—would be the notoriety from discovering books penned by Rasputin himself. I’m sure it would create quite a literary stir in the world of scholarship, and for the translator, well, it’d be quite the feather in the cap, so to speak…”

  His voice drifts off, and I can see Ernest imagining a much better obituary than the one I currently have filed away in the event of his death.

  “But it’s also quite possible they’re clever forgeries,” he adds reluctantly. “I do have a friend who could authenticate the books, but he’s on sabbatical right now in—”

  “Let’s just say they’re authentic. If I leave the books with you, you’ll translate them? Unless you have better things—”

  But already Ernest is rewrapping the pages in an almost possessive manner. “Of course I will. Much more fun in any case than my crossword puzzles. And if they are genuine, I’ll be immortal in the only realm it matters. Academia.”

  “I need to know what they mean—soon.”

  “You understand normally this kind of undertaking would take months, if not years—but if I scan some of the pages and let Google do the rough translation…”

  “I don’t have months, Ernest. I have hours.”

  “Well…” he says reluctantly. “I could have some partials done by tomorrow. At least give me a day.”

  I sigh.

  “There are no shortcuts with these kinds of things, young man.” He grabs my elbow with a surprising degree of strength and ushers me toward the elevator; it’s clear he’s eager to be rid of me so he can get back to the pages. “But I appreciate your keen enthusiasm… Have you ever considered going back to college and actually getting your degree? With your knack for discovering material…” At this he licks his dry lips. “And you will tell me where you found these books, won’t you? Before we’re finished?”

  I nod. What’s one more lie added to the others? And in that moment I realize I’m changing in some core inner space I’d never been aware of before. And that thought truly scares the shit out of me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: REFUGE

  There is a rustic, lakeside summer cabin that Elizabeth knows of, a friend of a friend’s electricity-free, phone-free artistic retreat that’s only a half hour away. This is where I take them, Lisa in the front seat, saying nothing and staring hard out the window, Elizabeth equally silent in the back, while Amelia happily makes her doll play air guitar for the benefit of Buddy, who’s either really into it (not a single bark or growl since he laboriously climbed onto the backseat) or long past caring.

  The cabin is a place they have never been. It goes unsaid, but weighs heavily, that it’s a place Daniel wouldn’t know about.

  The road winds through small towns, smaller towns, and then it’s just a few scattered farms with looming red barns. The wind pushes snow across the road, and it snakes over the recently plowed asphalt. The sun is setting behind us, glinting against the ice in the barren trees. I don’t want to stop. Ever. I want to keep going, maybe drive south through the stripped mine towns of Pennsylvania, the Smoky Mountains, and down into the heart of Florida, until we reach Miami—palm trees and Cuban restaurants. I could reasonably kidnap them all, couldn’t I?

  Somehow I don’t think Elizabeth would go for it.

  But once we get into the backwoods, some of the heaviness lifts. I’ve always found that when life is starting to turn to crap, it’s never a bad idea to change the scenery, if only for half a day or a night. There’s something comforting about seeing different things, different people; it makes life seem less claustrophobic, less pressing. The first six months after my parents’ death I put ten thousand miles on my Mustang. Sometimes I’d go find a park I’d never been to or a café I’d never eaten at and hang out for the day, people watching. It was good to think that I could literally pack everything I owned in a suitcase and walk away from my life, start again.

  “Right here,” says Elizabeth.

  We turn off on a road that’s barely a road. The branches are low, and twigs scrape at the sides of the Mustang. Then there’s a clearing and a small two-story cabin. The sagging front porch and unpainted clapboard exterior make it a little too Deliverance, in my humble opinion. I half expect to see an overweight man in dirty overalls break the front glass window and aim a shotgun at us.

  But Elizabeth sighs with relief. “Here we are.”

  I note that the snow is perfectly undisturbed, except for a few deer prints. A good sign. Behind the cabin stretches the lake, a flat expanse of snow-covered ice; wind has created drifts of snow like mini–sand dunes.

  Amelia jumps out of the car and drops backward on the pristine snow, waving her arms and legs. “I’m making snow angels!” Of course she’s barefoot.

  “Jesus Christ, Amelia, do you not know how to wear boots?” says Lisa.

  “They make my feet itch,” rep
lies Amelia happily.

  Lisa mutters something incomprehensible, but there’s a welcome color in her cheeks as she digs under the car seat for the boots.

  Elizabeth notices too and catches my eye. We silently agree that this was a good idea.

  “Well,” says Elizabeth cheerfully, stepping out of the car. “Let’s go scare off the bats and get some canned beans going.”

  The inside of the cabin isn’t too awful. It’s sparse, the twiggy wooden furniture looks like it’s been feasted on by termites for decades, but there’s a good stack of firewood next to a rock fireplace and no sign of mouse droppings or other critter occupation.

  A few trips to the Mustang bring in our essential supplies—luggage, hot dogs, canned beans, instant coffee, oil paint, four loaves of Wonder Bread, two red Maglites, a guitar case, paintbrushes, matches, peanut butter, one ten-inch-by-eight-inch tom (Amelia solemnly corrects me when I call it a drum), marshmallows, hot pepper jelly, one half-empty bag of dog kibble, and my thousand-page doorstop of a novel, “Rasputin: Secret Tsar of Immortal Zombies.” I’m planning to scan it to see if I’ve inadvertently incorporated information that could prove useful, while Ernest’s translating the books.

  By the time the sun has completely set, Elizabeth’s got a good fire roaring, the hot dogs are only mildly charred, and we each have a bowl of steaming baked beans, heated up in the cans they came in.

  “I don’t want to share a bed with Lisa,” says Amelia, picking out one bean that is too brown (she only likes the light brown ones) and tossing it into the fire. “Her feet are too cold.”

  One of the first things Elizabeth pointedly did after we brought the suitcases in was assign rooms. She gets the smallest upstairs bedroom, Lisa and Amelia are to share the other, and I’ve been given a sleeping bag and a place by the fire. I have a feeling it’s quiet retribution for making off with her daughter the night before, but I don’t care. Travel had always been my father’s realm. My family never took vacations together, or went camping, not even a day trip. In a strange way, this is almost fun.