Galilee
by
clive barker


GALILEE

HarperCollinsPublishers

A limited signed edition of this book has been published by B. E. Trice
Publishing, New Orleans.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are
products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as
real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

GALmEE. Copyright  1998 by Clive Barker. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address
Harper Collins Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY
10022-5299.

Harper Collins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales
promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets
Department, Harper Collins Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New
York, NY 10022.

FIRST EDITION

Designed by Alma Hochhauser Orenstein

ISBN 0-06--017947-3

10987654321

To Emilian David Armstrong

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thankfully, I did not take this voyage alone. I'd like to offer here a few
words of appreciation to those who have accompanied me.

To Vann Sauls, of McGee's Crossroads, North Carolina, for his
friendship, his wit, and for the insights he imparted as we explored the
Carolinas together. Without our conversations wandering the midnight
streets of Charleston, and the woods at Bentonville, where the armies of
North and South clashed so calamitously, this book would be much
impoverished.

To Robb Humphreys and Joe Daley, who assisted me in my more
obscure researches, never failing to find on the library shelves books
that contained some vital nugget of information.

To my dear Anna Miller, who along with Robb and Joe runs our
film production company here in LA. While I've been at sea with
Galilee, she's kept the seductions and the insanities of this town at bay
with chair and whip.

To Don Mackay, who did me the great honor of making the typing of this
manuscript his only distraction from his true vocation, which is that of
actor.

And finally, to David John Dodds, who makes the world in which I live
and work run like clockwork, a far from easy task. He has been my friend
and guardian spirit for thirteen years. None of this would be possible
without his love and faith in me.

C.B.

CONTENTS

PART ONE

The Time Remaining

PART TWO

The Holy Family

PART THREE

An Expensive Life

PART FOUR

The Prodigal's Tide

PART FIVE

The Act of Love

PART SIX

Ink and Water

PART SEVEN

The Wheel of the Stars

PART EIGHT

A House of Women

PART NINE

The Human Road

PART ONE

The Time Remaining

At the insistence of my stepmother Cesaria Barbarossa the house in which
I presently sit was built so that it faces southeast. The architect
--who was no lesser man than the third President of the United States,
Thomas Jefferson--protested her desire repeatedly and eloquently. I have
the letters in which he did so here on my desk. But she would not be
moved on the subject. The house was to look back towards her homeland,
towards Africa, and he, as her employee, was to do as he was instructed.

It's very plain, however, reading between the lines of her missives (I
have those too; or at least copies of them) that he is far more than an
architect for hire; and she to him more than a headstrong woman with a
perverse desire to build a house in a swamp, in North Carolina, facing
southeast. They write to one another like people who know a secret.

I know a few myself; and luckily for the thoroughness of what follows I
have no intention of keeping them.

The time has come to tell everything I know. Failing that, everything I
can detect or surmise. Failing that, everything I can invent. If I do my
job properly it won't even matter to you which is which. What will
appear on these pages will be, I hope, a seamless history, describing
deeds and destinies that will range across the world. Some of them will
be, to say the least, strange events, enacted by troubled and
unpalatable souls. But as a general rule, you should assume that the
more unlikely the action I lay upon this stage for you, the more likely
it is that I have evidence of its having happened. The things I will
invent will be, I suspect, mundane by comparison with the truth. And as
I said, it's my intention that you should not know the difference. I
plan to interweave the elements of my story so cunningly that you'll
cease to even care whether an event happened out there in the same world
where you walk, or in here, in the head of a crippled man who will never
again move from his stepmother's house.

This house, this glorious house!

When Jefferson labored on its designs he was still some distance from
Pennsylvania Avenue, but he was by no means an unknown. The year was
1790. He had already penned the Declaration of Independence, and served
in France as the US Minister to the French government. Great words had
flowed from his pen. Yet here he is taking time from his duties in
Washington, and from work in his own house, to write long letters to my
father's wife, in which the business of constructing this house and the
nuances of his heart are exquisitely interlaced.

If that is not extraordinary enough, consider this: Cesaria is a black
woman; Jefferson, for all his democratic protestations, was the owner of
some two hundred slaves. So how much authority must she have had over
him, to be able to persuade him to labor for her as he did? It's a
testament to her powers of enchantment--powers which in this case she
exercised, as she was fond of saying, "without the juju." In other
words: in her dealings with Jefferson she was simply, sweetly, even
innocently, human. Whatever capacities she possesses to supernaturally
beguile a human soul--and she possesses many--she liked his
clear-sightedness too well to blind him that way. If he was devoted to
her, it was because she was worthy of his devotion.

They called the house he built for her L'Enfant. Actually, I believe the
full name was L'Enfant de les Carolinas. I can only speculate as to why
they so named it.

That the name of the house is in French is no big surprise: they met in
the gilded salons of Paris. But the name itself? I have two theories.
The first, and the most obvious, is that the house was in a sense the
product of their romance, their child if you will, and they named it
accordingly. The second, that it was the infant of an architectural
parent, the progenitor being Jefferson's own house at Monticello, into
which he poured his genius for most of his life. It's bigger than
Monticello by a rough measure of three (Monticello is eleven thousand
square feet; I estimate L'Enfant to be a little over thirty-four
thousand) and has a number of smaller service buildings in its vicinity,
whereas Jefferson's house is a single structure, incorporating the slave
and servant quarters, the kitchen and toilet facilities, under one roof.
But in other regards the houses are very similar. They're both
Jeffersonian reworkings of Palladian models; both have double porticoes,
both have octagonal domes, both have capacious high-ceilinged rooms and
plenty of

windows, both are practical rather than glamorous houses; both, I'd say,
are structures that bespeak great confidence and great love.

Of course their settings are radically different. Monticello, as its
name suggests, is set on a mountain. L'Enfant sits on a plot of
low-lying ground forty-seven acres in size, the southeastern end of
which is unredeemable swamp, and the northern perimeter wooded,
primarily with pine. The house itself is raised up on a modest ridge,
which protects it a little from the creeping damps and rots of this
region, but not enough to stop the cellar from flooding during heavy
rain, and the rooms getting damnably cold in winter and humid as hell in
summer. Not that I'm complaining. L'Enfant is an extraordinary house.
Sometimes I think it has a soul all of its own. Certainly it seems to
know the moods of its occupants, and accommodates them. There have been
times, sitting in my study, when a black thought has crept into my
psyche for some reason, and I swear I can feel the room darken in
sympathy with me. Nothing changes physically--the drapes don't close,
the stains don't spread--but I nevertheless sense a subtle
transformation in the chamber; as if it wishes to fall in rhythm with my
mood. The same is true on days when I'm blithe, or haunted by doubts, or
merely feeling lazy. Maybe it's Jefferson's genius that creates the
illusion of empathy. Or perhaps it's Cesaria's work: her own genius,
wedded with his. Whatever the reason, L'Enfant knows us. Better, I
sometimes think, than we know ourselves.

ii

I share this house with three women, two men, and a number of inde
terminates.

The women are of course Cesaria and her daughters, my two half sisters,
Marietta and Zabrina. The men? One is my half-brother Luman (who doesn't
actually live in the house, but outside, in a shack on the grounds) and
Dwight Huddie, who serves as majordomo, as cook and as general handyman:
I'll tell you more about him later. Then, as I said, there's the
indeterminates, whose number is, not surprisingly, indeterminate.

How shall I best describe these presences to you? Not as spirits; that
evokes something altogether too fanciful. They are simply nameless
laborers, in Cesaria's exclusive control, who see to the general upkeep
of the house. They do their job well. I wonder sometimes if Cesaria
didn't first conjure them when Jefferson was still at work here, so that
he could give them all a practical education in the strengths and
liabilities of his masterpiece. If so, it would have been a scene to
cherish: Jefferson the

great rationalist, the numbers man, obliged to believe the evidence of
his own eyes, though his common sense revolted at the idea that
creatures such as these--brought out of the ether at the command of the
mistress of L'Enfant--could exist. As I said, I don't know how many of
them there are (six, perhaps; perhaps less); nor whether they're in fact
projections of Cesaria's will or things once possessed of souls and
volition. I only know that they tirelessly perform the task of keeping
this vast house and its grounds in a reasonable condition, but--like
stagehands in a theater-- do so only when our gaze is averted. If this
sounds a little eerie, maybe it is: I've simply become used to it. I no
longer think about who it is who changes my bed every morning while I'm
brushing my teeth, or who sews the buttons back on my shirt when they
come loose, or fixes the cracks in the plaster or trims the magnolias. I
take it for granted that the work will be done, and that whoever the
laborers are, they have no more desire to exchange pleasantries with me
than I do with them.

There's one other occupant of the place that I think I should mention,
and that's Cesaria's personal servant. How she came to have him as her
bosom companion will be the subject of a later passage, so I'll leave
the details until then. Let me say only this: he is, in my opinion, the
saddest soul in the house. And when you consider the sum of sorrow under
this roof, that's no little claim.

Anyway, I don't want to get mired in melancholy. Let's move on.

Having listed the human, or almost human, occupants of L'Enfant, I
should make mention perhaps of the animals. An estate of this size is of
course home to innumerable wild species. There are foxes, skunks and
possums, there are feral cats (escapees from domestic servitude
somewhere in Rollins County), and a number of dogs who make their home
in the thicket. The trees are busy with birds night and day, and every
now and then an alligator wanders up from the swamp and suns itself on
the lawn.

All this is predictable enough. But there are two species whose presence
here is rather less likely. The first was imported by Marietta, who took
it into her head some years back to raise three hyena pups. How she came
by them I don't recall (if she ever told me); I only know she wearied of
surrogate motherhood quickly enough, and turned them loose. They bred,
incestuously of course, and now there's quite a pack of them out there.
The other oddities here are my stepmother's pride and joy: the
porcupines. She's kept them as pets since first occupying the house, and
they've prospered. They live inside, where they roam unfettered and
unchallenged, though they prefer on the whole to stay upstairs, close to
their mistress.

We had horses, of course, in my father's day--the stables were
palatially appointed--but none of them survived an hour beyond his
passing. Even if they'd had choice in the matter (which they didn't),
they were too loyal to live once he'd gone; too noble. I doubt the same
could be said of any of the other species. They grudgingly coexist with
us while we're here, but I doubt there would be much grieving among them
if we all departed. Nor do I imagine they'd long respect the sanctity of
the house. In a week or two they'd have taken up residence: hyenas in
the library, alligators in the cellar, foxes running riot under the
great dome. Sometimes I wonder if they're not eyeing it already;
planning for the day when it's theirs to shit on from roof to
foundations.

II

My suite of rooms is at the back of the house, four rooms in all, none
of which were designed for their present purpose. What is now my
bedroom--and the chamber I consider the most charming in the house--was
originally a dining room used by my late father, Hursek Nicodemus
Barbarossa, who did not once sit at the same table as Cesaria all the
time I lived here. Such is marriage.

Adjacent to the study where I am sitting now, Nicodemus put his
collection of keepsakes, a goodly portion of which was--at his
request--buried with him when he died. There he kept the skull of the
first horse he ever owned, along with a comprehensive and outlandish
collection of sexual devices fashioned over the ages to increase the
pleasure of connoisseurs. (He had a tale for every one of them:
invariably hilarious.) This was not all he kept here. There was a
gauntlet that had belonged to Saladin, the Moslem lover of Richard the
Lionheart. There was a scroll, painted for him in China, which depicted,
he once told me, the history of the world (though it seemed to my
uneducated eyes simply a landscape with a serpentine river winding
through it); there were dozens of representations of the male
genitals--the lingam, the jade flute, Aaron's rod (or my father's
favorite term: II Santo Membro, the holy cock)--some of which I believe
were carved or sculpted by his own priests, and therefore represent the
sex that spurted me into being. Some of those objects are still here on
the shelves. You may think that odd; even a little distasteful. I'm not
certain I would even argue with that opinion. But he was a sexual man,
and these statues, for all their

crudity, embody him better than a book of his life, or a thousand
photographs.

And it's not as if they're the only things on the shelves. Over the
decades I've assembled here a vast library. Though I speak only English,
French and a halting Italian, I read Hebrew, Latin and Greek, so my
books are often antiquated, their subjects arcane. When you've had as
much time on your hands as I've had, your curiosity takes obscure turns.
In learned circles I'd probably be counted a world expert in a variety
of subjects that no person with a real life to live--children, taxes,
love-- would give a fig about.

My father, were he here, would not approve of my books. He didn't like
me to read. It reminded him, he would tell me, of how he'd lost my
mother. A remark, by the way, which I do not understand to this day. The
only volume he encouraged me to study was the two-leaved book that opens
between a woman's legs. He kept ink, pen and paper from me when I was a
child; though of course I wanted them all the more because they were
forbidden me. He was determined that my real schooling be in the art and
craft of horse breeding, which, after sex, was his great passion.

As a young man I traveled the world on his behalf, buying and selling
horses, organizing their transportation to the stables here at L'Enfant,
learning how to understand their natures as he understood them. I was
good at what I did; and I enjoyed my travels. Indeed I met my late wife,
Chiyojo, on one of those trips; and brought her back here to the house,
intending to start a family. Those sweet ambitions were unfortunately
denied me, however, by a sequence of tragedies that ended with the death
of both my wife and that of Nicodemus.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I was talking about this room, and what
it housed during my father's occupancy: the phalli, the scroll, the
horse's skull. What else? Let me think. There was a bell which Nicodemus
claimed had been rung by a leper healed at the Crucifixion (he took the
bell to his grave), and a device, no bigger than the humidor in which I
keep my havanas, which plays a curious, whining music if touched, its
sound so close to the human voice that it's possible to believe, as my
father insisted, that its sealed interior contains a living mechanism.

Please feel free to make of these claims what you will, by the way.
Though my father has been dead almost a hundred and forty years, I'm not
about to call him a liar in print. Such men as my father do not take
kindly to having their stories questioned, and though he is deceased I
do not entirely believe I am beyond his reach.

Anyway, it is a fine room. Obliged as I am to sit here most of the day I
have become familiar with every nuance of its form and volume, and were
Jefferson standing before me now I would tell him: sir, I can think of
no happier prison than this; nor any more likely to inspire my slovenly
mind to fly.

If I am so very happy here, sitting with a book in my hands, why, you
may ask, have I decided to put pen to paper and write what will be
inevitably a tragic history? Why torment myself this way, when I could
wheel myself out onto the balcony and sit with a copy of St. Thomas
Aquinas in my lap and watch life in the mimosas?

There are two reasons. The first is my half-sister Marietta.

It happened like this. About two weeks ago she came into my room
(without knocking, as usual), partook of a glass of gin, without asking,
as usual, and sitting down without invitation in what used to be my
father's chair said: "Eddie . . ."

She knows I hate to be called Eddie. My full name's Edmund Maddox
Barbarossa. Edmund is fine; Maddox is fine; I was even called The Ox in
my younger day, and didn't find it offensive. But Eddie? An Eddie can
walk. An Eddie can make love. I'm no Eddie.

"Why do you always do that?" I asked her.

She sat back in the creaking chair and smiled mischievously, "Because it
annoys you," she replied. A typically Mariettaesque response, I may say.
She can be the very soul of perversity, though to look at her you'd
never think it. I won't dote on her here (she gets far too much of that
from her girlfriends), but she is a beautiful woman, by any measure.
When she smiles, it's my father's smile; the sheer appetite in it,
that's an echo of him. In repose, she's Cesaria's daughter; lazy-lidded
and full of quiet certitude, her gaze, if it rests on you for more than
a moment, like a physical thing. She's not a tall creature, my
Marietta-- a little over five feet without her boots--and now the
immensity of chair she was sitting in, and the silly-sweet smile on her
face, diminished her almost to a child. It wasn't hard to imagine my
father behind her, his huge arms wrapped around her, rocking her.
Perhaps she imagined it too, sitting there. Perhaps it was that memory
that made her say:

"Do you feel sad these days? I mean, especially sad?"

"What do you mean: especially sad?"

"Well I know how you brood in here--"

"I don't brood."

"You shut yourself away."

"It's by choice. I'm not unhappy."

"Honestly?"

"I've got all I need here. My books. My music. Even if I'm desperate,
I've got a television. I even know how to switch it on."

"So you don't feel sad? Ever?"

As she was pressing me so hard on the subject, I gave it a few more
moments of thought. "Actually, I suppose I have had one or two bouts of
melancholy recently," I conceded. "Nothing I couldn't shake off, but-"

"I hate this gin."

"It's English."

"It's bitter. Why do you have to have English gin? The sun went down on
the Empire a long time ago."

"I like the bitterness."

She pulled a face. "Next time I'm in Charleston I'm going to bring you
some really nice brandy," she said.

"Brandy's overrated," I remarked.

"It's good if you dissolve a little cocaine in it. Have you ever tried
that? That gives it a nice kick."

"Cocaine dissolved in brandy?"

"It goes down so smoothly, and you don't get a nose filled with grey
boogers the next morning."

"I don't have any need for cocaine, Marietta. I get along quite well
with my gin."

"But liquor makes you sleepy."

No "

So?

"So you won't be able to afford so much sleepiness, once you get to
work."

"Am I missing something here?" I asked her.

She got up, and despite her contempt for my English gin, refilled her
glass and came to stand behind my chair. "May I wheel you out onto the
balcony?"

"I wish you'd get to the point." "I thought you Englishmen liked
prevarication?" she said, easing me out from in front of my desk and
taking me around it to the french windows. They were already wide
open--I'd been sitting enjoying the fragrance of the evening air when
Marietta entered. She took me out onto the balcony.

"Do you miss England?" she asked me.

"This is the most peculiar conversation ..." I said.

"It's a simple question. You must miss it sometimes."

(My mother, I should explain, was English; one of my father's many
mistresses.)

"It's a very long time since I was in England. I only really remember it
in my dreams."

"Do you write the dreams down?"

"Oh . . ." I said. "Now I get it. We're back to the book."

"It's time, Maddox," she said, with a greater gravity than I could
recall her displaying in a long while. "We don't have very much time

left."

"According to whom?"

"Oh for God's sake, use your eyes. Something's changing, Eddie. It's
subtle, but it's everywhere. It's in the bricks. It's in the flowers.
It's in the ground. I went walking near the stables, where we put Poppa,
and I swear I felt the earth shaking."

"You're not supposed to go there."

"Don't change the subject. You are so good at that, especially when
you're trying to avoid your responsibility."

"Since when was it--"

"You're the only one in the family who can write all this down, Eddie.
You've got all the journals here, all the diaries. You still get letters
from you-know-who."

"Three in the last forty years. It's scarcely a thriving correspondence.
And for God's sake, Marietta, use his name."

"Why should I? I hate the little bastard."

"That's the one thing he certainly isn't, Marietta. Now why don't you
just drink your gin and leave me alone?"

"Are you telling me no, Eddie?"

"You don't hear that very often, do you?"

"Eddie ..." she simpered.

"Marietta. Darling. I'm not going to throw my life into turmoil because
you want me to write a family history."

She gave me a sharp little look and downed her gin in one throat ful,
setting the glass on the balcony railing. I could tell by the precision
of this motion, and her pause before she spoke, that she had an exit
line in readiness. She has a fine theatrical flair, my Marietta.

"You don't want to throw your life into turmoil? Don't be so perfectly
pathetic. You don't have a life, Eddie. That's why you've got to write
this book. If you don't, you're going to die without having done a damn
thing."

She knew better of course. I've lived, damn her! Before my injury I had
almost as great an appetite for experience as Nicodemus. I take that
back. I was never as interested in the sexual opportunities afforded by
my travel as he was. He knew all the great bordellos of Europe
intimately; I preferred to wander the cathedrals or drink myself into a
stupor in a bar. Drink is a weakness of mine, no question, and it's got
me into trouble more than once. It's made me fat too. It's hard, of
course, to stay thin when you're in a wheelchair. Your backside gets
big, your waistline spreads; and Lord, my face, which used to be so well
made I could walk into any gathering and take my pick of the female
company, is now pasty and round. Only in my eyes might you glimpse the
magnetism I once exercised. They are a peculiar color: mingled flecks of
blue and gray. The rest of me's just gone to hell.

I suppose that happens to everybody sooner or later. Even Marietta, who
is a pure-blooded Barbarossa, has said that over the years she's noticed
some subtle signs of aging; it's just much, much slower than it would be
for a human being. One gray hair every decade or so isn't anything to
bitch about, I remind her, especially when nature had given her so much
else: she has Cesaria's flawless skin (though neither she nor Zabrina
are quite as black as their mother) and Nicodemus's physical ease. She
also shares my delight in getting drunk, but as yet it's taken no toll
on her waist or her buttocks. I digress; again. How did I get onto the
subject of Marietta's backside? Oh yes, I was talking about how I
traveled as my father's envoy. It was wonderful. I stood in the shit in
a lot of stables over the years, of course, but I also visited some of
this planet's glories: the wilds of Mongolia, the deserts of North
Africa, the plains of Andalusia. So please understand that though I'm
now reduced to being a voyeur, this wasn't always the case. I don't
write as a theorist, pontificating on the state of a world that I only
knew from my newspapers and my television screen.

As I get deeper into the story I'll no doubt season it with talk of the
sights I saw and the people I knew on my journeys. For now, let me just
talk of England, the country where I was conceived. My birth mother was
a woman by the name of Moira Feeney, and, though she died a short

time after my birth, of a sickness I've never quite comprehended, I
passed the first seven years of my life in her native country, looked
after by her sister, Gisela. It was not by any means a cosseted
existence; Gisela was enraged when she discovered the father of her
sister's child did not intend to bring us into his charmed circle, and
rather than accept the substantial sums he offered her to help raise me,
she proudly, and foolishly, refused all subsidy. She also refused to see
him. It wasn't until Gisela also died (she was struck, somewhat
suspiciously, by lightning) that my father appeared in my life, and took
me with him on his travels. In the next five years we lived in a number
of extraordinary houses, the guests of great men who wanted my father's
advice as a horse breeder (and Lord knows what else besides; I think he
was probably shaping the destinies of nations behind the scenes). But
for all the glamour of those years--two summers in Granada, a spring in
Venice; so much more that I can't recall -- it is my years in Blackheath
with Gisela that I still return to most fondly. Gentle seasons these;
and my gentle human aunt, and milk and rain and the plum tree at the
back of the cottage, from the topmost branches of which I could see the
dome of St. Paul's.

I have a pristine memory of what it was like to perch in those gnarled
branches, where I would linger for hour upon hour, lulled into a happy
trance by rhymes and songs. One of those rhymes I remember to this day.

It seems I am, It seems I was, It seems I will Be born, because It seems
I am, It seems I was, It seems I will Be born because--

And so on, round and round.

Marietta's right, I do miss England, and I do what I can to keep
remembrance of it. English gin, English syntax, English melancholy. But
the England I yearn for, the England I dream of when I doze in my chair,
no longer exists. It was just a view from a plum tree, and a happy
child. Both went into history a long time ago. It is, however, the
second reason why I am writing this book. In opening the floodgates of
memory, I hope to be carried, at least for a little while, back into the
bliss of my childhood.

I should tell you, just briefly, about what happened the day I told
Marietta I'd begun this book, because you'll understand better what it's
like to live in this house. I had been sitting on my balcony with the
birds (there are eleven individuals--cardinals, buntings, soldier-wing
blackbirds --who come to feed from my hand and then stay to make music
for me), and while I was feeding them I heard her down below having a
furious argument with my other half-sister, Zabrina. As far as I could
gather Marietta was being her usual imperious self, and Zabrina--who
keeps out of everybody's way most of the time, and when she does
encounter one of the family doesn't say much--was for once standing up
for her own opinions. The gist of the exchange was this: Marietta had
apparently brought one of her lovers into the house the previous night,
and the visitor had proved to be quite the detective. Apparently she'd
got up while Marietta was asleep, had gone wandering around the house
and seen something she should not have seen.

Now she was apparently in a state of panic, and Marietta was quite out
of patience with her, so she was trying to cajole Zabrina into cooking
up some spiked candy that would wipe the woman's memory clean. Then
Marietta could take her back home, and the whole untidy business could
be forgotten.

"I told you last time I don't approve--" Zabrina's voice is normally
reedy and thin; now it was positively shrill.

"Oh Lord," said Marietta wearily. "Don't be so highhanded."

"You know you should keep ordinary folks away from the house," Zabrina
went on. "It's asking for trouble, bringing somebody here."

"This one's special," Marietta said.

"So why do you want me to wipe her memory?"

"Because I'm afraid she's going to lose her mind if you don't."

"What did she see?"

There was a pause. "I don't know," Marietta finally admitted. "She's too
incoherent to tell me."

"Well where did you find her?"

"On the stairs."

"She didn't see Mama?"

"No, Zabrina. She didn't see Mama. If she'd seen Mama--"

"She'd be dead."

"--she'd be dead."

There was a pause. Finally Zabrina said: "If I do this--"

"Yes?"

"Quid pro quo."

"That's not very sisterly," Marietta groused. "But all right. Quid pro
quo. What do you want?"

"I don't know yet/' Zabrina said. "But I'll think of something, don't
worry. And you won't like it. I'll make sure of that."

"How very petty of you," Marietta observed.

"Look. Do you want me to do it or don't you?"

Again there was a pause. "She's in my bedroom," Marietta said. "I had to
tie her to the bed."

Zabrina giggled.

"It's not funny."

"They're all funny," Zabrina replied. "Weak heads, weak hearts. You're
never going to find anyone who can really be with you. You know that
don't you? It's impossible. We're on our own, to the very end."

About an hour later Marietta appeared in my room. She looked ashen; her
gray eyes full of sadness.

"You heard the conversation," she said. I didn't bother to reply.
"Sometimes that bitch makes me want to hit her. Hard. Not that she'd
feel it. Fat cow."

"You just can't bear to be in anybody's debt."

"I wouldn't mind with you," she said.

"I don't count."

"No, I guess you don't," she replied. Then, seeing the expression on my
face. "Now what have I said? I'm just agreeing with you, for God's sake!
Why is everybody so damn sensitive around here?" She went to my desk and
examined the contents of the gin bottle. There was barely a shot
remaining. "Got any more?"

"There's half a case in the closet in the bedroom."

"Mindifl-?"

"Help yourself."

"You know we should talk more often, Eddie," she called back to me while
she dug for the gin. "Get to know one another. I don't have anything in
common with Dwight and Zabrina's been in the foulest mood for the last
couple of months. She's so obese these days, Eddie. Have you seen her? I
mean, she's grossly fat."

Though both Zabrina and Marietta insist that they're completely
unlike--and in many regards this is true--they have some essential
qualities in common. At their cores they're both willful, stubborn,
obsessive women. But whereas Marietta, who's eleven years Zabrina's
junior, has always prided herself on her athleticism, and is as lean as
a

woman can get and still have a lustiness about her body, Zabrina gave
into her cravings for praline brittle and pecan pie years ago.
Occasionally I'll see her from my window, wandering rotundly across the
lawn. At the last sighting she was probably three hundred and fifty
pounds. (We are, you've doubtless begun to grasp, a profoundly wounded
group of people. But trust me, when you better know the circumstances of
our lives, you'll be astonished we're as functional as we are.)

Marietta had emerged with a fresh bottle of gin, and, unscrewing the
top, poured herself an ample measure.

"Why do you keep all those clothes in the closet?" she said, knocking
back a mouthful. "You're never going to wear most of them."

"I presume that means you have your eye on something."

"The smoking jacket."

"Take it."

She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. "I've underrated you all these
years," she said, and went back into the bedroom to fetch the jacket in
case I changed my mind.

"I've decided to write the book," I told her when she emerged.

She tossed the jacket at Nicodemus's chair and fairly danced with
excitement. "That's so wonderful," she said. "Oh my God, Eddie, we're
going to have such fun."

"We?"

"Yes, we. I mean, you'll be writing it most of the time, but I'll be
helping. There's a lot you don't know. Dirt about Cesaria that she told
me when I was little."

"Maybe you should keep your voice down."

"She can't hear me. She's always in her chambers these days."

"We don't know what she can hear," I said. There was a story that she'd
had Jefferson design the house so that it funneled sounds to her
chambers (which I've never entered, by the way; nor has Marietta). The
story may be apocryphal, but I wonder. Though it's many, many months
since I caught sight of the woman I don't have difficulty believing she
sits there in her boudoir listening to her children, and her husband's
children, conniving and weeping and slowly losing their minds. She
probably enjoys it.

"Well if she can hear me, so what? She should be happy we're going to
all this trouble. I mean, it's going to be a history of the Bar
barossas. It'll make her immortal."

"If she isn't already."

"Oh no ... she's getting old. Zabrina sees her all the time and she says
the old bitch is failing."	;

"I find that hard to imagine."

"It was her saying that which started me thinking about our book."

"It's not our book," I insisted. "If I'm going to do it, it's going to
be done my way. Which means it's not going to simply be a history of the
Barbarossas."

She emptied her glass. "I see," she said, with a little chill in her
voice. "So what's it going to be?"

"Oh, it'll be about the family. But it'll be about the Gearys too."

Now she fell silent and stared out of the window at the place where I
sit with the birds. It took her fully a minute to bring herself to speak
again. "If you write about the Gearys, then I'm having nothing to do
with the fucking thing."

"How can I write--"

"Or indeed you."

"Let me finish, will you? How can I write about this
family--particularly the recent history of this family--and not write
about the Gearys?"

"They're scum, Eddie. Human scum. And vicious. Every one of them."

"That's not true, Marietta. And even if it were, I say again: what kind
of bowdlerized account would this damn book be if I didn't include
them?"

"All right. So just mention them in passing."

"They're part of our lives."

"They're not part of mine," she said fiercely. Her gaze came back in my
direction and I saw that she wasn't so much enraged as sorrowful. I was
revealing myself as a traitor with my desire to tell the story this way.
She measured her next words with great care, like a lawyer making a
pivotal argument.

"You realize, don't you, that this may be the only way people out there
get to know about our family?"

"All the more-"

"Now you let me finish," she snapped. "When I came in here suggesting
you write this fucking book, it was because I had this feeling--I have
this feeling--that we haven't got very long. And my instincts are rarely
wrong."

"I realize that," I said quietly. Marietta has prophetic talents, no
question. She gets them from her mother.

"Maybe that's why she's looking so haggard these days," Marietta said.

"She's feeling what you're feeling?"

She nodded. "Poor bitch," she said softly. "And that's another thing to
consider. Cesaria. She hates the Gearys even more than I do. They took
her beloved Galilee."

I snorted at this nonsense. "That's one sentimental myth I intend to lay
to rest, for a start," I said.

"So you don't believe he was taken?"

"Absolutely not. I know what happened the night he left better than
anyone living. And I intend to tell what I know."

"Of course, nobody may give a damn," Marietta observed.

"At least I'll have set the record straight. Isn't that what you
wanted?"

"I don't know what the hell I was thinking," Marietta replied, her
distaste at what I had proposed now resurfacing. "I'm beginning to wish
I'd never suggested a fucking book."

"Well, it's too late now. It's begun."

"You began already?"

This was not entirely true. I hadn't yet laid pen to paper. But I knew
where I was going to begin: with the house, and Cesaria and Thomas
Jefferson. The work was as good as started.

"Well don't let me delay you," Marietta said, going to the door. "But
I'm not guaranteeing you my help."

"That's fine. I'm not asking for it."

"Not now you're not. But you will. You'll have to. There's a lot of
pieces of information I've got that you'll need. Then we'll see what
your integrity's worth."

So saying, she left me to my gin. I didn't doubt the significance of
this last remark: she intended to make some kind of bargain. A section
of my book she didn't approve of excised in return for a piece of
information I needed. I was absolutely determined she wasn't going to
get a single word removed however. What I'd told her was true. There was
no way to tell the story of the Barbarossas without telling that of the
Gearys, and thus also the story of Rachel Pallenberg, the one name I do
not ever expect to hear crossing Marietta's lips. I had deliberately not
mentioned the Pallenberg woman myself, because I was certain as soon as
I did so Marietta would be screaming inventive obscenities at me.
Needless to say, I intend to devote a substantial portion of this story
to the vices and virtues of Rachel Pallenberg.

That said, this narrative will be somewhat impoverished if I don't get
Marietta's help; so I intend to be selective in the way I talk about
what I'm doing. She'll come round; if only because she's an egotist, and
the idea of not having her ideas in the book is going to be far more
painful to her than my talking about the Gearys. Besides, she knows

very well there are so many matters that I'm going to trust to my
instinct on, matters that cannot be strictly verified. Matters of the
spirit, matters of the bedroom, matters of the grave. These are the
truly important elements. The rest is just geography and dates.

in

Later that day, I saw Marietta escorting from the house the woman I'd
heard her talking to Zabrina about. She was, like almost all of
Marietta's lovers, blonde, petite and probably no more than twenty years
old. By the look of the clothes, I'd guess she was a tourist, perhaps a
hitchhiker, rather than a local woman.

Zabrina had plainly done as Marietta had requested, and relieved the
poor woman of her panic (along with any memory of the experience that
had induced that panic). I watched them from my balcony through my
binoculars. The blank expression on the girl's face disturbed me. Was
this really the only way human beings could deal with the appearance of
the miraculous: panic rising to insanity; or, if they were lucky, a
healing excision of the memory, which left them like this woman, calm
but impoverished? What pitiful options they were. (Which thought brought
me back to the book. Was it too grand an ambition to hope that in these
pages I might somehow prepare the way for such revelations, so that when
they came the human mind didn't simply crack like a mirror too frail to
reflect the wonders before it?) I felt a kind of sadness for the
visitor, who had been washed, for her own good, of the very experience
that might have made her life worth the living. What would she be after
this, I wondered. Had Zabrina left deep inside her a seed of the memory,
which, like the irritant mote in an oyster's flesh might with time
become something rare and wonderful? I would have to ask.

Meanwhile, under the cover of the trees, Marietta had halted with her
companion, and was saying a more than fond goodbye. Having promised to
tell the truth, however unpalatable, I can scarcely remain silent on
what I saw: she bared the woman's breasts while I watched; she teased
the woman's nipples and kissed her lips, while I watched, and then,
while I watched, she whispered something, and the woman went down on to
her knees, unbuckled and unbuttoned Marietta's pants, and put her tongue
into Marietta, flicking it so cunningly I heard Marietta's yelps from my
balcony. Lord knows I'm grateful for whatever pleasures come my way, and
I'm not about to pretend that I'm deeply ashamed of watching them make
love. It was perfectly wonderful to watch, and when they were finished,
and Marietta escorted the woman to the path

that winds away from L'Enfant and back into the real world, I felt
though this may seem absurd--a pang of loneliness.

IV

Though Marietta had mocked my belief that the house is a kind of
listening device, which brings news from all its rooms to the ears of
one soul in particular, that very night I had that belief confirmed.

I do not sleep well; never have, never will. It doesn't matter how weary
I am, as soon as I put my head on my pillow all manner of thoughts, most
of them utterly without merit, circle in my skull. So it was last night;
fragments of my conversation with Marietta, all rearranged so as to be
nonsensical, and punctuated with her libidinous yelps, constituted the
soundtrack. But the images were from some other store entirely. Neither
Marietta's face nor form appeared in my mind's eye; rather the faces and
forms of men and women I did not even recognize. No, I take that back. I
recognized them; I simply couldn't name them. Some seemed grotesquely
happy with their lot; going naked, some of them, on the streets of what
I think was Charleston, darting along the sidewalks and defecating from
the chestnut trees. But there were others I dreamed of who were far less
happy: one moment blank-faced brothers and sisters to Marietta's
concubine, the next moment shrieking like tortured animals--as though
their forgetfulness had been snatched away, and what they were
remembering was unbearable. I know there are some psychoanalysts who
theorize that every creature which appears in a dream or waking dream is
an aspect of the dreamer. If so, then I suppose the naked beasts in the
streets of Charleston are the part of me that's my father, and the
other, the terrified souls sobbing incoherently, are that human part
which my mother made. But I suspect the scheme's too simple. In search
of a pattern, the theorist ignores all that's ragged and contradictory,
and ends with a pretty lie. I'm not two in one; I'm many. This self has
my mother's compassion and my father's taste for raw mutton. That one
has my mother's love of murder stories and my father's passion for
sunflowers. Who knows how many there are? Too many for any dogma to
contain, I'm certain of that.

The point is, these dreams had me in a terrible state. I was close to
tears, which is rare for me.

And then, in the darkness, I heard the sound of shuffling, and of
clicking on the wooden floor and, looking down toward the noise, saw in
a lozenge of moonlight a prickly silhouette waddling toward my bed. It
was a porcupine. I didn't move. I simply let the creature come to me (my
arm was hanging off the bed, my hand close to the floor) and put its wet
nose in my palm.

"Did you come down here on your own?" I said softly to the creature.
Sometimes they did just that, particularly the younger, more adventurous
ones; came shuffling down the stairs in the hope of finding a snack. But
I'd no sooner asked the question than I had my answer, as my body
responded to the entrance of the quill-pig's mistress, Cesaria. You see,
this pitiful anatomy of mine, wounded beyond all hope of repair, was
quickening. It was uncanny. I was in the presence of this woman, my
father's wife, very rarely, but I knew from past experience the effect
of this visit would last for days. Even if she were to leave the room
now I would feel spasms in my lower limbs for a week or more, though the
muscles of my legs were atrophied. And my cock, which had been just a
piss-pipe for far too long, would stand up like an adolescent's and
demand milking twice an hour. Lord, I thought, was it any wonder she'd
been worshiped? She could probably raise the dead if it pleased her to
do so.

"Come away, Tansy," she said to the porcupine.

Tansy ignored the instruction, which I will admit pleased me. Even she
might be disobeyed.

"I don't mind it," I said.

"Just be careful. The spines--"

"I know." I still had the scars where one of her quill-pigs, as she
preferred to call them, had taken against me. And I think it had
distressed Cesaria to see me bleed. I remember the look on her face
quite clearly: her eyes like liquid night in that obsidian head of hers;
her sympathy terrifying to me, because I suppose I feared her touch, her
healing. Feared it would transform me, make me her devotee forever. So
we'd stood, neither one of us moving, both distressed by something
essential to the other (her power, my blood) while the quill-pig had sat
on the floor between us and scratched its fleas.

"This book . . ." she said.

"Marietta told you about it?" I said.

"I don't need telling, Maddox."

"No. Of course not."

What she said next astonished me. But then of course she would never be
who she is--she could not trail the legends she trails--if she Were not
a constant astonishment.

"You must write it fearlessly," she said. "Write out of your head and
out of your heart and never care about the consequences."

She spoke more softly than I'd ever heard her speak before. Not weakly,
you understand, but with a kind of tenderness I'd always assumed she
would never feel toward me. In truth, I hadn't believed she felt it
toward anybody.

"So the business about the Gearys -- ?"

"Must go in. All of it. Every last detail. Don't spare any of them. Or
any of us, come to that. We've all made our compromises over the years.
Treated with the enemy instead of stopping their hearts."

"Do you hate the Gearys?"

"I should say no. They're only human. They know no better. But yes, I
hate them. If they didn't exist I'd still have a husband and a son."

"It's not as though Galilee's dead."

"He's dead to me," she said. "He died the moment he sided with them
against your father." She snapped her fingers lightly, and her quill pig
turned round and waddled back to her. Throughout this entire
conversation I'd seen only glimpses of her, but now, as the porcupine
approached her, she bent down to gather it up into her arms, and the
moonlight, washing up off the boards, momentarily showed me her
entirely. She was not, as Marietta had reported, frail or sickly; far
from it. She looked like a young woman to my eye; a woman prodigiously
gifted by nature: her beauty both refined and raw at the same time, the
planes of her face so strong she seemed almost the idol of herself,
carved out of the silver light in which she stood. Did I say that she
was beautiful? I was wrong. Beauty is too tame a notion; it evokes only
faces in magazines. A lovely eloquence, a calming symmetry; none of that
describes this woman's face. So perhaps I should assume I cannot do it
justice with words. Suffice it to say that it would break your heart to
see her; and it would mend what was broken in the same moment; and you
would be twice what you'd been before.

With the quill-pig in her arms, she was moving toward the door. But as
she reached it she halted (all this I only heard; she was again
invisible to me).

"The beginning is always the hardest," she said.

"Well actually I've already begun ..." I said, a little tentatively.
Despite the fact that she'd neither said nor done anything to intimidate
me, I was still--perhaps unfairly--anxious that she'd blindside me with
some attack or other.

"How?" she said.

"How did I begin?"

"Yes."

"With the house, of course."

"Ah ..." I heard the smile in her voice. "With Mr. Jefferson?"

"With Mr. Jefferson."

"That was a good idea. To begin in the middle that way. And with my
glorious Thomas. He was, you know, the love of my life."

"Jefferson?"

"You think it should have been your father?"

"Well-"

"It was nothing like love with your father. It became love, but that's
not how it began. When such as I, and such as he, mate, we do not mate
for the sake of sentiment. We mate to make children. To preserve our
genius, as your father would have said."

"Perhaps I should have begun there."

She laughed. "With our mating?"

"No I didn't mean that." I was glad of the darkness, to cover my
blushes--though with her eyes she probably saw them anyway. "I... I ...
meant with the firstborn. With Galilee."

I heard her sigh. Then I heard nothing; for such a time I thought
perhaps she'd decided to leave me. But no. She was still there in the
room.

"We didn't baptize him Galilee," she said. "He took that name for
himself, when he was six."

"I didn't know that."

"There's a great deal you don't know, Maddox. A great deal you can't
even guess. That's why I came to invite you . . . when you're ready ...
to see some of the past. . ."

"You have more books?"

"Not books. Nothing so tangible ..."

"I'm sorry, I don't really understand."

Again, she sighed, and I was afraid this offer, whatever it was, would
be snatched away again because I was making her impatient. But she
sighed not out of irritation, rather out of a heaviness of the heart.

"Galilee was everything to us," she said. "And he became nothing. I want
you to understand how that came about."

"I'll do my best, I swear."

"I know you will," she said gently. "But it may take more courage than
you have. You're so human, Maddox. I've always found that hard to like."

"I can't do much about it."

'Tour father loved you for that very reason, you know. . ." Her

voice trailed away. "What a mess it all is," she said. "What a terrible,
tragic mess. To have had so much, and let it go through our fingers . .
."

"I want to understand how that happened," I replied, "more than
anything, I want to understand."

"Yes," she said, somewhat distractedly. Her thoughts were already
elsewhere.

"What do I need to do?" I asked her.

"I'll explain everything to Luman," Mama replied. "He'll watch over you.
And of course if it's too much for your human sensibilities--"

"Zabrina can take it away."

"That's right. Zabrina can take it away."

V

I had a different vision of the house thereafter. Everything was
expectation. I was looking for a sign, a clue, a glimpse of this
mysterious source of knowledge that Cesaria had invited me to share.
What form would it take, if it wasn't books? Was there somewhere in the
house a collection of family heirlooms for me to sift through? Or was I
being entirely too literal? Had I been invited into a place of spirit
rather than substance? If so, would I have the words to express what I
felt in that place? For the first time in perhaps three months I decided
to leave my room and go outside. For this, I need somebody's help.
Jefferson didn't design the house anticipating the presence of a
crippled occupant (and I doubt that Cesaria ever thought she'd entertain
such frailty) so there are four steps in the passageway that leads out
to the front hall; steps which are too deep for me to negotiate in a
wheelchair even with help. Dwight has to carry me down, like a babe in
arms, and then I wait, laid prone on the sofa in the hallway, until he
brings down the chair and sets me in it.

Dwight is quite simply the most amiable fellow I have ever known; though
he has every reason to hate the God who made him and probably every
human being in the state of North Carolina. He was born with some kind
of mental defect that made self-expression difficult, and was therefore
thought to be an idiot. His childhood and early adolescence were a
living hell: denied any real education, he languished, abused by both
his parents.

Then, one day in his fourteenth year, he wandered into the swamp,
perhaps to kill himself; he says he doesn't exactly recall the reason.
Nor does he know how long he wandered--though it was many days and
nights --until Zabrina found him at the perimeters of L'Enfant. He was
in a state of complete exhaustion. She brought him back to the house,
and for reasons of her own nursed him to health in her rooms without
telling anyone. I've never pressed Dwight as to the exact nature of his
relationship with Zabrina, but I don't doubt that when he was younger
she used him sexually; nor do I doubt that he was quite happy with the
arrangement. She wasn't then quite the scale she is now, but she was
still substantial; for Dwight this was no hardship. He has several times
mentioned to me in passing his enthusiasm for plentitude in a woman.
Whether that taste predated his time with Zabrina, or was formed by it,
I don't know. I can only report that she kept him a secret for almost
three years, during which she apparently made it her business to educate
him; and well. By the time she introduced him to Marietta and myself,
all but the faintest trace of his speech impediment had disappeared, and
he had become the fledgling form of the man he was to become. Now,
thirty-two years later, he is as much a part of this house as the boards
beneath my feet. Though his relationship with Zabrina soured for reasons
I've never been able to pry out of him, he still speaks of her with a
kind of reverence. She is, and will always be, the woman who taught him
Herodotus and saved his soul (which services, by the way, are in my
opinion intimately connected).

Of course, he's aging far faster than any of the rest of us. He's forty
nine now, and crops his thinning hair to a gray stubble (which gives him
a rather scholarly look) and his body, which used to be lean, is getting
pudgy around the middle. The business of carrying me around has become
much more of a chore for him, and I've told him several times that he's
soon going to have to go looking for another lost soul out there;
someone he can train to take over the heavy duties in the house.

But perhaps now that's academic. If Marietta's right, and our days here
are indeed numbered, he won't need to train anyone to follow in his
footsteps. They, and he, and we all, will have disappeared from sight
forever.

We ate together that day, not in the dining room, which is far too large
for just two (I wonder sometimes what kind of guests Mama had intended
to invite), but in the kitchen. Jellied chicken loaf, and chives

and sesame seed biscuits, followed by Dwight's dessert specialty, a
Hampton polonaise: a cake made with layers of almond and chocolate,
which he serves with a sweet whipped cream. (His skills as a cook he got
from Zabrina, I'm certain. His repertoire of candies is remarkable: all
manner of crystallized fruit, nougat, pralines, and a tooth-rotting
wonder he calls divinity fudge.)

"I saw Zabrina yesterday," he said, serving me another slice of the
polonaise.

"Did you speak to her?"

"No. She had that don't come near me look on her face. You know how she
gets."

"Are you just going to watch me make a hog of myself?"

"I'm so filled up I'll not stay awake this afternoon as it is."

"Nothing wrong with a little siesta. Good of' Southern tradition. It
gets hot, you go snooze till it cools down." I looked up from my plate
to see that Dwight had a glum expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

"I don't like sleep as much as I used to," he said softly.

"Why not?" I asked him.

"Bad dreams . . ." he said. "No, not bad. Sorrowful. Sorrowful dreams."

"About what?"

Dwight shrugged. "I don't rightly know. This and that. People I knew
when I was little." He drew a deep breath. "I've been thinkin' maybe I
should go out. . . you know . . . back where I come from."

"Permanently?"

"Oh Lord, no. I belong here an' I always will. No, just go out one more
time to see if my folks are still alive, an' if they are, say my
goodbyes."

"They must be getting old."

"It's not them that's going', Mr. Maddox, an' we both know it. It's us."
He ran his finger through the remaining cream on his plate and put his
finger on his tongue. "That's what I'm dreamin' about. Us going'.
Everythin' going'."

"Have you been talking to Marietta?"

"Now and again."

"No, I mean about this."

He shook his head. "This is the first I've told anybody."

There was an uneasy silence. Then he said: "What do you think?"

"About the dreams?"

"About going to see my folks an' all."

"I think you should go."

Though I attempted to take my own advice and have a siesta that
afternoon, my head, despite the melancholy exchange with Dwight--or
perhaps because of it--was buzzing like a stirred-up hive. I found
myself thinking about certain parallels that existed between families
that were in every other way unlike. The family of Dwight Huddie, for
instance, living in a trailer park somewhere in Sampson County: did they
ever wonder about their child, whom they lost to a place they would
never see, never even know existed? Did they think of seeking him out
all those years ago, when he was first lost, or was he as good as dead
to them, as Galilee was to Cesaria? And then there was the Gearys. That
family, for all its fabled clannishness had also in its time cut off
some of its children as though they were gangrenous limbs. Again: as
good as dead. I was sure that as I went on, I was going to find
connections like these throughout this history: ways in which the
sorrows and the cruelties of one bloodline were echoed in another.

The question that still lay before me, and I had so far failed to
answer, was the way these connections might best be expressed. My mind
was filled with possibilities but I had no real sense of how all that I
knew was arrayed and dispersed; no sense of the pattern.

To distract myself from anxiety I made a slow exploration of the house.
It was many years since I'd gone from room to room as I did now, and
everywhere I looked this newly curious gaze of mine was rewarded.
Jefferson's extraordinary taste and passion for detail was in evidence
all around me, but married to a wildness of conception that is, I'm
certain, my mother's gift. It's an extraordinary combination:
Jeffersonian restraint and Barbarossian bravura; a constant struggle of
wills that creates forms and volumes utterly unlike any I have seen
before. The great study, for instance, now fallen into neglect, which
seemed the perfect model of an austere place of intellectual inquiry,
until the eye drifted to the ceiling, where the Hellenic columns grew
sinewy and put forth a harvest of unearthly fruit. The dining room,
where the floor was set with such a cunning design of marble tiles that
it seemed like a pool of blue green water. A long gallery of arched
alcoves, 'each of which contained a has-relief so cunningly lit that the
scenes seemed to shed their own luminescence, which spilled out as from
a series of windows. There was nothing, it seemed to me, that had been
left to chance; every tiny subtlety of form had been planned so as to
flatter the greater scheme, just as the great scheme brought the eye
back to these subtleties. It was all,

it seemed to me, one glorious invitation: to pleasure in the seeing,
yes; but also to a calm certainty of one's own place in all of this, not
overpowered, simply enjoined to be here in the moment, feeling the way
the air flowed through the rooms and brushed your face, or the way the
light came to meet you from a wall. More than once I found my eyes
filling with tears at the sheer beauty of a chamber, then soothed from
my tears by that same beauty, which wanted only my happiness. All this
said, the house was not by any means unspoiled. The years, and the
humidity, have taken a terrible toll; scarcely a single room has escaped
some measure of decay, and a few--particularly those which lay closest
to the swamp--are in such a poor state of disrepair that I was obliged
to have Dwight carry me into them, the floors were too rotted for my
wheelchair. Even these chambers, I should say, had an undeniable
grandeur to them. The creeping rot on the walls resembles the charts of
some as yet unnamed world; the small forests of fungi that grow in the
sodden boards have a fascination all of their own. Dwight was
unpersuaded. "These are bad places," he said, determined that their
deterioration was due to some spiritual malaise that hung about them.
"Bad things happened here."

This didn't make a lot of sense to me, and I told him so. If one room
had rot in the walls and another didn't, it was because of some vagary
in the water table; it wasn't evidence of bad karma.

"In this house," Dwight said, "everything's connected."

That was all I could get him to say on the subject, but it was plain
enough, I suppose. Just as I had come to appreciate the way the house
played back and forth between spirit and sight, so Dwight seemed to be
telling me the physical and moral states of the house were connected.

He was right, of course, though I couldn't see it at the time. The house
wasn't simply a reflection of Jefferson's genius and Cesaria's vision:
it was a repository for all that it had ever contained. The past was
still present here, in ways my limited senses had yet to grasp.

I encountered Marietta once or twice during these days of reacquaintance
with the house (I even glimpsed Zabrina on a few occasions, though she
shared no interest in conversing with me; only hurried away). But of
Luman, of the man Cesaria had promised could help educate me, I saw not
a hair. Had my stepmother decided not to allow me access to her secrets
after all? Or perhaps simply forgotten to tell Luman that he was to be
my guide? I decided after a couple of days that I'd seek him out for
myself, and tell him how badly I wanted to get on with my work, but that
I couldn't do so; not until I knew the stories Cesaria had told me I
could not even guess at.

Luman, as I've said, does not live in the main house, though Lord knows
it has enough rooms, empty rooms, to accommodate several families. He
chooses instead to live in what was once the Smoke House; a modest
building, which he claims suits him better. I had not until this visit
ever come within fifty yards of the building, much less entered it; he
has always been fiercely protective of his isolation.

My mounting irritation made me bold, however. So I had Dwight take me to
the place, wheeling me down what had once been a pleasant path, but
which was now thickly overgrown. The air became steadily danker; in
places it swarmed with mosquitoes. I lit up a cigar to keep them at bay,
which I doubt worked, but a good cigar always gets me a little high, so
I cared rather less that they were making a meal of me.

As we approached the door I saw that it was open a little way, and that
somebody was moving around inside. Luman knew I was here; which probably
meant he also knew why I called out to him.

"Luman? It's Maddox! Is it all right if Dwight brings me in? I'd like to
have a little talk!"

"We got nothing to talk about," came the reply out of the murky
interior.

"I beg to differ."

Now Luman's face appeared at the partially opened door. He looked
thoroughly rattled, like a man who'd just stepped away from not one but
several excesses. His wide, tawny face was shiny with sweat, his pupils
pinpricks, his cornea yellowed. His beard looked as though it hadn't
been trimmed, or indeed even washed, in several weeks.

"Jesus, man," he growled, "can't you just let it be?"

"Did you speak to Cesaria?" I asked him.

He ran his hand through his mane and tugged it back from his head so
violently it looked like an act of masochism. Those pinprick eyes of his
suddenly grew to the size of quarters. This was a parlor trick I'd never
seen him perform before; I was so startled I all but cried out. I
stifled the yelp, however. I didn't want him thinking he had the upper
hand here. There was too much of the mad dog about him. If he sensed
fear in me, I was certain he'd at very least drive me from his door. And
at worst? Who knew what a creature like this could do if he set his
perverse mind to it? Just about anything, probably.

"Yes," he said finally, "she spoke to me. But I don't think you need to
be seeing the stuff she wants you to see. It ain't your business."

"She thinks it is."

"Huh."

"Look, can we at least have this conversation out of the way of the
mosquitoes?"

"You don't like being' bit?" he said, with a nasty little grin. "Oh I
like to get naked an' have 'em at me. Gets me going'."

Perhaps he hoped he'd repulse me with this, and I'd leave, but I was not
about to be so easily removed. I simply stared at him.

"Do you have any more of them cigars?"

I had indeed come prepared. Not only did I have cigars, I had gin, and,
by way of more intellectual seduction, a small pamphlet on madhouses
from my collection. Many years before Luman had spent some months
incarcerated in Utica, an institution in upstate New York. A century
later (so Marietta told me) he was still obsessed with the business of
how a sane man might be thought mad, and a madman put in charge of
Congress. I dug first for the cigar, as he'd requested it.

"Here," I said.

"Is it Cuban?"

"Of course."

"Toss it to me."

"Dwight can bring it."

"No. Toss it."

I gently lobbed the cigar in his direction. It fell a foot shy of the
threshold. He bent down and picked it up, rolling it between his fingers
and sniffing it.

"This is nice," he said appreciatively. "You keep a humidor?"

"Yes. In this humidity--"

"Got to, got to," he said, his tone distinctly warming. "Well then," he
said, "you'd better get your sorry ass in here."

"It's all right if Dwight carries me in?"

"As long as he leaves," Luman said. Then to Dwight: "No offense. But
this is between my half-brother and me."

"I understand," said Dwight, and picking me up out of my wheelchair
carried me to the door, which Luman now hauled open. A wave of stinking
heat hit me; like the stench of a pigpen in high summer.

"I like it rank," Luman said by way of explanation. "It reminds me of
the old country."

I didn't reply to him; I was too--I don't know quite what the word
is--astonished, perhaps appalled, by the state of the interior.

"Sit him down on the of' crib there," Luman said, pointing to a peculiar
bed-cum-coffin set close to the hearth. Worse than the crib
itself--which looked more like an instrument of torture than a place of
repose--was the fact that the hearth was far from cold: a large, smoky
fire was burning there. It was little wonder Luman was sweating so
profusely.

"Will this be all right?" Dwight said to me, plainly concerned for my
well-being.

"I'll be fine," I said. "I could do with losing the weight."

"That you could," Luman said. "You need to get fightin' fit. We all do."

He had lit a match, and with the care of a true connoisseur, was slowly
coaxing his cigar to life. "My," he said, "this is nice. I surely do
appreciate a good bribe, brother. It's a sign o' good breedin', when a
man knows how to offer a good bribe."

"Speaking of which ..." I said. "Dwight. The gin."

Dwight set the bottle of gin on the table, which was as thickly strewn
with detritus as every other inch of Luman's hellhole.

"Well that's mighty kind of you," Luman said.

"And this-"

"My, my, the presents jus' keep comin', don't they?" I gave him the
book. "What's this now?" He looked at the cover. "Oh, this is
interestiri, brother." He flipped through the book, which was amply
illustrated. "I wonder if there's a picture of my li'l of' crib."

"This came from an asylum?" I said, looking down at the bed on which
Dwight had set me.

"It sure did. I was chained up in that for two hundred and fifty-five
nights."

"Inside it?"

"Inside it."

He came over to where I sat and tugged the filthy blanket out from under
me, so I could better see the cruel narrow box in which he had been put.
The restraints were still in place.

"Why do you keep it?" I asked him.

"As a reminder," he said, meeting my gaze head-on for the first time
since I'd entered. "I can't ever let myself forget, 'cause the moment I
forget then I've as good as forgiven them that did it to me, and I ain't
never going to do that."

r> a. "

But--

"I know what you're going to say: they're all dead. And so they are. But
that don't mean I can't still get my day with 'em, when the Lord calls
us all to judgment. I'm going to be sniffin' after 'em like the mad dog
they said I was. I'm going to have their souls, and there ain't no saint
in Heaven's going' to stop me." His volume and vehemence had steadily
escalated through this speech; when it was done I said nothing for a
moment or two, so as to let him calm down. Then I said:

"Seems to me you've got reason to keep the crib."

He grunted by way of reply. Then he went over to the table and sat on
the chair beside it. "Don't you wonder sometimes . . . ?" he began.

"Wonder what?"

"Why one of us gets put in a madhouse an' another gets to be a cripple
an' another gets to go 'round the world fuckin' every beautiful woman he
sets his eyes on."

This last, of course, was Galilee; or at least the Galilee of family
myth: the wanderer, pursuing his unattainable dreams from ocean to
ocean.

"Well don't you wonder?" Luman said again.

"Now and again."

"See, things ain't fair. That's why people go crazy. That's why they get
guns and kill their kids. Or end up in chains. Things ain't fair!" He
was beginning to shout again.

"If I may say . . ."

"Say what the fuck you like!" he replied, "I want to hear, brother."

". . . we're luckier than most."

"How'd you reckon that?"

"We're a special family. We've got. . . you've got talents most people
would kill to have . . ."

"Sure I can fuck a woman then make her forget I ever laid a finger on
her. Sure I can listen in on one snake's sayin' to another. Sure I got a
Momma who used to be one of the all time great ladies and a Poppa

who knew Jesus. So what? They still put me in chains. And I still
thought I deserved it, 'cause in my heart I thought I was a worthless
sonofabitch." His voice dropped to a whisper. "An' that ain't really
changed."

This silenced me utterly. Not just the flow of images (Luman listening
to snakes? My father as a confidante of Christ?) but the sheer
desperation in Luman's voice.

"We ain't none of us what we should've been, brother," he said. "We
ain't none of us done a thing worth callin' important, an' now it's all
over, and we ain't never going' to have that chance."

"So let me write about why."

"Oh ... I knew we'd get back to that sooner or later," Luman replied.
"There ain't no use in writin' no book, brother. It's just going' to
make us look like losers. 'Cept Galilee, of course. He'll look fine an'
fancy an' I'll look like a fuckwit."

"I'm not here to beg," I said. "If you don't want to help me then I'll
just go back to Mama--"

"If you can find her."

" -- I'll find her. And I'll just ask her to have Marietta show me the
sights instead of you."

"She doesn't trust Marietta," Luman said, getting up and crossing to
crouch in front of the fire. "She trusts me because I've stayed here.
I've been loyal." His lip curled. "Loyal like a dog," he said. "Stayed
in my kennel and guarded her little empire."

"Why do you stay out here?" I asked him. "There's so much room in the
house."

"I hate the house. It's entirely too civilized. I find I can't catch my
breath in there."

"Is that why you don't want to help me? You don't want to go in the
house?"

"Oh, shit," he said, apparently resigned to this torment, "if I have to
I have to. I'll take you up, if you want to go that badly."

"Up where?"

"To the dome, of course. But once I've done that, buddy, you're on your
own. I ain't staying with you. Not in that place."

I began to see that one of the curses of the Barbarossa family is
self-pity. There's Luman in his Smoke House, plotting his revenge
against dead men; me in my library, determined that life had done me a
terrible disservice; Zabrina in her own loneliness, fat with candy. Even
Galilee--out there under a limitless sky--writing me melancholy letters
about the aimlessness of his life. It was pathetic. We, who were the
blessed fruit of such an extraordinary tree. How did we all end up
bemoaning the fact of living, instead of finding purpose in that fact?
We didn't deserve what we'd been given: our glamours, our skills, our
visions. We'd frittered them all away while we bemoaned our lot.

Was it too late to change all of that, I wondered? Was there still a
chance for four ungrateful children to rediscover why we'd been created?

Only Marietta, it seemed to me, had escaped the curse, and she'd done so
by reinventing herself. I saw her often, coming back from her visits to
the world, dressed like a trucker sometimes in low-slung jeans and a
dirty shirt, sometimes like a torch-song singer in a slinky dress;
sometimes barely dressed at all, running across the lawn as the sun came
up, her skin as dewy as the grass.

Oh Lord, what am I admitting to? Well, it's said; for better or worse.
To my list of sins (which isn't as long as I'd like it to be) I must now
append incestuous desires.

Luman had arranged to come and fetch me at ten. He was late, of course.
When he finally turned up, he had the last inch of his havana between
his teeth, and the last inch of gin left in the bottle. I suspect he
didn't indulge himself with hard liquor very often, because he was much
the worse for wear.

"Are you ready?" he slurred.

"More than ready."

"Did you bring something to eat and drink?"

"What do I need food for?"

"You're going to be in there a long time. That's why."

"You make it sound like I'm being locked up."

Luman leered at me, as though he was making up his mind

whether to be cruel or not. "Don't be shittin' yourself," he said
finally. "The door'll be open all the time, you just won't feel like
leaving. It's very addictive once you get going." With that he started
off down the passageway, leaving me to trundle behind him.

"Don't go too fast," I told him.

"Afraid of getting' lost in the dark?" he said, "Brother, you are one
nervous son of a bitch."

I wasn't afraid of the dark, but there was good reason to be concerned
about getting lost. We turned a couple of corners and I was in a
passageway I was pretty certain I'd never visited before, though I'd
thought myself familiar with the entire house, barring Cesaria's
chambers. Another corner, and another, and a passageway, and a small
empty room, and another, and another, and now I knew this was unknown
terrain. If Luman decided to play the mischief maker and leave me here,
I doubted I could find my way back to anywhere familiar.

"You smell the air here?"

"Stale."

"Dead. Nobody comes here, you see. Not even her."

"Why not?"

"Because it fucks with your head," he said, casting a glance back in my
direction. I could barely see his expression in the musk, but I'm
certain he had that yellow-toothed leer back on his face. "Of course,
you're a saner man than I ever was, so maybe it won't bother you so much
'cause you got better control of your wits. On the other hand . . .
maybe you'll crack, and I'll have to put you in my li'l crib for the
night, so's you don't do yourself harm."

I brought the chair to a halt. "You know what?" I said. "I've changed my
mind."

"You can't do that," Luman said.

"I'm telling you I don't want to go in there."

"Well ain't this a flip-flop, huh? First I don't want to take you, and
now I brought you here, you don't want to go. Make up your fuckin'
mind."

"I'm not going to risk my sanity," I said. Luman drained the gin bottle.
"I can see that," he said. "I mean, a man in your condition ain't got
but his mind, right? You lose that you ain't got nothin'." He came a
step or two toward me. "On the other hand," he said, "if you don't go
in, you ain't got no book, so it's a kind of toss-up." He lobbed the gin
bottle from hand to hand, and back again, to illustrate his point.
"Book. Mind. Book. Mind. It's up to you."

I hated him at that moment; simply because what he said was true. If he
left me under the dome and I lost my sanity, I wouldn't be capable

of putting words in any sensible order. On the other hand, if I didn't
risk the lunacy, and I simply wrote from what I already knew, wouldn't I
always wonder how much richer, how much truer, my work would have been
if I'd had the courage to see what the room had to show me?

"It's your choice," he said.

"What would you do?"

"You're asking me?" Luman said, sounding genuinely surprised at my
interest in his opinion. "Well it ain't pretty being mad," he said. "It
ain't pretty at all. But the way I see it, we don't have a lot of time
left. This house ain't going' to stand forever, an' when it comes down,
whatever you might see in there . . ." he pointed along the passageway
ahead of me, towards the stairs that led up to the dome ". . . is going
to be lost. You won't be seeing no more visions when this house falls.
None of us will."

I stared at the passageway.

"I guess that's my answer then," I said.

"So you're going' to go in?"

"I'm going' to go in."

Luman smiled. "Hold on," he said. Then he did a remarkable thing. He
picked up the wheelchair, with me in it, and carried us both up the
stairs. I held my breath, afraid he was either going to drop me, or
topple back down the flight. But we reached the top without incident.
There was a narrow landing, and a single door.

"I'm going' to leave you here," Luman said.

"This is as far as you go?"

"You know how to open a door," he said.

"What happens when I get inside?"

"You'll find you know that too." He laid his hand on my shoulder. "If
you need anything, just call."

"You'll be here?"

"It depends how the mood takes me," he said, and sauntered off down the
stairs. I wanted to call him back; but I was out of delaying tactics.
Time to do this, if I was going to do it.

I wheeled my way to the door, glancing back once to see if Luman was
still in sight. He'd gone. I was on my own. I took a deep breath, and
grasped the door handle. There was still a corner of me that hoped the
door was locked and I'd be denied entry. But the handle turned, and the
door opened--almost too readily, I thought, as though some overeager
host stood on the other side, ready to usher me in.

I had some idea of what I thought lay on the other side, at least
architecturally speaking. The dome room--or "sky room" as Jefferson had
dubbed his version at Monticello--was, I'd been told by Marietta

(who'd crept up there once to do the deed with a girlfriend) a somewhat
strange but beautiful room. At Monticello it had apparently been used as
a child's playroom, because it was hard to access (a design deficiency
which also applied to L'Enfant) but here, Marietta had told me, there
was a whisper of unease in the room; no child would have been happy
playing there. Though there were eight windows, after the Monticellian
model, and a skylight, the place seemed to her "a little on the twitchy
side," whatever that meant.

I was about to find out. I pushed the door wide with my foot, half
expecting birds or bats to fly in my face. But the room was deserted.
There was not so much as a single piece of furniture to spoil its
absolute simplicity. Just the starlight, coming in from nine apertures.

"Luman," I murmured to myself, "you sonofabitch . . ."

He'd prepared me for something fearful; a delirium, an assault of
visions so violent it might put me out of my wits. But there was nothing
here but murk and more murk.

I ventured in a couple of yards, looking everywhere for a reason to be
afraid. But there was nothing. I pressed on, with a mingling of
disappointment and relief. There was nothing to fear in here. My sanity
was perfectly secure.

Unless, of course, I was being lulled into a false sense of security. I
glanced back toward the door. It was still open; still solid. And beyond
it the landing where I'd stood with Luman, and debated the wisdom of
coming in here. What an easy mark I'd made; he must have been thoroughly
entertained at the sight of my discomfort! Cursing him again, I took my
eyes from the door and returned them to the murk. This time, however,
much to my astonishment, I discovered that the sky room was not quite as
empty as I'd thought. A few yards from me--at the place where the lights
of the nine windows intersected--there was a skittering pattern in the
gloom, so subtle I was not certain at first it was even real. I kept
staring at it, resisting the urge to blink for fear that it would
vanish. But it remained before me, intensifying a little. I wheeled my
way toward it; slowly, slowly, like a hunter closing on his quarry,
fearful of alarming it into flight. But it didn't retreat. Nor did it
become any the less mystifying. My approach had become less tentative
now; I was very soon at the center of the room, directly under the
skylight. The patterns were in the air all around me; so subtle I was
still not absolutely certain I was ever seeing them. I looked up to my
zenith: I could see stars through the skylight, but nothing that would
be likely to create these shifting shadows. Returning my gaze to the
walls, I went from one window to the next, looking for some explanation
there. But I found none.

There was a little wash of light through each of them, but no sign of
motion--a wind-stirred branch, a bird fluttering on a sill. Whatever was
creating this shifting shadow was here in the room with me. As I
finished my study of the windows, muttering to myself in confusion, I
had the uncomfortable sense my befuddlement was being watched. Again, I
looked toward the door, thinking maybe Luman had crept back to spy on
me. But no; the landing was deserted.

Well, I thought, there's no use my sitting here, getting dizzy and
paranoid. I may as well spit out my reasons for coming, and see if that
elicited some response.

I drew an anxious breath, and spoke.

"I came ... I came to see the past," I said. My voice sounded tiny, like
a child's voice. "Cesaria sent me," I added, thinking that might help
whatever forces occupied the room understand that I was a legitimate
presence, and that if they had something to show me, they should damned
well do it.

Something that I'd said--whether it was talking about the past or about
Cesaria I can't say--brought a response. The shadows seemed to darken
around me, and their motion grew more complex. Some portion of the
pattern twitched like a living thing, and rose up in front of me--up, up
toward the skylight. Another flew off toward the wall at my left,
trailing more fragments of dark air, whipping like the tail of a kite. A
third dropped to the polished boards and spread across the floor.

I believe I breathed some words of astonishment. "Oh my Lord," or some
such. I had reason. The spectacle was growing by the moment, the
writhing motions of these shadows, and their scale, expanding as if by
some logarithmic progression. Motion was inspiring motion; forms were
inspiring forms. In the space of perhaps forty-five seconds the walls of
the dome room had been all but eclipsed by these roiling abstractions;
gray on gray, yet filled with subtle intimations of visions to come. My
eyes were darting everywhere, of course, astonished by all this, but
even as my gaze went on from one cloudy cluster of shapes to the next,
it moved with the impression that something was almost visible here.
That I was moments away from understanding how these abstractions
worked.

And yet, even in their protean condition they moved me. Watching these
railings and cavortings I began to understand why Luman had been so
reluctant to enter this room. He was a man of great vulnerability,
despite his manner: there was simply too much feeling here for a soul so
tender. Watching the unfolding spectacle, I felt as though I were
listening to a piece of music; or rather several at the same time.

Those grand shapes moving overhead, like columns of smoke passing across
the sun had all the gravity of a requiem; while the forms that moved
close to me reeled and swaggered as though to a drunken polka. And in
between, circling me as they climbed, were sinuous ropes of ether that
seemed to express lovely, rising music, like the bright line of a
rhapsody.

To say I was enchanted does not begin to express my beguilement. It was
all so perfectly mysterious: a seduction of eye and heart that left me
close to tears. But I was not so enthralled that I didn't wonder what
powers lay so far undisclosed. I had invited this vision with my own
readiness to accept it. Now it was time to do the same thing again; to
open my spirit, as it were, a little wider, and see what the shadows
would show me.

"I'm ready," I said softly, "whenever you are . . ."

The forms before me continued to profligate, but made no visible
response to my invitation. There was still a sense of evolution in their
motion, but I sensed that it had slowed. I was no longer seeing the
heart quickening changes that had astonished me a minute or two before.

Again, I spoke. "I'm not afraid," I said.

Did I ever say anything so foolish in my life as to boast fearlessness
in such a place as this?

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the shadows before me
convulsed, as though some seismic shock had shaken the dome. Two or
three seconds later, like thunder coming a heartbeat after lightning,
the shock wave struck the only nonethereal form in the room, which is to
say, myself. My chair was propelled backward, tipping over as it went. I
vainly tried to regain some measure of control, but the chair sped over
the boards, its wheels shrieking, and struck the wall close to the door
with such violence that I was pitched out of it.

I felt something crack as I landed face down, and the breath was
completely knocked out of my body. Had I possessed the wherewithal I
might have attempted a plea for clemency at that moment; might have
attempted to withdraw my too-brave words. But I doubt it would have
availed me much.

Gasping, I tried to haul myself up into a semirecumbent position so that
I could find out where my chair had landed. But there was a sharp pain
in my side. I'd plainly snapped a rib. I gave up trying to move, for
fear of doing myself still greater damage.

All I could do was lie where I'd been so unceremoniously dropped, and
wait for the room to do its work. I had invited the powers here to show
me their splendors, and I was quite certain they weren't about to deny
themselves the pleasure.

Nothing happened. I lay there, my breaths quick and shallow, my stomach
ready to revolt, my body sticky with sweat, and the room just waited.
The unfixable forms all around me--which had by now entirely blotted out
every detail of windows and walls, even carpeted the floor--were almost
still, their evolutionary endeavors at an end, at least for the moment.

Had the fact that I'd been injured shocked the presence, or presences,
here into reticence, I wondered? Perhaps they felt they'd overstepped
the bounds of enthusiasm, and now wanted nothing more than for me to
crawl away and tend my wounds? Were they waiting for me to call down to
Luman, perhaps? I thought about doing so, but decided against it. This
was not a room in which to speak a simple word unless it was strictly
necessary. I would be better lying still and quiet, I decided, and let
my panicked body calm itself. Then, once I had governed myself, I would
try to crawl back to the door. Sooner or later, Luman would come up and
fetch me; I felt certain of that. Even if I had to wait all night.

Meanwhile I closed my eyes so as to put the images around me out of the
way. Though the pain in my side was by now only a dull throb, my head
and eyes were throbbing too; indeed it was not hard to imagine my body
had become one fat heart, lying discarded on the floor, pumping its
last.

I'm not afraid I'd boasted, moments before the bolt had struck me. But
now? Oh, I was very much afraid now. Afraid that I would die here,
before I'd worked my way through the catalog of unfinished business that
sat at the back of my skull, awaiting my attention and of course never
getting it, while all the time growing and growing. Well, it was most
likely too late; there would not be time for me to flagellate myself for
every dishonorable deed in that list, nor any chance to make good the
harms I'd done. Minor harms, to be sure, in the scheme of things; but
large enough to regret.

And then, on the back of my neck, a touch; or what I believed to be a
touch.

"Luman?" I murmured, and opened my eyes.

It wasn't Luman; it wasn't even a human touch, or anything resembling a
human touch. It was some presence in the shadows; or the

shadows themselves. They had swarmed upon me while my eyes were closed,
and were now pressing close, their intimacy in no way threatening, but
curiously tender. It was as though these roiling, senseless forms were
concerned for my well-being, the way they brushed my nape, my brow, my
lips. I stayed absolutely still, holding my breath, half expecting their
mood to change and their consolations to turn into something crueler.
But no; they simply waited, close upon me.

Relieved, I drew breath. And in the instant of drawing, knew I had again
unwittingly done something of consequence.

On the intake I felt the marked air about my head rush toward my open
lips, and down my throat. I had no choice but to let it in. By the time
I knew what was happening it was too late to resist. I was a vessel
being filled. I could feel the marks on my tongue, against my tonsils,
in my windpipe --

Nor did I want to choke them off, once I felt them inside me. At their
entrance the pain in my side seemed instantly to recede, as did the
throbbing in my head and eyes. The fear of a lonely demise here went out
of my head and I was removed--in one breath--from despair to pleasurable
ease.

What a maze of manipulations this chamber contained! First banality,
then a blow, then this opiated bliss. I would be foolish, I knew, to
believe that it did not have more tricks in its repertoire. But while it
was content to give me some relief from my pains I was happy to take
what was offered. Greedy for it, indeed. I gulped at the air, drawing in
great draughts of it. And with every breath I felt further removed from
my pain. Nor was it just the hurt in my flank and the throb in my head
that was becoming remote; there was a much older ache--a dull, wretched
pain that haunted the dead terrain of my lower limbs--that was now, for
the first time in almost two human spans, relieved. It wasn't, I think,
that the pain was taken away; only that I no longer knew it as pain.
Need I say I gladly banished it from my mind, sobbing gratitude to be
relieved of an agony that had attended me so closely I'd forgotten how
profound a hurt it was?

And with its passing my eyes--which were more acute than I could ever
remember their being, even in my youth--found a new sight to astonish
them. The air that I was expelling from my lungs had a bright solidity
of its own; it came from me filled with flecks of delicate brilliance,
as though a fire was stoked in me, and I was breathing out shards of
flame. Was this some representation of my pain, I wondered? The room--or
my own delirium's--way of demonstrating the expulsion? That theory
floated for ten seconds, then it was gone. The motes were about to show
me their true nature, and it had nothing to do with pain.

They were still flowing from my mouth with every breath, but I wasn't
watching those I'd just exhaled. It was those that had flown from me
first which drew my startled sight. They were seeding their luminescence
in the shadows--disappeared into the cloudy bed around me. I watched
with what I'd like to think was almost scientific detachment. There was
a certain logic to all that happened to me here; or so I now supposed.
The shadows were only half the equation: they were a site of
possibilities, no more than that; the fertile mud of this chamber,
waiting for some galvanizing spark to bring forth--to bring forth what?

That was the question. What did the marriage of fire and shadow want to
show me?

I didn't have to wait more than twenty seconds to discover the answer.
No sooner had the first of the motes embedded themselves than the
shadows surrendered their uncertainty, and blossomed.

The limits of the dome room had been banished. When the visions
came--and oh, how they came!--they were vast.

First, out of the shadows, a landscape. The most primal of landscapes,
in fact: rock and fire, and a flowing mass of magma. It was like the
beginning of the world; red and black. It took me only a moment to make
sense of this scene. The next, I was besieged with images, the scene
before me transforming with every beat of my heart. Something flowered
from the fire, gold and green, rising into a smoky sky. As it rose the
blossoms it bore became fruit, and fell back onto the laval ground. I
didn't have time to watch them be consumed. A motion in the smoke off to
my right drew my gaze. An animal of some kind--with pale, scarred
flanks--galloped through my field of vision. I felt the violence of its
hooves in my bowels. And before it had passed from sight came another,
and another, then a herd of these beasts--not horses, but something
close to them. Had I made these creatures? I wondered. Had I exhaled
them with my pain; and the fire too, and the rock and tree that rose
from the rock? Was all this my invention, or perhaps some remote memory,
which the enchantments of the room had somehow made visible?

Even as I shaped that thought the pale herd changed direction and came
pounding at me. I instinctively covered my head, to keep my brains from
being beaten out. But for all the fury of their hooves, the passage of
the herd did me no more harm than a light breeze; they passed over me,
and away.

I looked up. In the few seconds I'd had my eyes averted the ground had
given prodigious birth. There were now sights to be seen on every side.
Close by me, sliding through the very air from which it was being
carved, a snake came, bright as a flower. Before it was even finished
with

its own creation another creature snatched it up, and my eyes rose to
find before me a form that was vaguely human, but winged and sleek. The
snake was gone in an instant, swallowed down the throat of this thing,
which then settled its fiery eyes on me as though wondering if I too
were edible. Plainly I looked like poor fare. Pumping its massive wings
the creature rose like a curtain to reveal another drama, stranger
still, behind it.

The tree I'd seen born had spread its seeds in every direction. In a few
seconds a forest had sprung up, its churning canopy as dark as a
thunderhead. And flitting between the trees were all manner of
creatures, rising to nest, falling to rot. Close by me, an antelope
stood in the dapple, shitting itself in terror. I looked for the cause.
There; a few yards from the creature, something moved between the trees.
I glimpsed only the glint off its eye, or tooth, until it suddenly broke
cover, and came at its prey in one vast bound. A tiger, the size of four
or five men. The antelope made to dart away, but its hunter was too
fast. The tiger's claws sank into the antelope's silken flank and
finished its leap with its prey beneath it. The death wasn't quick or
pretty. The antelope thrashed wildly, though its body was torn wide
open, and the tiger was tearing out its stringy throat. I didn't look
away. I watched until the antelope was steaming meat, and the tiger sank
down to dine. Only then did my eyes wander in search of new
distractions.

There was something bright between the trees, I saw; brighter by the
moment. Like a fire in its appetite, it climbed through the canopy as it
approached, its advance above outpacing its steadier progress below.
There was chaos in the thicket, as every species--hunter and hunted
alike--fled before the blaze. But above me there was no escape. The fire
came too fast, consuming birds in their flight, the chicks in their
nests, monkeys and squirrels on the bough. Countless corpses fell around
me, blackened and smoking. White hot ash came with them, powdering the
ground.

I wasn't in fear for my life. By now I knew enough about this place to
be confident of my immunity. But the scene appalled me nevertheless.
What was I witnessing? Some primal cataclysm that had scoured this
world? Undone it from sky to ground? If so, what was its source? This
was no natural disaster, I was certain of that. The blaze above me had
made itself into a kind of roof, creating in the moment of destruction a
fretted vault, in which the dying were immortalized in fire. Tears
started into my eyes, the sight moved me so. I reached to brush them
ut, so as not to miss whatever new glories or horrors were imminent,
and as I did so I heard in my heart the first human utterance--other
than my own noise--to come my way since I'd entered this chamber.

It was not a word; or if it was it was no word I knew. But it had
meaning; at least that was my belief. To my ear it sounded like an
open-throated shout raised by some newborn soul in the midst of the
blaze; a yell of celebration and defrance. Here I am! it seemed to say.
Now we begin!

I raised myself up on my hands to see if I could find the shouter
(whether it was man or woman I couldn't yet decide) but the rain of ash
and detritus was like a veil before me: I could see almost nothing
through it.

My arms could not support me for more than a few moments. But as I sank
back down to the ground, frustrated, the fire overhead--having perhaps
exhausted its fuel--went out. The ash ceased falling. And there,
standing no more than twenty yards from where I lay, the blaze
surrounding her like a vast, fiery flower, was Cesaria. There was
nothing about her attitude or her expression that suggested the fire
threatened her. Far from it. She seemed rather to be luxuriating in its
touch; her hands moving over her body as the conflagration bathed it, as
though to be certain its balm penetrated every pore. Her hair, which was
even blacker than her skin, flickered and twitched; her breasts seeped
milk, her eyes ran silvery tears, her sex, which now and then she
fingered, issued streams of blood.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. She was too exquisite, too ripe.
It seemed to me that all I had seen before me in the last little
while--the laval ground, the tree and its fruit, the pale herd, the
hunted antelope and the tiger that took it; even the strange, winged
creature that had briefly appeared in my vision--all of these were in
and of the woman before me. She was their maker and their slaughterer;
the sea into which they flowed and the rock from which they'd sprung.

I'd seen enough, I decided. I'd drunk down all I could bear to drink,
and still keep my sanity. It was time I turned my back on these visions,
and retreated to the safety of the mundane. I needed time to assimilate
what I'd seen--and the thoughts that the sights had engendered.

But retreat was no easy business. Ungluing my eyes from the sight of my
father's wife was hard enough; but when I did so, and looked back toward
the door, I could not find it. The illusion surrounded me on every side;
there was no hint of the real remaining. For the first time since the
visions had begun I remembered Luman's talk of madness, and I was seized
with panic. Had I carelessly let my hold on sanity slip, without even
noticing that I'd done so? Was I now adrift in this illusion with no
solid ground left for my senses?

I remembered with a shudder the crib in which Luman had been bound; and
the look of unappeasable rage in his eyes. Was that all that

lay before me now? A life without certainty, without solidity; this
forest a prison I'd breathed into being, and that other world, where I'd
been real and in my wounded fashion content, now a dream of freedom to
which I could not return?

I closed my eyes to shut out the illusion. Like a child in terror, I
prayed.

"Oh Lord God in Heaven, look down on your servant at this moment; I beg
of you ... I need you with me.

"Help me. Please. Take these things out of my head. I don't want them,
Lord. I don't want them."

Even as I whispered my prayer I felt a rush of energies against me. The
blaze between the trees, which had come to a halt a little distance from
me, was on the move again. I hastened my prayer, certain that if the
fire was coming for me, then so was Cesaria.

"Save me, Lord-- "

She was coming to silence me. That was my sudden conviction. She was a
part of my insanity and she was coming to hush the words I'd uttered to
defend myself against it.

"Lord, please hear me--"

The energies intensified, as though they intended to snatch the words
away from my lips.

"Quickly, Lord, quickly! Show me the way out of here! Please! God in
Heaven, help me!"

"Hush ..." I heard Cesaria say. She was right behind me. It seemed to me
I could feel the small hairs at the nape of my neck fizzle and fry. I
opened my eyes and looked over my shoulder. There she was, still
cocooned in fire, her dark flesh shining. My mouth was suddenly parched;
I could barely speak.

"I want. . ."

"I know," she said softly. "I know. I know. Poor child. Poor lost child.
You want your mind back."

"Yes ..." I said. I was close to sobbing.

"But here it is," she said. "All around you. The trees. The fire. Me.
All of it's yours."

"No," I protested. "I've never been in this place before."

"But it's been in you. This is where your father came looking for me, an
age ago. He dreamed it into you when you were born."

"Dreamed it into me ..." I said.

"Every sight, every feeling. All he was and all he knew and all he knew
was to come . . . it's in your blood and in your bowels."

"Then why am I so afraid of it?"

"Because you've held on to a simpler self for so long, you think you're
the sum of what you can hold in your hands. But there are other hands
holding you, child. Filled with you, these hands. Brimming with you . .
."

Did I dare believe any of this?

Cesaria replied as though she'd heard the doubt spoken aloud.

"I can't reassure you," she said. "Either you trust that these visions
are a greater wisdom than you've ever known, or you try to rid yourself
of them, and fall again."

"Fall where?"

"Why back into your own hands, of course," she said. Was she amused by
me? By my tears and my trembling? I believe she was. But then I couldn't
blame her; there was a part of me that also thought I was ridiculous,
praying to a God I'd never seen, in order to escape the sight of glories
a man of faith would have wept to witness. But I was afraid. Over an
dover I came back to that: I was afraid. "Ask your question," Cesaria
said. "You have a question. Ask it."

"It sounds so childish."

"Then have your answer and move on. But first you have to ask it."

"Am I ... safe?"

"Safe?"

"Yes. Safe."

"In your flesh? No. I can't guarantee your safety in the flesh. But in
your immortal form? Nothing and nobody can unbeget you. If you fall
through your own fingers, there's other hands to hold you. I've told you
that already."

"And ... I think I believe you," I said.

"So then," Cesaria said, "you have no reason not to let the memories
come."

She reached out toward me. Her hand was covered with countless snakes:
as fine as hairs but brilliantly colored, yellow and red and blue,
weaving their way between her fingers like living jewelry.

"Touch me," she said.

I looked up at her face, which wore an expression of sweet calm, and
then back at the hand she wanted me to take.

"Don't be afraid," she said to me. "They don't bite."

I reached up and took her hand. She was right, the snakes didn't bite.
But they swarmed; over her fingers and onto mine, squirming across the
back of my hand and up onto my arm. I was so distracted by the sight of
them that I didn't realize that she was pulling me up off the ground
until I was almost standing up. I say standing though I can't

imagine how that's possible; my legs were, until that moment, incapable
of supporting me. Even so I found myself on my feet, gripping her hand,
my face inches from her own.

I don't believe I had ever stood so close to my father's wife before.
Even when I was a child, brought from England and accepted as her
stepson, she always kept a certain distance from me. But now I stood (or
seemed to stand) with my face inches from her own, feeling the snakes
still writhing up my arm, but no longer caring to look down at them: not
when I had the sight of her face before me. She was flawless. Her skin,
for all its darkness, was possessed of an uncanny luminescence, her
gaze, like her mouth, both lush and forbidding. Strands of her hair were
lifted by gusts off the blaze around us (to the heat of which I seemed
invulnerable) and brushed against my cheek. Their touch, though it was
light, was nevertheless profoundly sensual. Feeling it, and seeing her
exquisite features, I could not help but imagine what it would be like
to be received into her arms. To kiss her, to lie with her, to put a
child into her. It was little wonder my father had obsessed on her to
his dying day, though all manner of argument and disappointment had
soured the love between them.

"So now . . ." she said.

"Yes?" I swear I would have done anything for her at that moment. I was
like a lover standing before his beloved; I could deny her nothing.

"Take it back . . ." she said.

I didn't comprehend what she was telling me. "Take what back?" I said.

"The breath. The pain. Me. Take it all back. It belongs to you Mad dox.
Take it back."

I understood. It was time to repossess all that I'd attempted to put
away from myself: the visions that were a part of my blood, though I'd
hidden them from myself; the pain that was also, for better or worse,
mine. And of course the very air from my lungs, whose expulsion had
begun this journey.

"Take it back."

I wanted to beg a few moments' grace, to talk with her, perhaps; at
least to gaze at her, before my body was returned into its agony. But
she was already easing her fingers from my grip.

"Take it back," she said a third time, and to be certain I obeyed her
edict she put her face close to mine and drew a breath of her own, a
breath so swift and strong it emptied my mouth, throat and lungs in an
instant.

My head reeled; white blotches burnt at the corners of my vision,
threatening to occlude the sight before me. But my body acted with a

vigor of its own, and without instruction from my will, did as Cesaria
had demanded: it took the breath back.

The effect was immediate, and to my enchanted eyes distressing. The
fabled face in front of me dissolved as though it had been conjured out
of mist and my needy lungs had unmade it. I looked up -- hoping to
snatch a glimpse of the ancient sky before it too dissolved, but I was
too late.

What had seemed unquestionably real moments before came to nothing in a
heartbeat. No; not to nothing. It unknitted into marks such as had
haunted the air when I'd first entered the room. Some of them still
carried traces of color. There were smudges of blue and white above, and
around me, where the thicket had not been consumed by fire, a hundred
kinds of green; and ahead of me glints of gold from the flame and
scarlet-flecked darkness where my father's wife had stood. But even
these remains evaporated in the next heartbeat, and I was back in the
arena of gray on gray which I had mistaken for a maze of stained walls.

All of the events that had just unfolded might have seemed a fiction but
for one simple fact: I was still standing. Whatever force my mind had
unleashed here, it had come with power enough to raise me up off the
ground and set me on my feet. And there I stood, amazed; and of course
certain I would fall down again at any moment. That moment passed,
however; so did the next and the next and the next, and still I stood.

Tentatively I glanced back over my shoulder. There, not six yards from
me, was the door through which I'd stepped all these visions ago. Beside
it, overturned, lay my wheelchair. I fixed my gaze upon it. Dared I
believe it was now redundant?

"Look at you . . ." said a slurred voice.

I glanced back from the wheelchair to the door, where Luman was now
leaning. He'd found another source of liquor while I'd been occupied in
the room. Not a bottle but a decanter. He had the glazed look of a
well-soused man. "You're standing," he said. "When did you learn to do
that?"

"I didn't..." I said. "I mean, I don't understand why I'm not falling
down."

"Can you walk?"

"I don't know. I haven't tried."

"Well, Lordie, man. Try."

I looked down at my feet, which had not taken any instruction from me in
a hundred and thirty years. "Go on then," I murmured.

And they moved. Not easily at first, but they moved. First the left,
then the right, turning me around to face Luman and the door.

I didn't stop there. I kept moving, my breath quick and fast, my arms
stretched before me to break my fall should my legs suddenly give out.
But they didn't. Some miracle had occurred when Cesaria had raised me
up. Her will, or mine, or both combined, had healed me. I could walk;
stride. In time, I would run. I would go all the places I'd not seen in
my years in the chair. Out into the swamp, and the roads beyond; to the
gardens beyond Luman's Smoke House; to my father's tomb in the empty
stables.

But for now, I was happy to reach the door. So happy indeed that I
embraced Luman. Tears were coming, and I could not have held them back
if I'd cared to.

"Thank you," I said to him.

He was quite happy to accept my embrace. Indeed he returned it with
equal fervor, burying his face in my neck. He too was sobbing, though I
didn't quite know why. "I don't see what you have to thank me for," he
said.

"For making me brave," I said. "For persuading me to go in."

"You don't regret it then?"

I laughed, and took his bleary face in my hands. "No, brother, I do not
regret it. Not a moment."

"Were you nearly driven mad?" "Nearly."

"And you cursed me?"

"Ripely."

"But it was worth the suffering?"

"Absolutely."

He paused, and considered his next question. "Does that mean we can sit
down and drink till we puke, like brothers should?"

"It would be my pleasure."

IX

What must I do, in the time remaining? Only everything. I don't yet know
how much I know; but it's a great deal. There are vast tracts of my
nature I never knew existed until now. I lived, I suppose, in a cell of
my own creation, while outside its walls lay a landscape of unparalleled
richness. But I could not bear to venture there. In my self-delusion I
thought I was a minor king, and I didn't want to step beyond the bounds
of what I knew for fear I lost my dominion. I daresay most of us live in
such pitiful realms. It takes something profound to transform us; to
open our eyes to our own glorious diversity.

Now my eyes were open, and I had no doubt that with my sight came great
responsibility. I had to write about what I saw; I had to put it into
the words that appear on the very pages you are reading.

But I could bear the weight of that responsibility. Gladly. For now I
had the answer to the question: what lay at the center of all the
threads of my story? It was myself. I wasn't an abstracted recanter of
these lives and loves. I was--I am--the story itself; its source, its
voice, its music. Perhaps to you that doesn't seem like much of a
revelation. But for me, it changes everything. It makes me see, with
brutal clarity, the person I once was. It makes me understand for the
first time who I am now. And it makes me shake with anticipation of what
I must become.

I must tell you not only how the living human world fared, but also how
it went among the animals, and among those who had passed from life, yet
still wandered the earth. I must tell you about those creatures God
made, but also of those who made themselves by force of will or
appetite. In other words, there must inevitably be unholy business here,
just as there will be sacred, but I cannot guarantee to tell you--or
even sometimes to know--which is which. And in my heart I realize I want
most to romance you; to share with you a vision of the world that puts
order where there has been discordance and chaos. Nothing happens
carelessly. We're not brought into the world without reason, even though
we may never understand that reason. An infant that lives an hour, that
dies before it can lay eyes on those who made it, even that soul did not
live without purpose: this is my sudden certainty. And it is my duty to
sweat until I convince you of the same. Sometimes the stories will
recount epic events--wars and insurrection; the fall of dynasties.
Sometimes they'll seem, by contrast, inconsequential, and you'll wonder
what business they have in these pages. Bear with me. Think of these
fragments as the shavings off a carpenter's floor, swept together after
some great work has been made. The masterpiece has been taken from the
workshop, but what might we learn from a study of some particular curl
of wood about the moment of creation? How here the carpenter hesitated,
or there moved to complete a form with unerring certainty? Are these
shavings then, that seem

at first glance redundant, not also part of the great work, being that
which has been removed to reveal it?

I won't be staying here at L'Enfant, searching for these shavings. We
have great cities to visit: New York and Washington, Paris and London;
and further east, and older than any of these, the legendary city of
Samarkand, whose crumbling palaces and mosques still welcome travelers
on the Silk Road. Weary of cities? Then we'll take to the wilds. To the
islands of Hawaii and the mountains of Japan, to forests where the Civil
War dead still lie, and stretches of sea no mariner ever crossed. They
all have their poetry: the glittering cities and the ruined, the watery
wastes and the dusty; I want to show you them all. I want to show you
everything.

Only everything: prophets, poets, soldiers, dogs, birds, fishes, lovers,
potentates, beggars, ghosts. Nothing is beyond my ambition right now,
and nothing is beneath my notice. I will attempt to conjure common
divinities, and show you the loveliness of filth.

Wait! What am I saying? There's a kind of madness in my pen; promising
all this. It's suicidal. I'm bound to fail. But it's what I want to do.
Even if I make a wretched fool of myself in the process, it's what I
want to do.

I want to show you bliss; my own, amongst others. And I will most
certainly show you despair. That I promise you without the least
hesitation. Despair so deep it will lighten your heart to discover that
others suffer so much more than you do.

And how will it all end? This showing, this failing. Honestly? I don't
have the slightest idea.

Sitting here, looking out across the lawn, I wonder how far from the
borders of our strange little domain the invading world is. Weeks away?
Months away? A year? I don't believe any of us here know the answer to
that question. Even Cesaria, with all her powers of prophecy, couldn't
tell me how fast the enemy will be upon us. All I know is that they will
come. Must come, indeed, for everybody's sake. I no longer cling to the
idea of this house as a blessed refuge for enchantment. Perhaps it was
once that. But it has fallen into decadence; its fine ambitions rotted.
Better it be taken apart, hopefully with some measure of dignity; but if
not, not.

All I want now is the time to enchant you. After that, I suppose I'm
history, just as this house is history. I wouldn't be surprised if we
didn't both end up at the bottom of the swamp together. And truth to
tell, that prospect doesn't entirely distress me, as long as I've done
all I need to do before I go.

Which is only everything.

And so at last I come to the beginning.

What place is that? Should I start, perhaps, with Rachel Pallenberg, who
was lately married to one of the most handsome and powerful men in
America, Mitchell Monroe Geary? Shall I describe her in her sudden
desolation, driving around a little town in Ohio, utterly lost, even
though this is the place where she was born and raised? Poor Rachel. She
has not only left her husband, but several houses and apartments, along
with a life that would be considered enviable by all but perhaps one
percent of the populous (which percentage already lives that life, and
knows it to be largely joyless). Now she has come home only to discover
that she doesn't belong here either, which leaves her asking herself:
where do I belong?

It's a tempting place to begin. Rachel's so human; her confusions and
contradictions are easy to comprehend. But if I begin with her I'm
afraid I'm going to get distracted by modernity. I need first to strike
a mythic note; to show you something from the distant past, when the
world was a living fable.

So, it can't be Rachel I begin with. She'll come into these pages soon
enough, but not yet.

It must be Galilee. Of course, it must be Galilee. My Galilee, who has
been, and is, so many things: adored boy-child, lover of innumerable
women (and a goodly number of men), shipwright, sailor, cowboy,
stevedore, pool player and pimp; coward, deceiver and innocent. My
Galilee.

I won't begin with one of his great voyages, or one of his notorious
romances. I will begin with what happened the day of his baptism. I
would not have known any of this before I entered the room beneath the
dome. But I know it now, as clearly as my own life. More clearly
perhaps, because it's only a day since I walked out of that chamber, and
these memories seem to me but a few hours old.

PART TWO

The Holy Family

Two souls as old as heaven came down to the shore that ancient noon.
They wandered, accompanied by a harmonious baying of wolves, out of the
forest which in those days still spread to the very fringes of the
Caspian Sea, its thicket so dense and its reputation so dire that no
sane individual ventured into it more than a stone's throw. It was not
the wolves that people feared meeting between the trees, nor was it
bears, nor snakes. It was another order of being entirely; one not made
by God; some unforgivable thing that stood to the Creator as a shadow
stands to the light.

The locals had legends aplenty about this unholy tribe, though they told
them only in whispers, and behind closed doors. Tales of creatures that
perched in the branches devouring children they'd tempted out of the
sun; or squatted in foetid pools between the trees, adorning themselves
with the entrails of murdered lovers. No story-teller along that shore
worth his place at the fire failed to invent some new abomination to
enrich the stew. Tales begot tales, bred upon one another in ever more
perverted form, so that the men, women and children who passed their
brief lives in the space between the sea and trees did so in a constant
state of fearfulness.

Even at noon, on a day such as this, with the air so clear it rang, and
the sky as polished as the flanks of a great fish; even today, in a
light so bright no demon would dare show its snout, there was fear.

As proof, let me take you into the company of the four men who were
working down at the water's edge that day, mending their nets in
preparation for the evening's fishing. All were in a state of unrest;
this even before the wolves began their chorus.

The oldest of the fishermen was one Kekmet, a man of nearly forty,
though he looked half that again. If he had ever known joy there was no
Sign of it on his furrowed, leathery face. His warmest expression was a
scowl, which he presently wore.

"You're talking through your shithole," he remarked to the youngest f
this quartet, a youth called Zelim, who at the tender age of sixteen had

already lost his cousin to a miscarriage. Zelim had earned Kekmet's
scorn by suggesting that as their lives were so hard here on the shore,
perhaps everyone in the village should pack up their belongings, and
find a better place to live.

"There's nowhere for us to go," Kekmet told the young man.

"My father saw the city of Samarkand," Zelim replied. "He told me it was
like a dream."

"That's exactly what it was," the man working alongside Kekmet said. "If
your father saw Samarkand it was in his sleep. Or when he'd had too much
wine . . ."

The speaker, whose name was Hassan, raised his own jug of what passed
for liquor in this place, a foul-smelling fermented milk he drank from
dawn to dusk. He put the jug to his mouth, and tipped it. The filthy
stuff overran his lips and dribbled into his greasy beard. He passed the
jug to the fourth member of the group, one Baru, a man uncommonly fat by
the standards of his peers, and uncommonly ill-tempered. He drank from
the jug noisily, then set it down at his side. Hassan made no attempt to
reclaim it. He knew better.

"My father . . ." Zelim began again.

"Never went to Samarkand," old Kekmet said, with the weary tone of one
who doesn't want to hear the subject at hand spoken of again.

Zelim, however, was not about to allow his dead father's reputation to
be impugned this way. He had doted on Old Zelim, who had drowned four
springs before, when his boat had capsized in a sudden squall. There was
no question, as far as the son was concerned, that if his father claimed
he'd seen the numberless glories of Samarkand, then he had.

"One day I'll just get up and go," Zelim said. "And leave you all to rot
here."

"In the name of God go!" fat Baru replied. "You make my ears ache the
way you chatter. You're like a woman."

He'd no sooner spat this insult out than Zelim was on him, pounding
Baru's round red face with his fists. There were some insults he was
prepared to take from his elders, but this was too much. "I'm no woman!"
he yelped, beating his target until blood gushed from Baru's nose.

The other two fishermen simply watched. It happened very seldom that
anyone in the village intervened in a dispute. People were allowed to
visit upon one another whatever insults and blows they wished; the '
rest either looked the other way or were glad of the diversion. So what
if 11	blood was spilled; so what if a woman was violated? Life went on.

Besides, fat Baru could defend himself. He had a vicious way with him,
for all his unruly bulk, and he bucked beneath Zelim so violently the
younger man was thrown off him, landing heavily beside one of the boats.
Gasping, Baru rolled over on to his knees and came at him afresh.

"I'm going to tear off your balls, you little prick!" he said. "I'm sick
of hearing about you and your dog of a father. He was born stupid and he
died stupid." As he spoke he reached between Zelim's legs as though to
make good on the threat of unmanning, but Zelim kicked out at him, and
his bare sole hit the man in his already well-mashed nose. Baru howled,
but he wasn't about to be checked. He grabbed hold of Zelim's foot, and
twisted it, hard, first to the right, then to the left. He might have
broken the young man's ankle--which would have left Zelim crippled for
the rest of his life --had his victim not reached into the shallow hull
of the boat, and grasped the oar lying there. Baru was too engaged in
the task of cracking Zelim's ankle to notice. Grimacing with the effort
of his torment, he looked up to enjoy the agony on Zelim's face only to
see the oar coming at him. He had no time to duck. The paddle slammed
against his face, breaking the half dozen good teeth left in his head.
He fell back, letting go of Zelim's leg as he did so, and lay sprawled
on the sand with his hands clamped to his wounded face, blood and curses
springing from between his fat fingers.

But Zelim hadn't finished with him. The young man got up, yelping when
he put weight on his tortured leg. Then, limping over to Baru's prone
body, he straddled the man, and sat down on his blubbery belly. This
time Baru made no attempt to move; he was too dazed. Zelim tore at his
shirt, exposing great rolls of flesh.

"You . . . call me a woman?" Zelim said. Baru moaned incoherently. Zelim
caught hold of the man's blubbery chest. "You've got bigger tits than
any woman I know." He slapped the flesh. "Haven't you?" Again, Baru
moaned, but Zelim wasn't satisfied. "Haven't you got tits?" he said,
reaching up to pull Baru's hands away from his face. He was a mess
beneath. "Did you hear me?" Zelim demanded.

"Yes. . ." Baru moaned.

"So say it."

"I've ... got tits. . ."

Zelim spat on the man's bloody face, and got to his feet. He felt
suddenly sick, but he was determined he wasn't going to puke in front of
any of these men. He despised them all.

He caught Hassan's lazy-lidded gaze as he turned.

"You did that well," the man remarked appreciatively. "Want something to
drink?"

Zelim pushed the proffered jug aside and set his sights beyond this
little ring of boats, along the shore. His leg hurt as though it were in
a fire and burning up, but he was determined to put some distance
between himself and the other fishermen before he showed any sign of
weakness.

"We haven't finished with the nets," Kekmet growled at him, as he limped
away.

Zelim ignored him. He didn't care about the boats or the nets or whether
the fish would rise tonight. He didn't care about Baru or old Kekmet or
drunken Hassan. He didn't care about himself at that moment. He wasn't
proud of what he'd done to Baru, nor was he ashamed. It was done, and
now he wanted to forget about it. Dig himself a hole in the sand, till
he found a cool, damp place to lie, and forget about it all. A hundred
yards behind him now, Hassan was shouting something, and though he
couldn't make sense of the words there was sufficient alarm in the
drunkard's tone that Zelim glanced back to see what the matter was.
Hassan had got to his feet, and was gazing off toward the distant trees.
Zelim followed the direction of his gaze, and saw that a great number of
birds had risen from the branches and were circling over the treetops.
It was an unusual sight to be sure, but Zelim would have paid it little
mind had the next moment not brought the baying of wolves, and with the
wolves, the emergence of two figures from the trees. He was about the
same distance from this pair as he was from the men and the boats behind
him, and there he stayed, unwilling to take refuge in the company of old
Kekmet and the others, but afraid to advance towards these strangers,
who strode out of the forest as though there was nothing in its depths
to fear, and walked, smiling, down towards the glittering water.

II

To Zelim's eyes the couple didn't look dangerous. In fact it was a
pleasure to look at them, after staring at the brutish faces of his
fellow fishermen. They walked with an ease that bespoke strength,
bespoke limbs that had never been cracked and mismended, never felt the
ravages of age. They looked, Zelim thought, as he imagined a king and a
queen might look, stepping from their cool palace, having been bathed in
rare oils. Their skins, which were very different in color (the

woman was blacker than any human being Zelim had ever set eyes upon, the
man paler), gleamed in the sunlight, and their hair, which both wore
long, seemed to be plaited here and there, so that serpentine forms ran
in their manes. All this was extraordinary enough; but there was more.
The robes they wore were another astonishment, for their colors were
more vivid than anything Zelim had seen in his life. He'd never
witnessed a sunset as red as the red in these robes, or set eyes on a
bird with plumage as green, or seen with his mind's eye, in dream or
daydream, a treasure that shone like the golden threads that were woven
with this red, this green. The robes were long, and hung on their
wearers voluptuously, but still it seemed to Zelim he could see the
forms of their bodies beneath the folds, and it made him long to see
them naked. He felt no shame at this desire; just as he felt no fear
that they would chasten him for his scrutiny. Surely beauty like this,
when it went out into the world, expected to be doted on.

He hadn't moved from that place on the bank where he'd first spotted the
couple, but their path to the water's edge was steadily bringing them
closer to him, and as the distance between them narrowed his eyes found
more to beguile them. The woman, for instance, was wearing copious
ornaments of jewelry--anklets, wristlets, necklaces--all as dark as her
skin, yet carrying half-concealed in their darkness an iridescence that
made them shimmer. The man had decoration of his own: elaborate patterns
painted or tattooed upon his thighs, which were visible when his robe,
which was cut to facilitate the immensity of his legs, parted.

But the most surprising detail of their appearance did not become clear
until they were within a few yards of the water. The woman, smiling at
her mate, reached into the folds of her robe, and with the greatest
tenderness, lifted out into view a tiny baby. The mite bawled instantly
at being parted from the comfort of its mother's tits--nor did Zelim
blame the thing; he would have done the same--but it ceased its
complaints when both mother and father spoke to it. Was there ever a
more blessed infant than this, Zelim thought. To be in such arms, to
gaze up at such faces, to know in your soul that you came from such
roots as these? If a greater bliss were possible, Zelim could not
imagine it.

The family was at the water now, and the couple had begun to speak to
one another. It was no light conversation. Indeed from the way the pair
stood facing one another, and the way they shook their heads and
frowned, there was some trouble between them.

The child, who had moments before been the center of its parents' doting
attentions, now went unnoticed. The argument was starting to

escalate, Zelim saw, and for the first time since setting eyes on the
couple he considered the wisdom of retreat. If one of these pair--or God
Almighty help him, both--were to lose their temper, he did not care to
contemplate the power they could unleash. But however fearful he was, he
couldn't take his eyes off the scene before him., Whatever the risk of
staying here and watching, it was nothing beside the sorrow he would
feel, denying himself this sight. The world would not show him such
glories again, he suspected. He was privileged beyond words to be in the
presence of these people. If he went and hid his head, out of some idiot
fear, then he deserved the very death he would be seeking to avoid. Only
the brave were granted gifts such as this; and if it had come to him by
accident (which it surely had) he would surprise fate by rising to the
occasion. Keep his eyes wide and his feet planted in the same spot; have
himself a story to tell his children, and the children of his children,
when this event was a lifetime from now.

He had no sooner shaped these thoughts, however, than the argument
between the couple ceased, and he had cause to wish he had fled. The
woman had returned her gaze to the baby, but her consort, who'd had his
back to Zelim throughout most of the exchange, now cast a look over his
shoulder, and fixing his eyes upon Zelim, beckoned to him.

Zelim didn't move. His legs had turned to stone, his bowels to water; it
was all he could do not to befoul his pants. He suddenly didn't care
whether or not he had a tale to tell his children. He only wanted the
sand to soften beneath him, so he could slide into the dark, where this
man's gaze could not find him. To make matters worse the woman had bared
her breasts and was offering her nipple to the babe's mouth. Her breasts
were sumptuous, gleaming and full. Though he knew it wasn't wise to be
staring past the beckoning husband and ogling the wife, Zelim couldn't
help himself.

And again, the man summoned him with the hook of his fingers, but this
time spoke.

"Come here, fisherman," he said. He didn't speak loudly, but Zelim heard
the command as though it had been spoken at his ear. "Don't be afraid,"
the man went on.

"I can't. . ." Zelim began, meaning to tell the man his legs would not
obey him.

But before the words were out of his mouth, the summons moved him.
Muscles that had been rigid a few heartbeats before were carrying him
toward his summons, though he had not consciously instructed them to do
so. The man smiled, seeing his will done, and despite his trepidation
Zelim could not help but return the smile, thinking as he

walked toward his master that if the rest of the men were still watching
him they would probably think him courageous, for the casual measure of
his stride.

The woman, meanwhile, having settled the infant to sucking, was also
looking Zelim's way, though her expression--unlike that of her
husband--was far from friendly. What radiance would have broken from her
face had she been feeling better tempered Zelim could only guess. Even
in her present unhappy state she was glorious.

Zelim was within perhaps six feet of the couple now, and there stopped,
though the man had not ordered him to do so.

"What is your name, fisherman?" the man said.

Before Zelim could reply, the woman broke in. "I'll not call him by the
name of a fisherman."

"Anything's better than nothing," the husband replied.

"No it's not," the wife snapped. "He needs a warrior's name. Or
nothing."

"He may not be a warrior."

"Well he certainly won't be a fisherman," the woman countered.

The man shrugged. The exchange had taken the smile off his face; he was
plainly running out of patience with his lady.

"So let's hear your name," the woman said.

"Zelim."

"There then," the woman said, looking back at her husband. "Zelim! Do
you want to call our child Zelim?"

The man looked down at the baby. "He doesn't seem to care one way or
another," he remarked. Then back at Zelim. "Has the name treated you
kindly?" he asked.

"Kindly?" Zelim said.

"He means are you pursued by women?" the wife replied.

"That's a consideration," the husband protested mildly. "If a name
brings good fortune and beautiful women, the boy will thank us for it."
He looked at Zelim again. "And have you been fortunate?"

"Not particularly," Zelim replied.

"And the women?"

"I married my cousin."

"No shame in that. My brother married my half-sister and they were the
happiest couple I ever met." He glanced back at his wife, who was
tenderly working the cushion of her breast so as to keep the flow of
milk strong. "But my wife's not going to be content with this, I can
see. No offense to you, my friend. Zelim is a fine name, truly. There's
no shame in Zelim."

"So I can go?"

The man shrugged. "I'm sure you have . . . fish to catch . . . yes?"

"As it happens, I hate fish," Zelim said, surprised to be confessing
this fact--which he had never spoken to anyone --in front of two
strangers. "All the men in Atva talk about is fish, fish, fish -- "

The woman looked up from the face of the nameless child.

"Atva?" she said.

"It's the name of-- "

"--the village," she said. "Yes, I understand." She tried the word
again, several times, turning the two syllables over. "At. Va. At. Vah."
Then she said: "It's plain and simple. I like that. You can't corrupt
it. You can't make some little game of it."

Now it was her husband's turn to be surprised. "You want to name my boy
after some little village?" he said.

"Nobody will ever know where it came from," the woman replied. "I like
the sound, and that's what's important. Look, the child likes the sound
too. He's smiling."

"He's smiling because he's sucking on your tit, wife," the man replied.
"I do the same thing."

Zelim could not keep himself from laughing. It amused him that these
two, who were in every regard extraordinary beings, still chatted like a
commonplace husband and wife.

"But if you want Atva, wife," the man went on, "then I will not stand
between you and your desires."

"You'd better not try," the woman replied.

"You see how she is with me?" the man said, turning back to Zelim. "I
grant her what she wants and she refuses to thank me." He spoke with the
hint of a smile upon his face; he was clearly happy to have this debate
ended. "Well, Zelim, I at least will thank you for your help in this."

"We all of us thank you," the woman replied. "Especially Atva. We wish
you a happy, fertile life."

"You're very welcome," Zelim murmured.

"Now," said the husband, "if you'll excuse us? We must baptize the
child."

Life in Atva was never the same after the day the family went down to
the water.

Zelim was of course questioned closely as to the nature of his exchange
with the man and woman, firstly by old Kekmet, then by just about
anybody in the village who wanted to catch his arm. He told the truth,
in his own plain way. But even as he told it, he knew in his heart that
recounting the words he had exchanged with the child's mother and father
was not the whole truth, or anything like it. In the presence of this
pair he had felt something wonderful; feelings his limited vocabulary
could not properly express. Nor, in truth, did he entirely wish to
express them. There was a kind of possessiveness in him about the
experience, which kept him from trying too hard to tell those who
interrogated him the true nature of the encounter. The only person he
would have wished to tell was his father. Old Zelim would have
understood, he suspected; he would have helped with the words, and when
the words failed both of them, then he'd have simply nodded and said:
"It was the same for me in Samarkand," which had always been his
response when somebody remarked upon the miraculous. It was the same for
me in Samarkand. . .

Perhaps people knew Zelim was not telling them all he knew, because once
they'd asked all their questions, he began to notice a distinct change
in their attitude to him. People who'd been friendly to him all his life
now looked at him strangely when he smiled at them, or looked the other
way, pretending not to see him. Others were even more obvious about
their distaste for his company; especially the women. More than once he
heard his name used loudly in conversation, accompanied by spitting, as
though the very syllables of his name carried a bitter taste.

It was, of all people, old Kekmet who told him what was being said.

"People are saying you're poisoning the village," he said. This seemed
so absurd Zelim laughed out loud. But Kekmet was deadly serious. "Baru's
at the heart of it," he went on. "He hates you, after the way you
spoiled that fat face of his. So he's spreading stories about you."

"What kind of stories?"

"That you and the demons were exchanging secret signs--"

"Demons?"

"That's what he says they were, those people. How else could they have
come out of the forest, he says. They couldn't be like us and live in
the forest. That's what he says."

"And everyone believes him?" Here Kekmet fell silent. "Do you believe
him?"

Kekmet looked away toward the water. "I've seen a lot of strange things
in my life," he said, the coarseness going from his voice. "Out there
particularly. Things moving in the water that I'd never want to find in
my net. And in the sky sometimes . . . shapes in the clouds . . ." He
shrugged. "I don't know what to believe. It doesn't really matter what's
true and what isn't. Baru's said what he's said, and people believe
him."

"What should I do?"

"You can stay and wait it out. Hope that people forget. Or you can
leave."

"And go where?"

"Anywhere but here." Kekmet looked back at Zelim. "If you ask me,
there's no life for you here as long as Baru's alive."

That was effectively the end of the conversation. Kekmet made his usual
curt farewell, and left Zelim to examine the two available options.
Neither was attractive. If he stayed, and Baru continued to stir up
enmity against him, his life would become intolerable. But to leave the
only home he'd ever known, to stray beyond this strip of rock and sand,
this huddled collection of houses, and venture out into the wide world
without any clue as to where he was going--that would take more courage
than he thought he possessed. He remembered his father's tales of the
hardships he claimed to have suffered on his way to Samar} kand: the
terrors of the desert; the bandits and the djinns. He didn't feel ready
to face such threats; he was too afraid.	:

Almost a month passed; and he persuaded himself that there was a
softening in people's attitudes to him. One day, one of the women
actually smiled at him, he thought. Things weren't as bad as Kekmet had
suggested. Given time the villagers would come to realize how absurd
their superstitions were. In the meantime he simply had to be careful
not to give them any cause for doubt.

He had not taken account of how fate might intervene.

It happened like this. Since his encounter with the couple on the shore
he had been obliged to take his boat out single-handed; nobody wanted to
share it with him. This had inevitably meant a smaller catch. He
couldn't throw the net as far from the boat when he was on his own.

But this particular day, despite the fact that he was fishing on his
own, he was lucky. His net was fairly bursting when he hauled it up into
the boat, and he paddled back to the shore feeling quite pleased with
himself. Several of the other fisherman were already unloading their
catches, so a goodly number of villagers were down at the water's edge,
and inevitably more than a few pairs of eyes were cast his way as he
hauled his net out of the boat to study its contents.

There were crayfish, there were catfish, there was even a small
sturgeon. But caught at the very bottom of his net, and still thrashing
there as though it possessed more life than it was natural for a
creature to possess, was a fish Zelim had never set eyes on before. It
was larger than any of the rest of his catch, its heaving flanks not
green or silvery, but a dull red. The creature instantly drew attention.
One of the women declared loudly it was a demon-fish. Look at it looking
at us, she said, her voice shrill. Oh God in Heaven preserve us, look
how it looks!

Zelim said nothing: he was almost as discomfited by the sight of the
fish as the women; it did seem to be watching them all with its
swiveling eye, as if to say: you're all going to die like me, sooner or
later, gasping for breath.

The woman's panic spread. Children began to cry and were ushered away,
instructed not to look back at the demon, or at Zelim, who'd brought
this thing to shore.

"It's not my fault," Zelim protested. "I just found it in my net."

"But why did it swim into your net?" Baru piped up, pushing through the
remaining onlookers to point his fat finger at Zelim. "I'll tell you
why. Because it wanted to be with you!"

"Be with me?" Zelim said. The notion was so ridiculous, he laughed. But
he was the only one doing so. Everybody else was either looking at his
accuser or at the evidence, which was still alive, long after the rest
of the net's contents had perished. "It's just a fish!" Zelim said.

"I certainly never saw its like," said Baru. He scanned the crowd, which
was assembling again, in anticipation of a confrontation. "Where's
Kekmet?"

"I'm here," the old man said. He was standing at the back of the crowd,
but Baru called him forth. He came, though somewhat reluctantly. It was
plain what Baru intended.

"How long have you fished here?" Baru asked Kekmet.

"Most of my life," Kekmet replied. "And before you ask, no I haven't
seen a fish that looks like this." He glanced up at Zelim. "But that
doesn't mean it's a demon-fish, Baru. It only means ... we haven't seen
one before."

Baru's expression grew sly. "Would you eat it?" he said.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Zelim put in.

"Baru's not talking to you," one of the women said. She was a bitter
creature, this particular woman, her face as narrow and sickly pale as
Baru's was round and red. "You answer, Kekmet! Go on. You tell us if
you'd put that in your stomach." She looked down at the fish, which by
some unhappy accident seemed to swivel its bronze eye so as to look back
at her. She shuddered, and without warning snatched Kekmet's stick from
him and began to beat the thing, not once or twice, but twenty, thirty
times, striking it so hard its flesh was pulped. When she had finished,
she threw the stick down on the sand, and looked up at Kekmet with her
lips curled back from her rotted teeth. "How's that?" she said. "Will
you have it now?"

Kekmet shook his head. "Believe what you want," he said. "I don't have
the words to change your minds. Maybe you're right, Baru. Maybe we are
all cursed. I'm too old to care."

With that he reached out and caught hold of the shoulder of one of the
children, so as to have some support now that he'd lost his stick. And
guiding the child ahead of him, he limped away from the crowd.

"You've done all the harm you're going to do," Baru said to Zelim. "You
have to leave."

Zelim put up no argument. What was the use? He went to his boat, picked
up his gutting knife, and went back to his house. It took him less than
half an hour to pack his belongings. When he went back into the street,
it was empty; his neighbors--whether out of shame or fear he didn't know
or care--had gone into hiding. But he felt their eyes on him as he
departed; and almost wished as he went that what Baru had accused him of
was true, and that if he were to now curse those he was leaving behind
with blindness they'd wake tomorrow with their eyes withered in their
sockets.

IV

Let me tell you what happened to Zelim after he left Atva. Determined to
prove--if only to himself--that the forest from which the family had
emerged was not a place to be afraid of, he made his departure through
the trees. It was damp and cold, and more than once he contemplated
retreating to the brightness of the shore, but after a time such
thoughts, along with his fear, dissipated. There was nothing here that
was going to do harm to his soul. When shit fell on or about him, as now
and then it did, the shitter wasn't some child-devouring beast as he'd
been brought up to believe it'd be, just a bird. When something moved in
the thicket, and he caught the gleam of an eye, it was not the gaze of a
nomadic djinn that fell on him, but that of a boar or a wild dog.

His caution evaporated along with his fear, and much to his surprise his
spirits grew lighter. He began to sing to himself as he went. Not the
songs the fishermen sang when they were out together, which were
invariably mournful or obscene, but the two or three little songs he
remembered from his childhood. Simple ditties which brought back happy
memories.

For food, he ate berries, washed down with water from the streams that
wound between the trees. Twice he came upon nests in the undergrowth and
was able to dine on raw eggs. Only at night, when he was obliged to rest
(once the sun went down he had no way of knowing the direction in which
he was traveling), did he become at all anxious. He had no means of
lighting a fire, so he was obliged to sit in the darkened thicket until
dawn, praying a bear or a pack of wolves didn't come sniffing for a
meal.

It took him four days and nights to get to the other side of the forest.
By the time he emerged from the trees he'd become so used to the gloom
that the bright sun made his head ache. He lay down in the grass at the
fringe of the trees, and dozed there in the warmth, thinking he'd set
off again when the sun was a little less bright. In fact, he slept until
twilight, when he was woken by the sound of voices rising and falling in
prayer. He sat up. A little distance from where he'd laid his head there
was a ridge of rocks, like the spine of some dead giant, and on the
narrow trail that wound between these boulders was a small group of holy
men, singing their prayers as they walked. Some were carrying lamps, by
which light he saw their faces: ragged beards, deeply furrowed brows,
sunbaked pates; these were men who'd suffered for their faith, he
thought.

He got up and limped in their direction, calling to them as he
approached so that they wouldn't be startled by his sudden appearance.
Seeing him, the men came to a halt; a few suspicious glances were
exchanged.

"I'm lost and hungry," Zelim said to them. "I wonder if you have some
bread, or if you can at least tell me where I can find a bed for the
night."

The leader, who was a burly man, passed his lamp to his companion, and
beckoned Zelim.

"What are you doing out here?" the monk asked.

"I came through the forest," Zelim explained.

"Don't you know this is a bad road?" the monk said. His breath was the
foulest thing Zelim had ever smelt. "There are robbers on this road,"
the monk went on. "Many people have been beaten and murdered here."
Suddenly, the monk reached out and caught hold of Zelim's arm, pulling
him close. At the same time he pulled out a large knife, and put it to
Zelim's throat. "Call them!" the monk said.

Zelim didn't understand what he was talking about. "Call who?"

"The rest of your gang! You tell them I'll slit your throat if they make
a move on us."

"No, you've got me wrong. I'm not a bandit."

"Shut up!" the monk said, pressing his blade into Zelim's flesh so
deeply that blood began to run. "Call to them!"

"I'm on my own," Zelim protested. "I swear! I swear on my mother's eyes,
I'm not a bandit."

"Slit his throat, Nazar," said one of the monks.

"Please, don't do that," Zelim begged. "I'm an innocent man."

"There are no innocent men left," Nazar, the man who held him, said.
"These are the last days of the world, and everyone left alive is
corrupt."

Zelim assumed this was high-flown philosophy, such as only a monk might
understand. "If you say so," he replied. "What do I know? ; But I tell
you I'm not a bandit. I'm a fisherman."

"You're a very long way from the sea," said the ratty little monk to
whom Nazar had passed his lamp. He leaned in to peer at Zelim, raising
the light a little as he did so. "Why'd you leave the fish behind?"

"Nobody liked me," Zelim replied. It seemed best to be honest.

"And why was that?"	:

Zelim shrugged. Not too honest, he thought. "They just didn't," he said.

The man studied Zelim a little longer, then he said to the leader: "You
know, Nazar, I think he's telling the truth." Zelim felt the blade at
his neck dig a little less deeply into his flesh. "We thought you were
one of the bandits' boys," the monk explained to him, "left in our path
to distract us."

Once again, Zelim felt he was not entirely understanding what he was
being told. "So . . . while you're talking to me, the bandits come?"

"Not talking," Nazar said. His knife slid down from Zelim's neck to

the middle of his chest; there it cut at Zelim's already ragged shirt.
The monk's other hand slid through the shirt, while the knife continued
on its southward journey, until it was pressed against the front of
Zelim's breeches.

"He's a little old for me, Nazar," the monk's companion commented, and
turning his back on Zelim sat down among the rocks.

"Am I on my own then?" Nazar wanted to know.

By way of answering him, three of the men closed on Zelim like hungry
dogs. He was wrested to the ground, where his clothes were pulled seam
from seam, and the monks proceeded to molest him, ignoring his shouts of
protest, or his pleas to be left alone. They made him lick their feet
and their fundaments, and suck their beards and nipples and
purple-headed cocks. They held him down while one by one they took him,
not caring that he bled and bled.

While this was going on the other monks, who'd retired to the rocks,
read, or drank wine or lay on their backs watching the stars. One was
even praying. All this Zelim could see because he deliberately looked
away from his violators, determined not to let them see the terror in
his eyes; and equally determined not to weep. So instead he watched the
others, and waited for the men who were violating him to be finished.

He fully expected to be murdered when they were done with him, but this,
at least, he was spared. Instead the monks had the night with him, on
and off, using him every way their desires could devise, and then, just
before dawn left him there among the rocks, and went on their way.

The sun came up, but Zelim closed his eyes against it. He didn't want to
look at the light ever again. He was too ashamed. But by midday the heat
made him get to his knees and drag himself into the comparative cool of
the rocks. There, to his surprise, he found that one of the holy
men--perhaps the one who had been praying--had left a skin of wine, some
bread, and a piece of dried fruit. It was no accident, he knew. The man
had left it for Zelim.

Now, and only now, did the fisherman allow the tears to come, moved not
so much by his own agonies, but by the fact that there had been one
who'd cared enough for him to do him this kindness.

He drank and ate. Maybe it was the potency of the wine, but he felt
remarkably renewed, and covering his nakedness as best he could he got
up from his niche among the rocks and set off down the trail. His

body still ached, but the bleeding had stopped, and rather than lie down
when night fell he walked under the stars. Somewhere along the way a
bony-flanked she-dog came creeping after him, looking perhaps for the
comfort of human company. He didn't shoo her away; he too wanted
company. After a time the animal became brave enough to walk at Zelim's
heel, and finding that her new master didn't kick her, was soon trotting
along as though they'd been together since birth.

The hungry bitch's arrival in his life marked a distinct upturn in
Zelim's fortunes. A few hours later he came into a village many times
larger than Atva, where he found a large crowd in the midst of what he
took to I be some kind of celebration. The streets were thronged with
people shouting and stamping, and generally having a fine time.

"Is it a holy day?" Zelim asked a youth who was sitting on a doorstep,
drinking.

The fellow laughed. "No," he said, "it's not a holy day."

"Well then why's everybody so happy?"

"We're going to have some hangings," the youth replied, with a lazy
grin.

"Oh ... I... see."	';

"You want to come and watch?"

"Not particularly."

"We might get ourselves something to eat," the youth said. "And you look
as though you need it." He glanced Zelim up and down. "In fact you look
like you need a lot of things. Some breeches, for one thing. What
happened to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"That bad, huh? Well then you should come to the hangings. My father
already went, because he said it's good to see people who are more
unfortunate than you. It's good for the soul, he said. Makes you
thankful."

Zelim saw the wisdom in this, so he and his dog accompanied the boy
through the village to the market square. It took them longer to dig
through the crowd than his guide had anticipated, however, and by the
time they got there all but one of the men who were being hanged was
already dangling from the makeshift gallows. He knew all the prisoners
instantly: the ragged beards, the sunburned pates. These were his
violators. All of them had plainly suffered horribly before the noose
had taken their lives. Three of them were missing their hands; one of
them

had been blinded; others, to judge by the blood that glued their clothes
to their groins, had lost their manhoods to the knife.

One of this unmanned number was Nazar, the leader of the gang, who was
the last of the gang left alive. He could not stand, so two of the
villagers were holding him up while a third slipped the noose over his
head. His rotted teeth had been smashed out, and his whole body covered
with cuts and bruises. The crowd was wildly happy at the sight of the
man's agonies. With every twitch and gasp they applauded and yelled his
crimes at him. "Murderer!" they yelled. "Thief!" they yelled.
"Sodomite!" they yelled.

"He's all that and more, my father says," the youth told Zelim. "He's so
evil, my father says, that when he dies we might see the Devil come up
onto the gallows and catch his soul as it comes out of his mouth!"

Zelim shuddered, sickened at the thought. If the boy's father was right,
and the sodomite robber-monk had been the spawn of Satan, then perhaps
that unholiness had been passed into his own body, along with the man's
spittle and seed. Oh, the horror of that thought; that he was somehow
the wife of this terrible man and would be dragged down into the same
infernal place when his time came.

The noose was now about Nazar's neck, and the rope pulled tight enough
that he was pulled up like a puppet. The men who'd been supporting him
stood away, so that they could help haul on the rope. But in the moments
before the rope tightened about his windpipe, Nazar started to speak.
No; not speak; shout, using every last particle of strength in his
battered body.

"Goof shits on you all!" he yelled. The crowd hurled at him. Some threw
stones. If he felt them breaking his bones, he didn't respond. He just
kept shouting. "He put a thousand innocent souls into our hands! He
didn't care what we did to them! So you can do whatever you want to
me--"

The rope was tightening around his throat as the men hauled on the other
end. Nazar was pulled up on to tip-toe. And still he shouted, blood and
spittle coming with the words.

"--there is no hell! There is no paradise! There is no--"

He got no further; the noose closed off his windpipe and he was hauled
into the air. But Zelim knew what word had been left unsaid, . The
monk had been about to cry: there is no God.

The crowd was in ecstasies all around him; cheering and jeering and
spitting at the hanged man as he jerked around on the end of the

rope. His agonies didn't last long. His tortured body gave out after a
very short time, much to the crowd's disapproval, and he hung from the
rope as though the grace of life had never touched him. The boy at
Zelim's side was plainly disappointed.

"I didn't see Satan, did you?"

Zelim shook his head, but in his heart he thought: maybe I did. Maybe
the Devil's just a man like me. Maybe he's many men; all men, maybe.

His gaze went along the row of hanged men, looking for the one who had
prayed while he'd been raped; the one Zelim suspected had left him the
wine, bread, and fruit. Perhaps he'd also persuaded his companions to
spare their victim; Zelim would never know. But here was the strange
thing. In death, the men all looked the same to him. What had made each
man particular seemed to have drained away, leaving their faces
deserted, like houses whose owners had departed, taking every sign of
particularity with them. He couldn't tell which of them had prayed on
the rock, or which had been particularly vicious in their dealings with
him. Which had bitten him like an animal; which had pissed in his face
to wake him when he'd almost fainted away; which had called him by the
name of a woman as they'd ploughed him. In the end, they were virtually
indistinguishable as they swung there.

"Now they'll be cut up and their heads put on spikes," the youth was
explaining, "as a warning to bandits."

"And holy men," Zelim said.

"They weren't holy men," the youth replied.

His remark was overheard by a woman close by. "Oh yes they were," she
said. "The leader, Nazar, had been a monk in Samarkand. He studied some
books he should never have studied, and that was why ; he became what he
became."	'I

"What kind of books?" Zelim asked her.

She gave him a fearful look. "It's better we don't know," she said.

"Well I'm going to find my father," the youth said to Zelim. "I hope
things go well with you. God be merciful."

"And to you," Zelim said.

Zelim had seen enough; more than enough, in truth. The crowd was working
itself up into a fresh fever as the bodies were being taken down in
preparation for their beheading; children were being lifted up onto
their parents' shoulders so they could see the deed done. Zelim found
the whole spectacle disgusting. Turning away from the scene, he bent
down, picked up his flea-bitten dog, and started to make his way to the
edge of the assembly.

As he went he heard somebody say: "Are you sickened at the sight of
blood?"

He glanced over his shoulder. It was the woman who'd spoken of the
unholy books in Samarkand.

"No, I'm not sickened," Zelim said sourly, thinking the woman was
impugning his manhood. "I'm just bored. They're dead. They can't suffer
any more."

"You're right," the woman said with a shrug. She was dressed, Zelim saw,
in widow's clothes, even though she was still young; no more than a year
or two older than he. "It's only us who suffer," the woman went on.
"Only us who are left alive."

He understood absolutely the truth in what she was saying, in a way that
he could not have understood before his terrible adventure on the road.
That much at least the monks had given him: a comprehension of somebody
else's despair.

"I used to think there were reasons . . ." he said softly.

The crowd was roaring. He glanced back over his shoulder. A head was
being held high, blood running from it, glittering in the bright sun.

"What did you say?" the woman asked him, moving closer to hear him
better over the noise.

"It doesn't matter," he said.

"Please tell me," she replied, "I'd like to know."

He shrugged. He wanted to weep, but what man wept openly in a place like
this?

"Why don't you come with me?" the woman said. "All my neighbors are
here, watching this stupidity. If you come back with me, there'll be
nobody to see us. Nobody to gossip about us."

Zelim contemplated the offer for a moment or two. "I have to bring my
dog," he said.

*

He stayed for six years. Of course after a week or so the neighbors
began to gossip behind their hands, but this wasn't like Atva; people
weren't forever meddling in your business. Zelim lived quite happily
with the widow Passak, whom he came to love. She was a practical woman,
but with the front door and the shutters closed she was also very
passionate. This was especially true, for some reason, when the winds
came in off the desert; burning hot winds that carried a blistering
freight of sand. When those winds blew the widow would be
shameless--there was nothing she wouldn't do for their mutual pleasure,
and he loved her all the more for it.

But the memories of Atva, and of the glorious family that had come down
to the shore that distant day, never left him. Nor did the hours of his
violation, or the strange thoughts that had visited him as Nazar and his
gang hung from the gallows. All of these experiences remained in his
heart, like a stew that had been left to simmer, and simmer, and as the
years passed was more steadily becoming tastier and more nourishing.

Then, after six years, and many happy days and nights with Passak, he
realized the time had come for him to sit down and eat that stew.

It happened during one of these storms that came off the desert. He and
Passak had made love not once but three times. Instead of falling asleep
afterward, however, as Passak had done, Zelim now felt a strange
irritation behind his eyes, as though the wind had somehow whistled its
way into his skull and was stirring the meal one last time before
serving it.

In the corner of the room the dog--who was by now old and blind--whined
uneasily.

"Hush, girl," he told her. He didn't want Passak woken; not until he had
made sense of the feelings that were haunting him.

He put his head in his hands. What was to become of him? He had lived a
fuller life than he'd ever have lived if he'd stayed in Atva, but none
of it made any sense. At least in Atva there had been a simple rhythm to
things. A boy was born, he grew strong enough to become a fisherman, he
became a fisherman, and then weakened again, until he was as frail as a
baby, and then he perished, comforted by the fact that even as he passed
from the world new fishermen were being born. But Zelim's life had no
such certainties in it. He'd stumbled from one confusion to another,
finding agony where he had expected to find consolation, and pleasure
where he'd expected to find sorrow. He'd seen the Devil in human form,
and the faces of divine spirits made in similar shape. Life was not
remotely as he'd expected it to be.

And then he thought: I have to tell what I know. That's why I'm here; I
have to tell people all that I've seen and felt, so that my pain is
never repeated. So that those who come after me are like my children,
because I helped shape them, and made them strong.

He got up, went to his sweet Passak where she lay, and knelt down beside
the narrow bed. He kissed her cheek. She was already awake, however, and
had been awake for a while.

"If you leave, I'll be so sad," she said. Then, after a pause: "But I
knew you'd go one day. I'm surprised you've stayed so long."

"How did you know--?"

"You were talking aloud, didn't you realize? You do it all the time." A
single tear ran from the corner of her eye, but there was no sorrow in
her voice. 'You are a wonderful man, Zelim. I don't think you know how
truly wonderful you are. And you've seen things . . . maybe they were in
your head, maybe they were real, I don't know . . . that you have to
tell people about." Now it was he who wept, hearing her speak this way,
without a trace of reprimand. "I have had such years with you, my love.
Such joy as I never thought I'd have. And it'd be greedy of me to ask
you for more, when I've had so much already." She raised her head a
little way, and kissed him. "I will love you better if you go quickly,"
she said.

He started to sob. All the fine thoughts he'd had a few minutes before
seemed hollow now. How could he think of leaving her?

"I can't go," he said. "I don't know what put the thought in my head."

"Yes you will," she replied. "If you don't go now, you'll go sooner or
later. So go."

He wiped his tears away. "No," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

So he stayed. The storms still came, month on month, and he and the
widow still coupled fiercely in the little house, while the fire
muttered in the hearth and the wind chattered on the roof. But now his
happiness was spoiled; and so was hers. He resented her for keeping him
under her roof, even though she'd been willing to let him go. And she in
her turn grew less loving of him, because he'd not had the courage to
go, and by staying he was killing the sweetest thing she'd ever known,
which was the love between them.

At last, the sadness of all this killed her. Strange to say, but this
brave woman, who had survived the grief of being widowed, could not
survive the death of her love for a man who stayed at her side. He
buried her, and a week later, went on his way.

He never again settled down. He'd known all he needed to know of
domestic life; from now on he would be a nomad. But the stew that had
bubbled in him for so long was still good. Perhaps all the more pungent
for those last sad months with Passak. Now, when he finally began his
life's work, and started to teach by telling of his experiences, there
was the poignancy of their soured love to add to the account: this
woman, to whom he had once promised his undying devotion--saying what he
felt for her was imperishable--soon came to seem as remote a memory as
his youth in Atva. Love -- at least the kind of love that men and
women'.? share--was not made of eternal stuff. Nor was its opposite.
Just as the scars that Nazar and his men had left faded with the years,
so had the j hatred Zelim had felt for them.

Which is not to say he was a man without feeling; far from it. In the
thirty-one years left to him he would become known as a prophet, as a
storyteller and as a man of rare passion. But that passion did not
resemble the kind that most of us feel. He became, despite his humble
origins, a creature of subtle and elevated emotion. The parables he told
would not have shamed Christ in their simplicity, but unlike the plain |
and good lessons taught by Jesus, Zelim imparted through his words a;:
far more ambiguous vision; one in which God and the Devil were
constantly engaged in a game of masks.

There may be occasion to tell you some of his parables as this story
goeS'i on, but for now, I will tell you only how he died. It happened,
of course, ] in Samarkand.

Let me first say a little about the city, given that its glamour had I
fueled so many of the stories that Zelim had heard as a child. The
teller of those tales, Old Zelim, was not the only man to dote on;i

Samarkand, a city he had never seen. It was a nearly mythical place in
those times. A city, it was said, of heartbreaking beauty, where
thoughts and forms and deeds that were unimaginable in any other spot on
earth were commonplace. Never such women as there; nor boys; nor either
so free with their flesh as in Samarkand's perfumed streets. Never such
men of power as there; nor such treasures as men of power accrue, nor
such palaces as they build for ambition's sake, nor mosques they build
to save their souls.

Then--if all these glories were not enough--there was the miraculous
fact of the city's very existence, when in all directions from where it
stood there was wilderness. The traders who passed through it on the
Silk Road to Turkistan and China, or carried spices from India or salt
from the steppes, crossed vast, baking deserts, and freezing gray
wastelands, before they came in sight of the river Zarafshan, and the
fertile lands from which Samarkand's towers and minarets rose, like
flowers that no garden had ever brought forth. Their gratitude at being
delivered out of the wastes they'd crossed inspired them to write songs
and poems about the city (extolling it perhaps more than it deserved)
and the songs and poems in their turn brought more traders, more
beautiful women, more builders of petaled towers, so that as the
generations passed Samarkand rose to its own legendary reputation, until
the adulation in those songs and poems came to seem ungenerous.

It was not, let me point out, simply a place of sensual excesses. It was
also a site of learning, where philosophers were extolled, and books
written and read, and theories about the beginning of the world and its
end endlessly debated over glasses of tea. In short, it was altogether a
miraculous city.

Three times in his life Zelim joined a caravan on the Silk Road and made
his way to Samarkand. The first time was just a couple of years after
the death of Passak, and he traveled on foot, having no money to
purchase an animal strong enough to survive the trek. It was a journey
that tested to its limits his hunger to see the place: by the time the
fabled towers came in sight he was so exhausted--his feet bloody, his
body trembling, his eyes red-raw from days of walking in clouds of
somebody else's dust--that he simply fell down in the sweet grass beside
the river and slept for the rest of the day there outside the walls,
oblivious.

He awoke at twilight, washed the sand from his eyes, and looked up. The
sky was opulent with color; tiny knitted rows of high cloud, all amber
toward the west, blue purple on their eastern flank, and birds in

wheeling flocks, circling the glowing minarets as they returned to their
roosts. He got to his feet and entered the city as the night fires
around the walls were being stoked, their fuel such fragrant woods that
the very air smelt holy.

Inside, all the suffering he'd endured to get here was forgotten.
Samarkand was all that his father had said it would be, and more. Though
Zelim was little more than a beggar here, he soon realized that there
was a market for his storytelling. And that he had much to tell. People
liked to hear him talk about the baptism at Atva; and the forest; and
Nazar and his fate. Whether they believed these were accounts of true
events or not didn't matter: they gave him money and food and friendship
(and in the case of several well-bred ladies, nights of love) to hear
him tell his tales. He began to extend his repertoire: extemporize,
enrich, invent. He created new stories about the family on the shore,
and because it seemed people liked to have a touch of philosophy woven
into their entertainments, introduced his themes of destiny into the
stories, ideas that he'd nurtured in his years with Passak.

By the time he left Samarkand after that first visit, which lasted a
year and a half, he had a certain reputation, not simply as a fine
storyteller, but as a man of some wisdom. And now, as he traveled, he
had a new subject: Samarkand.

There, he would say, the highest aspirations of the human soul, and the
lowest appetites of the flesh, are so closely laid, that its hard
sometimes to tell one from the other. It was a point of view people were
hungry to hear, because it was so often true of their own lives, but so
seldom admitted to. Zelim's reputation grew.	j

The next time he went to Samarkand he traveled on the back of a camel,
and had a fifteen-year-old boy to prepare his food and see to his a
comfort, a lad who'd been apprenticed to him because he too wanted to be
a storyteller. When they got to the city, it was inevitably something of
I a disappointment to Zelim. He felt like a man who'd returned to the I
bed of a great love only to find his memories sweeter than the reality.
But this experience was also the stuff of parable; and he'd only been in
"I the city a week before his disappointment was part of a tale he told.

And there were compensations: reunions with friends he'd made the first
time he'd been here; invitations into the palatial homes of men who I
would have scorned him as an uneducated fisherman a few years before,
but now declared themselves honored when he stepped across their
thresholds. And the profoundest compensation, his discovery that here in

the city there existed a tiny group of young scholars who studied his
life and his parables as though he were a man of some significance. Who
could fail to be flattered by that? He spent many days and nights
talking with them, and answering their questions as honestly as he was
able.

One question in particular loitered in his brain when he left the city.
"Do you think you'll ever see again the people you met on the shore?" a
young scholar had asked him.

"I don't suppose so," he'd said to the youth. "I was nothing to them."

"But to the child, perhaps . . ." the scholar had replied.

"To the child?" said Zelim. "I doubt he even knew I existed. He was more
interested in his mother's milk than he was in me."

The scholar persisted, however. "You teach in your stories," he said,
"how things always come round. You talk in one of them about the Wheel
of the Stars. Perhaps it will be the same with these people. They'll be
like the stars. Falling out of sight. . ."

". . . and rising again," Zelim said.

The scholar offered a luminous smile to hear his thoughts completed by
his master. "Yes. Rising again."

"Perhaps," Zelim had said. "But I won't live in expectation of it."

Nor did he. But, that said, the young scholar's observation had lingered
with him, and had in its turn seeded another parable: a morose tale
about a man who lives in anticipation of a meeting with someone who
turns out to be his assassin.

And so the years went on, and Zelim's fame steadily grew. He traveled
immense distances--to Europe, to India, to the borders of China, telling
his stories, and discovering that the strange poetry of what he invented
gave pleasure to every variety of heart.

It was another eighteen years before he came again to Samarkand;
this--though he didn't know it--for the last time.

VII

T) y now Zelim was getting on in years and though his many journeys
-'-'had made him wiry and resilient, he was feeling his age that autumn.
His joints ached; his morning motions were either water or stone; he
slept poorly. And when he did sleep, he dreamed of Atva; or

rather of its shore, and of the holy family. His life of wisdom and pain
had been caused by that encounter. If he'd not gone down to the water
that day then perhaps he'd still be there among the fishermen, living a
life of utter spiritual impoverishment; never having known enough to
make his soul quake, nor enough to make it soar.

So there he was, that October, in Samarkand, feeling old and sleeping
badly. There was little rest for him, however. By now the number of his
devotees had swelled, and one of them (the youth who'd asked the
question about things coming round) had founded a school. They were all
young men who'd found a revolutionary zeal buried in Zelim's parables,
which in turn nourished their hunger to see humanity unchained. Daily,
he would meet with them. Sometimes he would let them question him, about
his life, about his opinions. On other days-- when he was weary of being
interrogated--he would tell a story.

This particular day, however, the lesson had become a little of both.
One of the students had said: "Master, many of us have had terrible
arguments with our fathers, who don't wish us to study your works."

"Is that so?" old Zelim replied, raising an eyebrow. "I can't understand
why." There was a little laughter among the students. "What's your
question?"

"I only wondered if you'd tell us something of your own father."

"My father . . ." Zelim said softly.

"Just a little."

The prophet smiled. "Don't look so nervous," he said to the questioner.
"Why do you look so nervous?"

The youth blushed. "I was afraid perhaps you'd be angry with me for
asking something about your family."

"In the first place," Zelim replied gently, "I'm far too old to get
angry. It's a waste of energy and I don't have much of that left. In the
second place, my father sits before you, just as all your fathers sit
here in, front of me." His gaze roved the thirty or so students who sat
cross legged before him. "And a very fine bunch of men they are too."
His gaze returned to the youth who'd asked the question. "What does your
father do?"

"He's a wool merchant."

"So he's out in the city somewhere right now, selling wool, but his
nature's not satisfied with the selling of wool. He needs something else
in his life, so he sends you along to talk philosophy."

"Oh no ... you don't understand ... he didn't send me."

"He may not think he sent you. You may not think you were sent. But you
were born your father's son and whatever you do, you do it for

him." The youth frowned, plainly troubled at the thought of doing
anything for his father. "You're like the fingers of his hand, digging
in the dirt while he counts his bales of wool. He doesn't even notice
that the hand's digging. He doesn't see it drop seeds into the hole.
He's amazed when he finds a tree's grown up beside him, filled with
sweet fruit and singing birds. But it was his hand did it."

The youth looked down at the ground. "What do you mean by this?" he
said.

"That we do not belong to ourselves. That though we cannot know the full
purpose of our creation, we should look to those who came before us to
understand it better. Not just our fathers and our mothers, but all who
went before. They are the pathway back to God, who may not know, even as
He counts stars, that we're quietly digging a hole, planting a seed . .
."

Now the youth looked up again, smiling, entertained by the notion of God
the Father looking the other way while His human hands grew a garden at
His feet.

"Does that answer the question?" Zelim said.

"I was still wondering . . ." the student said.

*<"V ">"

Yes?

"Your own father--?"

"He was a fisherman from a little village called Atva, which is on the
shores of the Caspian Sea." As Zelim spoke, he felt a little breath of
wind against his face, delightfully cool. He paused to appreciate it.
Closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he knew
something had changed in the room; he just didn't know what.

"Where was I?" he said.

"Atva," somebody at the back of the room said.

"Ah, yes, Atva. My father lived there all his life, but he dreamed of
being somewhere quite different. He dreamed of Samarkand. He told his
children he'd been here, in his youth. And he wove such stories of this
city; such stories . . ."

Again, Zelim halted. The cool breeze had brushed against his brow a
second time, and something about the way it touched him seemed like a
sign. As though the breeze was saying look, look . . .

But at what? He gazed out of the window, thinking perhaps there was
something out there he needed to see. The sky was darkening toward
night. A chestnut tree, still covetous of its leaves despite the season,
was in perfect silhouette. High up in its branches the evening star
glimmered. But he'd seen all of this before: a sky, a tree, a star.

He returned his gaze to the room, still puzzled.

"What kind of stories?" somebody was asking him.

"Stories . . . ?"

"You said your father told stories of Samarkand."

"Oh yes. So he did. Wonderful stories. He wasn't a very good sailor, my
father. In fact he drowned on a perfectly calm day. But he could have
told tales of Samarkand for a year and never told the same one twice."

"But you say he never came here?" the master of the school asked Zelim.

"Never," Zelim said, smiling. "Which is why he was able to tell such
fine stories about it."

This amused everyone mightily. But Zelim scarcely heard the laughter.
Again, that tantalizing breeze had brushed his face; and this time, when
he raised his eyes, he saw somebody moving through the shadows at the
far end of the room. It was not one of the students. They were all
dressed in pale yellow robes. This figure was dressed in ragged black
breeches and a dirty shirt. He was also black, his skin possessing a I
curious radiance, which made Zelim remember a long-ago day.

"Atva . . . ?" he murmured.

Only the students closest to Zelim heard him speak, and even they, when
debating the subject later, did not agree on the utterance. Some thought
he'd said Allah, others that he'd spoken some magical word, | that was
intended to keep the stranger at the back of the room at bay. * The
reason that the word was so hotly debated was simple: it was Zelim's
last, at least in the living world.

He had no sooner spoken than his head drooped, and the glass of I tea
which he had been sipping fell from his hand. The murmurings,! around
the room ceased on the instant; students rose on all sides, some|( of
them already starting to weep, or pray: The great teacher was dead,< his
wisdom passed into history. There would be more stories, no mordj|
prophecies. Only centuries of turning over the tales he'd already told
and watching to see if the prophecies came true.

Outside the schoolroom, under that covetous chestnut tree, two men*,
talked in whispers. Nobody saw them there; nobody heard their happy,!
exchange. Nor will I invent those words; better I leave that
conversation I to you: how the spirit of Zelim and Atva, later called
Galilee, talked. IJ will say only this: that when the conversation was
over, Zelim accompanied Galilee out of Samarkand; a ghost and a god,
wandering off;| through the smoky twilight, like two inseparable
friends.

Need I say that Zelim's part in this story is far from finished? He was
called away that day into the arms of the Barbarossa family, whose
service he has not since left.

In this book, as in life, nothing really passes away. Things change,
yes; of course they change; they must. But everything is preserved in
the eternal moment--Zelim the fisherman, Zelim the prophet, Zelim the
ghost; he's been recorded in all his forms, these pages a poor but
passionate echo of the great record that is holiness itself.

There must still be room for the falling note, of course. Even in an
undying world there are times when beauty passes from sight, or love
passes from the heart, and we feel the sorrow of partition.

In Samarkand, which was glorious for a time, the lozenge tiles, blue and
gold, have fallen from the walls, and the chestnut tree under which
Zelim and Galilee talked after the prophet's passing has been felled.
The domes are decaying, and streets that were once filled with noise are
given over to silence. It's not a good silence; it's not the hush of a
hermit's cell, or the quiet of dawn. It's simply an absence of life.
Regimes have come and gone, parties and potentates, old guards and new,
each stealing a portion of Samarkand's glory when they lose power. Now
there's only dirt and despair. The highest hope of those who remain is
that one of these days the Americans will come and find reason to
believe in the city again. Then there'll be hamburgers and soda and
cigarettes. A sad ambition for the people of any great city.

And until that happens, there's just the falling tiles, and a dirty
wind.

As for Atva, it no longer exists. I suppose if you dug deep in the sand
along the shore you'd find the broken-down walls of a few houses, maybe
a threshold or two, a pot or two. But nothing of great interest. The
lives that were lived in Atva were unremarkable, and so are the few
signs that those lives left behind them. Atva does not appear on any
maps (even when it thrived it was never marked down that way), nor is
mentioned in any books about the Caspian Sea.

Atva exists now in two places. Here in these pages, of course. And as my
brother Galilee's true name.

I have one additional detail to add before we move on to something more
urgent. It's about that first day, when my father Nicodemus and his wife
Cesaria went down to baptize their beloved child in the water.

Apparently what happened was this: no sooner had Cesaria lowered the
baby into the water than he squirmed in her hands and escaped her,
diving beneath the first wave that came his way and disappearing from
view. My father of course waded in after him, but the current was
particularly strong that day and before he could catch hold of his son
the babe had been caught up and swept away from the shore. I don't know
if Cesaria was crying or yelling or simply keeping her silence. I do
know she didn't go in after the escapee, because she once remarked to
Marietta that she had known all along Galilee would go from her side,
and though she was surprised to see him leaving at such a tender age she
wasn't about to stop him.

Eventually, maybe a quarter of a mile out from the beach, my il father
caught sight of a little head bobbing in the water. By all accounts I
the baby was still swimming, or making his best attempt at it. When I
Atva felt his father's hands around him he began to bawl and squirm. But
my father caught firm hold of him. He set the baby on his shoulders, and
swam back to the shore.

Cesaria told Marietta how the baby had laughed once he was back in her
arms, laughed until the tears ran, he was so amused by what he'd done.	I

But when I think of this episode, especially in the context of what! I'm
about to tell you, it's not the child laughing that I picture. No, it's
the I image of little Atva, barely a day old, squirming from the hands
of those | who created him, and then, ignoring their cries and their
demands, simply swimming away, swimming away, as though the first thing
on his I mind was escape.

m.

PART THREE

An Expensive Life

You remember Rachel Pallenberg? I spoke about her briefly several
chapters back, when I was figuratively wringing my hands about whose
story I was first going to tell. I described her driving around her
hometown of Dansky, Ohio--which lies between Marion and Shanck, close to
Mount Gilead. Unpretentious would be a kind description of the town;
banal perhaps truer. If it once had some particular charm, that charm's
gone, demolished to make room for the great American ubiquities: cheap
hamburger places, cheap liquor places, a market for soda that
impersonates more expensive soda and cheese that impersonates milk
product. By night the gas station's the brightest spot in town.

Here, Rachel was raised until she was seventeen. The streets should be
familiar to her. But she's lost. Though she recognizes much of what she
sees--the school where she passed several miserable years still stands,
as does the church, where her father Hank (who was always more devout
than her mother) brought her every Sunday, the bank where Hank
Pallenberg worked until his sickness and early demise--all of these she
sees and recognizes; and still she's lost. This isn't home. But then
neither is the place she left to drive here; the exquisite apartment
overlooking Central Park where she's lived in the bosom of wealth and
luxury, married to the man of countless women's dreams: Mitchell Geary.

Rachel doesn't regret leaving Dansky. It was a claustrophobic life she
lived here: dull and repetitive. And the future had looked grim. Single
women in Dansky didn't break their hearts trying for very much. Marriage
was what they wanted, and if their husbands were reasonably sober two or
three nights a week and their children were born with all their limbs,
then they counted themselves lucky, and dug in for a long decline.

That was not what Rachel had in mind for herself. She'd left Clan sky
two days after her seventeenth birthday without giving it so much as a
backward glance. There was another life out there, which she'd seen in
Magazines and on the television screen: a life of possibilities, a movie

star life, a life she was determined to have for herself. She wasn't the
only! seventeen-year-old girl in America who nurtures such hopes, of
course.! Nor am I the first person to be recounting in print how she
made that! dream a reality. I have here beside me four books and a stack
of magal zines--the contents of most of which don't merit the word
reportage -- all of which talk in often unruly metaphor about the rise
and rise off Rachel Pallenberg. I will do my best here to avoid the
excess and stick to the facts, but the story--which is so very much like
a fairy tale--would! tempt a literary ascetic, as you'll see. The
beautiful, dark-eyed girl fror Dansky, with nothing to distinguish her
from the common herd but her dazzling smile and her easy charm, finds
herself, by chance, in the cor pany of the most eligible bachelor in
America, and catches his eye. rest is not yet history; history requires
a certain closure, and this stor still in motion. But it is certainly
something remarkable.

How did it come about? That part, at least, is very simple to tell.

Rachel left Dansky planning to begin her new life in Cincinnati! where
her mother's sister lived. There she went, and there, for about tw|
years, she stayed. She had a brief but inglorious stint training to be a
der tal technician, then spent several months working as a waitress. She
' liked, though not loved. Some of her fellow workers apparently consii
ered her a little too ambitious for her own good; she was one of thos
people who didn't mind voicing their aspirations, and that irritated the
who were too afraid to do so for themselves, or simply had none, manager
of the restaurant, a fellow called Herbert Finney, remember her
differently from one interview to the next. Was she "a hardworkir rather
quiet girl?" as he says to one interviewer, or "a bit of a trouble
maker, flirting with the male customers, always looking to get somethinf
for herself?" as he tells another. Perhaps the truth is somewhere
between. Certainly waitressing didn't suit her for very long; nor
Cincinnati. Twenty-one months after arriving there, in late August, sr
took a train east, to Boston. When she was later asked by some idiot ma
azine why she'd chosen that city, she'd replied that she'd heard autumn
months were pretty there. She found another waitressing and shared an
apartment with two girls who were, like her, new to city. After two
weeks she was taken on by an upscale jewelry store Newbury Street, and
there she worked through the fall--which indeed beautiful, crisp and
clean--until, on December 23rd, late in afternoon, Christmas came
visiting in the form of Mitchell Geary.

It began to snow that afternoon, somewhere around two, the first flurry
coming as Rachel returned from lunch. The prediction for the rest of the
day, and into the night, was worsening by the hour: a blizzard was

on its way.

Business was slow; people were getting out of the city early, despite
the fact that they could calculate the shopping hours left to Christmas
morning on their fingers and toes. The manager of the store, a Mr.
Erickson (a forty-year-old with the wan, weary elegance of a man half
his age again), was on the phone in the back office discussing with his
boss the idea of closing up early, when a limo drew up outside and a
young dark-haired man in a heavy coat, his collar pulled up, his eyes
downcast as though he feared being recognized in the ten-yard journey
from limo to store, strode to the door, stamped off the snow on the
threshold and came in. Erickson was still in the back office,
negotiating closing times. The other assistant, Noelle, was out fetching
coffee. It fell to Rachel to serve the customer in the coat.

She knew who he was, of course. Who didn't? The classically handsome
features--the chiseled cheekbones, the soulful eyes, the strong, sensual
mouth, the unruly hair--appeared on some magazine or other every month:
Mitchell Monroe Geary was one of the most watched, debated, swooned-over
men in America. And here he was, standing in front of Rachel with flakes
of snow melting on his dark eyelashes.

What had happened then? Well, it had been a simple enough exchange. He'd
come in, he explained, to look for a Christmas gift for his
grandfather's wife, Loretta. Something with diamonds, he'd said. Then,
with a little shake of his head: "She loves diamonds." Rachel showed him
a selection of diamond pin brooches, hoping to God Erickson didn't come
off the phone too soon, and that the line at the coffee shop was long
enough to delay Noelle's return for a few minutes longer. Just to have
the Geary prince to herself for a little while was all she asked.

He declared that he liked both the butterfly and the star. She took them
from their black velvet pillows for him to examine more closely. What
was her opinion, he asked. Mine? she said. Yes, yours. Well, she said,
surprised at how easy she found it to talk to him: if it's for your
grandmother, then I think the butterfly's probably too romantic.

He'd looked straight at her, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. How
do you know I'm not passionately in love with my grandmother?" he'd
said.

"If you were you wouldn't still be looking for someone," she'd /nat
Erickson called "guilty spouse business." The more expensive the	_

replied, quick as silver.	resent, Erickson always said, the more acts of
adultery the customer i_ "And what makes you think I am?" ad committed
during the preceding year. When in a particularly Now it was she who
smiled. "I read the magazines," she said. ,aspish mood, he wasn't above
quoting a number as the door slammed. I "They never tell the truth," he
replied. "I live the life of a monk. In

swear." She said nothing to this, thinking she'd probably said far too

much already: lost the sale, lost her job too, if Erickson had overheard
 they dutifully stayed in the store, and the snow, as predicted, got

the exchange. "I'll take the star," he said. "Thank you for the advice."
orse. There was a smattering of business, but nothing substantial.

He made the purchase and left, taking his charm, his presence, And then,
just as Erickson was starting to take the displays out of

and the glint in his eye away with him. She'd felt strangely cheated if
window for the night, a man came in with an envelope for Rachel.

when he'd gone, as though he'd also taken something that belonged to
"Mr. Geary says he's sorry, he didn't get your name," the messenger

her, absurd though that was. As he strode away from the store Noelle >'d
her.

came in with the coffees.	"My name's Rachel." "Was that who I think it
was?" she said, her eyes wide.	"I'll tell him. I'm his driver and his
bodyguard, by the way. I'm

Rachel nodded.	alph."

"He's even more gorgeous in the flesh, isn't he?" Noelle remarked.
"Hello, Ralph."

Rachel nodded. "You're drooling."	Ralph--who was six foot six if he was
an inch, and looked as Rachel laughed. "He is handsome." lough he'd had
a distinguished career as a punching bag--grinned.

"Was he on his own?" Noelle said. She looked back out into the lello,
Rachel," he said. "I'm pleased to meet you." He pulled off his

street as the limo was pulling away. "Was she with him?"	at her glove
and shook Rachel's hand. "Well, goodnight folks." He

"Who's she?"	udged back to the door. "Avoid the Tobin Bridge, by the
way. There J. "Natasha Morley. The model. The anorexic one." is a wreck
and it's all snarled up." I "They're all anorexic." Rachel had no wish
to open the envelope in front of Noelle or "They're not happy," Noelle
remarked with unperturbable cer- dckson, but nor could she stand the
idea of waiting another nineteen

tainty. "You can't be that thin and be happy."	minutes until the store
was closed, and she was out on the street alone. ,, "She wasn't with
him. He was buying something for his grand- "> she opened it. Inside was
a short, scrawled note from Mitchell

mother."	eary> inviting her to the Algonquin Club for drinks the
following "Oh that bitch," Noelle sniped. "The one who always dresses in
ening, which was Christmas Eve.

white."	Three and a half weeks later, in a restaurant in New York, he
gave , "Loretta." ;r the diamond butterfly brooch, and told her he was
falling in love. "That's right. Loretta. She's his grandfather's second
wife." Noelle '

was chatting as though the Geary family were next door neighbors." I
read something in People where they said she basically runs the family-
T"T~ '

Controls everybody."	I I "I can't imagine anybody controlling him,"
Rachel said, still star- -A- A.

ing out into the street.

"But wouldn't you love the opportunity?" Noelle replied.	r*his is as
good a place as any to attempt a brief sketch of the Geary Erickson
appeared from the back office at this juncture, in a foul I family. It's
a long, long drop from the topmost branch, where

temper. Despite the rapidly worsening storm they had been instructed
ichel Pallenberg was poised the moment she became the wife of

to keep the store open until eight-thirty. This was a minor reprieve:
two itchell Geary, to the roots of the family; and those roots are
buried so

days before Christmas they were usually open till ten at night, to catch
ep into the earth I'm not sure I'm quite ready to disinter them. So

instead allow me to concern myself--at least for now--with that part of
the family tree that's readily visible: the part that appears in the
books about the rise and influence of the Geary engine.

It quickly becomes apparent, even in a casual skimming of these volumes,
that for several generations the Gearys have behaved (and have been
treated) like a form of American royalty. Like royalty, they've always
acted as though they were above the common law; this in both their
private and their corporate dealings. Over the years several members of
the dynasty have behaved in ways that would have guaranteed
incarceration if they hadn't been who they were: everything from driving
in a highly intoxicated state to wife-beating. Like royalty, there has I
often been a grandeur to both their passions and to their failures which
} galvanized the rest of us, whose lives are by necessity confined. Even
the people that they'd abused over the years--either in their personal
.I lives or in their corporate machinations--were entranced by them;
ready to forgive and forget if the gaze of the Gearys would only be
turned their way again.

And, like royalty, they had their feet in blood. No throne was ever won
or held without violence; and though the Gearys were not blessed ;| by
the same king-making gods who'd crowned the royal heads of Europe, or
the emperors of China or Japan, there was a dark, bloody .f spirit in
their collective soul, a Geary daemon if you will, who invested them
with an authority out of all proportion to their secular rights. It made
them fierce in love, and fierce still in hatred, it made them iron- s
willed and long-lived; it made them casually cruel and just as casually
IS charismatic.

Most of the time, it was as though they didn't even know what they I
were doing, good, bad or indifferent. They lived in a kind of trance o|
self-absorption, as though the rest of the world was simply a mirror
held'l up to their faces, and they passed through life seeing only
themselves.

In some ways love was the ultimate manifestation of the Geary daemon; il
because love was the way that the family increased itself, enriched
itself.!

For the males it was almost a point of pride that they be adulterous, w
and that the world know it, even if the subject wasn't talked about
above | a whisper. This dubious tradition had been initiated by Mitch's
great- I grandfather, Laurence Grainger Geary, who'd been a cocks man of
leg- f endary stamina, and had fathered, according to one estimate, at
least "I two dozen bastards. His taste in mistresses had been broad.
Upon his death two black women in Kentucky, sisters no less, claimed to
have his

Bi,

children; a very well respected Jewish philanthropist in upstate New
York, who had served with old man Geary on a committee for the
Rehabilitation of Public Morals, had attempted suicide, and revealed in
her farewell letter the true paternity of her three daughters, while the
madam of a bordello in New Mexico had showed her son to the local press,
pointing out how very like a Geary child he looked.

Laurence's wife Verna had made no public response to these claims. But
they took their toll on the unhappy woman. A year later she was
committed to the same institution that had housed Mary Lincoln in her
last years. There Verna Geary survived for a little over a decade,
before making a pitiful exit from the world.

Only one of her four children (she'd lost another three in their
infancy) was at all attentive to her in her failing years: her eldest
daughter, Eleanor. The old woman did not care for Eleanor's constant
kindness, however. She loved only one of her children enough to beg his
presence, in letter after letter, through the period of her
incarceration: that was her beloved son Cadmus. The object of her
affections was unresponsive. He visited her once, and never came again.
Arguably Verna was the author of her own son's cruelty. She'd taught him
from his earliest childhood that he was an exceptional soul, and one of
the manifestations of this specialness was the fact that he never had to
set eyes on any sight that didn't please him. So now, when he was faced
with such a sight--his mother in a state of mental disarray--he simply
averted his eyes.

"I want to surround myself with things that I enjoy looking at," he told
his appalled sister, "and I do not enjoy looking at her."

What was pleasing the twenty-eight-year-old Cadmus' senses at that time
was a woman called Katherine Faye Browning--Kitty to those close to
her--the daughter of a steel magnate from Pittsburgh. Cadmus had met her
in 1919 and courted her fiercely for two years, during which time he had
begun to work his financial genius on his father's already considerable
wealth. This was no chance collision of circumstances. The more Kitty
Browning toyed with his feelings (refusing to see him for almost two
months in the autumn of that year simply because--as she wrote--"I wish
to see if I can live without you. If I can, I will, because that means
you're not the man who rules my heart") the more frustrated love fueled
young Cadmus's ambition. His reputation as a financial strategist of
genius --and a demonic enemy if crossed -- was forged in those years.
Though he would later mellow somewhat,

when people thought of Cadmus Northrop Geary it was the young Cadmus
they brought to mind: the man who forgave nothing.

In the process of building his empire he acted like a secular divinity.
Communities dependent upon industries he purchased were destroyed at his
whim, while others flourished when he looked upon them favorably. By his
early middle age he had achieved more than most men dream of in a
hundred lifetimes. There was no place of power in which he was not known
and lionized. He influenced the passing of bills and the election of
judges; he bought Democrats and Republicans alike (and left them at the
mercy of their parties when he ' was done with them); he made great men
look foolish, and--when it suited him, as it occasionally did--elevated
fools to high office.	I

Need I tell you that Kitty Browning finally succumbed to his
importunings and married him? Or add that he committed his first act of
adultery--or philandering, as he preferred--while they were on their
honeymoon?

A man of Cadmus's power and influence--not to mention looks (he was
built after the classic American model, his body graceful in action and
easy in repose, his long, symmetrical features perpetually tanned, his
eyes sharp, his smile sharper still)--a man such as this is always sur-l
rounded by admirers. There was nothing languid or dull about him;
nothing that bespoke doubt or fatigue: that was the heart of his power.
Had he been a better man, his sister once remarked, or a much worse
one, he might have been president. But he had no interest in wasting
his; attributes on politics. Not when there were so many women to seduce
(iff seduction was the word for something so effortless). He divided his
time j between his offices in New York and Chicago, his houses in
Virginia and Massachusetts, and the beds of some several hundred women a
year, paying off irate husbands when they found out, or employing them.

As for Kitty, she had a life of her own to lead: four children to raise,
and a social calendar of her own which was nicely filled. The last
thing; she wanted was a husband under her feet. As long as Cadmus didn't
| embarrass her with his shenanigans, she was perfectly content to let
him j go his way.

There was only one romance--or more correctly a failed romance--that
threatened this strange equilibrium. In 1926, at the invitation of
Lionel Bloombury, who was then the head of a small independent studio in
Hollywood, Cadmus went west. He considered himself! quite the
connoisseur when it came to movies, and Lionel had suggested

he could do worse than invest some of his capital in the business.
Indeed he would later do so; he put Geary money into Metro-GoldwynMayer,
and saw, during its golden years, a substantial return on his
investment; he also purchased sizable parcels of land in what would
later become Beverly Hills and Culver City. But the only deal he really
wanted in Hollywood he failed to make, and that was with an actress
called Louise Brooks. He met her first at the premiere of Beggars of
Life, a Paramount picture she'd made, starring opposite Wallace Beery.
She'd seemed to Cadmus an almost supernatural presence; for the first
time, he'd said to a friend, he believed in the idea of Eden; of a
perfect garden from which men might be exiled because of the
manipulations of a woman.

The subject of this metaphysical talk, Louise herself, was without
question a great beauty: her dark sleek hair cut almost boyishly to
frame a pale, exquisitely sculptured face. But she was also an ambitious
and intellectually astute woman, who wasn't interested in being an objet
d'art for Cadmus or anybody else. She left for Germany the next year, to
star in two pictures there, one of which, Die Biichse de Pandora, would
immortalize her. Cadmus was by now so enraptured that he sailed to
Europe in the hope of a liaison, and it seems she was not entirely
scornful of his advances. They dined together; and took day trips when
her filming schedule allowed. But it seems she was dallying with him.
When she went back to filming she complained to her director, a man
called Pabst, that the presence of Geary on set was spoiling her
concentration and could he please be removed? There was some kind of
minor fracas later that week, when Cadmus--who had apparently attempted
to purchase the studio that was making Die Biichse de Pandora in the
interim, and failed--forced his way onto the set in the hope of talking
to her. She refused to speak to him and he was forcibly removed. Three
days later he was on a ship headed back to America.

His "folly," as he would later call this episode, was over. He returned
to his business life with a sharpened--even rapacious-- appetite. A year
after his return, in October of 1929, came the stock market crash which
marked the beginning of the Great Depression. Cadmus rode the calamity
like a broncobuster from one of his beloved Westerns; he was unshakable.
Other men of money went into debt and penury or ended up dead by their
own hand, but for the next few years, while the country suffered through
the worst economic crisis since the Civil War, Cadmus turned the defeats
of those around him into personal victories. He bought the ruins of
other men's enterprises for a pittance; putting out lifeboats for a
lucky few who were drowning around mrn, thus assuring himself of their
fealty once the storm was over.

Nor did he limit his business dealings to those who'd been relatively
honest but had fallen on hard times; he also dealt with men who had
blood on their hands. These were the last days of Prohibition; there was
money to be made from supplying liquor to the parched palates of ]
America. And where there was profit, there was Cadmus Geary. In the four
years between his return from Germany and the repeal of the Eighteenth
Amendment, he funneled Geary family funds into several illicit booze and
"entertainment" businesses, raking off monies that no taxman ever saw,
and ploughing it back into his legitimate concerns.

He was careful with his choice of business partners, avoiding the
company of individuals who took too much pleasure in their own
notoriety. He never did business with Capone or his like, preferring the
quieter types, like Tyler Burgess and Clarence Filby, whose names didn't
I make it into the headlines or the history books. But in truth he
didn't have the stomach for criminality. Though he was reaping enormous
sums of money from these illicit dealings, in the spring of 1933, just |
before the repeal was passed by Congress, he broke all contact with "The
Men in the Midwest," as he called them.

In fact it was Kitty who forced his hand. Normally she kept herself |
out of financial affairs, but this, she told him, was not a fiscal
matter: the reputation of the family would be irreparably harmed if any
association! with this scum could be proved. He readily bowed to her
pressure; he didn't enjoy doing business with these people anyway. They
were peasants, most of them; a generation ago, he'd said, they'd have
been in some Godforsaken corner of Europe eating scabs off their
donkeys. The I remark had amused Kitty, and she took it for her own,
using it whenever she was feeling particularly vicious.

So Prohibition and the grim years of the Great Depression passed, and|
the Gearys were now one of the richest families in the history of the
coiK'l tinent. They owned steel mills and shipyards and slaughterhouses.
They| owned coffee plantations and cotton plantations and great swaths
of landi given over to barley and wheat and cattle. They owned sizable
portions! of real estate in the thirty largest cities in America, and
were the land?! lords of many of the towers and fancy houses and
condominiums thaif were built on that land. They owned racehorses,
racetracks, and racing| cars. They owned shoe manufacturers and fish
canneries and a hot dogi| franchise. They owned magazines and
newspapers, and distributors who I delivered those magazines and
newspapers, and the stands from which I those magazines and newspapers
were sold. And what they could not'j

own, they put their name on. As though to distinguish his noble family
from the peasants with whom he had ceased to do business in '33, Cadmus
allowed Kitty to use tens of millions of Geary dollars in philanthropic
endeavors, so that in the next two decades the family name went up on
the wings of hospitals, on schools, on orphanages. All these good works
did not divert the eyes of cynical observers from the sheer scale of
Cadmus's acquisitiveness, of course. He showed no sign of slowing up as
he advanced in years. In his middle sixties, at an age when less driven
men were planning fishing trips and gardens, he turned his appetites
eastward, toward Hong Kong and Singapore, where he repeated the pattern
of plunder that had proved so successful in America. The golden touch
had not deserted him: company after company was transformed by Cadmus's
magic. He was a quiet juggernaut, unseen now for the most part, his
reputation almost legendary.

He continued his philandering, as he had in his younger days, but the
hectic business of sexual conquest was of far less significance to him
now. He was still, by all accounts, a remarkably adept bed partner
(perhaps consciously he chose in these years women who were less
discreet than earlier conquests; advertisements for his virility, in
fact); but after the Louise Brooks episode he never came so close to the
blissful condition of love as when he was in full capitalist flight.
Only then did he feel alive the way he had when he'd first met Kitty, or
when he'd followed Louise to Germany; only then did he exalt, or even
come close to exaltation.

Meanwhile, of course, another generation of Gearys was growing up. First
there was Richard Emerson Geary, born in 1934, after Kitty had suffered
two miscarriages. Then, a year later, Norah Faye Geary, and two years
after that George, the father of Mitchell Garrison.

In many ways Richard, Norah, and George were the most emotionally
successful of any of the generations. Kitty was sensible to the
corruptions of wealth: she'd seen its capacity to destroy healthy souls
at work in own family. She did her level best to protect her children
from the effects of being brought up feeling too extraordinary; and her
capacity for love, stymied in her marriage, flowered eloquently in her
dealings with her children. Of the three it was Norah who was most
indulged; and Cadmus was the unrepentant indulger. She rapidly became a
brat, and nothing Kitty could do to discipline her did the trick.
Whenever she didn't get what she wanted, she went wailing to Daddy, who
gave her exactly what she requested. The pattern reached grotesque
proportions when Cadmus arranged for the eleven-year-old Norah--who had
become fixated upon the notion of being an actress--to star in her own
little screen test, shot on the back lot at MGM. The long-term effects
of

this idolatry would not become apparent for several years, but they
would bring tragedy.

In the meanwhile, Kitty dispersed her eminently practical love to
Richard and George, and watched them grow into two extraordinarily
capable men. It was no accident that neither wanted much to do with
running the Geary empire; Kitty had subtly inculcated into them both a
distrust of the world in which Cadmus had made a thousand fortunes. It
wasn't until the first signs of Cadmus's mental deterioration began to
show, in his middle seventies, that George, the youngest, agreed to
leave his investment company and oversee the rationalization of what had
become an unwieldy empire. Once in place, he found the task more suited
his temperament than he'd anticipated. He was welcomed by the investors,
the unions, and the board members alike as a new kind of Geary, more
concerned with the welfare of his employees, and the communities which
were often dependent upon Geary investment, than with the turning of
profit.

He was also a successful family man, in a rather old-fashioned way.i He
married one Deborah Halford, his high school sweetheart, and they lived
a life that drew inspiration from the kind of solid, loving environment
which Kitty had tried so hard to provide. His older brother I Richard
had become a trial lawyer with a flair for murderers and?! rhetoric; his
life seemed to be one long last act from an opera filled with/if
emotional excess. As for poor Norah, she'd gone from one bad marriage to
another, always looking for, but never finding, the man who would give
her the unconditional devotion she'd had from Daddy.

By contrast, George lived an almost dull life, despite the fact that;|
he ruled most of the Geary fortunes. His voice was quiet, his manner ||
subdued, his smile, when it came along, beguiling. Despite his skills
with his employees, stepping into Cadmus's shoes wasn't always easy.|f
For one thing, the old man had by no means given up attempting toil
influence the direction of his empire, and when his health crisis was
over he assumed that he'd be returning to his position at the head of
the'i boardroom table. It was Loretta, Cadmus's second wife, who
persuaded!* him that it would be wiser to leave George in charge, while
Cadmus?! took up an advisory position. The old man accepted the
solution, butnf with a bad grace: he became publicly critical of George
when he disap*i| proved of his son's decisions, and on more than one
occasion spoiled! deals that George had spent months negotiating.

At the same time, while Cadmus was doing his best to tarnish his own
son's glories, other problems arose. First there were investigations on
insider trading of Geary stocks, then the complete collapse of business
in

the Far East following the suicide of a man Cadmus had appointed, who
was later discovered to have concealed the loss of billions; and, after
half a century of successful secrecy, the revelation of Cadmus's
Prohibition activities, in a book that briefly made the bestseller list
despite Richard's legal manipulations to have it withdrawn as libelous.

When things got too frantic, George took refuge in a home life that was
nearly idyllic. Deborah was a born nest-builder; she cared only to make
a place where her husband and her children would be cared for and
comfortable. Once the front door was closed, she would say, the rest of
the world wasn't allowed in unless it was invited; and that included any
other member of the Geary clan. If George needed solitude --time to sit
and listen to his jazz collection, time to play with the kids--she could
be positively ferocious in her defense of her threshold. Even Richard,
who had persuaded juries of the impossible in his time, couldn't get
past her when she was protecting George's privacy.

For the four children of this comfortable marriage--Tyler, Karen,
Mitchell, and Garrison--there was plenty of affection and plenty of
pragmatism, but there was also a string of temptations that had not been
available to the previous generation. They were the first Gearys who
were regularly followed around by paparazzi during their adolescence;
who were squealed on by classmates if they smoked dope or tried to get
laid; who appeared on the cover of magazines when they went skinny
dipping. Despite Deborah's best efforts, she could not protect her
children from every sleazehound who came sniffing around. Nor, George
pointed out, was it wise to try. The children would have to learn the
pain of public humiliation the hard way, by being hurt. If they were
smart, they'd modify their behavior. If not, they'd end up like his
sister Norah, who'd had almost as many tabloid covers as she'd had
analysts. It was a hard world, and love kept no one from harm. All it
could do, sometimes, was speed the healing of the wounds.

Ill

O o much for my promised brevity. I intended to write a short, snappy
chapter giving you a quick glimpse of the Geary family tree, and I end
up lost in its branches. It's not that every twig is pertinent to the
story at hand--if that were the case, I'd never have undertaken the

task--but there are surprising connections between some of what I've
told you and events to come. To give you an example: Rachel, when she
smiles a certain way, has something of Louise Brooks's wicked humor in
her eyes; along with Louise's dark, shiny hair, of course. It's useful
for you to know how devoted Cadmus was to Louise, if you're to
understand how the presence of Rachel will later affect him.

But even more important than such details, I suspect, is a general sense
of the patterns these people made as they passed their behavior, good
and bad, on to their children. How Laurence Grainger Geary (who died, by
the way, in a prostitute's bed in Havana) taught his son Cadmus by
example to be both fearless and cruel. How Cadmus shaped a creature of
pure self-destruction in Norah, and a man subtly committed to his own
father's undoing in George.

George: we may as well take a moment here to finish George's story. It's
a sad end for such a good-natured man; a death over which countless
questions still hang. On February 6th, 1981, instead of driving up to
his beloved weekend house in Caleb's Creek to join his family, he went
out to Long Island. He drove himself, which was strange. He didn't like
to drive, especially when the weather was foul, as it was that night. He
did call Deborah, to tell her that he'd be late home: he had an
"annoying bit of business" he needed to attend to, he told her, but he
promised to be back by the early hours of the morning. Deborah waited up
for him. He didn't come home. By three a.m. she had called the police;
by dawn a full scale search was underway, a search which continued
through a rainy Saturday and Sunday without a single lead being turned
up. It wasn't until seven-thirty or so on Monday morning that a man
walking his dog along the shore at Smith Point Beach chanced to peer
into a car that had been parked there he'd noticed, close to the sand,
for three days. Inside was the body of a man. It was George. His neck
had been broken. The murder had taken place on the shore itself--there
was sand in George's shoes, and in his hair and mouth--then the body had
been carried back to the car and left there. His wallet was later found
on the shore. The only item : that had been taken from it was a picture
of his wife.	'

The hunt for George's killer went on for years (in a sense, I suppose,
it still continues; the file was never closed) but despite a million
dollar reward offered by Cadmus for information leading to the arrest of
the murderer, the felon was never found.

ii

The major effects of George's demise--at least those relevant to this
book--are threefold. First, there was Deborah, who found herself

strangely alienated from her husband by the suspicious facts of his
death. What had he hidden from her? Something vital; something lethal.
For all the trust they'd had in one another, there had been one thing,
one terrible thing he had not shared with her. She just didn't know what
it was. She did well enough for a few months, sustained by the need to
be a good public widow, but once the cameras were turned in the
direction of new scandals, new horrors, she quickly capitulated to the
darkness of her doubts and her grief. She went away to Europe for
several months, where she was joined by (of all people) her
sister-in-law Norah, with whom until now she'd had nothing in common.
Stateside, rumors began to fly again: they were living like two
middle-aged divas, the gossip columnists pronounced, dredging the
gutters of Rome and Paris for company. Certainly when the pair got back
home in August 1981, Deborah had the look of a woman who'd seen more
than the Vatican and the Eiffel Tower. She'd lost thirty pounds, was
dressed in an outfit ten years too young for her, and kicked the first
photographer at the airport who got in her way.

The second effect of George's death was of course upon his children.
Fourteen-year-old Mitchell had become a particular focus of public
attention after his father's demise: his looks were beginning to deliver
on their promise (he would be, by general consensus, the handsomest
Geary yet) and the way he dealt with the invasiveness of the press spoke
of a maturity and a dignity beyond his years. He was a prince; everyone
agreed; a prince.

Garrison, who was six years his senior, had always been far more
retiring, and he did little to conceal his discomfort during this
period. While Mitchell stayed close to his mother throughout the period
of mourning, accompanying her to philanthropic galas and the like in his
father's stead, Garrison retreated from the limelight almost completely.
And there he would remain. As for Tyler and Karen, both of whom were
younger than Mitchell, their lives were left unexamined by the
columnists, at least for a few years. Tyler was to die in 1987, along
with his Uncle Todd, Norah's fourth husband, when the light aircraft
Todd was piloting came down during a sudden storm near Orlando, Florida.
Karen--who in hindsight probably most closely resembled her father in
the essential gentility of her nature--became an archeologist, and
rapidly distinguished herself in that field.

The third consequence of George Geary's sudden demise was the
reascension of Cadmus Geary. He had weathered the physical and mental
frailty that had been visited upon him just as he'd weathered so much
else in his life, and now--when the Geary empire needed a leader, he was
there to take charge. He was by now in his eighties, but

he behaved as though his little sickness had been but a palate cleanser,
a sour sorbet that had sharpened his appetite for the rare meat now set
before him. In a decade of naked acquisitiveness, here was the
triumphant return of the man who'd written the modern rules of combat.
At times he seemed to be at pains to compensate for his late son's
humanity. Anyone who stood against him (usually for principles espoused
by George) was summarily ousted; Cadmus didn't have the time or the
temper for persuasion.

Wall Street responded well to the change. Old Man Cadmus Back in Charge,
ran the headline of The Wall Street Journal, and in a couple of months
there were profiles running everywhere, plus the inevitable catalogues
of Cadmus's cruelties. He didn't care. He never had and he never would.
This was his style, and it suited the world into which he had
resurrected himself more than a little well.

in

There'll be more about Old Man Geary later; a lot more. For now, let me
leave him there, in triumph, and go back to the subject of mortality.
I've already told you how Laurence Geary died (the whore's bed, Havana)
and Tyler (Uncle Todd's plane, Florida) and of course George (in the
driving seat of his Mercedes, Long Island) but there are other :
passages to the great beyond that should be noted here. Did I mention
Cadmus's mother, Verna? Yes, I did. She perished in a madhouse, you'll
remember. I didn't however note that her passing was almost certainly
also murder, probably at the hands of another inmate, one Dolores Cooke,
who committed suicide (with a stolen toothpick, pricking herself so many
times she bled to death) six days after Verna's demise. Eleanor, her
rejected daughter, died in hearty old age, as did Louise I Brooks, who
gave up her career in cinema in the early thirties, finding the whole
endeavor too trivial to be endured.

Of the significant players here, that only leaves Kitty, who died of
cancer of the esophagus in 1979, just as Cadmus was emerging from his
own bout of frailty. She was two years younger than the century. The m
next year, Cadmus remarried: the recipient of the offer a woman almost
twenty years his junior, Loretta Talley, (another sometime actress, by
the way: Loretta had played Broadway in her youth, but, like Louise, .I
tired of her powerlessness).

As for Kitty, she has little or no part in what follows, which is a pity
for me, because I have in my possession a copy of an extraordinary
document she wrote in the last year of her life which would fuel
countless interesting speculations. The text is utterly chaotic, but
that's not surprising given the strength of the medications she was on
while she was writing it. Page after page of the testimony (all of which
is handwritten) documents the yearnings she felt for some greater
meaning than the duties of mother, wife, and public philanthropist, a
profound and unanswered hunger for something poetic in her life.
Sometimes the sense of the text falls apart entirely, and it becomes a
series of disconnected images. But even these are potent. It seems to me
she begins, at the end of her life, to live in a continuous present: a
place where memory, experience and expectation are all folded together
in one delirious stream of feeling. Sometimes she writes as though she
were a child looking down at her own wasted body, fascinated by its
mutinies and its grotesqueries.

She also talks about Galilee.

It wasn't until I read the document for the third time (combing it for
clues to her beliefs about George Geary's murder) that I realized my
half brother was present in the text. But he's there. He enters and
exits Kitty's account like the breeze that's presently ruffling the
papers on my desk; visible only by its effect. But there's no question
that he somehow offered her a taste of all that she'd been denied; that
he was, if not the love of her life, at least a tantalizing glimpse of
what changes a love of real magnitude -- reciprocated love, that
is--might have wrought in her.

iv

Let me now give you a brief guided tour to the Geary residences, since
so many of the exchanges I will be reporting occur there. Over the years
the family has accrued large amounts of real estate and, because they
never needed to realize the capital, seldom sold anything. Sometimes
they renovated these properties, and occupied them. But just as often
Geary houses have been kept for decades--regularly cleaned and
redecorated --without any member of the family stepping over the
threshold. As of this writing, I know of houses and apartments the
family owns in Washington, Boston, Los Angeles, Montana, Louisiana,
South Carolina, and Hawaii. In Europe they own properties in Vienna,
Zurich, London, and Paris; and further afield, in Cairo, Bangkok, and
Hong Kong.

For now, however, it's the New York residences that I need to describe
in a little detail. Mitchell has a pied a terre on the fringes of Soho,
far more extravagantly appointed inside, and far more obsessively
guarded, than its undistinguished exterior would suggest. Margie and
Garrison occupy two floors close to the top of the Trump Tower, an
apartment which commands extraordinary views in all directions. The
purchase was Margie's suggestion (at the time it was some of the most
expensive space in the world, and she liked the idea of spending so

much of Garrison's money) but she never really warmed to the apartment,
for all its glamour. The decorator she hired, a man called Jeffrey
Penrose, died a month after finishing his transformation, and posthumous
articles about him mentioned the Trump Tower apartment as his "last
great creation; like the woman who employed him--kitschy, glitzy, and
wild." So it was; and so was Margie, back then. The years since haven't
been kind, however. The glitter looks tawdry now; and what seemed witty
in the eighties has lost its edge.

The one truly great Geary residence in the city is what everyone in the
family refers to as "the mansion"; a vast, late nineteenth century house
on the Upper East Side. The area's called Carnegie Hill, but it might
just as well have been named for the Gearys; Laurence was in residence
here twenty years before Andrew Carnegie built his own mansion at 5th
and 91st. Many of the houses surrounding the Geary residence have been
given over to embassies; they're simply too large and too expensive for
one family. But Cadmus was born and raised in the mansion, and never
once contemplated the notion of selling it. For one thing, the sheer
volume of possessions the house contains could not be transferred to a
more modestly scaled space: the furniture, the carpets, the clocks, the
objets d'art; there's enough to found a sizable museum. And then there
are the paintings, which unlike much of the other stuff were collected
by Cadmus himself. Big canvases, all of them; and all by American
painters. Magnificent works by Albert Bierstadt, Thomas Cole, and
Frederick Church, enormous paintings of the American landscape at its
most awe inspiring. To some, these works are regressive and rhetorical;
the products of limited talents overreaching themselves in pursuit of a
sublime vision. But hanging in the mansion, sometimes occupying entire
walls, the paintings have an undeniable authority. In some ways they
define the house. Yes, it's dark and heavy in there; sometimes it seems
hard to draw breath, the air is so dense, so stale. But that's not what
people remember about the mansion. They remember the paintings, which
almost look like windows, letting onto great, untamed wildernesses.

The house is run by a staff of six, who work under Loretta's ever
judgmental eye. However hard they labor, however, the house is always
bigger than they can manage. There's always dust gathering somewhere;
they could work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and still
not tame the enormity of the place.

So: that's the New York City residences. Actually, I haven't told you
everything. Garrison has a secret place that even Margie doesn't know he
owns, but I'll describe that to you when he visits it, along with an

explanation as to why he's obliged to keep its existence to himself.
There's also a house upstate, near Rhinebeck, but that also has a
significant place in the narrative ahead, so I'll delay describing it
until then.

The only other residence I want to make mention of here is a long way
from New York City, but should be mentioned here, I think, because in my
imagination it forms a trinity with the mansion and L'Enfant. That house
is a far more humble dwelling than the other two. In fact it's probably
the least impressive of any of the major residences in this story. But
it stands a few yards from the blue Pacific, in a grove of palm trees,
and for the lucky few who've spent a night or two beneath its roof, it
evokes Edenic memories.

That house we'll also come to later, and to the secrets it contains,
which are sweatier than anything Garrison hides away in his little bolt
hole, and yet so vast in their significance that they would beggar the
skills of the men who painted the wildernesses in the mansion. We are a
while away from being there, but I want you to have the image of that
paradisiacal spot somewhere in your head, like a bright piece of a
jigsaw puzzle which doesn't seem to fit in the scheme, but must be held
on to, contemplated now and again, until its significance becomes
apparent, and the picture is understood as it would not have been
understood until that piece found its place.

IV

I must move on. Or rather back; back to the character with whom I opened
this sequence, Rachel Pallenberg. The last two chapters were an attempt
to offer some context for the romance between Rachel and Mitchell. And I
hope as a consequence you'll feel a little more sympathy for Mitchell
than his subsequent actions might seem to deserve. He was not, at least
at the beginning, a cruel or reprehensible man. But he had lived most of
his life in the public eye, despite his mother's best efforts. That kind
of scrutiny creates an artificiality in a person's behav 'or. Everything
becomes a kind of performance.

In the seventeen years since his father's funeral, Mitchell had learned
to play himself perfectly; it was his genius. In all other regards--
excepting his looks--he was average, or below average. An uninspired
student, a so-so lover, an indifferent conversationalist. But when the

subject of the exchange vanished and charm alone held the air, he was
wonderful. In the words of Burgess Motel, who'd spent half a day with
him for a profile piece in Vanity Fair, "The less substance there was to
what he was saying, the more at ease he seemed; and, yes, the more
perfect. If this seems to tread perilously close to nonsense, it's
because you have to be there, watching him perform this Zen-like trick
of being in nothingness, to believe just how persuasive and sexy it is.
Do I sound entranced? I am!"

This wasn't the first time a male writer had swooned girlishly over
Mitchell in print, but it was the first time somebody had successfully
analyzed the way Mitchell ruled a room. Nobody knew charm like Mitchell,
and nobody knew as well as Mitchell that charm was best experienced in a
vacuum.

None of this, you may say, reflects well upon Rachel. How could she have
fallen for such triviality? Given herself over into the arms of a man
who was at his best when he had nothing of consequence to say? It was
easy, believe me. She was dazzled, she was flattered, she was seduced,
not just by Mitchell but by all he stood for. There had never been a
time when the Gearys had not been a part of her idea of America: and now
she was being invited to enter their circle; to become a part of their
mystique. Who could refuse an offer like that? It was a kind of waking
dream, in which she found herself removed from the gray drudgery of her
life into a place of color and comfort and plenty. And she was surprised
at how well she fitted into this dreamscape. It was almost as though
she'd known in her heart that this was the life she'd one day be living,
and had unconsciously been preparing for it.

All of which is not to say there weren't times when her palms got a
little clammy. Meeting the whole family for the first time on the
occasion of Cadmus' ninety-fifth birthday party; the first time down a
red carpet, at a fund-raiser at the Lincoln Center, just after the
engagement had been announced; the first time she was flown somewhere in
the family jet, and turned out to be its only passenger. All so strange,
and yet so strangely familiar.

For his part Mitchell seemed to read her anxiety level instinctively in
any given situation, and act appropriately. If she was uncomfortable, he
was right there at her side, showing her by example how to fend off
impertinent questions politely and ease the flow of small talk if
somebody became tongue-tied. On the other hand if she seemed to be havjj
ing a good time he left her to her own devices. She rapidly gained a

liL

reputation as lively company; at ease with all kinds of people. The
chief revelation for Rachel was this: that these power brokers and
potentates with whom she was now beginning to rub elbows were hungry for
simple conversation. Over an dover again she would catch herself
thinking: they're no different from the rest of us. They had dyspepsia
and ill-fitting shoes, they bit their nails and worried about their
waistlines. There were a few individuals, of course, who decided she was
beneath them--generally women of uncertain vintage--but she rarely
encountered such snobbery. More often than not she found herself
welcomed warmly, often with the observation that she was the one
Mitchell had been looking for, and everyone was glad she was finally
here.

As to her own story, well she didn't talk about it much at first. If
people asked about her background, she'd keep the answers vague. But as
she began to trust her confidence more, she talked more openly about
life in Dansky, and about her family. There was a certain percentage of
people whose eyes started to glaze over once she mentioned anywhere west
of the Hudson, but there were far more who seemed eager for news from a
world less sealed, less smothering than their own.

"You will have noticed," Garrison's garish and acidic wife Margie--whose
tongue was notoriously acidic--remarked, "that you keep seeing the same
sour old faces wherever you go. You know why? There's only twenty
important people left in New York, twenty-one now you're here, and we
all go to the same parties and we all serve on the same committees. And
we're all very, very bored with one another." She happened to make the
remark while she and Rachel stood on a balcony looking down at a
glittering throng of perhaps a thousand people. 'Before you say
anything," Margie went on, "it's all done with mirrors."

Inevitably on occasion a remark somebody would make would leave her
feeling uncomfortable. Usually such remarks weren't directed at her, but
at Mitchell, in her presence.

"Wherever did you find her?" somebody would say, meaning no conscious
offense by the question but making Rachel feel like a purchase, and the
questioner fully expected to go back to the same store and pick up one
for themselves.

"They're just amazed at how lucky I am," Mitchell said, when she pointed
out how objectionable she found that kind of observation. They don't
mean to be rude."

"I know."

"We can stop going to so many parties, if you like."

"No. I want to know all the people you know."

"Most of them are pretty boring."

"That's what Margie said."

"Are you two getting on well?"

"Oh yes. I love her. She's so outrageous."

"She's a terrible drunk," Mitchell said curtly. "She's been okay for the
last couple of months, but she's still unpredictable."

"Was she always. . . ?"

"An alcoholic?"

"Yes."

"Maybe I can help her," Rachel said.

He kissed her. "My Good Samaritan." He kissed her again. "You can try
but I don't hold out much hope. She's got so many axes to grind. She
doesn't like Loretta at all. And I don't think she likes me much."

Now it was Rachel who offered the kiss. "What's not to like?" she said.

Mitchell grinned. "Damned if I know," he said.

"You egotist."

"Me? No. You must be thinking of somebody else. I'm the humble one in
the family."

"I don't think there's such a thing--"

" -- as a humble Geary?"

"Right."

"Hm." Mitchell considered this for a moment. "Grandma Kitty was the
nearest, I guess."

"And you liked her?"

"Yeah," Mitchell said, the warmth of his affection there in his voice.
"She was sweet. A little crazy toward the end, but sweet."

"And Loretta?"

"She's not crazy. She's the sanest one in the family."

"No, I meant, do you like her?"

Mitchell shrugged. "Loretta's Loretta. She's like a force of nature."

Rachel had met Loretta only two or three times so far: this was not |
the way the woman seemed at all. Quite the contrary. She'd seemed |
rather reserved, even demure, an impression supported by the fact that
she always dressed in white or silvery gray. The only theatrical touch
was the turbanish headgear she favored, and the immaculate precision; |
of her makeup, which emphasized the startling violet of her eyes. She'd
I been pleasant to Rachel, in a gentle, noncommittal sort of way.

"I know what you're thinking," Mitchell said. "You're thinking:
Loretta's just an old-fashioned lady. And she is. But you try crossing
her"

"What happens?"

"It's like I said: she's a force of nature. Especially anything to do
with Cadmus. I mean, if anyone in the family says anything against him
and she hears about it she tears out their throats. 'You wouldn't have
two cents to rub together without him,' she says. And she's right. We
wouldn't. This family would have gone down without him."

"So what happens when he dies?"

"He isn't going to die," Mitchell said, without a trace of irony in his
voice. "He's going to go on and on and on till one of us drives him out
to Long Island. Sorry. That was in bad taste."

"Do you think about that a lot?"

"What happened to Dad? No. I don't think about it at all. Except when
some book comes out, you know, saying it was the Mafia or the CIA. I get
in a funk about that stuff. But we're never going to really know what
happened, so what's the use of thinking about it?" He stroked a stray
hair back from Rachel's brow. "You don't need to worry about any of
this," he said. "If the old man dies tomorrow we'll divide up the
pie--some for Garrison, some for Loretta, some for us. Then you and me .
. . we'll just disappear. We'll get on a plane and we'll fly away." "We
could do that now if you want to," Rachel said. "I don't need the
family, and I certainly don't need to live the high life. I just need
you."

He sighed; a deep, troubled sigh. "Ah. But where does the family end and
Mitchell begin? That's the question."

"I know who you are," Rachel said, drawing close to him. "You're the man
I love. Plain and simple."

ii

Of course it wasn't that plain and it wasn't that simple.

Rachel had entered a small and unenviable coterie: that group of people
whose private lives were deemed publicly owned. America wanted to know
about the woman who had stolen Mitchell Geary's heart, especially as
she'd been an ordinary creature so very recently. Now she was
transformed. The evidence was there in the pages of the glossies and the
weekly gossip rags: Rachel Pallenberg dressed in gowns a year's salary
would not have bought her six months before, her smile that of a woman
happy beyond her wildest dreams. Happiness like that couldn't be
celebrated for very long; it soon lost its appeal. The same readers who
Were entranced by the rags-to-riches story in February and March, and
astonished by the way the shop girl had been made into a princess in
April and May, and a little tearful about the announcement of an autumn
wedding when it was made in June, wanted the dirt by July.

What was she really like, this thief who'd run off with Prince
Mitchell's eligibility? She wouldn't be as picture-perfect as she
seemed; nobody was that pleasant. She had secrets; no doubt. Once the
wedding was announced, the investigators went to work. Before Rachel
Pallen berg got into her white dress and became Rachel Geary, they were
going to find something scandalous to tell, even if they had to turn
over every rock in Ohio to do it.

Mitchell wasn't immune from the same zealous muckraking. Old stories
about his various liaisons resurfaced in tarted-up forms. His short
affair with the drug-addicted daughter of a congressman; his various
trips around the Aegean with a small harem of Parisian models; his
apparently passionate attachment to Natasha Morley, who'd lately married
minor European royalty, and (according to some sources) broken his heart
by so doing. One of the sleazier rags even managed to find a classmate
from Harvard who claimed that Mitchell's taste for girls ran to the
barely pubescent. "If there's grass on the field, play ball, that's what
he used to say," the "classmate" remembered.

Just in case Rachel was tempted to take any of this to heart, Margie
brought over a stack of magazines that her housekeeper, Magdalene, had
hoarded from the early years of Margie's life with Garrison, all of
which contained stories filled with similar vitriol. The two women were
in almost every way dissimilar: Rachel petite and stylish, reserved in
her manner; Margie big-boned, overdressed, and voluble. Yet they were
like sisters in this storm.

"I was really upset at the time," Margie said. "But I've begun to wish
ten percent of what they were saying about Garrison was true. He'd ='|
be a damn sight more interesting."

"If it's all lies, why doesn't somebody sue them?" Rachel said.

Margie offered a fatalistic shrug. "If it wasn't us it'd be some other |
poor sonofabitch. Anyway, if they stopped writing this shit I might have
j to go back to reading books." She gave a theatrical shudder.

"So you read this stuff?"

Margie arched a well-plucked eyebrow. "And you don't?"

"Well. . ."

"Honey, we all love to learn about who fucked who. As long as we're
not the who. Just hold on. You're going to get a shitload of this|
thrown at you. Then they'll move on to the next lucky contestant."

Margie, God bless her, hadn't offered her reassurances a moment too
soon. The very next week brought the first gleanings from Dansky.;!

Nothing particular hurtful; just a willfully depressing portrait of life
in Rachel's hometown, plus a few pictures of her mother's house, looking
sadly bedraggled: the grass on the lawn dead, the paint on the front
door peeling. There was also a brief summary of how Hank Pallenberg had
lived and died in Dansky. Its very brevity was a kind of cruelty, Rachel
thought. Her father deserved better than this. There was much worse to
come. Still sniffing after some hint of scandal, a reporter from one of
the tabloids tracked down a woman who'd trained with Rachel as a dental
technician. Giving her name only as "Brandy," because she claimed not to
want the attention of the press, the woman offered a portrait of Rachel
that was beyond unflattering.

"She was always out to catch herself a rich man," Brandy claimed. "She
used to cut pictures out of newspapers--pictures of rich men she thought
she had a hope of getting, you know--but rich, always real rich, and
then she pinned them all up on the wall of her bedroom and used to stare
at them every night before she went to sleep." And had Mitchell Geary
been one of Rachel Pallenberg's hit-list of eligible millionaires, the
reporter had asked Brandy. "Oh sure," the girl had replied, claiming
she'd got a sick feeling when she'd heard the news about how Rachel's
plan had worked. "I'm a Christian girl, born and raised, and I always
thought there was something weird about what Rachel was doing with those
pictures up there. Like it was voodoo or something."

All idiotic invention, of course, but it was still a potent mixture of
elements. The headline, accompanied by a picture of Rachel at a recent
fund-raiser, her eyes flecked with red from the photographer's flash,
read: "Shocking Sex-Magic Secrets of Geary Bride!" The issue was sold
out in a day.

in

Rachel did her best with all this, but it was hard--even accepting that
she'd been a consumer of this nonsense herself, and thoroughly enjoyed
it. Now it was her face people were staring at as they waited at the
supermarket checkout, her life they were half-believing these lies
about. All the detachment she was able to muster didn't spare her the
hurt of that.

"What are you doing even looking at that shit?" Mitchell asked her when
she raised the subject over dinner that night. The establishment was
Luther's, an intimate restaurant round the corner from Mitchell's
apartment on Park Avenue.

"They could be saying anything," Rachel said. She was close to tears.
"Not just about me. About my mother or my sister or you."

"We've got lawyers watching them all the time. If Cecil felt they were
going too far--"

"Too far? What's too far?"

"Something worth fighting over," Mitchell said. He reached over and took
hold of her hand.

"It's not worth crying about, baby," he said softly. "They're just
stupid people who don't have anything better to do than try and tear
other people down. The thing is: they can't do it. Not to us. Nor to the
Gearys. We're stronger than that."

"I know . . ." Rachel said, wiping her nose. "I want to be strong, but-"

"I don't want to hear but, baby," he said, his tone still tender despite
the toughness of the sentiment. "You've got to be strong, because people
are looking at you. You're a princess."

"I don't feel much like a princess right now."

He looked disappointed. He pushed the plate of kidneys away, and put his
hand to his face. "Then I'm not doing my job," he said. She stared at
him, puzzled. "It's my job to make you feel like a princess. My
princess. What can I do?" He looked up at her, with a kind of sweet
desperation on his face. "Tell me: what can I do?"

"Just love me," she said.

"I do. Honey, I do."	;

"I know you do."

"And I hate it that those sleazeballs are giving you grief, but they
can't touch you, honey. Not really. They can spit and they shout but
they can't touch you." He squeezed her hand. "That's my job," he said. I
"Nobody gets to touch you but me."

She felt a subtle tremor in her body, as though his hands had| reached
out and stroked her between her legs. He knew what he'd donel too. He
passed his tongue, oh-so-lightly, over his lower lip, wetting it.

"You want to know a secret?" he said, leaning closer to her.

"Yes, please."

"They're all afraid of us."

"Who?"

"Everybody," he said, his eyes fixed on hers. "We're not like them|| and
they know it. We're Gearys. They're not. We've got power. They! haven't.
That makes them afraid. So you have to let them give vent oncel in a
while. If they didn't do that they'd go crazy." Rachel nodded; it madell
sense to her. A few months ago, it wouldn't have done, but now it did.

"I won't let it bother me any more," she said. "And if it does bothe me
I'll shut up about it."

"You're quite a gal, you know that?" he said. "That's what Cadmus said
about you after his birthday party."

"He barely spoke to me."

"He's got eyes. 'She's quite a gal,' he said. 'She s got the right stuff
to be a Geary.' He's right. You do. And you know what? Once you're a
member of this family, nothing can hurt you. Nothing. You're
untouchable. I swear, on my life. That's how it works when you're a
Geary. And that's what you're going to be in nine weeks. A Geary.
Forever and always."

V

Marietta just came in, and read what I've been writing. She was in one
of her willful moods, and I should have known better, but when she asked
me if she could read a little of what I'd been writing, I passed a few
pages over to her. She went out onto the veranda, lit up one of my
cigars, and read. I pretended to get on with my work, as though her
opinion on what I'd done was inconsequential to me, but my gaze kept
sliding her way, trying to interpret the expression on her face.
Occasionally, she looked amused, but not for very long. Most of the time
she just scanned the lines (too fast, I thought, to really be savoring
the prose) her expression impassive. The longer this went on the more
infuriated I became, and I was of half a mind to get up, go out onto the
veranda. At last, with a little sigh, she got up and came back in,
proffering the pages.

"You write long sentences," she remarked.

"That's all you can say?"

She fished a book of matches out of her pocket, and striking one, began
to rekindle her cigar. "What do you want me to say?" she shrugged. "It's
a bit gossipy, isn't it?" She was now studying the book of matches. "And
I think it's going to be hard to follow. All those names. All those
Gearys. You don't have to go that far back, do you? I mean, who cares?"

"It's all context."

"I wonder whose number this is?" she said, still studying the book.
"It's a Raleigh number. Who the hell do I know in Raleigh?"

"If you can't be a little more generous, a little more constructive . .
."

She looked up, and seemed to see my misery. "Oh, Eddie," she said, with
a sudden smile. "Don't look so forlorn. I think it's wonderful."

"No you don't."

"I swear. I do. It's just that weddings, you know," her lip curled
slightly. "They're not my favorite thing."

"You went," I reminded her.

"Are you going to write about that?"

"Absolutely."

She patted my cheek. "You see, that'll liven things up a bit. How are
your legs by the way?"

"They're fine."

"Total recovery?"	;

"It looks that way."

"I wonder why she healed you after all this time?"

"I don't care. I'm just grateful."

"Zabrina said she saw you out walking."

"I go to see Luman every couple of days. He's got it into his head that
we should collaborate on a book when I'm finished with this."

"About what?"

"Madhouses."

"What a bright little sunbeam he is. Ah! I know! This is Alice." Shej
tossed the book of matches into the air and caught it again. "Alice
thcf| blonde. She lives in Raleigh."

"That's a very dirty look you've got in your eyes," I observed.

"Alice is adorable. I mean, really . . . sumptuous." She picked aj:
piece of tobacco from her teeth. "You should come out with me one off
these days. We'll go drinking. I can introduce you to the girls."

"I think I'd be uncomfortable."

"Why? Nobody's going to make a pass at you, not in an all-girl bar.*!

"I couldn't."

"You will." She pointed the wet end of her cigar at me. "I'm going to
get you out enjoying yourself." She pocketed the book of matches,;;
"Maybe I'll introduce you to Alice."

Of course she left me in a stew of insecurity. My mood now perfectly
foul, I retired to the kitchen, to eat my sorrows away. It was a little
before one in the morning; Dwight had long since retired to bed.
L'Enfant wa$| quiet. It was a little stuffy, so I opened the windows
over the sink. There was a light breeze, which was very welcome, and I
stood at the sink fojf a few moments to let it cool my face. Then I went
to the refrigerator an

began to prepare a glutton's sandwich: several slices of baked ham,
slathered with mustard, some strips of braised aubergine, half a dozen
sweet cherry tomatoes, sliced, and a dash of olive oil, all pressed
between two slices of freshly cut rye bread.

Feeding my face put everything in context for me. What was I hanging on
Marietta's opinion for? She was no great literary critic. This was my
book, my ideas, my vision. And if she didn't like it, that was fine by
me. Her opinion was a complete irrelevancy. I didn't just think all of
this, I talked it through to myself, a mustardy mingling of words and
ham.

"Whatever are you chattering about?"

I stopped talking, and looked over my shoulder. There, filling the
doorway from side to side, was Zabrina. She was dressed in a tent of a
nightgown, her face, upon which she usually puts a little paint and
powder, ruddily raw. She had tiny eyes, and a wide thin-lipped mouth;
Marietta called her a beady, fat frog once, in a moment of anger, and --
cruel though the description may be--it fits. The only glamorous
attribute she has is her hair, which is a deep, luxurious orange, and
which she's grown to waist length. Tonight she had it untied, and it
fell about her shoulders and upper body like a cape.

"I haven't seen you in a long while," I said to her.

"You've seen me," she said, in that odd, breathy voice of hers. "We just
haven't spoken."

I was about to say--that's because you always rush away--but I held my
tongue. She was a nervous creature. One wrong word and she'd be off. She
went to the refrigerator and studied its contents. As usual, Dwight had
left a selection of his pies and cakes for her delectation.

"Don't expect any help from me," she said out of the blue.

"Help for what?"

"You know what," she said, still studying the laden shelves. "I don't
think it's right." She reached in and took out a pie with either hand,
then, pirouetting with a grace surprising in one of her extreme bulk,
turned and closed the refrigerator door with her backside. "So don't
expect me to be unburdening myself."

She was talking about the book of course. Her antipathy was perfectly
predictable, given that she knew it to be at least in part Marietta's
idea. Even so, I wasn't in the mood to be harangued.

"Let's not talk about it," I said.

She set the pies--one cherry, one pecan--on the table side by side. Then
she went back to the refrigerator, with a little sigh of irritation at
her own forgetfulness, and took out a bowl of whipped cream. There was a
fork already in the bowl. She lowered herself gently onto a chair and
set to, loading up the fork with a little cherry pie, a little pecan,
and a lot of whipped cream. She clearly had done this countless times
before; watching the skillful way she created these little towers of
excess, without ever seeming to drop a crumb of pastry into the cream,
or a spot of cream onto the table, was an entertainment unto itself.

"So when did you last hear from Galilee?" she asked me.

"Not in a long while."

"Huh." She delivered a teetering mound between her lips, and her lids
flickered with bliss as she worked it around her mouth.

"Does he ever write to you?"

She took her leisurely time to swallow before answering. "He used to
drop me a note now and again. But not any more."

"Do you miss him?"

She frowned at me, her lower lip jutting out. "Don't start that," she
said. "I told you already--"

I rolled my eyes. "In God's name, Zabrina, I just asked--"

"I don't want to be in your book."

"So you said."

"I don't want to be anybody's book. I don't want to ... be talkedjj,
about. I wish I was invisible."

I couldn't help myself: I smirked. The very idea that Zabrina, of all'""
people, would dream of invisibility was sadly laughable. There she was,
conspiring against her own hopes with every mouthful. I thought I'dl
wiped the smirk off my face by the time she looked up at me, but it
lin*l gered there, like the cream at the corners of her own mouth.

"What's so funny?" she said.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"So I'm fat. And I wish I was dead. So what?"

The smirk had gone now. "You don't wish you were dead," I saidJ
"Surely."

"What have I got to live for?" she replied. "I've got nothings! Nothing
I want anyway." She put down her fork, and started on th| cherry pie
with her fingers, picking out the syrupy fruit. "Day in and daj|| out,
it's the same story. Serving Momma. Eating. Serving Momma. Eal ing. When
I sleep I dream I'm up there with her, while she talks about the old
days." With sudden vehemence she said: "I hate the old day What about
tomorrow? How about doing something about tomorrow? Her face, which was
as I mentioned, flushed to begin with, was nc beet red. "We're all so
passive," she said, the vehemence mellowing int

a sadness. "You got your legs back but what did you do with them? Did
you walk out of here? No. You sat exactly where you'd been sitting all
these years, as though you were still a cripple. That's because you
still are. I'm fat and you're a cripple, and we're going to go on, day
after day after day living our useless lives, till somebody from out
there -- " she pointed out toward the world "--comes and does us the
kindness of putting a bullet through our brains."

With that, she rose from the ruins of the pies, and made her exit. I
didn't attempt to delay her. I just sat back in my chair and watched her
go.

Then, I will admit, I sat for a while with my head in my hands and wept.

VI

A ssaulted by both Marietta and Zabrina, feeling thoroughly uncerxVtain
of my talents, I returned to my room, and sat up through the rest of the
night. I'd like to tell you that I did so because I was agonizing over
the literary problems I had, but the truth was rather more prosaic: I
had the squirts. I don't know whether it was the baked ham, the braised
aubergine, or Zabrina's damn conversation that did it: I only know I
spent the hours till dawn sitting on my porcelain throne in a private
miasma. Somewhere around dawn, feeling weak, raw, and sorry for myself,
I crawled into bed and snatched a couple of hours of sleep. By the time
I woke my slumbering mind seemed to have decided that I'd be best
writing about Rachel and Mitchell's wedding in a rather curter style
than I'd been employing so far. After all, I reasoned, a wedding was a
wedding was a wedding. No use belaboring the subject. People could fill
in the pretty details for themselves.

So then: the bare facts. The wedding took place on the first week of
September, in a little town in New York State called Caleb's Creek. I've
already mentioned it in passing, I believe. It's not far from Rhinebeck,
close to the Hudson. A pretty area, much beloved of earlier generations
of American royalty. The Van Cortandts built a home up here; so did the
Astors and the Roosevelts. Extravagant houses where they could bring two
hundred guests for a cozy weekend retreat. By contrast, the Property
George Geary had purchased in Caleb's Creek was a modest place, five
bedrooms, colonial style: described in one book about the

Gearys as "a farmhouse," though I doubt it was ever that. He'd loved the
place; so had Deborah. After his death she'd many times remarked that
the best times of her life had been spent in that house; easy, loving
times when the rest of the world was made to wait at the threshold. It
was actually Mitchell who had suggested opening the house up again--it
had been left virtually unvisited since George's death--and holding the
wedding celebrations there. His mother had warmed to the idea instantly.
"George would like that," she'd said, as though she imagined the spirit
of her beloved husband still wandering the place, enraptured by the
echoes of happier times.

To clinch the deal, Mitchell drove Rachel up to Caleb's Creek in the
middle of July, and they stayed over at the house for one night. A
couple from the town, the Rylanders, who had been housekeeper and
gardener during the halcyon days, and had kept the place clean and tidy
during its years of neglect, had worked furiously to give the house a
second chance at life. When Mitchell and Rachel arrived it looked like a
dream retreat. Eric Rylander had planted hundreds of flowers and
rosebushes, and laid a new lawn; the windows, doors, and shutters had
been painted, so had the white picket fence. The small apple orchard
behind the house had been tidied up, the trees pruned; everything made,
orderly. Inside, Eric's wife Barbara had been no less diligent. The
house; had been thoroughly aired, the drapes and carpets cleaned, the
woodwork and furniture polished until it shone.

Rachel was, of course, completely charmed. Not just by the beauty of the
house and brightness of the garden, but by the evidence everywhere of
the man who'd fathered her husband-to-be. At Deborah's instruction the
house had been left as George had liked it. His hunf dreds of jazz
albums were still on their shelves, all alphabetically jj arranged. His
writing desk, where according to Mitchell he'd been mak-tl ing notes for
a kind of memoir about his mother Kitty, was just as he'd] left it,
arrayed with framed family photographs, which had lost most oil their
color by now.

The visit had not only served to confirm Mitchell's instincts thatt this
was indeed the place to have the wedding; it had turned into a kind| of
tryst for the lovers. That night, after a splendid supper prepared by|
Barbara, they'd stayed up sitting out watching the midsummer sk$|
darken, sipping whiskey and talking about their childhoods; and of theW
fathers. It had got so dark they couldn't even see one another's faces,
bu they kept talking while the breeze moved in the apple trees: about
times! they'd laughed, times they'd lost. When, finally, they'd retired
to bed (Mitch would not sleep in the master bedroom, despite the fact
that|

Barbara had made up the old four-poster for them; they slept in the room
he'd had as a child), they lay in each other's arms in the kind of
blissful exhaustion that usually follows lovemaking, though they had not
made love.

When they went back to New York the following morning, Rachel held
Mitchell's hand the whole way. She'd never felt the kind of love she
felt for him that day in her life; nothing even close to it.

ii

On the Friday evening, with the whole place--house, garden, orchard,
grounds--overrun with people (lantern-hangers, sign-posters, bandstand
erectors, table-carriers, chair-counters, glass-polishers; and on, and
on) Barbara Rylander came to find her husband, who was standing at the
front gate watching the trucks come and go, and having sworn him to
secrecy, said she'd just been out in the orchard, taking a break from
the commotion, and she'd seen Mr. George standing there beneath the
trees, watching the goings-on. He was smiling, she said.

"You're a silly old woman," Eric told his wife. "But I love you very
much." And he gave her a great big kiss right there in front of all
these strangers, which was completely out of character.

The day dawned, and it was spectacular. The sun was warm, but not hot.
The breeze was constant, but never too strong. The air smelt of summer
still, but with just enough poignancy to suggest the coming fall.

As for the bride: she outdid the day. She'd felt nauseous in the
morning; but once she started to get dressed her nerves disappeared. She
had a short relapse when Sherrie came in to see her daughter and
promptly burst into happy tears, which threatened to get Rachel started.
But Loretta wasn't having any of that. She firmly sent Sherrie away to
get a brandy, then she sat with Rachel and talked to her. Simple,
sensible talk.

"I couldn't lie to you," Loretta said solemnly. "I think you know me
well enough by now to know that."

"Yes I do."

"So believe me when I tell you: everything's fine; nothing's going to go
wrong; and you look . . . you look like a million dollars." She laughed,
and kissed Rachel on the cheek. "I envy you. I really do. Your whole
life ahead of you. I know that's a terrible cliche. But when you get to
be old you see how true it is. You've got one life. One chance to be
you. To have some joy. To have some love. When it's over, it's over."
She

stared intently at Rachel as she spoke, as though there was some deeper
significance in this than the words alone could express. "Now, let's get
you to the church," Loretta said brightly. "There's a lot of people
waiting to see how beautiful you look."

Loretta's promise held. The service was performed in the little church
in Caleb's Creek, with all its doors flung wide so that those members of
the congregation who weren't able to be seated--fully half of them--
could either stand along the walls or just outside, to hear the short
ceremony. When it was over the whole assembly did as wedding parties had
done in Caleb's Creek since the town's founding: they walked, with the
bride and groom hand in hand at the head of the crowd, down Main Street,
petals strewn underfoot "to sweeten their way" (as local tradition had
it), the street lined on either side with local people and visitors, all
I smiling and cheering as the procession made its triumphant way through
the town. The whole affair was wonderfully informal. At one ,m point a
child--one of the Creek kids, no more than four--slipped her I mother's
hand and ran to look at the bride and groom. Mitchell scooped the child
up and carried her for a dozen yards or so, much to;| the delight of all
the onlookers, and to the joy of the child herself, who! only began to
complain when her mother came to fetch her, and? Mitchell handed her
back.

Needless to say there were plenty of photographers on hand toi record
the incident, and it was invariably -an image that editors chosel when
they were putting together their pieces on the wedding. Nor wast its
symbolism lost on the scribblers who wrote up the event. The anonymous
girl-child from the crowd, lifted up into the strong safe arms Mitchell
Geary: it could have been Rachel.

Once the pressures of preparation and the great solemnity of the set
vice were over, the event became a party. The last of the formal*
ties--the speeches and the toasts--were kept mercifully short, and the!
the fun began. The air remained warm, the breeze just strong enouglj

to rock the lanterns in the trees; the sky turned golden as the sun sank
away.

"Perfection, Loretta," Deborah said, when the two women chanced to be
sitting alone for a moment.

"Thank you," Loretta said. "It just takes a little organization,
really."

"Well it's wonderful," Deborah replied. "I only wish George were here to
see it."

"Would he have liked her?"

"Rachel? Oh yes. He would have loved Rachel."

"Unpretentious," Loretta observed. She was watching Rachel even as she
spoke: arm in arm with her beloved, laughing at something one of
Mitchell's old Harvard chums had said. "An ordinary girl."

"I don't think she's ordinary at all," Deborah said. "I think she's very
strong."

"She'll need to be," Loretta said.

"Mitchell adores her."

"I'm sure he does. At least for now."

Deborah's lips tightened. "Must we, Loretta . . . ?"

"Tell the truth? Not if you don't want to."

"We've had our happiness," Deborah said. "Now it's their turn." She
started to get up from the table.

"Wait--" Loretta said. She reached out and lightly caught hold of
Deborah's wrist. "I don't want us to argue."

"I never argue," Deborah said.

"No. You walk away, which is even worse. It's time we were friends,
don't you think? I mean . . . there's things we're going to have to
start planning for."

Deborah slipped her arm out of Loretta's grasp. "I don't know what you
mean," she said, her tone making it perfectly clear that she did not
wish the conversation to continue.

Loretta changed the subject. "Sit down a moment. Did I tell you about
the astrologer?"

"No . . ." Deborah said, "Garrison mentioned you'd found someone you
liked."

'He's wonderful. His name's Martin Yzerman; he lives out in Brooklyn
Heights."

"Does Cadmus know you go to one of these people?"

"You should go to Yzerman yourself, Deborah."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Advice like that's very useful if you're trying to make long-term
plans."

"But I don't," she said. "I gave up trying. Things change too quickly."

"He could help you see the changes coming."

"I doubt it."

"Believe me."

"Could he have predicted what happened to George?" Deborah said sharply.

Loretta let a moment of silence fall between them before she said: "No
question."

Deborah shook her head. "That's not the way things are," she said. "We
don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. Nobody does." She rose from
her chair. This time Loretta didn't try to stop her. "I'm astonished
that a smart woman like you would put faith in that kind of thing.
Really I am. It's nonsense, Loretta. It's just a way to make you feel as
though you're in control of things." She looked down at Loretta almost
pityingly. "But you're not. None of us are. We could all be dead this
time tomorrow."

And with that, she walked away.

This odd little exchange wasn't the only crack in the bliss of the day.
There were three other incidents which are probably worth remarking
upon, though none of them were significant enough to spoil the
celebrations.

The first of the three, perhaps inevitably, involved Margie. Champagne
was not her preferred mode of transport, so she'd made sure that the bar
was stocked with good whiskey, and once the first round of bubbly was
drunk she switched to Scotch. She rapidly became a little testy, and
took it into her head to tell Senator Bryson who, along with his fam-i,
ily, had flown up from Washington, what she thought of his recent
comments on welfare reform. She was by no means inarticulate and
Senator,,! Bryson was plainly quite happy to be chewing on a serious
issue rather ;| than nibbling small talk; he listened to Margie's
remarks with suitable concern. Margie downed another Scotch and told him
he was talking | out of both sides of his mouth. The senator's wife
attempted a little leavJ ening here, remarking that the Gearys weren't
likely to be needing welfare any time soon. To which Margie sharply
replied that her father had I worked in a steel mill most of his life,
and died at the age of forty-five with twelve bucks in his bank account;
and where the hell was the man

with the whiskey anyway? Now it was Garrison who stepped in to try and
bring the exchange to a halt, but the senator made it perfectly plain
that he was enjoying the contretemps and wished to continue. The man
with the whiskey duly arrived, and Margie got her glass refilled. Where
were they, she said; oh yes, twelve bucks in his bank account. "So don't
tell me I don't know what's going on out there. The trouble is none of
you high and mighties gives a fuck. We've got problems in this country,
and they're getting worse, and what are you doing about it? Besides
sitting on your fat asses and pontificating."

"I don't think any caring human being would disagree with you," the
senator said. "We need to work to make American lives better lives."

"And what does that all add up to?" Margie said. "A fat lot of nothin'.
Is it any wonder nobody in this country believes a damn word any of you
people say?"

"I think people are more interested in the democratic process -- "

"Democratic, my ass!" Margie said. "It's all lobbies and paybacks and
doing your friends favors. I know how it works. I wasn't born yesterday.
You just want to make the rich richer." "I think you're mistaking me for
a Republican," Bryson chuckled.

"And I think you're mistaking me for someone who'd trust a fucking word
any politician ever said," Margie spat back.

"That's enough now," Garrison said, taking hold of his wife's arm.

She tried to shake him free, but he held on tight. "It's all right,
Garrison," the senator said. "She's got a right to her opinion." He
returned his gaze to Margie. "But I will say this. America's a free
country. You don't have to live in the lap of luxury if it doesn't sit
well with your political views." He smiled, though there was not a trace
of warmth in his eyes. "I really wonder if it's entirely appropriate for
a woman in your position to be talking about the agonies of the working
man."

"I told you, my father--"

"Is part of the past. This administration is part of the future. We
can't afford sentiment. We can't afford nostalgia. And most of all, we
can't afford hypocrisy."

This little speech had the ring of an exit line, and Margie knew it. Too
drunk by now to mount any coherent riposte, all she could say was: "What
the fuck does that mean?"

The senator was already turning to leave, but he pivoted on his heel to
reply to Margie's challenge. The smile, even in its humorless form, had
gone.

"It means, Mrs. Geary, that you can't stand there in a fifty
thousand-dollar dress and tell me you understand the pain of ordinary

people. If you want to do some good, maybe you should start off by
auctioning the contents of your closet and giving away the profits,
which I'm sure would be substantial."

That was his last word on the subject. He was gone the next moment,
along with his wife and entourage. Garrison went to follow, but Margie
clutched his arm.

"Don't you dare," she told him. "Or I'll quote what you said about him
being a spineless little shit."

"You are contemptible," Garrison said.

"No. You're contemptible. I'm just a pathetic drunk who doesn't know any
better. You want to take me inside before I start on somebody else?"

Rachel didn't hear about Margie's exchange with the man from Washington
until after the honeymoon, when Margie herself confessed it. But she was
very much a part of the second of the three notable exchanges of the
afternoon.	'

What happened was this: toward dusk Loretta came to find her and asked
if she'd mind bringing her mother and sister to meet Cadmus, | who was
going to be leaving very soon. The old man hadn't joined the celebration
until the cake was about to be cut, at which point he'd been brought out
to the big marquee in his wheelchair--to much applause--and made a
short, eloquent toast to the bride and groom. He'd then been taken to a
shady spot at the back of the house, where the I flow of folks who
wanted to pay their respects to him could be strictly';! controlled.
Apparently he'd been anxious to meet Rachel's family ear*! her in the
day, but only now, at nine in the evening, had the line of people
eager to shake his hand diminished. He was very tired, Lorettajj warned;
they should keep the conversation brief.

In fact, despite the demands of the day, Rachel thought he looked!
better than he had at his birthday party, certainly: positively robust
for 3'i ninety-six-year-old (sitting comfortably in a high-backed wicker
chair: generously packed with cushions in a backwater of the garden,
nursingl a brandy glass and the stub of a cigar). His face was still
handsome, aftelj its antique fashion; he'd aged beyond the gouges and
furrows into a kintfl of skeletal grandeur, his skin so tanned it was
like old wood, his eyes sell in the cups of his sockets like bright
stones. His speech was slow, and here and there a little slurred, but he
still had more charisma than me men a quarter his age, and sufficient
memory to know how to work it onl the opposite sex. He was like some
much beloved movie star, Rachel!!

thought; so adored in his season that now, though he was well past his
prime, he still believed in his own magic. And that was the most
important part, belief. The rest was just window dressing.

Loretta made all the introductions, and then returned to the party,
leaving Cadmus king of his own court.

"I wanted to tell you how proud I am," he told Rachel, "to have you, and
your mother and your sister, as part of the Geary family. You are all so
very lovely, if I may say so." He handed his glass to the woman (Rachel
assumed it was a nurse) who stood close to his chair, and reached out to
take the bride's hand. "Excuse my chilly fingers," he said. "I don't
have the circulation I used to have. I know how strong the feeling is
between you and Mitchell and I must tell you I think he is the luckiest
man alive to have won your affections. So many people ..." He stopped
for a moment, and his eyelids fluttered. Then he drew a deep breath, as
if pulling on some buried reserve of energy, and the moment of frailty
passed. "I'm sorry," he said. "So many people, you know, never have in
their lives anything like the kind of deep feeling you two have for one
another. I had it in my life." He made a small wry smile. "Regrettably
it wasn't for either of the women I married." Rachel heard Deanne
suppress a guffaw behind her. She glanced back, frowning, but Cadmus was
in on the joke. His smile had spread into a mischievous grin. "In fact,
you my dear Rachel, bear more than a passing resemblance to the lady I
idolized. So much so that when I first set eyes upon you, at that little
party Loretta threw for me--as if I wanted to be reminded how antiquated
I am--I thought to myself: Mitchell and I have the same taste in
beauty."

"May I ask who this was?" Rachel asked him.

"I'd be pleased to tell you. In fact, I'll do better than that. Would
you care to come to the house next week?"

"Of course."

"I'll show you the lady I loved," Cadmus told Rachel. "Up on the screen,
where age can't touch her. And I'm afraid . . . neither can I."

"I'll look forward to that."

"So will I..." he said, his voice a little fainter now. "Well, I suppose
I should let you ladies go back to the celebration."

"It's been wonderful to meet you," Sherrie said.

"The pleasure's all mine," Cadmus replied. "Believe me. All mine."

They just don't make men like that any longer," Sherrie observed when
they were out of the old man's presence.

"You sound quite smitten/' Deanne said.

"I'll tell you this," Sherrie replied, directing her remarks to Rachel,
"if Mitchell is half the man he is, you won't have a thing to complain
about."

VIII

The third and final event I'm going to report took place long after
dark, and it was the one that could have potentially spoiled the glory
of the day.

Let me first set the scene for you. The evening, as I've said, was
balmy, and though the number of guests slowly dwindled as the hour grew
later a lot of people stayed longer than they'd planned, to drink and
chat and dance. The time and trouble that had been taken to hang the
lanterns in the trees around the house paid off handsomely. Though about
nine-thirty or so clouds came in from the northeast, the lamps more than
compensated for the lack of stars; it was as though every tree had
luminous fruit swaying in its branches, lilac and lemon and lime. It was
a time for whispered expressions of love, and among the older folks, a
renewal of vows and the making of promises. I'll be kinder; I'll be more
attentive; I'll care for you the way I used to care when we were first
married.

Nobody gave any thought to being spied on. With so many luminaries in
attendance the security had been fierce. But now, with many of the more
important guests already departed and the party winding down, the
vigilance of the guards was not what it had been, so nobody saw the two
photographers who scrambled over the wall to the east of the house. They
didn't find much that would please their editors. A few drunks passed
out in their chairs, but nobody of any consequence. Disappointed, they
moved on through the grounds, concealing their cameras beneath their
jackets if they passed anyone who might question them, until they got to
the edge of the dance floor. Here they decided to part.

One of them--a fellow called Buckminster--went to the largest of the
tents, hoping he might at least find some overweight celebrity still
pigging out. His partner Penaloza headed on past the dance floor, where
there were still a few couples enjoying a moody waltz, toward the trees.

None of what Penaloza saw looked particularly promising. He knew the
sordid laws of his profession by heart. The readers of the rags to whom
he hoped to sell his pictures wanted to see somebody famous committing
at least one--but hopefully several --deadly sins. Gluttony was good,
avarice was okay; lust and rage were wonderful. But there was nothing
significantly sinful going on under the lanterns, and Penaloza was about
to turn back to see if he could talk his way into the house , when he
heard a woman, not far from him, laughing. There was a measure of unease
in the sound which drew his experienced ear.

The laughter came again, and this time he made out its source. And, oh
my Lord, did he believe what he was seeing? Was that Meredith Bryson,
the daughter of Senator Bryson, swaying drunkenly under the tree, her
blouse unbuttoned and another woman's face pressed between her breasts?

Penaloza fumbled for his camera. Now there was a picture! Perhaps if he
could just get a little closer, so that no one was in doubt as to
Meredith's identity. He took two cautious steps, ready to shoot and run
if the need arose. But the women were completely enraptured with one
another; if things got much more heated the picture would be
unpublishable. There was no doubting the identity of the Bryson girl
now; not with her head thrown back that way. He held his breath, and got
off a shot. Then another. He'd have liked a third, but Meredith's
seducer had already seen him. She gallantly pushed the Bryson girl out
of sight behind her, giving Penaloza one hell of a shot of her standing
full on to him, shirt unbuttoned to the waist. He didn't wait for the
bitch to start screaming.

"Gotta go," he grinned; then turned and ran.

What happened next confounded his every expectation. Instead of hearing
one or both of the women set up a chorus of tearful hollering, there was
silence, except for the din of his own feet as he ran. And then suddenly
there was somebody catching hold of the collar of his shirt, and
swinging him around, and it was he who let out the yelp of complaint as
his attacker wrenched his camera out of his hands.

"You fucking scum!"

It was Meredith's lover, of course; though God knows she'd put on a
supernatural turn of speed to catch up with him.

"That's mine!" he said, grabbing for his camera.

"No," she replied, very simply, and tossed it back over her shoulder.
Don't touch it!" Penaloza yelled. "That camera is my property. If you so
much as lay a finger on that camera I'll sue you -- "

"Oh shut up," the woman said, and slapped him across the face. The blow
stung so badly his eyes watered.

"You can't do this," he protested. "This is a Fifth Amendment issue."

The woman hit him again. "Amend that," she said.

Penaloza was a reasonably moral man. He didn't take pleasure in hitting
women; but sometimes it was a necessity. Blinking the tears out of his
eyes he feinted to the right, and then swung a left that caught the
woman's jaw a solid crack. She let out a very satisfying yelp and
stumbled backward, but to his surprise she was back at him before he
recovered his own balance, throwing herself at him with such violence
she brought them both to the ground.

"Jesus!" he heard somebody say, and from the corner of his eyes saw
Buckminster standing a few yards away, photographing the fight.

Penaloza managed to pull one hand free and pointed toward his camera,
which still lay on the grass a few yards from the senator's daughter.
"Grab it!" he yelled. "Buck! You shit! Pick up my camera!"

But he was too late. The Bryson bitch was already there, snatching the
camera up off the ground, and Buckminster--having decided he'd risked
enough as it was--now turned on his heels and fled. Penaloza struggled
to pull himself out of his attacker's grip, but she'd pinned him down,
her knees clamped to either side of his head, and he had no energy left
to throw her off. All he could do was squirm like a child while she
casually beckoned Meredith Bryson over.

"Open the camera up, honey." Meredith did so. "Now pull out the film."	:

Penaloza started to shout again; there were people coming to see what
all the commotion was about. If one of them could prevent I Meredith
from opening the camera, he might still have his evidence.,! Too late!
The back of the camera snapped open, and the Bryson girf'J pulled the
film out.

"Satisfied?" Penaloza growled.

The woman perched on him considered the question for a) moment. "Did
anybody tell you how lovely you are?" she said, reaching I behind her.
She took hold of his balls, clutching them tightly. "What a | fine,
wholesome specimen of manhood you are?" She twisted his scrof turn. He
sobbed, more with anticipation than fear. "No?" she said.

"... no .. ."

"Good. Because you're not. You're a worthless piece of rat's doo; doo."
She twisted again. "What are you?" If he'd had a gun at that| moment
he'd have happily put a bullet through the bitch's brains.

"What. Are. You?" she said again, giving his balls a yank with every
syllable.

"Rat's doo-doo," Penaloza said.

ii

The woman who'd laid Penaloza low was of course none other than my
darling Marietta. And you're probably sufficiently familiar with her by
now to know that she was very proud of herself. When she got back here
to L'Enfant she gave Zabrina and myself chapter and verse of the whole
escapade.

"Why the hell did you go there in the first place?" I remember Zabrina
asking her.

"I wanted to cause some trouble/' she said. "But once I got there, and
I'd had a few glasses of champagne, all I wanted to do was fuck. So I
found this girl. I didn't know who she was." She smiled slyly. "And
neither did she, poor sweetheart. But, I like to think I helped her find
out."

There's one footnote to all of this, and it concerns the subsequent
romantic career of the senator's daughter.

Maybe a year after the Geary wedding, who should appear on the cover of
People magazine, there to announce her membership of the Sapphic tribe,
but the radiant Meredith Bryson?

Inside, there was a five page interview, accompanied by a number of
photographs of the newly uncloseted senator's daughter. One in the
window seat of her house in Charleston; another in the back yard, with
two cats; and a third of her and her family at the President's
inauguration, with an inset blowup of Meredith herself, caught looking
thoroughly bored.

"I've always been interested in politics," she averred in the body of
the piece.

The interviewer hurried her on to something a little juicier. When had
she first realized she was a lesbian?

"I know a lot of women say they've always known, somewhere deep down,"
she replied. "But honestly I didn't have a clue until I met the right
person."

Could she tell the readers who this lucky lady was?

"No, I'd prefer not to do that right now," Meredith replied.

"Have you taken her to the White House?"

"Not yet. But I intend to, one of these days. The First Lady and I had a
great conversation about it, and she said we'd be very welcome."

The article twittered on in the same substance-free manner for several
pages; I don't think anything of any moment was said from beginning to
end. But after the talk of White House visits I couldn't help but
imagine Marietta and Meredith in Lincoln's bedroom, doing the deed
beneath Abe's portrait. Now there was a picture the sleazehounds would
have paid a nice price to own.

As to Marietta, she would not be drawn out any further on the subject of
the senator's daughter. I can't help wondering, however, if at some
point down the line the fate of L'Enfant and the secret lives of Capitol
Hill won't again intersect. This is, after all, a house built by a
president. I won't argue that it's his masterpiece--that's surely the
Declaration of Independence--but L'Enfant's roots lie too close to the
roots of democracy's tree for the two not to be intertwined. And if, as
Zelim the Prophet once claimed, the process of all things is like the
Wheel of the Stars, and what has seemed to pass away will come back
again sooner or later, is it unreasonable to suppose that L'Enfant's
demise may be caused or quickened by the order of power that brought it
into being?

IX

So now you know how Rachel Pallenberg and Mitchell Geary became ;|
husband and wife--from their first meeting to the vows at the altar. You
know how powerful a family she had entered, and how possessive it J was;
you know she was in love with Mitchell, passionately so, and that hetjl
feelings were reciprocated.

How then, you ask, does such a romance fall from grace? How is it! that,
a little over two years later, at the end of a rainy October, Rachel}
was driving around the benighted streets of Dansky, Ohio, cursing the
day she'd heard the name of Mitchell Geary?

If this were a work of fiction I could invent some dramatic scenaric to
explain all this. She'd step into the house one day and find her hus4j|
band in bed with another woman, or they'd have an argument thafe| would
escalate into violence, or he'd reveal to her in the heat of an angry|
exchange that he'd married her for a bet with his brother. But there
was| nothing like that in their lives: no adulteries, no violence, and
certainly! no raised voices. It just wasn't the way Mitch dealt with
things. He liked? to be liked, even when being liked meant avoiding a
confrontation that} would be to everybody's good. That meant turning a
blind eye toiaj

Rachel's discomfort if there was the least risk of stirring up something
unpleasant. His former empathy, which had been so much a part of what
had enchanted her about him, disappeared. If she was unhappy, he simply
looked the other way. There was always plenty of Geary family business
to justify his inattention; and of course the inevitable seductions of
luxury to soften Rachel's loneliness when he was gone.

It would be wrong to claim that she was not in some fashion complicit in
all of this. It became apparent to her very quickly that her life as
Mrs. Mitchell Geary was not going to be as emotionally fulfilling as
she'd hoped. Mitchell was wholly devoted to the family business, and as
she had no role in that business, nor wanted one, she found herself
alone more often than she liked. Instead of sitting Mitch down and
talking the problem through--telling him, in essence, that she wanted to
be more than a public wife--she let his way of doing things carry the
day, and that soon proved a self-fulfilling prophecy. The less she said
the harder it became to say anything at all.

Anyway, how could she claim the marriage wasn't working when to the
outside world she'd been given paradise on a platter? Was there anywhere
she couldn't go if she wanted to? Any store she couldn't shop in until
she was tired of saying I'll take it? They went to Aspen skiing, Vermont
for a weekend in the autumn, to enjoy the turning of the leaves. She was
in Los Angeles for the Oscar parties, in Paris to see the spring
collections, in London for the theater, and Rio and Bali for spur-of-the
moment vacations. What did she have to complain about?

The only person in whom she could confide her growing unhappiness was
Margie, who wasn't so much sympathetic as fatalistic.

"It's a trade-off," she said. "And it's been going on since the
beginning of time. Or at least since the first rich man ever took
himself a poor wife."

Rachel flinched at this. "I am not--"

"Oh honey."

"That's not why I married Mitch."

"No, of course it isn't. You'd be with him if he was ugly and poor and
I'd be with Garrison if he was tap-dancing on a street corner in Soho."

"I love Mitch."

"Right now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, sitting here right now, having said all the things you've just
said about how he's neglectful, and doesn't want to talk about feelings,
and so on, sitting right here right now, you love him?"

"Oh Lord . . ."

"Is that a maybe?"

There was a pause while they thought about what she was feeling at that
moment. "I don't know what I feel," she admitted. "It's just that he's
not. . ."

"The man you married?" Rachel nodded. Margie refilled her whiskey glass
and leaned forward as though to whisper something, though they were the
only people in the room. "Sweetheart, he never was the man you married.
He was just giving you the Mitch you wanted to see." She leaned back,
waving her free hand in the air as though to swat a swarm of phantom
Gearys out of her sight. "They're all the same. Christ knows." She
sipped her whiskey. "Believe it or not, Garrison can be charm
personified when it suits him. They must get it from their grandfather."

Rachel pictured Cadmus the way he'd been at the wedding; sitting in his
high-backed chair dispensing charm like a benediction.

"If it's all a performance," she said, "where's the real Mitch?"

"He doesn't know any more. If he ever did, which I doubt. It's sort of
pitiful when you think about it. All that power, all that money, and
there's nobody home to use it."

"They use it all the time," Rachel said.

"No," Margie replied. "It uses them. They're not living. None of us
Gearys are. We're all just going through the motions." She peered at her
glass. "I know I drink too much. It's rotting my liver and it'll
probably kill me. But at least when I've got a few whiskeys inside me
I'm not stuck being Mrs. Garrison Geary. When I'm drunk I give up being
his wife, I'm somebody he wishes he didn't know. I like that."

Rachel shook her head in despair. "If it's so bad," she said, "why don't
you just leave?"

"I've tried. I've left him three times. Once I stayed away for five
months. But. . . you get into a certain way of being. You get
comfortable." Rachel looked uneasy. "It doesn't take long. Look, I don't
like living in Garrison's shadow, but I like living without his credit
cards even less."

"You could divorce him and get a very nice settlement, Margie. You could
live anywhere you wanted, anyway you wanted."

Now it was Margie who shook her head. "I know," she said softly. "I'm
just making excuses." She picked up the whiskey bottle and poured
herself another half tumbler. "The fact is, I'm not leaving because
somewhere deep down I don't want to. I guess maybe what's |

left of my self-esteem's wrapped up in being part of the dynasty. Isn't
that pathetic?" She sipped on her drink. "Don't look so appalled, honey.
Just because I'm too screwed up to leave, doesn't mean you can't. How
old are you now?"

"Twenty-seven."

"That's nothing. You've still got your life ahead of you. You know what
you should do? Tell Mitch you want a trial separation. Get a few million
in your pocket and go off to see the world."

"I don't think seeing the world's going to make me happy."

"All right. So what is going to make you happy?"

Rachel thought it over for a moment. "Being with Mitch the way he was
before we got married," she finally replied.

"Oh Lord," Margie sighed. "Then you know what? You have a big problem."

X

Some of Mitchell's old charm returned, albeit briefly, when he talked
with Rachel about their having children. More than once he rhapsodized
about how blessed their kids were going to be: the girls beautiful, the
boys all studs. He was keen to start a family as soon as possible, and
he wanted the brood to be large. In fact, Rachel got the unwelcome
impression that he wanted to make up for Garrison's relative lack of
productivity (Margie having borne one child only: a girl, now eight,
called Alexia).

But the act of love was welcome, even if it was in service of Geary
productivity rather than pleasure. When Mitchell was close to her, his
hands on her body, his lips against hers, she remembered how she'd felt
when they'd first touched, first kissed. How special she'd felt; how
rare. He wasn't an inspired lover. In fact Rachel had been surprised at
how gauche he was in bed; almost shy, in fact. He certainly didn't act
like a man who'd reputedly bedded some of the most beautiful women of
the day. She liked his lack of sexual sophistication. For one thing, it
matched her own, and it was nice to be able to learn together how best
to pleasure one another. But even at his best, he left her wanting more.
He didn't seem to understand the rhythms of her body; how she wanted to
be held tenderly sometimes, and sometimes fiercely. When she attempted
to express those needs in words he made his discomfort clear.

"I don't like it when you talk dirty," he said to her after one of their
lovemaking sessions had ended. "Maybe I'm just being old-fashioned, but
I don't think women should talk that way. It's not. . ."

"Ladylike?" she said.

He was standing in the bathroom door, tying the belt of his robe. He
made a little fussy business of it so as not to look at her. 'Teah," he
said. "It's not ladylike."

"I just want to be able to say what I want, Mitch."

"You mean what you want when we're in bed?" he said.

"Isn't that allowed?"

He made an exasperated sigh. "Rachel. . ." he said, "I told you before.
You can say whatever you want to say."

"No I can't," she replied. "You tell me that, but you don't mean it.
You're ready to snap at me if I say anything critical."

"That's not true."

"You're doing it right now."

"I'm not. I'm just saying I've been brought up in a different way than
you. When I'm in bed with somebody I don't want to be given orders."

Now he was beginning to annoy her, and she wasn't in the mood to keep
her irritation out of sight. "If you think me asking you to fuck me a
little harder--"

"There you go again."

" -- is me giving you orders we've got a problem, because--"

"I don't want to hear this."

"--and that's part of the problem."

"No, the problem is you having a foul mouth."

She got up out of bed. She was still naked, still sweaty from their
lovemaking (he was always the first to the shower, scrubbing himself
clean). Her nakedness intimidated him. It was the same body he'd been :|
coupling with ten minutes before; now he couldn't look at her below her
neck. She'd not thought of him as absurd until that moment. Arro- I gant
sometimes, childish sometimes. But never, until now, absurd. There he
was, a grown man, averting his eyes from her body like a ner- I vous
schoolboy. She would have laughed had it not been so pitiful.

"Just so we understand one another, Mitchell," she said, her tone
scarcely betraying the fury she felt. "I do not have a foul mouth. If I
you've got a problem with talking about sex--"

"Don't put it on me."

"Let me finish."

"I've heard all I need to hear."

"I haven't finished talking."

"Well I've finished listening," he said, crossing to the bedroom door.

She moved to intercept him, feeling bizarrely empowered by her own
nakedness. She saw him cowed by her lack of shame and it aroused an
exhibitionist streak in her. If he was going to treat her like a coarse
woman, then damn it she'd behave like one, and take some pleasure in his
discomfort.

"Is that all the baby-making we're going to be doing tonight?" she said
to him.

"I'm not sleeping in this room with you tonight, if that's what you're
asking."

"The more often we do it," Rachel pointed out, "the more chance I'll
produce a little Geary. You do know that?"

"Right now, I don't care," he said, and walked out on her.

It wasn't until she'd showered, and was toweling herself dry, that the
tears started to come. They were surprisingly inconsequential, given
what had just taken place. She made swift work of them, then washed her
face clean, and went to bed.

She'd slept alone for many years, and been none the worse for it, she
told herself. If she had to do so again for the rest of her life, then
so be it. She wasn't going to beg anyone for their company between the
sheets; not even Mitchell Geary.

XI

Paradoxically, they'd made a baby the very night she'd ended up sleeping
alone. Seven weeks later Rachel was sitting in the office of Dr. Lloyd
Waxman, the Geary family physician, with Waxman telling her the glad
news.

"You're in very good health, Mrs. Geary," he said. "I'm sure
everything's going to proceed along just fine. Did your mother have easy
pregnancies, by the way?"

"As far as I know."

"Well that's another good sign." He jotted the information in his notes.
"Maybe you'd like to come in and see me again in, say, a month's time?"

"No instructions in the meantime?"

"Nothing to excess," Waxman replied, with a simple little shrug. "That's
what I always tell people. You're a healthy woman, there's really no
reason why this shouldn't be a breeze for you. Just don't go out on the
town with Margie. Or if you go out, let her do all the drinking. She's
very capable of that. Lord knows, it'll probably kill her one of these
days."

Rachel had made a tentative peace with Mitchell about a week and a half
after the argument in the bedroom, but things had not been fully
repaired between them. She wasn't so much hurt by the exchange as she
was insulted, and she wasn't about to kid herself that just because he
was making an effort to be conciliatory the opinions he espoused weren't
still lurking behind his smile. As he'd said at the time, they were part
of the way he'd been brought up. Such deeply held feelings weren't going
to disappear overnight.

But the news from Dr. Waxman was so rapturously greeted on all sides she
forgot about the argument, for at least a few weeks. Everybody was so
pleased, it was as though something miraculous had happened.

"It's only a baby," she remarked to Deborah one day.

"Rachel," Deborah said, with a faintly forbidding tone. "You know better
than that."

"All right, it's a Geary baby," Rachel said. "But Lord, all this hoopla!
And there's still seven months to go."

"When I was pregnant with Garrison," Deborah said, "Cadmus ,j sent me
flowers every day for the last two months of my pregnancy, with ;| a
little card attached, and the number of days left."

"Like a countdown?"

"Exactly." "The more I know about this family, the stranger it seems."

Deborah smiled, her gaze sliding away.

"What does that mean?" Rachel said.

"What?"

"The smile."

Deborah shrugged. "Oh, just that the older I get the stranger everything
seems." She was sitting on the sofa beside the window, and the | sun was
bright; it made her features hard to discern. "You know how you assume
things'll come clear as you get older? But of course nothing does.
Sometimes I find myself looking at the faces of people I've known for
years and years and they're complete mysteries to me. Like some

thing from another planet." She paused, sipped her peppermint tea,
stared out of the window. "What were we talking about?"

"How strange all the Gearys are."

"Hm. I suppose you think I'm the oddest of the lot."

"No," Rachel protested. "I didn't mean to say--"

"Say whatever you feel like saying," Deborah said, her tone still
distracted. "Take no notice of Mitchell." She looked in Rachel's
direction, her gaze uncommitted. "He told me you were angry at him. I
don't blame you, frankly. He can be very controlling. He doesn't get
that from George, he gets it from Garrison. And Garrison gets it from
Cadmus." Rachel didn't remark on any of this. "He said you had quite an
argument."

"It's over with now," Rachel said.

"I had to pry it out of him. But he knows better than to try and conceal
anything from his mother."

Several thoughts had come into Rachel's head at the same time and were
competing for attention. One, that if Deborah didn't find it odd that
her son was sharing bedroom conversation with her, then she was indeed
just as strange as the rest of the family. Two, that Mitchell wasn't to
be trusted to keep their intimate business to himself. And three, that
she would hereafter take her mother-in-law at her word, and say whatever
the hell came into her head, however unpalatable it sounded. They were
stuck with her now. She was going to give the Geary clan a child. That
conferred power upon her.

Margie put it best, in fact, when she remarked that "the kid's going to
give you something to bargain with." This was a grim vision of things,
to be sure, but by now all of Rachel's romantic delusions were in
retreat. If the child she was carrying was a necessary part of getting
her way, then so be it.

In late January, on one of those crystalline days that make even the
most Arctic of New York winters bearable, Mitchell came to the apartment
at noon and told Rachel he wanted to show her something; would she come
with him? Right now? she asked him. Yes, he said, right now.

The traffic was abnormally snarled, even for New York. The leaden sky
had begun to shed snow; a blizzard was promised within hours. It
reminded her of that first afternoon, in Boston. Snow on the sidewalk,
and a prince at the door. It seemed so very long ago.

Their destination was Fifth Avenue, at 81st: a tower of condominiums
which she knew by reputation only.

"I bought you something," Mitchell said, as they stepped into the
elevator. "I think you should have a place you can call your own.
Somewhere you can shut out all the Gearys." He smiled. "Except me, of
course."

His gift awaited them at the top of the tower: the penthouse duplex. It
had been exquisitely appointed, the walls hung with modern masters, I
the furniture chic, but comfortable.

"There are four bedrooms, six bathrooms, and of course . . ." he led her
to the window ". . . the best view in America."

"Oh my Lord," was all Rachel could say.

"Do you like it?"

How could she not? It was beautiful; perfection. She couldn't I imagine
what it had cost to create luxury on such a scale.

"It's all yours, honey," Mitchell said. "I mean, literally yours. The
apartment, everything it contains, it's all in your name." He came over,
| and stood behind her, looking out over the snow-brightened rectangle I
of Central Park. "I know it's hard for you sometimes, living in the
middle of this fucking dynasty. It's hard for me, so God knows what it's
like for you." He put his arms around her from behind, his palms laid
against her swelling belly. "I want you to have your own little queendom
I up here. If you don't like the pictures on the walls, sell 'em. I
tried to Jj choose things I thought you'd like, but if you don't, sell
them and get] something you do like. I put a couple of million dollars
in a separate'; bank account for you, to change whatever you want to
change. Put in a | pool table. Or a screening room. Whatever you want.
You call the shots! here." He put his mouth close to her ear. "Of
course, I hope you'll let;; me have a key, so I can come in and play
sometimes." There was d| gravely tone to his voice, and his hips were
moving gently but insistently! against her backside. "Hey, honey?"

"Yes?"

"Can I come in and play?"

i"You need to ask?" she said, turning in his arms so that she faced!

him. "Of course you can play."

"Even in your delicate condition?"

"I'm not delicate," she said, pressing against him. "I'm feeling fine-
Better than fine." She kissed him. "This is an amazing place."

"You're amazing," he said, returning her kiss. "The more I knoWl you,
the more I fall in love with you. I'm not very good at telling you!
that. You throw me off my stride. I'm supposed to be Mr. Cool, but'l
when I'm with you, I get stupid, like a kid." He put his mouth against I
her face. "A very, very, very horny kid."

She didn't need to be told; he was so hard against her. And his pale
face was flushed, and his neck blotchy. "Can I put it in you?" he said.

That was always his overture; can I put it in you? When she'd been angry
with him, and thought of this phrase, it had struck her as perfectly
ridiculous. But right now she was persuaded by its idiot simplicity. She
wanted it inside her; that it which he couldn't bear to name.

"Which bedroom?" she said.

They made love without fully undressing, on a bed so big she could have
thrown an orgy amid its countless pillows. He was more passionate than
she could ever remember his being, his hands and mouth returning over an
dover to her silky belly. It was as if he was aroused by the evidence of
his own fecundity; muttering words of adoration against her body. The
session didn't last more than fifteen minutes; he couldn't hold back.
And when he had finished, he was up and showering, and then away
downstairs to make some calls. He was late for his meetings, he said;
Garrison would be cursing him.

"I'll catch a cab and leave the limo downstairs for you," he told her,
leaning over to kiss her forehead. His hair was still wet from the
shower.

"Don't get a chill. There's a blizzard out there."

He glanced out. The snow was coming down so heavily it had almost
obscured the park.

"I'll stay warm," he said softly. "I'll think of you two lying here, and
I'll be toasty."

When he was gone her body remembered the motion of his erection inside
her, as though there were a phantom phallus still sliding in and out of
her. And she remembered too the way he spoke when he was aroused. Often,
in the heat of the moment, he'd called her baby, and this afternoon had
been no different. Baby o baby o baby, he'd said as he put it in. But
now, when she conjured his voice, it was as if he were speaking to the
child in her; calling to it in her womb. Baby o baby o baby.

She didn't know whether to be moved or disturbed, so she told herself to
be neither. She pulled the sheets and quilt up around her, and slept,
while the snow lay its own fat white quilt on the park below.

ii

Since I wrote the foregoing passage--which was yesterday afternoon--
I've had no less than three visits from Luman, which have so distracted

me that I haven't been able to get back into the mood for continuing my
story. So I've decided to tell you the matter of my distractions, and
maybe that will put them out of my mind.

The more time I spend with Luman, the more troubling he seems to be.
He'd decided from our last conversation--after all these years of
estrangement--that I was now his best buddy: a smoking companion (he's
been through half a dozen of my havanas), a confidante, and of course a
fellow writer. As I told Zabrina, he's got the notion lodged in his head
that I'm going to collaborate with him on the definitive tome about
madhouses. I've agreed to no such thing, but I haven't got the heart to
spoil his dream; it's plainly very important to him. He comes to my room
with odd little scribblings he's made (actually, he doesn't barge in the
way Marietta would; he waits on the veranda until I chance to look up,
see him there, and invite him in) and gives me what he's written,
telling me where he thinks it's going to fit in the grand scheme of his
book. He's obviously thought the whole project through in great detail,
because he'll say: this belongs in Chapter Seven; or: this goes with the
stories about Bedlam, as though I shared his vision. I don't. I can't.
For one thing, he hasn't communicated what this book of his is going to
be (though he clearly assumes he has) and for another I've got a book of
my own to think about. There isn't room in my head for two. In fact
there's barely room for this.

I suppose it would have been better for all concerned if I'd just told
him that I had no intention of collaborating with him. Then he'd have
gone away and left me to get on with telling you what happened to
Rachel. But he was so impassioned about it, I was afraid he'd be a wreck
if I did that.

That's not the only reason that I didn't tell him the truth, I'll admit.
Though it's a disruption having him come in and pick my brains the : way
he's been doing, he's also been strangely stimulating company. The more
comfortable he becomes in my presence, the less effort he makes to keep
his conversation on any coherent track. In the midst of telling me some
lunatic detail of his book he'll veer off onto a completely different
subject, then veer again, and again, almost as though there was more
than one Luman in his head, and they were all vying for the use J of his
tongue. There's Luman the gossip, who has a chatty, faintly |i
effeminate manner. There's Luman the metaphysician, who gazes at'| the
ceiling while he pontificates. There's Luman the encyclopedia, who'll
out of the blue talk about Roman law, or the finer points of topi- "I
ary. (Some of the information he's provided in this latter mode has been
fascinating. I didn't realize until he told me that in some species of

hyena the female is indistinguishable from the male, her clitoris the
size of a penis, her labia swollen and drooping like a scrotum. No
wonder Marietta took to them. Nor did I know that the temples where
Cesaria was worshipped were often also tombs; and that sacred marriages,
the heiros gamos, were celebrated there, among the dead.)

And then there's Luman the impersonator, who can suddenly speak in a
voice that is so unlike his own it's as though he were possessed. Last
night, for instance, he impersonated Dwight so well if I'd closed my
eyes I wouldn't have been able to tell it from the real thing. And then
later, just as he was leaving, he spoke in Chiyojo's voice, quoting a
piece of a poem my mother wrote:

"My Savior is most diligent;

He has me in his book

With all my faults enumerated,

And I am certain there.

It's only the Fallen One

Who wants us perfect;

For then we will not need an angel's care."

You can imagine how strange that was to hear: my wife's voice, still
distinctly Japanese, speaking a thought that came from my mother's
heart. The two great women in my life, emerging from the throat of this
raddled, wild-eyed man. Is it any wonder I've been distracted from the
flow of my story?

But the strangest portions of these exchanges are those with a
metaphysical cast; no question. He's evidently thought long and hard
about the paradoxes of our state: a family of divinities (or in my case
a semidivinity) hiding away from a world which no longer wants us or
needs us.

"Godhood doesn't mean a damn thing," he said to me. "All it does is make
us crazy."

I asked him why he thought it had done that. (I didn't argue with his
basic assumption. I think he's right: all the Barbarossas are a little
mad.) He said he thought it was because we were just minor gods.

"We're not that much better than them out there, when you come to think
of it," he said. "Sure, we live longer. And we can do a few tricks. But
it's not the deep stuff. We can't make stars. Or unmake 'em."

"Not even Nicodemus?" I said.

"Nah. Not even Nicodemus. And he was one of the First Created. Like
her." He pointed up to Cesaria's chambers.

" 'Two souls as old as heaven . . .' "

"Who said that?"

"I did," I replied. "It's from my book."

"Nice," he said.

"Thanks."

He fell silent for a few moments. I assumed he was mulling over the
prettiness of my phrasing, but no, his grasshopper mind had already
jumped to something else; or rather back, to our problematical god hood.

"I think we're too farsighted for our own good," he said. "We can't seem
to live in the moment. We're always looking off beyond the edge of
things. But we're not powerful enough to be able to see anything there."
He growled like an ill-tempered dog. "It's so fucking frustrating. Not
to be one thing or the other."

"Meaning?"

"If we were real gods ... I mean the way gods are supposed to be, we
wouldn't be pissing around here. We'd be off--out there, where there's
still things to do."

"You don't mean the world."

"No, I don't mean the world. Fuck the world. I mean out beyond anything
anybody on this planet ever saw or dreamt of seeing."

I thought of Galilee while he was talking. Had the same hunger as Luman
was describing--unarticulated, perhaps, but burning just as
brightly--driven Galilee out across the ocean on his little boat, daring
all he knew how to dare, but never feeling as though he was far enough
from land; or indeed from home?

These ruminations had put Luman into a melancholy mood, and he told me
he didn't want to talk any more, and left. But he was back at dawn, or
a little thereafter, for his third visit. I don't think he'd slept* He'd
been walking around since he'd departed my study, thinking. ;

"I jotted a few more notes down," he said, "for the chapter onl Christ."

"Christ's in this book of yours?" I said.

"Has to be. Has to be," Luman said. "Big family connection."

"We're not in the same family as Jesus, Luman," I said. Then doubting
my own words: "Are we?"

"Nah. But he was a crazy man, just like us. He just cared more) than we
do."

"About what?"

"Them," he said; "Humanity. The fucking flock. Truth is, we were I never
shepherds. We were hunters. At least, she was. I guess Nicodemus had a
taste for domesticity. Raising horses. He was a rancher at heart." I'{

smiled at this piece of insight. It was true. Our Father, the
fence-builder.

"Maybe we should have cared a little more," Luman went on. "Tried to
love them, even though they never loved us."

"Nicodemus loved them," I pointed out. "Some of the women at least."

"I tried that," Luman said. "But they die on you, just as you're getting
used to having them around."

"Do you have children out there?" I asked him.

"Oh sure, I've got bastards."

It had never occurred to me until this moment that our family tree might
have undiscovered branches. I'd always assumed that I knew the extent of
the Barbarossa clan. Apparently, I didn't.

"Do you know where they are?" I asked him.

"No."

"But you could find them?"

"I suppose so . . ."

"If they're like me, they're still alive. Growing old slowly, but--"

"Oh yeah, they're still alive."

"And you're not curious about them?"

"Of course I'm curious," he said, a little sharply. "But I can barely
stay sane sitting out there in the Smoke House. If I went out looking
for my kids, turning over the memories of the women I bedded, I'd lose
what little fucking sanity I still possess." He shook his head
violently, as though to get the temptation out from between his ears.

"Maybe ... if I ever go out there ..." I began. He stopped shaking his
head, and looked up at me. His eyes were sparkling suddenly: tears in
them, but also, I think, some little flame of hope. "Maybe I could look
for them for you ..." I went on.

"Look for my children?"

"Yes."

"You'd do that?"

"Yes. Of course. I'd ... be honored."

The tears welled in his eyes now. "Oh brother," he said. "Imagine that.
My children." His voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. "My children."
He caught hold of my hand; his palm was prickly against my skin, his
agitation oozing from his pores. "When would you do this?" he said.

"Oh . . . well ... I couldn't go until I'd finished the book."

"My book or yours?"

"Mine. Yours would have to wait."

"No problem. No problem. I could live with that. If I knew you were
going to bring me . . ." He couldn't finish the thought; it was too

overwhelming for him. He let go of me and put his hand over his eyes.
The tears coursed down his cheeks, and he sobbed so loudly I swear
everyone in the house must have heard him, At last, he recovered himself
enough to say. "We'll talk about this again some other time."

"Whenever you like," I told him.

"I knew we'd become friends again for a reason," he said to me. "You're
quite a man, Maddox. And I choose my words carefully. Quite a man."

With that, he went out onto the veranda, stopping only to take another
cigar from my humidor. Once outside, however, he turned back. "I don't
know what this information is worth," he said, "but now that I trust you
as I do, I think I ought to tell you . . ."

"What?"

He began feverishly scratching his beard, suddenly discomfited. "You're
going to think I'm really crazy now," he said.

"Tell me."

"Well ... I have a theory. About Nicodemus."

"Yes?"

"I don't believe his death was an accident. I think he orchestrated the
whole thing."

"Why would he do that?"

"So that he could slip away from her. From his responsibilities. I know
this may be hard to hear, brother--but I think the company of your wife
gave him a hankerin' for the old days. He wanted human pussy. So he had
to get away."

"But you buried him, Luman. And I saw him trampled, right there in front
of me. I was lying on the ground, under the same hooves."

"A corpse ain't evidence of anything," Luman replied. "You know that.
There are ways to get out, if you know 'em. And if anyone knew those
ways--"

" -- it was him."

"Tricky sonofabitch, that father of ours. Tricky and oversexed." He
stopped scratching his beard and made me an apologetic little shrug.
"I'm sorry if it hurts to have me bring it up, but--"

"No. It's all right."	\

"We have to start being honest around here, it seems to me. Stop ,
pretending he was a saint."

"I don't. Believe me. He took my wife."

"There, you see," Luman said. "Lying to yourself. He didn't take
Chiyojo. You gave her to him, Maddox." He saw the fierce look in my
eyes, and faltered for a moment. But then decided to stay true to his J

own advice, and tell the truth, as he saw it, however unpalatable. "You
could have taken her away, the moment you saw what was happening between
them. You could have packed up in the middle of the night, and let him
cool down. But you stayed. You saw he had his eyes on her, and you
stayed, knowing she wouldn't be able to say no to him. You gave her to
him, Maddox, 'cause you wanted him to love you." He stared at his feet.
"I don't blame you for it. I probably would have done the same thing in
your shoes. But don't be thinkin' you can stand back from any of this
and pretend you're just observin' it all. You're not. You're just as
deep in this shit as the rest of us."

"I think you'd better go," I said quietly.

"I'm going, I'm going. But you think on what I've said, and you'll see
it's true."

"Don't come back for a while," I added. "Because you won't be welcome."

"Now, Maddox--"

"Go, will you?" I said. "Don't make it any worse than it is."

He gave me a pained expression. He was now obviously regretting what
he'd said; he'd undone in a few sentences the trust we'd so recently
forged. But he knew better than to try and explain himself further. He
took his sad eyes off me, turned, and walked off across the lawn.

What can I tell you about this terrible accusation of his? It seems to
me very little. I've recounted as honestly as I could the salient points
of our exchanges, and I'll return to the subject later, when I have a
better perspective on it all. It probably goes without saying that I
wouldn't have been so distracted by all this, and felt the need to
report it as I have, if I didn't think there was some merit in what he
said. But as you can imagine it's not easy to admit to, however much I
may wish to be honest with myself, and with you. If I believe Luman's
interpretation of events, then I am to blame for Chiyojo's demise; and
for my own injuries; and thus also for the years of loneliness and grief
I've passed, sitting here. That's hard to accept. I'm not sure I'm even
capable of it. But be assured that if I come to some peace with this
suspicion, then these pages will be the first to know.

Enough. It's time to pick up the story of Rachel and Mitchell Geary.
There's sorrow to come, very shortly. I promised early on that I'd give
you enough of other people's despair to make you feel a little happier

with your own lot. Well now it's me who needs the comfort of somebody
else's tears.

XII

The Monday following Mitchell's gift of the apartment, Rachel woke with
the worst headache of her life; so bad it made her vision blurred. She
took some aspirin, and went back to bed; but even then the pain didn't
pass, so she called Margie, who said she'd be over in a few minutes and
take her to D;. Waxman. By the time she reached Wax man's office she was
shaking with pain: not just a headache now, but crippling spasms in her
stomach. Waxman was very concerned.

"I'm going to put you into Mount Sinai right away," he said. "There's a
Dr. Hendrick there, he's wonderful; I want him to take a look at you."

"What's wrong with me?" Rachel said.

"Let's hope nothing at all. But I want you to be examined properly."

Even through the haze of pain Rachel could read the anxiety in his
voice.

"I'm not going to lose the baby, am I?" she said.

"We'll do everything we can--"

"I can't lose the baby."

"Your health's what's important right now, Rachel," he said. "There's
nobody better than Gary Hendrick, believe me. You're in good hands."

An hour later she was in a private room in Mount Sinai. Hendrick came to
examine her, and told her, very calmly, that there were some troubling
signs--her blood pressure was high, there was some minor bleeding--and
that he would be monitoring her very closely. He had J| given her some
medication for the pain, which was beginning to take effect. She should
just rest, he said; there'd be a nurse in the room with her at all
times, so if she should need anything all she had to do was ask.

Margie had been calling around looking for Mitchell during this'Jj
period, and upon Hendrick's departure came back in to say that he hadn't
yet been located, but his secretary thought he was probably between
meetings, and would be calling in very soon.

"You're going to be just fine, honey," Margie said. "Waxman likes to be
melodramatic once in a while. It makes him feel important."

Rachel smiled. The painkiller Hendrick had given her had induced a
heaviness in her limbs and lids. She resisted the temptation to sleep
however: she didn't trust her body to behave itself in her absence.

"God," Margie said, "this is a rare occurrence for me."

"What's that?"

"Cocktail hour and no cocktail."

Rachel grinned. "Waxman thinks you should give it up."

"He should try being married to Garrison sober," Margie quipped.

Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but as she did so she felt a strange
sensation in her throat, as though she swallowed something hard. She put
her hand up to touch the place, a squeak of panic escaping her.

"What's wrong, honey?" Margie said.

She didn't hear the last word; her head filled with a rush of sound,
like a dam bursting between her ears. From the corner of her eye she saw
the nurse rising from her chair, a look of alarm on her face. Then she
felt her body convulse with such violence she was almost thrown from the
bed. By the time the spasm had passed she was unconscious.

Mitchell arrived at Mount Sinai at a quarter to eight. Rachel had lost
the baby fifteen minutes before.

ii

Once Rachel was feeling well enough to sit up and talk--which took eight
or nine days--Waxman came to visit, and in his kindly, avuncular manner
explained what had happened. It was a rare condition, he said, called
eclampsia; its causes were not clearly known, but it frequently proved
fatal to both mother and child. She had been lucky. Of course it was a
tragedy that she'd lost the child, and he was deeply sorry about that,
but he'd been talking to Hendrick, who'd reported that she was getting
stronger by the day, and would soon be up and around again. If she
wanted any further details about what she'd endured he'd be happy to
explain it more fully to her when she was ready. Meanwhile, she had one
task and one only: to put this sorry business behind her.

So much for the medical explanation. It meant very little; and in truth
she didn't entirely believe it. Whatever the doctors' reports said,
Rachel had her own theory as to what had happened: her body had simply
not wanted to produce a Geary. Her secret self had sent a message to her
womb and her womb had sent a message to her heart, and between them
they'd conspired to be rid of the child. In other words it was her fault
that the infant had died before it had had a chance to live. If she'd
only been able to love it, her body would have nurtured it better. Her
fault; all her fault.

She shared this certainty with no one. When she got out of hospital
after two weeks of convalescence Mitch suggested she see a counselor to
talk it all through with.

"Waxman said you'll grieve for a time," he said. "It's like losing
somebody, even though you didn't really know them. You should talk it
all out. It'll be easier to deal with."

She couldn't help but notice that as far as Mitch was concerned it was
her grief, her baby that had been lost, not his. All of which
irrationally supported her thesis. He knew what she'd done; he probably
hated her.

She refused to see a counselor however: this was her pain, and she was
going to keep it for herself. Maybe it would fill up the emptiness in
her where the child had been.

She had plenty of visitors. Sherrie came in from Ohio the day after the
baby's death, and was a nearly constant presence at the hospital.
Deborah came and went, as did Margie. Even Garrison visited, though he
was so plainly uneasy Rachel finally told him he should leave, and he
gladly took up the suggestion telling her he'd come back the next day
when he had less on his mind. He didn't, and she was glad.

"Where do you want to stay when we get you out of here?" Mitchell asked
after about ten days. "Do you want to go to the duplex or stay with
Margie for a while?"

"You know where I'd really like to go?" she said.

"Tell me and it's done."

"George's house."

"Caleb's Creek?" He looked thoroughly perplexed that she'd choose such a
place. "It's so far out from the city."

"That's what I want," she replied. "I don't want to have visitors right
now. I want to just. . . hide away for a while. Think about things."

"Don't think too hard," Mitch said. "It's not going to do any good. The
baby's gone and all the thinking in the world isn't going to bring him
back."

"It was a boy . . . ?" she said softly. She'd kept herself from asking,
though Waxman had told her he'd share any information she felt she
needed to know in order to deal with the loss.

"Yes," Mitchell said, "it was a boy. I thought you knew."

"We had better names for the boy than the girl," she said, feeling the
tears shaking in her. "You liked Laurence, right?"

"Rachel, don't do this . . ."

"I liked Mackenzie--"

"Please. God. Rachel."

"Trouble with Mackenzie . . . everybody would have . . ." and now the
tears were too close to be held back ". . . called him Mac . . ."

She put her hand to her mouth to stop the sob that was coming. But it
spilled from her anyway. "He wouldn't have liked Mac," she wept,
reaching for a tissue to wipe her runny nose.

As she did so she looked up at Mitch. He had half turned from her, but
even through the tears she could see that his face was crumpled up, his
body wracked with sobs. She felt a sudden rush of love for him.

"Oh my poor honey," she said.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be--"

"No. Honey. No." She opened her arms to him. "Come here." He shook his
head, still turned from her. "Don't be ashamed. It's good to cry."

"No," he said. "No, I don't want... I don't want to cry. I want to be
strong for us both."

"Just come here," she said. "Please."

Reluctantly, he turned back toward her. His face was red and wet, his
mouth turned down, his chin crumpled. "Oh God, oh God, oh God. Why did
this have to happen? We didn't do anything to deserve this."

He was like a child who'd been punished, and didn't know why. Weeping as
much for the injustice of his suffering as the suffering itself.

"Let me hold you," she said. "I need to hold you."

He went to her, and she put his arms around him. He smelled stale; his
sweat had gone sour on a day-old shirt. Even his cologne had turned
bitter.

"Why?" he asked her through his grief. "Why? Why?"

"I don't know why," she said. Her own sense of culpability seemed at
that moment horribly self-indulgent. He'd been hurting quietly all
along; she'd just chosen not to see it. But now, though she was looking
at him through her own tears, she saw him more clearly than she'd seen
him in weeks: the flecks of gray at his temples, the shadows around his
eyes, the fever blister on his lip.

"Poor husband . . ." she murmured, and kissed his hair.

He put his face against her breast, and the sobbing went on, both of
them crying, rocking one another.

Things got better after that. She wasn't alone with her pain after all.
He felt it just as strongly in his way, and that was a comfort to her.
It wasn't the last time they cried together--many times somebody would
say something that would catch one of them amiss, and the other's eyes
would fill with sympathetic tears. But there wasn't total darkness
around her now; she could see the possibility that in a while her need
to mourn would fade, and she'd be able to get on with her life.

There would be no further pregnancies; Dr. Waxman made that absolutely
clear. If by some unlucky accident she were to become pregnant again
they would need to terminate the pregnancy as quickly as possible so as
to prevent any unnecessary stress upon her body. "Am I frail?" she asked
him when he told her this. "I don't feel frail."

"You're vulnerable, put it that way," Waxman replied. "In every other
way but this, you can live a perfectly normal life. But as far as kids f
are concerned . . ." He shrugged. "Of course you can adopt."

"I don't know if the Gearys would approve."

He raised his eyebrow. "Perhaps you're being a little oversensitive," he
said. "Which is perfectly understandable right now, by the way. But
think if you were to ask Mitch or his mother or even the old man you'd I
be surprised how open they'd be to the idea of adoption. Anyway that's
j| all for the future. What matters right now is that you take care of
yourself. Mitch says you're going up to his father's house for a while."

"I'm hoping."

"That's a beautiful part of the state. I've been thinking of retiring up
there. My wife didn't care for it, but now she's dead . . ."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you lose her recently?"

Waxman's easy smile had faded from his face. "Last Thanksgiving," he
said. "She had cancer."

"I'm so sorry."

He sighed; such a sad sigh. "I don't suppose you want to hear platitudes
from your old fart of a doctor, but if I may just say: you only get-i
one life, Rachel, and nobody can live it for you. That means you havftyj
to take a long, hard look at what you want." He was taking just such a,
look at her as he spoke. "One door's just closed, and that's a terriblel
shock. But there's plenty of others, especially for a woman in your
posH| tion." He leaned forward, his leather chair squeaking. "Just do
one thing:! for me."

"What's that?"

"Don't end up like Margie. I've watched her for the last God knows how
many years, drinking herself into an early grave." Again, that laden
sigh escaped him. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'll shut my mouth now."

"No . . ." Rachel murmured. "It's good for me to hear this right now."

"I wasn't always such a melancholy old bird. But since Faith passed away
I see things differently. I knew her for forty-nine years, you see. I
met her when she was sixteen. So I saw almost a whole life come and go.
That makes you think about things in a different way."

"Yes . . ."

"I said to one of my colleagues after Faith died that I felt like I'd
been shot out into space, and I was looking back at everything that had
seemed so permanent and what I saw was this fragile blue rock in all
that. . . nothingness." His gaze had emptied as he spoke; now, when he
looked up at Rachel again, she seemed to see right into him; into a
loneliness that made her want to run from the room.

"You just be happy," he said to her softly. "You're a good person,
Rachel. I see that. And you deserve happiness. So do what your instincts
tell you, and if the Gearys don't like it then you just walk away." The
words made her catch her breath. "Of course if you quote me," he went
on, "I'll deny I ever said it. I'm hoping Cadmus is going to give me a
little piece of land when I retire as a thank-you for putting up with
his brood over the years."

'Til put in a good word for you," Rachel told him.

XIII

There are occasions when the responsibilities of a storyteller and those
of a simple witness contradict one another. For example: had I told you
from the outset that the chief catalyst of Mitch and Rachel's separation
was the loss of their child, I would have bled away what little suspense
the previous chapters possessed. But I don't believe I misrepresented
the facts. I began this portion of my account by telling you that there
was no single calamitous event that began to undo the marriage, and I
would still say that was the case. If the child had survived perhaps
Rachel would have stayed with Mitchell a while longer, but she would

have left him sooner or later. The marriage was in trouble long before
the pregnancy; the most the death of the child did was hasten its
collapse.

As Rachel had requested Mitchell took her up to the farmhouse Caleb's
Greek and stayed with her for almost ten days, going down the city three
or four times for meetings but returning in the evening be with her.
Though the Rylanders were there in his absence to to all Rachel's needs,
Barbara told Mitch that Rachel had taken most of her duties. It was
true. The general homeliness of the house its lack of expensive works of
art, its modest scale--brought out domestic side of Rachel's nature. She
usurped the kitchen from and started to cook, remarking to Miteh one day
that she hadn't much as boiled a pot of water since they were married.
She wasn't a ticularly sophisticated cook, but she knew how to put a
hearty together. There was a healing simplicity to the rituals of the
fresh vegetables from the garden, good wine from the cellar, the washed
and neatly stacked when the meal was over.

After two weeks of this, Miteh asked her how she was doing, she said:
I'll be fine on my own, if that's what you were wondering. you want to
spend a few nights in the city?"

"I was just thinking about going until the weekend. I'll come here on
Friday night, and maybe if you're feeling better we can home to New York
on Sunday."

"Is somebody going to be using this house?"

"No," Mitch said. "Nobody uses this place any more."

"So why can't I stay?"

"Well you can stay, baby. I just thought you'd be wanting to back with
some of your friends."

"I don't have any friends in New York."

"Rachel, don't be silly. You've got plenty of--" He saw the

piness in her eyes, and raised his hands in surrender. "All right. If
say you've got no friends, you've got no friends. I only thought were
making progress, it would be good for everybody to see you again

"Oh, now I get it. You want to show me around so the doesn't start
thinking I've lost my mind."

"That's not it at all. Why do you have to be so paranoid?" "Because I
know the way you think. All of you. Always out for the family
reputation. Well, right now I don't care ily reputation, okay? I don't
want to see anybody. I don't want to talk

anybody. And I certainly don't want to go back to New York."

"Calm down, will you?" Mitch said. "I just wanted to find out where we
stand. Now I know." He left the kitchen without another word, but he
came back in again ten minutes later. His anger hadn't dissipated, but
he was doing his best to conceal it. "I haven't come back here for
another argument," he said, "I only want to point out that you can't
stay here forever. This is not a life I want nay wife to be living,
puttering around like an old woman, cutting roses and peeling potatoes."
"I like peeling potatoes." "You're being perverse." "I'm being honest."

"Well, that's all I wanted to say. I'm going to be staying with Garrison
for the next few days, so we can work through all this Bangkok
business." She didn't have a clue what he was talking about; nor did she
care to inquire. "So if you need me..."

"I know where to find you," she replied, though she'd realized several
seconds before that she wouldn't be coming to look.

ii

Where would she go? That was the question that vexed her for the next
few days. Even assuming she did what would once have been unthinkable,
and actually left her husband, where would she go? She couldn't stay
here at the farmhouse, though that would be blissful. It was Geary
properly. She could take up residence in the apartment, of course--that
was hers-but she'd never feel comfortable there; certainly not without
completely remodeling the place in line with her own tastes, and that
was too large a scale of undertaking. Perhaps she'd be better off
selling it, even if it didn't make a particularly good price, and
finding a smaller place to purchase: perhaps somewhere off the beaten
track like Caleb's Creek.

She slept on the thought, though not well. She passed the night in an
uneasy state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, and when she
dreamed the dreams were of the room in which she was lying, only
bleached of all color, like the photographs in George's study that had
been left in the sun too long. There were people passing through the
room, a few of them glancing down at her, their faces impassive. She
knew none of them, though she had the suspicion that she'd known them
once, and forgotten their names.

The next day she called Margie, and invited her to visit.

"I really can't bear the country," Margie protested. "But if you're not
going to be coming back here for a while..

"I'm not."

"Then I'll come."

She arrived the next day, her limo packed with boxes of her
indulgences--smoked bluefish pat4, the inevitable Beluga, Viennese
coffee, a box of bitter chocolate florentines-plus, of course, a case
libations.

"This isn't the back of beyond," Rachel pointed out as she watch,
Samuel, Margie's driver, unload the supplies. "We have a very market ten
minutes' drive from here."

"I know, I know," Margie said, "but I like to come prepared." pulled a
bottle of single-malt Scotch out of one of the boxes. "Where'. the ice?"

Margie had plenty of gossip. Loretta had become quite the harridan the
last few weeks, she reported. There'd been a very acrimoni exchange with
Garrison a week ago, in which Loretta had some misconduct in the way
Garrison had disposed of several dollars' worth of family holdings.

"I didn't think Loretta had any interest in the business side things,"
Rachel said.

"Oh don't you believe it. She likes to pretend she's above it all. she's
watching her empire. In fact, the more I see her operate, the I think
she was always working behind the scenes. Even when was alive. He did
all the talking, but she was the one telling say. And now she's seeing
things she doesn't approve of, so she'sing her hand."

"So what happened with Garrison?"

"Oh it was a mess. He told her she didn't know what she was ing about,
which was exactly the wrong thing to say. Apparently went into the
boardroom the next day and dismissed five of the members on the spot."

"She can do that?"

"She did it," Margie replied. "Told them all to pack their bags go. Then
she gave an interview to The Wall Street Journal saying were
incompetent. They're all suing of course. I'm surprised didn't say
anything about any of this."

"He doesn't talk about the business. He never has."

"This isn't business. This is civil war. Garrison was madder than seen
him in a long time. It was all very satisfYing." They smiles;
co-conspirators in their pleasure at all this unrest. "The way he

talking," Margie went on, "I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't come up

with some kind of ultimatum. You know: either she goes or I go."

"And who's going to make that decision?"

"I don't know," Margie laughed. "Especially now Loretta's put half the
board out of a job. I suppose in the end it'll come down to whether

Mitchell sides with Garrison or his grandmother."

"It all seems so old-fashioned."

"Oh, it's positively feudal," Margie said. "But that's the way the old

man set it up when he retired. He kept all the power in the family."
"Does Cadmus have any kind of vote?"

"Oh sure. He still sends memos to Garrison, believe it or not." "Do they
make any sense?"

"I think it depends how much medication he's had that day. Last time I
went to see him he was flying. Talking about something that happened
fifty years ago. I don't think he even knew who I was. Then there's days
when he's really sharp, according to Garrison." She grew a little
pensive. "I think it's pretty sad, personally. To be so old and not be
able to let go of his little empire."

"Isn't that what keeps him alive?" Rachel said.

"Well it's pitiful," Margie said. "But it's the way they are. Control
freaks."

"Including Loretta?"

"Especially Loretta. She's got nothing better to do."

"She's not too old to marry again, once Cadmus dies."

"She'd be better off taking a lover," Margie said. She had a sly
expression on her face. "It's a nice feeling."

"Are you telling me--?" The slyness became a smile. "You have a lover?"

"Doesn't everyone?" Margie laughed. "His name's Danny. I wouldn't trust
him as far as I could throw him, but he's a wonderful distraction in the
middle of a dreary afternoon."

"Does Garrison know about him?"

"Well we haven't had a nice chat about it, if that's what you mean, but
he knows. I mean Garrison and I haven't slept together for six years,
except for a rather wretched night after that damned birthday party for
(2admus, when both of us got a little mawkish. Otherwise he goes his

way and I go mine. It's better that way."

"I see."

"Are you shocked? Oh, please tell me you're shocked." "No. I'm just
thinking..." "About?"

"Well... the reason I asked you to come here's because I'm going to
leave Mitchell." It took a lot to silence Margie, but this did the
trick.

"It's for the best," Rachel added. "Does Mitchell agree?" "He doesn't
know."

"Well when exactly were you intending to tell him, honey?" "When I've
got everything sorted out in my head."

"Are you sure you wouldn't be wiser doing what I've done? There's a lot
of cute bartenders in New York."

"I don't want a bartender," Rachel said. "With the greatest respect
to... what's his name?"

"Daniel." She grinned. "Actually it's Clan Clan the Fuck Fuek Man."

"With the greatest respect to the Fuck Fuck Man it's not what I'm
looking for."

"Was Mitchell any good in bed?"

"I don't have that much to compare him with."

"Put it this way: it wasn't a once-in-a-lifetime experience?"

"No."

"So you don't want a bartender. What do you want?"

"Good question," Rachel said.

She closed her eyes so as not to be distracted by the quizzical look

on Margie's face. "I guess... I just want to feel more passionate."
"About Mitchell?"

"About... getting up in the morning." She opened her eyes again.

Margie was perusing her, as though trying to decide something. "What are
you thinking?" Rachel asked her.

"Just that it's all very fine talking about passion, honey. But if it
ever" came along--I'm talking about real passion, not some soap-opera
baloney-it'd change everything in your life. You do know that?
Everything."

"I'm ready for that."

"So you've given up on Mitchell completely?"

"Yes."

"He's not going to let you divorce him without a fight."

"Probably not. But I'm sure he doesn't want us all over the tabloids
either. Neither do I. I just want to live my life as far away from the
Gearys as I can get."

"What if you could have both?"

"I don't follow."

"What if you could have all the passion you could take, and still keep
your share of the Geary lifestyle? No divorce proceeding; no judge going
through the dirty linen."

"I don't see how that's possible."

"The only way it's going to happen is if you promise to stay with
Mitchell. He's got his eye on a place in Congress, and he wants his
private life to be as squeaky clean as possible. If you help him look
like a

saint, maybe he'll look the other way when you go have an adventure."
"You make it sound all very civilized."

"Why shouldn't it be?" Margie said. "Unless he decides to get jealous.
Then..' well, then you might have to talk some reason into him. But
you're smart enough to do that."

"And where am I going to find this adventure?"

"We'll talk about that later," Margie said with a little smile. "Right
now, you've got some deciding to do, honey. But let me remind you of
something. I tried leaving. And I tried and I tried. And believe me,
it's a hard world out there."

Perversely enough it was this last remark that finally convinced Rachel
that she had to leave. So what if it was a hard world? She'd survived
out there for the first twenty-four years of her life, without the
Gearys. She could do so again.

When Margie finally rose, sometime after noon, and was downing her first
Bloody Mary of the day (complete with a stick of celery, for the
roughage) Rachel explained that she'd thought everything over and
decided to take a long drive, back to Ohio. It would give her time to
think, she said; time to make up her mind about what she really wanted.

"Do you want Mitchell to know where you've gone?" Margie asked

her.

"Preferably not."

"Then I won't tell him," Margie said, very simply. "When are you
planning to go?"

"I'm already packed. I just wanted to say goodbye to you."

"Oh Lord. You don't waste any time. Still, maybe it's for the best."

Margie opened her arms. "You know you're very dear to me, don't you?"
"Yes I know," Rachel said, hugging her hard.

"So you be careful," Margie said. "No picking up hitchhikers because
they've got pretty asses: And don't stay in any sleazy motels. There's a
lot of strange folks out there."

So she began the homeward journey. It took her four days and three
nights, stopping off, despite Margie's warnings, at a couple of less
than salubrious motels along the way. Though she'd thought the journey
would give her plenty of time to think, her mind didn't want to be
bothered with problems. Instead it idled, concerning itself only with
the practical problems of finding places to eat, and choosing between
routes. Whenever there was a choice between a bland highway and
something more picturesque (but inevitably longer), she picked the
latter. It was nice to be in the driving seat again, after two years of
being chauffeured around; turning up the radio and singing along with
old favorites.

But once she crossed into Ohio, with Dansky only a couple of hours away,
her high spirits faded. She had some difficult times ahead. What would
she say when people asked her how her life in the lap of luxury was
going? What would she tell them when they enquired about Mitchell, her
handsome husband, who had given up his eligible bachelorhood to be with
her? Oh Lord, what would she say? That it had all gone to hell, and she
was running home to escape? That she didn't love him after all? That he
was a sham, he and his whole damn world, a hollow spectacle that wasn't
worth a damn. They wouldn't believe her. How could she complain, they'd
say, when she had so much? When she was rolling in wealth, and they were
still living in their one-bedroom tract homes worrying about the
mortgage and the cost of a new pair of sneakers for the kids?

Well, it was too late to turn back now. She was crossing the railroad
tracks that had always been in her childhood the limits of the town; the
place where the world she knew ended and the greater world began. She
was back in streets that she still dreamed about some nights; wandered
the way she'd wandered in the troubled years before puberty, when she
didn't know what to make of herself (doubted, indeed, that she would
ever amount to anything). There was the drugstore, owned by Albert
McNealy, and now by his son Lance, with whom Rachel had had a brief but
innocent affair in her fifteenth year. There was the school where she'd
learned something of everything and nothing in particular, its yard
still fenced with the same chain-link, like a shabby prison. There was
the little park (or so the city fathers dubbed it; in fact the term was
pure flattery). There was the birdshit-bespattered statue of Irwin
Heckler, called the founding father of the town, who had in 1903 started
a little business manufacturing hard, tartly flavored candies which had
proved uncommonly popular. There was the town hall and

the church (the only building that still possessed some of its
remembered grandeur) and the little mall that contained the
hairdresser's and the offices of the town lawyer, Marion Klaus, and the
dog groomer's, and half a dozen other establishments that served the
community.

All of them were closed at this hour; it was well past nine o'clock in
the evening. The only place that would still be open would be the bar on
McCloskey Road, close to the funeral home. She was tempted to drive over
there and get herself a glass of whiskey before she called on her
mother, but she knew the chances of getting in and out of the bar
without meeting somebody who knew her were exactly zero, so she drove
straight to the house on Sullivan Street. She wasn't arriving
unannounced; she'd called her mother from somewhere outside Youngstown
and told her she was on her way. The porch light was on and the front
door stood an inch or two ajar.

There was a sublime little moment on the front step, when--after she'd
called out to Sherrie and before the answering call came--she stood
there and listened to the sounds of the night around her. There was no
traffic: just the gentle hiss of the leaves of the holly tree that had
grown unchecked to the side of the house, and the rattle of a piece of
loose guttering, and the tinkle of the wind chime that hung from the
eaves. All familiar sounds; all reassuring. She took a deep breath.
Everything was going to be fine. She was loved here; loved and
understood. Maybe there'd be some people in town who'd look at her
askance and spread rumors about what had happened, but here she was
safe. Here was home, where things were as they had always been.

And now here was Sherrie looking a little fretful, but smiling to see
her daughter on the step.

"Well this is a surprise," she said.

XIV

I T

he night after Rachel started her drive to Ohio, Garrison invited
Mitchell out for dinner. It was a long time since they'd had a heart
to-heart, he said, and there was no better time than the present.

When Ralph brought him to the restaurant Garrison had chosen, Mitchell
was certain there'd been a mix-up. It was a dingy little Chinese place
on Canal Street and Mott; not the most welcoming of neighbor

hoods. But Ralph hadn't made an error. Garrison was there, sitting
toward the back of the narrow room at a table that could have seated six
but was set for two. He had a bottle of white wine in front of him, and
was drawing on an havana. He offered Mitchell a glass of wine, and a
cigar, but all Mitchell wanted was a glass of milk, to settle his
stomach.

"Does that really work for you?" Garrison said. "Milk just gives me

gas."

"Everything gives you gas."

"That's true," Garrison said.

"Remember that kid Mario, used to call you Stinky Geary?" "Mario
Giovannini."

"That's right, Giovannini. I wonder what the luck happened to him?"

"Who cares?" Garrison said, sitting back in his chair. "Hey, Mr. Ko?"
The manager, a rather dapper fellow with his hair plastered to his pate
so carefnlly it looked as though it had been painted on strand by
strand, appeared. "Can we get some milk over here for my brother? And
some menus."

"I'm not hungry," Mitchell said.

"You will be. We've got to get your energies up. We've got a long night
ahead Of us."

"I can't do that, Gar. I've got two breakfast meetings tomorrow." "I
took the liberty of canceling them." "What for?"

"Because we need to talk." He took out a box of matches and carefully
rekindled his cigar. "Chiefly about the women in our lives." He drew on
the cigar. "So... tell me about Rachel."

"There isn't a lot to tell. She was up at the farmhouse-" "-with
Margie."

"Right. Then she decided to take a road trip. Nobody knows where."
"Margie knows," Garrison said. "The bitch probably suggested it." "I
don't know why she'd do that," "To cause trouble. That's her favorite
thing. You know what she's like."

"Will you see if you can get some answers out of her?"

"You'd be better off trying instead of me," Garrison replied. "iF i ask

for something we're guaranteed not to get it."

"Where's Margie tonight?"

Garrison shrugged. "I don't ask 'cause I don't care. She's probably out
drinking somewhere. There's three or four of them just go out and get
plastered together. That bitch who was married to Lenny Bryant--"

"Marilyn."

"Yeah. She's one of them. And the woman who ran the restaurants." "I
don't know who you mean." "Thin woman. Big teeth, no tits." "Lucy
Cheever."

"You see you've got a good memory for these women." "I had an affair
with Lucy Cheever, that's why." "You're kidding. You did Lucy Cheever?"

"I took her down to New Orleans and fucked her brains out for a week."

"Big teeth. Small tits."

"She's got nice tits!"

"They're fucking minuscule. And she's never sober."

"She was sober in New Orleans. At least some of the time."

Garrison shook his head. "I don't get it with you. I mean, she's got to
be fifty."

"This was five or six years ago."

"Even so. You could have any piece of ass you want and you go spend a
week with a woman who's ten, fifteen years older than you are?

What the fuck for?"

"I liked her."

"You liked her." Mr. Ko had returned with the menus and the milk. "Get
me a brandy will you?" Garrison said to him, "We'll order later." Ko
withdrew, and Garrison returned to the mystery of his brother's liaison
with Eucy Cheever. "Was she good?"

"Will you just let it alone? I've got more important things to think
about than Lucy fucking Cheever." He drank half of his glass of milk. "I
want to know where Rachel is."

"She'll come back. Don't worry."

"What if she doesn't?"

"She will. She's got no choice."

"Of course she's got a fucking choice. She could decide she wants a
separation."

"She could, I suppose. She'd be stupid, but she could." He drew on

his cigar. "Does she know anything she shouldn't?" "Not from me she
doesn't." "Meaning what?"

"Meaning she talks with Margie. Who knows what the hell they've
discussed."

"Margie knows better."

"Maybe when she's sober."

"You've had Rachel sign some kind of prenuptial agreement, right?"

	"No."

	"Why the luck not?"

	"Don't raise your voice."

	"I told Cecil to have her sign it."

"I convinced him it wasn't necessary," Mitchell said. Garrison snorted
at the absurdity of this. "I didn't want her thinking she was entering a
business arrangement. I was in love with her, for filek's sake. I still
am."

	"Then you'd better make sure she keeps her mouth shut."

	"I know," Mitch said.

"Well if you know why the luck didn't you have her sign the prenuptial?"
He leaned across the table, catching hold of Mitchell's arm. "Let me put
this really simply. If she tries to say anything about our business,
family business, to anyone, I'm going to slap a gag order on her."

	"There's no need for that."

"How do you know? You don't even know where she is right now. She could
be sitting down talking to some dickhead journalist." Mitchell shook his
head. "I mean what I say about the gag order," Garrison reiterated. "I
don't mind being the heavy if you think you've got a chance of patching
things up."

"It's not a question of patching things up. We've had a bad time, but
it's nothing permanent."

"Sure, sure..." Garrison said, his tone wearied, as though he'd heard
this kind of self-deception countless times before. "You tell your, :i'
self whatever the fuek you need to hear."

"I married her because I feel something for her. That feeling hasn't I
gone away."

	"It will," Garrison replied, waving Mr. Ko over, "Trust me, it will."

	ii

	Mitchell discovered he had a better appetite than he'd expected. The

	food was good, though Garrison was able to tolerate far spicier
versions

	of the dishes than Mitehen. Twice during the meal he exhorted

	Mitchell to try a forkful of s something he was eating, and Mitchell
was

left gasping, much to Garrison's amusement. :.

	"I'm going to have to start educating your palate," he said.

	"It's

	a little late for that." Garrison glanced up from his plate, his

spectacles slightly fogged.

"It's never too late," he said.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You've always had a more delicate stomach than me. But that's got to
change. For all our sakes." Garrison set down his fork and picked up his
glass of wine. "Did you know Loretta goes to an astrologer?"

"Yes, Cadmus let it drop one day. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Last Sunday I got a call from Loretta. She wanted me to come over to
the house. Urgently. She'd just been to see this astrologer, and he was
full of bad news."

"About what, for God's sake?" "About us. The family." "What did he say?"

"That our lives were going to change, and we weren't going to like it
very much." Garrison was cradling his wine glass in his hands, staring
out past his brother with middle distance. "In fact, we're not going to
like it at all."

Mitchell rolled his eyes. "Why the hell does Loretta waste money on this
bullshit-"

"Wait. There's more. The first sign of this..." Garrison paused,
searching for the word "... big change, is that one of us is going to
lose

our wife." His gaze finally came back to Mitchell "Which you have."
"She'll be back."

"So you keep insisting. But whether she comes back or she doesn't, the
point is she left." "Are you telling me you believe what this guy was
saying?"

"[ haven't finished. He said the other sign was going to have something
to do with a man from the sea."

Mitchell sighed: "That's so lame," he said. "She probably told him

something about the situation.., and he just fed it back to her."
"Maybe," Garrison said.

"Well what's the alternative?" Mitchell said, a little irritably, "That

this dickhead's right, and we're all heading for disaster?" "Yeah,"
Garrison said. "That's the alternative." "I prefer my version."

Garrison sipped his wine. "Like I said ..." he murmured, "you've always
had a weak stomach."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Garrison gave a rare smile. "That you don't want to even contemplate the
possibility that there's something going on here we should be taking
seriously. That maybe things are falling apart?"

Mitchell threw up his hands. "I can't believe I'm having this
conversation," he said. "With you, of all people. You're supposed to be
the rational one in the family."

"And look where it got me," Garrison growled.

"You look just fine to me."

"Jesus." Garrison shook his head. "That goes to show how much we
understand one another, doesn't it? I'm chewing antidepressants like
fucking candies, Mitch. I go to analysis four times a week. The sight of
my wife naked makes me want to puke. Does that help paint the picture
for you?" He eyed his wine. "I shouldn't really be drinking alcohol. Not
with antidepressants. But right now I don't give a fuck." He paused,

then said, "You want something more to eat?"

"No thanks."

"You've got room for ice cream. Allow yourself some childish pleasures
once in a while. They're very therapeutic."

"I'm putting on love handles."

"No woman on the fucking planet's going to throw you out of bed because
you've got a fat ass. Eat some ice cream."

"Don't change the subject. We were talking about you mixing drink and
pills."

"No we weren't. We were talking about me getting a little crazy, because
it's done me no fucking good staying sane."

"So get crazy," Mitchell said. "I don't give a shit. Take the board
meeting naked. Fire everyone. Hire deaf-mutes. Do whatever the luck you
want, but don't start listening to some trap from a fucking astrologer."

"He was talking about Galilee, Mitch."

"A man from the seal? That could be anybody."

"But it wasn't anybody. It was him. It was Galilee."

"You know what," Mitchell said, raising his hands, "Let's stop talking
about this."

"Why?"

"Because the conversation's going round in circles. And bored."

Garrison stared at him, then expelled a long, strangely contented

breath. "So what are you doing with the rest of the night?" he said.
Miteh glanced at his watch. "Going home to bed." "Alone?" "Yes. Alone."

"No sex. No ice cream. You're going to die a miserable man, you know
that? I could arrange some company for you if you like."

"No thanks."

"Are you sure?"

Mitchell laughed. "I'm sure."

"What's so funny?"

"You. Trying to get me laid, like I was still seventeen. Remember

that whore you brought back to the house for me?"

"Juanita."

"Juanita! Right. Jesus, what a memory!" "All she wanted to do--" "Don't
remind me--"

"--was sit on your face! You should have married her," Garrison said,
pushing his chair back and geeing up. "You'd have twenty kids by now."
Mitchell looked sour. "Don't get mad. You know it's true. We both fucked
up. We should have married dumb bitches with childbearing hips. But no.
I choose a drunk and you choose a shop girl." He picked up his glass and
drained the last of his wine. "Well ... have a nice night."

"Where are you off to?" "I've got an assignation." "Anyone I know?"

"I don't even know her," Garrison said as he headed away from the table.
"You'll see. It's much easier that way."

XV

T

here was a time in my life-- many, many years ago; more years than I
care to count--when nothing gave me more pleasure than to listen to
songs of love. I could even sing a few, if I was drunk enough. On
occasion, before I lost the use of my legs, we'd venture out together,
my wife Chiyojo, Marietta and myself, to see traveling players in
Raleigh, and there'd always been a spot or two in the show when the mood
would become sweetly melancholy, and a crooner, or a quartet of
crooners, or the leading lady with a handkerchief clutched to her bosom,
would offer up something to tug at our hearts. "I'll Remember You, Love,
In My Prayers," or "White Wings"; the more grotesquely sentimental the
beret as far as I was concerned. But I lost my appetite for such enter

k

tainments when Chiyojo died. A plaintive ballad about love irrevocably

lost was a fine thing to indulge in when the idol of your affections was
sitting beside you, her hand clutching yours. But when she was taken
from me--under circumstances so tragic they beggared anything a
songwriter might dream up--I would start to weep as soon as a minor
chord was played.

And yet, in spite of my resistance to the subject, it creeps closer to
these pages with every passing moment. Sentence by sentence, paragraph
by paragraph, this account draws nearer and nearer to a time when love
must appear, transforming the lives of the characters I've set before
you. Few will be untouched by its consequences, however immune they may
believe themselves.

And that, of course, includes myself. I've wondered more than once if
fear of my own vulnerability was not the reason I didn't attempt to put
pen to paper earlier. The passion for words was always in me,: from my
mother, and I've certainly had plenty of spare time in the last century
or so. But I could never do it. I was afraid--I am still afraid that
once I begin to write about love I will find myself consumed by the very
fire I am building to burn other hearts.

Of course in the end I have no choice. The romance approaches, as
inevitable as the apocalypse Garrison was telling his brother about in
the restaurant: because, of course, they are one and the same.

Garrison parted from Mitchell outside the restaurant, dismissed his
driver and went uptown to an apartment which he had purchased, unknown
to anyone else in the family, for exactly the purpose he intended to use
it tonight. He let himself in, pleased to find that the temperature of
the place was far lower than would usually be thought to' be
comfortable, which fact meant the erotic rituals of the evening had I
already begun. He didn't go directly to the bedroom, though he now in a
state of excitement. In the living room he poured himself a :i drink,
and stood by the window to sip it and savor the moments of anticipation.
Oh, if only all life were as rich and real to him as these' moments; as
charged with meaning and emotion. Tomorrow, of course, he would despise
himself a little, and behave like a perfect sonofabitch to any and all
who crossed his path. But tonight? Tonight, marinating in the knowledge
of what lay before him, he was as close as he knew how to being a happy
man. At last he set down the glass, without really drinking much at all,
and loosening his tie wandered through to the elegantly appointed
bedroom. The door was ajar. There was a light burning inside. He
entered.

The woman was lying on the bed. Her name was Melodie, he'd been told
(though he doubted any woman who sold her body for this kind of purpose
used the name they'd been brought with to God). There she lay, under a
sheet, perfectly still, her eyes closed. There were a dozen white and
yellow lilies on the pillow around her head; a nice funereal touch,
courtesy of the man who arranged these scenarios for Garrison, Fred
Plate. The smell of the flowers was not strong enough to compete with
the other scent in the room however: that of disinfectant. Again, one of
Plate's felicities, this piney scent; one which Garrison had been a
little unsettled by at first, pressing his fantasies as it did still
closer to grim reality. But Plat* knew Garrison's psyche well: that
first time with the disinfectant stinging the sinuses had been an erotic
revelation. Now the scent was an indispensable part of the fantasy.

He approached the bed, and stood at the end of it, looking down at the
woman, studying her body for some sign of a shudder. But he could see
only the very slightest tremor, which clearly the woman was doing her
best to suppress. Good for her, he thought; she was a professional. He
admired professionalism in all matters: in the trading of stocks, in the
cooking of food, in the imitation of death. If it was worth doing, as
Loretta was fond of saying, then it was worth doing properly.

He reached down and plucked at the sheet, sliding it out from beneath
Melodie's hands, which were crossed on her breasts. She was naked
beneath the sheet, her body made up with a pale pancake, then dusted
down, to lend her a cadaverous hue.

"Lovely," he said, without a trace of irony.

She was indeed a pretty sight: her breasts small, her nipples alert with
cold, and long. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, so as to offer him a
glimpse of her intricately-made labia. He would lick there soon.

But first, the feet. He pulled the sheet off her completely, and let it
drop to the floor. Then he went down on his knees at the end of the bed
and applied his lips to the woman's flesh. She was cold: the consequence
of lying on a bed of ice sealed in plastic. He kissed her toes, and then
the soles of her feet, slipping his hands around her slim ankles while
he did so. Now that he had his skin against hers he could feel the
tremors deep in her tissue, but they weren't violent enough to distract
him from the illusion. He could believe she was dead with very little
difficulty. Dead and cold and unresisting.

I won't go on with the description; there's no need. For those of you
who wish to picture Garrison Geary pleasuring himself with a woman
playing dead, you have all the information you need to conjure it; go to
it if you wish. For the rest of us, enough to know that this was his
special

pleasure, his most-anticipated bliss. I can't tell you why. I don't know
what srange twist his psyche took that made this ritual so arousing to
him: or who put it there. But there it was; and there I'll leave him,
covering the pseudo-corpse with kisses in preparation for the so-called
act of love.

For his part, Mitchell had decided to go back to the apartment to sleep.
Rachel would come back there, tonight, he thought, and all would be
forgiven. He'd hear a sound in the bedroom, and open his eyes to see her
silhouette against the starry sky (he hated to sleep with the drapes
closed; it made him dream smothering dreams), and she'd shed her
clothes, and say she was sorry, so sorry, then slip into bed beside
Perhaps they'd make love, but probably not. Probably she'd just put head
in the crook of his arm, and lay her hand on his chest, and they'd fall
asleep that way, as they had when they'd first shared a bed.

But his romantic expectations were dashed. She didn't come home that
night. He slept alone in the huge bed; at least he slept for the first
hour or so, before waking with a stabbing ache in his lower abdomen,. :
so sharp it made him want to cry like a baby. Gursing Garrison and his
damnable Mr. Ko, he staggered, bent nearly double, into the bathroom,
and dug through the medications there for something to soothe the pain.
His sight was blurred with agony, and his hands shaking. It him fully
two or three minutes to locate the appropriate bottle of tablets and
he'd no sooner fingered a couple of them onto his tongue than he felt a
crippling spasm in his bowels, and only just reached the toilet in '
time before expelling a watery stream of foul-smelling feces. When the
expulsion came to an end he stayed put, knowing the respite was only
temporary. The ache in his belly had not been mellowed at all; he still
felt as though his bowels were being pierced with needles.

He began to cry while he sat there, the tears coming haltingly first,
then as a flow he could not halt. He put his hands over his face which
was burning hot, sobbing behind his palms. It seemed he could not
imagine misery profounder than the misery he felt now: abandoned, sick,
confused. What had he done to deserve this? Nothing.I He'd lived the
best life he knew how to live. So why was he sitting here. like a damned
soul, smelling his own stench rising all around him, tormented by the
predictions Garrison had whispered in his ear? And why didn't he know
where his wife was tonight? Why wasn't she here to comfort him, waiting
in the bed to hold him in her arms once the spasms had passed; her touch
cool, her voice full of love? Why was he alone?

Oh Lord, why was he alone?

Across town, Garrison returned from the bedroom where he had lately shot
his seed. The icy recipient of his love had been admirably inert
throughout his plugging of her body; not once had she grunted or cried
out, even when his ministrations had become less than gentlemanly.
Sometimes, not satisfied with his vaginal explorations, he liked to roll
the "corpses" over and take them anally. Tonight had been one of those
times, and once again Mr. Platt had planned for the eventuality. When
Garrison had rolled the girl over and parted her fesses, he'd found the
back passage already lubricated for him. In he'd gone, eschewing the
protection that most would think advisable when screwing with this class
of woman, and had discharged inside her.

Then he'd got up, wiped himself on the sheet, and zipping up his pants
(which he had not even dropped to mid-thigh during this whole business),
left the room. As he exited he said: "It's over. You can get up," and
was curiously comforted to see that the woman made a move to rise from
the bed before he departed the room. It was all just a game, wasn't it?
There was no harm in it. Look, she was resurrected! Stretching, yawning,
looking for her envelope of cash, which Garrison had placed on the
bedside table, as always. She would go on her way without even knowing
who her violator was (or so Garrison liked to imagine. The women were
instructed to keep their eyes closed throughout the game. If they
peeped, Platt could be cruel).

Garrison went straight down into the street, to his car, and drove away.
Anyone catching sight of him in the driver's seat would have thought:
there goes a man happy with his lot in life.

As I said earlier, it wouldn't last. He would get up tomorrow feeling
thoroughly disgusted with himself; but the self-disgust would last
twenty-four hours-forty-eight at most-and then the desire he'd quenched
tonight would flicker into life again, and grow in strength over a
period of a week or two, until at last he couldn't resist it any longer,
and he'd be on the phone to Platt in a kind of trance, saying that he
needed one of his "special nights," just as soon as possible. And the
whole ritual would be repeated.

What a strange thing it was, he thought, to be Garrison Geary. To
possess as much power as he possessed, and yet feel in his troubled soul
such a lack of self-regard that he was only able to make love with a

woman who passed for dead. What a peculiar specimen of humanity he was!
And yet he could not feel entirely ashamed of this peculiarity. There
was a part of him that was perversely proud tonight; proud that he was
capable of doing what he'd just done; proud that even in this city,
which was a magnet for men and women who lived unusual lives, the
fantasy he'd enacted would be thought disgraceful. What might he not do
with this perversity of his, he wondered, if he once unleashed it
outside the bounds of his sexual life? What changes might he work upon
the world if he put his darker energies to better purpose than fucking
an icy cunt?

But what, what? If there was some greater purpose to his life, why
couldn't he see it? If there was a path that he was intended to follow,
why hadn't he stumbled onto by now? Sometimes he felt like an athlete
who'd sweated himself into a frenzy in preparation for a race that
nobody had summoned him to run. And with every day he failed to compete
his chances of winning that race--when he finally knew course it would
follow--became more remote.

Soon, he thought to himself; I have to know what my purpose soon, or
I'll be too old to do anything about it. I'll die without having really
lived, and the moment I'm in the ground I'll be forgotten...

It has to be soon.

	XVI

T

he night Rachel had come home she'd told her mother that wanted as few
people as possible to know that she was here, but a community as small
and as well-knit as Dansky no secret so could be kept for very long. The
following morning she'd gone out put some letters in the postbox for her
mother, and had been seen so by Mrs. Bedrosian, the widow who lived next
door.

"Well, well," Mrs. Bedrosian had said, "Is that you Rachel?"

"Yes. It's me." ". That was the full extent of the exchange. But it was
all that was: needed. Half an hour later the telephone started to
ring--people from around town making apparently casual calls to see how
Rachel's mother;, was doing, then lightly dropping into conversation the
fact heard Rachel was home for the weekend; and--just by the she brought
her husband home with her?

Sherrie simply lied. She hadn't been feeling very well, she told
everyone, and Rachel had come to spend a few days with her. "And no,"
she invariably added, "Mitchell isn't with herl So you can stop sniffing
after an invitation to meet him, if that's why you're asking."

The lie worked well. After halfa dozen such calls word spread that even
if there was something worth gossiping about here, Sherrie Pal lenberg
wasn't going to be providing any fuel.

"Of course that won't stop them talking," Sherrie remarked.

"They've got nothing better to do, you see. This damn town."

"I thought you liked it here," Rachel said to her.

They were sitting in the kitchen at lunchtime, eating peach cobbler.

"If your father was still alive, it might be different. But I'm on my
own. And what do I have for company? Other widows." She rolled her eyes.
"We get together for brunches and bridge, and you know they're all sweet
souls, they really are, and I don't want to sound ungrateful, but, Lord,
after a while I get so bored talking about drapes and soap

operas and how little they see their children."

"Is that one of your complaints?"

"No, no. You've got your own life to live. I don't expect you to be on
my doorstep every five minutes checking up on me."

"You might be seeing rather more of me in future," Rachel said.

Her mother shook her head. "It's just a bad patch you and Mitch are
going through. You'll come "'t the other side of it, you'll see."

"I don't think it's as simple as that," Rachel said. "We're not suited
to one another."

"Nobody ever is," her mother replied nonchalantly.

"You don't mean that."

"I certainly do. Honey, listen to me. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is ever
deep in their hearts perfectly suited to anybody else. You have to make
compromises. Great big compromises. I know I did with Hank and I'm sure
if Hank were alive he'd say exactly the same thing about me. We decided
to make it work. I suppose..." she allowed herselfa sad little smile.
"... I suppose we realized that we weren't going to do any better than
what we had right there and then. I know it doesn't sound very romantic,
but it's the way it was. And you know, once I got over that silly
feeling that this wasn't Prince Gharming--that he was just an ordinary
man who farted in bed and couldn't keep his eyes off a pretty
waitress--I was quite happy."

"The thing is Mitch doesn't look at waitresses."

"Well... lucky you. So what's the problem?"

Rachel set down her fork and stared at her half-eaten cobbler. "I've got
so much to be grateful for," she said, as though she were saying her
prayers. "I know that. Lord, when I think of how much Mitch has given

	"Are you talking about things.

	"Yes, of course."

	Sherrie waved them away. "Irrelevant. He could have given you

half of New York and still be a bad husband."

	"I don't think he's a bad husband. I just think he's never going

belong to me the way Daddy belonged to you." :

	"Because of his family?"

	Rachel nodded. "God knows, I don't want to feel like I'm in

competition with them for his attention, but that's how it feels." She
sighed. "It's not even as though I could point to something they do that

proves it. I just feel excluded."

"From what, honey?"

"You know, I don't really know," Rachel said. "It's just a feeling ....
" She exhaled; puffing out her cheeks. "Maybe the problem's all in

She tapped her fingers to her breast. "In me. I don't have any right not
to be happy." She looked up at her mother, her eyes brimming. "Do I? I
mean, really and truly, what right in all the world do I have to be,
unhappy? When I think of Mrs. Bedrosian losing her family..."

Judith Bedrosian had lost her husband and three kids in an automobile
accident when Rachel was fourteen. Everything the woman lived for--all
the meaning in her life--taken away from her in one terrible moment. Yet
she'd gone on, hadn't she?

"Everybody's different," Sherrie said. "I don't know how Judith made
peace with what happened to her, and you know what? Maybe she never has.
The way people are on the outside and the they feel deep down are never
the same. Never. I do know she still very bad times, after all these
years. Days on end when I don't see he and when I do she's obviously
been crying for hours. And at C

I know she goes to her sister's in Wisconsin, even though she doesn't;
like the woman, because she can't bear to be alone. The memories are too
much. So..." She sighed, as though the weight of Judith's grief was
heavy on her too. "Who knows? All you can do is just get on with things
the best way you know how. Personally, I'm a great proponent of Valium,
in reasonable moderation. But each to their own."

Rachel chuckled. She'd always known her mother to be an entertaining
woman, after her odd fashion. But as the years went by Sherrie's

sophistication became more apparent. Under the veneer of small town
pieties lay a self-made mind, capable of a willfulness and a waywardness
Rachel hoped she had inherited.

"So now what?" Sherrie said. "Are you going to ask him for a divorce?"

"No, of course not," Rachel replied.

"Why's that such a surprising idea? If you don't love him-"

"I didn't say that."

"--if you can't live with him then--"

"I didn't say that either. Oh God, I don't know. Margie said I should
get a divorce. And a nice big settlement. But I don't want to be on my

OWN."

"You wouldn't be."

"Mom, it sounds like you think I should leave him."

"No, I'm just saying you wouldn't be on your own. Not for very long. So
that's not a reason to stay in a marriage that's not giving you what you
want."

"You amaze me," Rachel said. "You really do. I was absolutely certain
you were going to sit me down and tell me I had to go back and give it
another chance."

"Life's too short," Sherrie said. "That's not what I would have said a
few years ago, but your viewpoint changes as time goes on." She reached
up and touched Rachel's cheek. "I don't want my beautiful

Rachel to be unhappy for one more moment."

"Oh, mom..."

"So if you want to leave the man, leave him. There are plenty more
handsome millionaires where he came from."

	XVII

T

hat night Deanne had invited them both to a church barbecue, assuring
Rachel the guests were all people she knew and liked, and she'd already
passed the word around that nobody was to ply Rachel with questions
about life in the fast lane. Even so, Rachel wasn't keen to go. Deanne,
however, made it plain that she'd take it as personal affront if she
declined. Once they got to the barbecue, however, Rachel lost her
protection. The kids went off to play, and her sister--despite

promising to stay close by--was offafer five minutes to have a hearMo
heart with the hostess. Rachel was left in the midst of people she
didn't know but who were all too familiar with her.

"I saw you and your husband on television just a few weeks ago," one of
the women, who introduced herself as Kimberly, Deanne's second-best
friend, whatever that meant, remarked. "It was one of those gala nights.
You all looked to be having such a wonderful time. I said to Frankie--
that's my husband, Frankie, over there, with the hotdog; he used to work
with your sister's husband--I said to Frankie don't they look as though

they're having a wonderful time? You know, everything so polished."
"Polished?"

"Everything," Kimberly repeated, "so polished. You know, thing
sparkling." Her eyes gleamed as she recalled the sight; Rachel didn't
have the heart to tell her what a drab affair the gala had been; food
sickly, the speeches interminable, the company wretched. She just let
the woman blather on for a few minutes, nodding or smiling when seemed
appropriate to do so. She was saved from this depressing exchange by a
man with a napkin tucked in his shirt, a sizable in his hand and his
face liberally basted in barbecue sauce.

"You don't mind me barging in," he said to Rachel's captor,

it's a long time since I saw this little lady."

"You're a mess, Neil Wilkens," the woman declared.

"I am?"

"All round your mouth."

The man plucked his napkin from his shirt and wiped his mouth. giving
Rachel time to realize who this was: Neil Wilkens, the first who'd had
her heart (and broken it) all grown up. He had a beard, a receding
hairline, and the beginnings of a beer belly. But

smile, when it emerged from behind the napkin, was as bright as ever.
"You do know who I am?" he said. "Neil" "The same."

"It's wonderful to see you. I think Deanne told me you'd gone Chicago."

"He came back with his tail between his legs," Kimberl somewhat
uncharitably.

Neil's brightness was undimmed. "I didn't like living in a

he said, "I guess I'm a small-town boy at heart. So I came back

and started up a business with Frankie--"

"That's my husband," Kimberly put in, in case Rachel had

this fact.

"We do general house repairs. A little bit of plumbing, a little bit of
roof work."

"They argue all the time," Kimberly said.

"We do not," Neil said.

"Fighting like dogs one minute. Best friends the next." "Frankie's a
Communist," Neil said. "He is not," Kimberly protested.

"Jack was a card-carrying Commie, Kimberly," Neil replied. "Who's Jack?"
Rachel asked him. "Frankie's Dad. He died a while back." "Prostate
cancer," Kimberly put in.

"And when Frankie was going through the old man's papers he found a
Communist Party card. So now he carries it around with him, and he's
talking about how we should all rise up against the forces of
capitalism."

"He doesn't mean it," Kimberly said.

"How do you know?"

"It's just his stupid sense of humor," she said. Neil caught Rachel's
eye, and gave her a tiny smile. He was obviously stirring Kimberly up.

"Well you can say whatever you like," he remarked, "but if a guy's
carrying a Commie card, he's a Commie."

"Oh you are so infuriating sometimes," Kimberly said, and without
another word, stalked away.

"It's too easy," Neil chuckled. "She gets so hot under the collar if you
say anything about her Frankie, but she gives the poor man hell day and
night. He had a good head of hair when he married her. Not that I

have much to boast about." He ran his palm over his semi-naked pate. "I
think it rather suits you," Rachel said.

Neil beamed. "Do you? Really? Lisa hated it."

"Lisa's your wife?"

"The mother of my children," Neil said, with ironic precision. "You're
not married."

"We were. Actually technically we still are. But she's in Chicago, with
the kids, and I'm... well, I'm here. They were going to come back and
join me when I was all set up, but that's not going to happen. She's

got someone else now, and the kids are happy. At least, she says they
are." "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," he said, the word one long sigh. "I suppose it's happening all
the time, but it's hard when you want to make something work but you
just can't." He stared down at his paint-stained boots, as if
embarrassed by this confession.

"Did I know Lisa?" Rachel asked.

	"Yeah, you knew her," he said, still studying his boots. "Her name:

	was Froman. Lisa Angela Froman. She's the same age as your sister. In

	fact, they were in Sunday school for a year or so." : "I remember her,"
Rachel said, picturing a pretty, bespectaeled.i

blonde girl of sixteen or so. "She was very quiet." I'.

"She still is. She's very smart and the kids got her brains, which
is:,", great for them, 'cause God knows I'm not the brightest guy on
block."

	"So you miss them?"

"Like crazy. All the time. All the time." He said it as though it still
hard for him to believe. "I mean, you'd think after a while become
easier, but..." He shook his head. "... you want a beer

something?" He made a halfhearted little laugh. "I got a joint."

	"You still smoke?"

"Not like I used to. But, you know, when things are boring I like tune
out. Then I don't think about things too much. I mean, it could break
your heart..."

They wandered down to the bottom of the yard. There, at Neil's gation
they clambered over the low wait onto a strip of land which been used as
a dumping ground for vehicles, including an old bus. It was all
delightfully furtive, which made the mild high Rachel got when she took
a hit of Neil's joint all the more fun.

"Ah, that's better," Neil said. "I should have done this before came. I
don't like these shindigs any more. Not on my own." He his third drag on
the reefer and passed it back to Rachel. "In fact, know what?"

"What?"

"I don't like much any more. I'm going to end up like my Dad.

you meet my Dad? .....

"Everrett."

"You remember."

"Of course I remember," Rachel said, with a little laugh. "Everrett
Hancock Wilkens." "Hancock?"

"Hey, don't knock it. Hancock's my middle name too." She repeated the
name, through mounting laughter. The suddenly seemed funny as hell.
"Does anybody ever call you Han cock?" she giggled.

"Only my mom," he said, dissolving into laughter himself. "I always knew
I was in trouble when I was a kid 'cause I'd hear her yelling--"

They yelled together--"Hancocle!"--then in perfect synchronicity glanced
guiltily back toward the yard, where several heads had turned in their
direction.

"We're making fools of ourselves," Rachel said, attempting to suppress
her laughter.

"That's the story of my life," Neil said. There was hurt behind the
remark, despite his offhand manner. "But I'm past caring."

By sheer force of will Rachel wiped the smirk off her face. "I'm sorry
things turned out the way they did," she said; then lost her composure
completely, and began laughing so hard she was doubled up. "What's so
funny?" Neil wanted to know.

"Hancock," she said again. "It's such a silly name." She wiped the tears
away from her eyes. "Oh Lord," she said, "I'm sorry. You were saying..

"Never mind," Nell said. "It wasn't anything important." He was

still grinning; but there was something else in his look.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"Nothing's wrong," he replied. "I was only thinking..."

She suddenly knew what he was going to say, and willed him not to spoil
the moment by doing so. But she failed.

"... what an idiot I was. ."

Ned.

"... giving you up ..."

"Nell, let's not..."

"... no, please let me. I might never get another chance to tell you
what's in my head..."

"Are you sure we shouldn't just have another smoke?" "I've thought about
you such a lot over the years." "That's nice of you to say."

"It's true," he said. "I've had so many regrets in my life. So many
things I wished I'd done differently; wished I'd done right. And you're
at the top of the list, Rachel. The number of times I've seen you in a
magazine, or on the television, and thought: she could have been with
me. Icould have made her so happy." He looked directly into her eyes.
"You

know that, don't you?" he said. "I could have made you so happy." "We
took different paths, Neil," she said. "Not just different. Wrong." "I
don't think--"

"Not you. I'm not talking about you. God knows, you made a smart move
marrying Geary. No. I'm talking about my screwups." He shook

his head, and she realized that there were sudden tears in his eyes.
"Oh, Nell--"

"Don't mind me. It's just the fucking pot." "Do you want to go back to
the party?" "Not particularly."

"I think we should. They'll be wondering where we got to."

"I don't care. I don't even fucking like 'em. Any of 'em."

"I thought ,you said you were a small-town boy at heart," Rachel
countered.

"I don't know what I am," Neil confessed. "I used to know..." His gaze
lost its focus; he stared off between the rusted vehicles into the

darkness. "I had such dreams, Rachel..."

"You can still have them."

"No," he said. "It's too late. You have to seize the moment. If you
don't seize the moment suddenly it's passed, and it doesn't come again.
You get one chance. And I missed mine." He returned his gaze to her.

"You were that chance,' he said.

"That's sweet, but-"

"You don't have to tell me, I know. You never loved me so it wouldn't
have worked anyway. But I still think about you,

Never stopped thinking about you. And I swear I could have made you ':
love me. And if I had..." He smiled, so sadly. "If I had everything..
would have been different."

She got a little lecture from Deanne the morning after the barbecue':
What was she thinking, going off like that, with Neil Wilkens, of all
ple, Neil Wilkens? That kind of thing might be all right in but this was
a small community, and you just didn't behave like that. Rachel felt as
though she were being chastised like an errant child, told Deanne to
keep her opinions to herself. Besides, what the hell was wrong with Neil
Wilkens? ,

"He's practically an alcoholic," Deanne said. "And he got violent with
his wife."

"I don't believe that."

"Well it's true," Deanne said. "So really, Rachel, you'd be better off
staying away from him."

"I wasn't intending to--"

"You can't just waltz in here--"

"Wait--"

"--as if you owned the place--"

"What are you talking about?"

Deanne looked up from her cleaning, her face flushed. "Oh you know damn
well."

"I'm sorry, I don't." "Embarrassing me." "What? When was this?"

"Last night! Leaving me with all these people asking where you'd gone.
What was I supposed to say? Oh she's off somewhere flirting with

Nell Wilkens like a fifteen-year-old--"

"I was not."

"I saw you! We all saw you, giggling like a schoolgirl. It was very
embarrassing."

"Well I'm sorry," Rachel said coolly. "I won't embarrass you any
longer."

She went back to her mother's house, and packed. She wept while she
packed. A little out of anger at the way Deanne had talked to her; but
more out of a strange confusion of feelings. Maybe Nell Wilkens had
beaten his wife. But, Lord, she'd liked him, in a way she couldn't
entirely explain. Was it that she half-believed she belonged here? That
the girl who'd been enamored of Neil all those years ago had not
entirely disappeared, but was still inside her, trembling in expectation
of a first kiss, her hopes for perfect love still intact? And now she
was weeping, that girl, out of sorrow that her Nell and she had taken
separate roads?

How perfectly ridiculous all this was; and how predictable. She went to
the bathroom, washed her tearstained face, and gave herself a talking
to. This whole trip had been a mistake. She should have stayed in New
York and faced what was going on between herself and Mirth head-on.

On the other hand, perhaps it was healthy to have been reminded that she
was now an exile. She would no longer be able to entertain sentimental
thoughts of returning to her roots; she had to be ready to move on down
the road she'd chosen. She would go back, she decided, and talk
everything out with Mitch. She had nothing to lose from being honest.
And if they decided they were mismatched, then she'd explain that she
wanted a divorce, and they'd begin proceedings. Maybe she'd get some
advice from Margie about what she was worth on the ex-wife

market. After that? Well, she'd have to see. The only thing she knew
certain was that she wouldn't be coming back to live in Dansky. ever she
was at heart (and right now she didn't have a clue) she absolutely
certain she was no longer a small-town girl.

She left that day, despite her mother's protests. "Stay another night or

two at least," Sherrie said. "You've come all this way." "I really need
to get back." "It's Neil Wilkens, isn't it?"

"It's nothing to do with Neil Wilkens." "Did he make a pass at you?"
"No, mom." "Because if he did--"

"mom, he was a perfect gentleman."

"That man doesn't know the meaning of the word gentleman." Sh stared at
Rachel fiercely. "A hundred Neil Wilkens aren't worth one Mitchell
Geary."

The observation stayed with her, and on the long drive back New York she
found herself idly musing on the two men, like a in a storybook weighing
the relative merits of her suitors. One some and rich and boring; one
balding and beer-bellied but still ble of making her laugh. They were in
every way different, except this: they were both sad men. When she
brought their faces to they were sad faces, defeated faces. She knew
where the source defeat lay: he'd told her himself. But why was Mitch,
with all the history and genetics had showered upon him, ultimately just
as ful? It was a mystery to her; and the more she thought about the m
the more it seemed there could be no healing the wound until she'd
solved it.

PART FOUR

The Prodigal's Tide

Last night I had a visit from Marietta. She brought me some cocaine,
which she said she'd acquired in Miami and was of the very best quality.
She also brought me a bottle of Benedictine, along with instructions on
how to dissolve the drug in the liquor, so as to make, she promised, a
potent concoction. It was time we went out adventuring together, she
said; and this would put me in the perfect mood. I told her I couldn't
go anywhere. There were too many ideas in my head; threads

of my story which I had to keep from becoming knotted up. "You'll work
better after a little play," she pointed out. "I'm sure you're right,
but I'm still going to say no." "What's the real reason?" she demanded.

"Well," I said, "the fact is... I'm about to start writing about
Galilee. And I'm afraid if I stop now--before I face the challenge--I
may not want to start again."

"I don't understand why," Marietta remarked. "I would have

thought it would be something wonderful to write about him." "Well I
find the prospect intimidating." "Why?"

"He's been so many people in his life. He's done so much. I'm

afraid I won't capture him. He'll just become a cluster of
contradictions." "Then maybe that's what he is," she remarked, sensibly
enough. "People will still think the error's mine," I protested. "Oh
Eddie, it's only a book."

"It is not.., only a book. It's my book. And it's a chance to tell
something nobody else has ever told."

"M1 right, all right," she said, showing her palms in surrender,

"don't get yourself stirred up. i'm sure it's going to be brilliant.
There." "I don't want to hear that. You'll make me self-conscious." "Oh
Lord. Well then what can I say?"

"Absolutely nothing. You can just leave me to get on with it."

Even then I had not told her everything. Yes, I was fearful of the sul
that lay before me--of Galilee--and was nervous that if I once lost flow
of my story I would not find it easy to return to it with the pros of
his appearance looming. But I was more fearful still

Marietta out beyond the perimeters of the house; of going back into
world after so many years. I was afraid, I suppose, of finding whatever
out there now so overwhelming that I'd be like a lost child. I'd shake,
I'd wet my pants. God knows, ridiculous as all these thout must seem to
you, who live out there in the midst of things and sumably take all you
see and experience for granted, they were very concerns to me. I had
been, you must remember, a kind of willing oner of L'Enfant for so long
that I had become like a man who passed the bulk of his life in a tiny
cell, and when he is released though he has dreamed of the open sky for
decades--cowers at the si of it, in terror of being unconcealed by his
prison walls.

In short, Marietta left me in a foul mood, feeling as though

was no comfort anywhere tonight. If I stayed, I faced Galilee. If I I
faced the world. (Which implies, now I read it back, that Calilee the
world is not, and vice versa. Unintentionally, I may have said thing
true about him there.)

As much to put off the moment when I had to return to the decided to
experiment with the makings of the aphrodisiac had left me. Just as she
had instructed, I poured out a measure dictine into a cordial glass, and
then, opening the little bag of some of which was powdery, some of which
was lumpen, I selected sizeable nugget and dropped it into the liquor,
stirring it around my pen. It didn't entirely dissolve; the result was a
slightly cloudy I toasted my text, there on the desk before me, and
downed the

It burned my throat, and I instantly thought I'd made an error. I down,
my eyes watering. I could feel the track of the liquor all the down my
esophagus, or so I imagined, then seeping over the wall stomach, still
burning.

"Marietta..." I growled. Why did I ever listen to a word that dyke said?
She was a liability. But I'd no sooner uttered her the drug began to
take its effect. I felt a welcome enlivening of limbs; and a kind of
brightening of my thoughts, a quickening.

I got up from my desk, feeling a rush of strength in my lower

I needed to get out of my room for a while, out into the balm?

I needed to stride awhile beneath the chestnut trees; fill my head the
scents of dusk. Then I could come back to my desk refreshed, ready to
tackle the task of Galilee.

Before I went I mixed myself another cordial glass to brimming, with a
somewhat larger pebble of cocaine dissolved therein. Rather than drink
it down then and there I took it with me, down the stairs and out, via a
side door, onto the lawn. It was a beautiful evening--calm and sweet.
The mosquitoes were out in force, but the coke and brandy had rendered
me indifferent to their assaults. I wandered through the trees to the
place where the cultivation of the grounds is relinquished to the
glorious disorder of the swamp. The honeyed smells of garden flowers
give way here to ranker scents: to the mingled fragrances of rot and
stagnancy.

My eyes gradually became better accustomed to the starlight and by the
glitter of those distant suns I was able to see some considerable
distance between the trees. I watched the alligators on the banks, or
moving through the laval waters; I watched the bats passing overhead,
weaving their way between the branches in great multitudes.

Please realize that the pleasure I took in all this--the night animals,
the rotted trees, the general miasma--had nothing to do with the
cocaine. I have always enjoyed sights and species that the common throng
would think of as unsavory, even signs of evil. Some of this enjoyment
is aesthetic; but part comes out of the kinship I feel with unprettified
nature, being as I am, a good example of same. I smell more rank than
sweet, I look more degenerate than newly budded.

So, anyway; there I was, wandering at the edge of the lawn, surveying
the swamp before me, and taking no little pleasure in the sight. I had
carried my cordial glass down thus far without sipping a drop from it
(sometimes the best of a drug--as with so much else--lies not in the
consumption, but in the anticipation of the consumption). Now I took a
mouthful, and swallowed it down. It was quite considerably stronger than
the first draught. Even as it slid down my throat I seemed to feel my
body responding to its presence: the same agitation in my limbs as I'd
felt before, the same quickening of my thoughts. I've heard it said that
this quickening is purely an illusion; that all the cocaine is doing is
tricking the mind into believing it's performing mental gymnastics, when
all it's doing is tripping over itself. I beg to differ. I've enjoyed
some fine intellectual sport riding the white powder, and I've come away
from the exercise with ruminations that stood the test of straight
study.

But tonight I could not have had an intellectual exchange someone if my
life had depended upon it. Perhaps it was the mixture of cocaine and
Benedictine; perhaps it was the fact of being here in the wilderness
alone; perhaps it was simply a readiness in but I found myself aroused.
My head throbbed pleasantly, m hard in my breast, as though preparing
itself for something, and cock, which, excepting the visit from Cesaria,
had been quiescent several months, had risen up in my baggy pants, and
was nuzzlin fly in the hope of release.

My desire had no object, let me say; real or imagined. Mari, concoction
had simply given my body a wake-up call, and its thoughts, now that it
was awake, were sexual. I laughed out loud, fectly happy with my lot at
that moment; not desiring anything than what I had: the stars, the
swamp, the glass in my hand; my and a hard-on. All lovely; and
laughable.

Maybe I should return to the desk now, I thought, while I was in such a
positive frame of mind. If I was brave, and wrote on my doubts, I could
perhaps get the beginnings of Galilee on the pat his skeleton, so to
speak--before the confidence the cocaine passed. I could flesh it out
later. What mattered was to begin. And course if I needed a little more
courage along the way, I could mix another glass of the concoction.

The plan pleased me. I decided to drain the cordial glass there then,
which I did, (tossing the empty glass into the brackish water) then
starting back toward the house. Or so I thought. What apparent after
fifty yards or so was that my mind, enamored of its aroused state, had
misled me, and instead of walking the safe, ground of the lawn I was
getting deeper into the swamp. This was ably not a wise thing to do,
some cautious corner of my mind but the greater part, being under the
influence of powder and declared that if this was the way my instincts
were taking me, then should obey those instincts, and take pleasure in
the journey. The was sodden beneath my feet, and relinquished my feet
only ical sucking sound; the canopy had so thickened overhead that only
fraction of the starlight still made its way through to illuminate the

And still my instincts took me on, deeper into the thicket. Even in my
rush-headed state I knew very well I was daring disaster. This terrain
was unsuitable for trekking through in broad daylight, much less at such
an hour as this. At any moment the glaucous mud underfoot might give way
and I'd be up to my neck in wicked waters, foul and full of alligators.

r But what the hell? I had ,a hard-on to comfort me in extremis; and I

would take my death as God s way of telling me I was not the writer I

:. imagined myself to be.

		Then, a strange thing. A certainty rose in me that I was not alone

	here. There was another human presence nearby; I could feel a curious

	gaze brushing the back of my neck. I stopped walking, and glanced

	back over my shoulder.

		"Who's there?" I said, speaking softly.

		I didn't expect a reply (one who comes after a traveler in near total

	darkness does not usually reply to an inquiry); but to my surprise I
got

	one. It was not in the form of speech however, at least not at first.
It

	came as a kind of fluttering in the murk, as though my unseen companion
carried birds in his coat, like a magician. I stared at the motion,

	trying to make sense of it, and as I was staring I became unaccountably

	certain that I knew who this was. After decades of exile UEnfant's
sorrowful son, Calilee the wanderer, had come home.

	III

I said his name, barely raising my voice to audibility this time.

:Again, there came the fluttering, and because my gaze knew where to
look I seemed to see him there. He was shaped out of shadow rather than
starlight; shadow on shadow. But it was him, no doubt. There are not two
faces as beautiful as his on the planet. I wish there were. I wish he
were not without equal. But he is, damn him. He's an order of nature
unto himself, and the rest of us have to take what little comfort we can
from the fact of his unhappiness.

"Are you really here?" I said to him. It would be a strange question, I
realize, to ask most people; but Galilee inherited from his mother the
ability to send his image where he wishes and having for a moment
believed he was here in the flesh I now suspected this agitated form was
not the man himself, but a message that he'd willed my way.

This time, I comprehended words in the midst of the ftutterings.

"No," he said. "I'm a long way off." "Still at sea?" "Still at sea."

"So to what do I owe the honor? Are you thinking of coming back home?"

	The fluttering became laughter; laughter, but bitter.

"Home?" he said. "Why would I come home? I'm not welcome there."

"I'd welcome you," I said. "So would Marietta." Galilee grunted. He was
plainly unconvinced. "I wish I could see you better," I said to him.

	"That's your fault, not mine," the shadow-in-shadow replied.

	"What do you mean by that?" I replied, a little testily.

"Brother, | appear to you as clearly as you can bear me to be Galilee
replied. "No more, no less." I assumed he was telling the truth There
was no purpose in his lying to me. "But this is as close to home

will be getting anytime soon."

	"Where are you?"

"Somewhere off the coast of Madagascar. The sea's calm; not breath of
wind. And there are flying fish all around the boat. I put my frying pan
over the side and they just jump on into it..." His shone in the murk,
as though reflecting back at me some portion of the

sunlit sea upon which he was gazing. "Is it strange?" I asked him. "Is
what strange?"

	"Being in two places at one time?"

"I do it all the time," he said. "I let my mind slip away and I go.,'
walking round the world."

"What if something were to happen to your boat while thoughts were off
walking?"

"I'd know," he said. "Me and my Samarkand, we understand another. But
there isn't any danger of that happening tonight. It's calm as a baby's
bath. You'd like it out here, Maddox. Once you here you have a different
perspective on things. You start to let dreams take over, start to
forget the hurts you were done, start not

care about life and death and the riddles of the universe..."

	"You missed out love," I said.

"Ah, well, yes.., love's another matter." He looked away from into the
darkness. "It doesn't matter how far you sail, there's going to be love
isn't there? It comes after you, wherever you go."

	"You don't sound very happy about that." ,

	"Well, brother, the truth is it doesn't matter whether I'm happy

not. There's no escape for me and that's all there is to it." He reached
out his hand. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"No, I don't."

	"Damn. Talking about love always makes me want to smoke."

"I'm a little confused," I said. "Suppose I had been in possession of a
cigarette..."

	? 2,,

	"Gould I have taken it from you and smoked t. Is that the question.

	"Yes."

"No. I couldn't. But I could have watched you smoke it, and been almost
as satisfied. You know how much I enjoy experiences by proxy." He
laughed again. This time there was no bitterness, just amusement. "In
fact, the older I get--and I feel old, brother, I feel very, very old
the more it seems to me all the best experiences are second-hand,
thirdhand even. I'd prefer to tell a story about love, or hear one, than
be in love myself."

"And you prefer to watch a cigarette being smoked than actually to smoke
it?"

	"Well... not quite," he sighed. "But I'm almost there So, to business,
brother of mine. Why did you call me?" "I didn't call you." "I beg to
differ"

	"No, truly. I didn't call you. I wouldn't even know how to."

"Maddox," he said, with just a touch of condescension "You're not
listening to me--"

	"I'm listening, damn it-"

	"Don't raise your voice." "

	"I'm not raising--"

"Yes you are. You're shouting at me."

"You accused me of not listening," I replied, attempting to keep my tone
reasonable even though I wasn't feeling particularly reasonable I never
did in Galilee's presence; that was the simple truth of the matter. Even
in the balmy days before the war, before Galilee ran off to seek his
fortune in the world, before the calamities of his return, and the death
of my wife, and the undoing of Nicodemus, even then--when we'd lived in
a place that comes to look paradisiacal in hindsight--we had fought
often, and bitterly, over the most insignificant things. All I would
have to do was hear a certain tone in his voice--or he hear some
unwelcome nuance in mine-and we'd be at one another's throats The
subject at hand was usually an irrelevance We fought because we were at
some profound level antithetical to one another The passage of years had
not, it seemed, mellowed that antipathy We had only to exchange a few
sentences and the old defenses were up, the old anger escalating

"Let's change the subject," I suggested

"Fine. How's Luman?"

"As crazy as ever."

"And Marietta? Is she well?" "Better than well." "In loveT"

"Not at the moment." "Tell her I asked after her." "Of course."

"I was always fond of Marietta. I see her face in dreams all the time.
"She'll be flattered."

"And yours," Galilee said. "I see yours too."

	"And you curse me."

	"No, brother, I don't. I dream we're all back together again,

all the foolishness." This seemed a particularly inappropriate word for
him to almost insulting in its lack of gravity. I couldn't help but
comment.

"It may have seemed foolishness to you," I said, "but it was a more to
the rest of us."

	"I didn't mean-"

"You went away to have your adventures, Galilee. And I'm that's given
you a lot of joy."

	"Less than you'd imagine."

"You had responsibilities," I pointed out. "You were the eldest. You
should have been setting an example, instead of pleasuring yourself."

"Since when was that a crime?" Galilee countered. "It's in blood,
brother. We're a hedonistic family."

	(There was no gainsaying this. Our father had been a

heroic proportions from his earliest childhood. I myself had found in

book of anthropology a story about his first sexual exploits recanted

Kurdish horsemen. They claim proudly that all seventeen

founding fathers were sired by my father while he was still too

walk. Make what you will of that.)

	Galilee, meanwhile, had moved onto another matter. ;

	"My mother..."

	"What about her?"

	"Is she well?"

	"It's hard to tell," I said. "I see very little of her."

	"Was it she who healed you?" Galilee said, looking down at my:

legs. Last time he'd seen me I had been an invalid, raging at him.

	"I think she'd probably say it was both of us did the work to

	"That's unlike her."

"She's mellowed."

"Enough to forgive me?" I said nothing to this. "Do I take that to mean
no?"

"Perhaps you should ask her yourself," I suggested. "If you like I could
talk to her for you. Tell her we've spoken. Prepare her."

For the first time in this exchange I saw something more than Galilee's
shadow-self. A luminescence seemed to move up through his flesh, casting
a cool brightness out toward me, and delineating his form as it did so.
I seemed to see the curve of his torso lit from within; up

through his throbbing neck to the cave of his mouth. "You'd help me?" he
said. "Of course."

"I thought you hated me. You had reason enough."

"I never hated you, Galilee. I swear."

The light was in his eyes now; and spilling down his cheeks. "Lord,
brother..." he said softly "... it's a long time since I cried." "Does
it mean so much to you to come home?"

"To have her forgive me," he said. "That's what I want, more than
anything, lust to be forgiven."

"I can't intercede for you there," I said.

"I know."

"All I can do is tell her you'd like to see her, and then bring you her
answer."

"That's more than I could have expected," Galilee said, wiping away his
tears with the back of his hand. "And don't think I don't know that I
have to ask your forgiveness too. Your sweet lady Chiyoio-"

I raised my hand to ward off whatever he was going to say next. "I'd

prefer we didn't..."

"I'm sorry."

"Anyway, it isn't a question of forgiveness," I replied. "Both of us
made errors. Believe me, I made as many as you did."

"I doubt that," Galilee replied, the sourness that had first marked his
speech returning. He hates himself, I thought. Lord, this man hates
himself. "What are you thinking?" he said to me.

I was too confounded to admit the truth. "Oh..." I said. "Nothing
important."

"You think I'm ridiculous."

"What?"

"You heard me. You think I'm ridiculous. You imagine I've been strutting
around the world for the last God knows how many years fucking like a
barnyard cock. What else? Oh yes, you think I never grew up.

That I'm heartless. Stupid probably." He stared at me with those se
eyes. "Go on. I've said it for you now. You may as well admit it."

"All right. Some of that's true. I thought you didn't care.

what I was going to write: that you were heartless and--" "Write?" he
said, breaking in. "Where?" "In a book." "What book?"

"My book," I said, feeling a little shiver of pride.

"Is this a book about me?"

"It's about us all," I said. "You and me and Marietta, and

and Zabrina--"

"Mother and Father?"

"Of course."

"Do they all know you're writing about them?" I nodded. "And you telling
the truth?"

"It's not a novel, if that's what you mean. I'm telling the truth best I
can."

He mused on this for a moment. The news of my work had

unsealed him. Perhaps he feared what I would uncover; or alrea& "Before
you ask," I said, "it's not lust our family I'm writing By the
expression on his face it was dear that this went to the

of his anxiety. "Oti Christ," he murmured. "So that's why I'm here." "I
suppose it must be," I said. "I was thinking about you and-"

"What's it called?" he said to me. I looked at him blankly. book, dummy.
What's it called?"

"Oh... well, I'm toying with a number of titles," I said,

my best literary tone. "There's nothing definite yet."

"You realize I know a lot of details that you could use."

"I'm sure you do."

"Stuff you really can't do without. Not if it's to be a true

"Such as?"

He gave me a sly smile. "What's it worth?" he said. It was the time in
this meeting I'd seen a glimpse of the Galilee I remembered; t

creature whose confidence in his own charms had once been

"I'm going to Mama for you, remember?"

"And you think that's worth all the information I could

he countered. "Oh no, brother. You have to do better than that." "So
what do you want?" "First, you have to agree." I just said, "To what?"
"Just agree, will you?"

"This is going round in circles."

Galilee shrugged. "All right," he said. "If you don't want to know what
I know, then don't. But your book's going to be the poorer for it, I'm
warning you."

"I think we'd better stop this conversation here and now," I said.
"Before it goes bad on us."

Galilee regarded me with great gravity, a frown biting into his

brow. "You're right: I'm sorry."

"So am I," I said,

"We were doing so well, and I got carried away."

"So did I."

"No, no, it was entirely my fault. I've lost a tot of social graces over
the years. I spend too much time on my own. That's my problem. It's no
excuse but.. 7 The sentence trailed away. "Well, shall we agree to talk
again?"

"I'd like that."

"Maybe around this time tomorrow? Will that give you sufficient
opportunity to talk to Mama?"

"I'll do what I can," I said.

"Thank you," Galilee said softly. "I do think of her, you know. Of late,
I've thought of her all the time. And the house. I think of the house."

"Have you visited?"

"Visited?"

"I mean, you could come looking and nobody would know."

"She'd know," he said. Of course she would, I thought. "So no," he went
on. "I haven't dared."

"I don't think you'll find it's changed."

"That's good," he said, with a tentative smile. "So much else... almost
everything, in fact.., everywhere I go ... things change. And never for
the better. Places I used to love. Secret places, you know? Corners of
the world where nobody ever went. Now there's pink hotels and pleasure
cruises. Once in a while I've tried to scare people off." His shape
shuddered as he spoke, and in the midst of his beauty I saw another
form, far less attractive. Silver slits for eyes, and leathery lips
drawn back from teeth like needles. Even knowing that he meant me no
harm, the sight distressed me. I looked away. "See, it works," he said,
not without pride. "But then as soon as my back's turned the rot creeps
in again." I glanced up at him; his rabidity was in retreat. "And before
you know it..."

"Pink hotels--"

"--and pleasure cruises." He sighed. "And everything's spoiled. He
glanced up at the sky. "Well I should let you go. It won't be long

morning, and you've got a day's work ahead of you."

"And you?"

"Oh I don't sleep that much," he replied. "I'm not sure that divir ties
ever do."

"Is that what you are?"

He shrugged, as though the issue of his godhood were neither nor there.
"I suppose so. Ma and Pa are as pure a form of deity as thi world will
ever see, don't you think? Which makes you a demigod, that makes you
feel any better." I laughed out loud. "Goodnight brother," he said.
"I'll see you tomorrow."

He started to turn from me, and in so doing seemed to ecli

self. "Wait," I said. He glanced back at me.

"What?"

"I know what you were going to ask for," I said.

"Oh do you?" he said with a little smile. "And what was that?"

"If you gave me information for the book you were going demand some kind
of control over what I wrote."

"Wrong, brother," he said, pivoting back on his heel and ecli himself
again. "I was only going to ask you to call the book Galilee." eyes
glittered. "But you'll do that anyway," he said. "Won't you?"

And then he was gone, back to whatever sea glittered in his eyes.

IV

N

ee,d I tell you that Galilee did not come back

he d promised? This despite the fact that I spent most of the seeking an
audience with Gesaria in order to plead his case. In failed to find her
(I suspect she knew my purpose, and was avoiding me). But anyway, he
didn't turn up, which I shouldn't be surprised at. He always had an
unreliable nature, except matters of the heart, where everyone else is
unreliable. There he divinely constant.

I told Marietta what had transpired, but she already knew. Luman, who
had happened to see me there by the swamp, having a conversation with a
shadow, and passing through so moods, he said, that he knew I could only
be talking to one person.

"He guessed it was Galilee?" I said.

"No, he didn't guess," Marietta said. "He knew because he had
conversations like that himself."

"You mean Galilee's been here before7" I said. "So it seems," she said.
"Many times, in fact." "At Luman's invitation?"

"I assume so. He wouldn't confirm it either way. You know how he gets
when he thinks he's being interrogated. Anyway it doesn't really matter
whether Luman invited him or not, does it? The point is, he was here."

"Not in the house though," I said. "He was too afraid of mother to go
near the house."

"He told you that?"

"You don't believe it?"

"I think it's perfectly possible he's been spying on us all for years
without our knowing it. The little shit."

"I think he prefers the word divinity."

"How about divine little shit?" Marietta said.

"Do you really dislike him so much7"

"I don't dislike him at all. It's nothing so simple. But we both know
our lives would have been a damn sight happier if he'd never come home
that night."

That night. I must tell you about that night, sometime soon. I'm not
being deliberately coy, you understand. But it's not easy. I'm not
entirely certain I know what happened the night Galilee came home. There
were more visions and fevers and acts of delirium at work that night
than had been unleashed on this continent since the arrival of the
Pilgrims. I could not tell you with any certainty what was real and what
was illusion.

:No, that's a lie. There are some things I'm certain of. I know who died
that night, for one thing: the desperate men who made the mistake of
accompanying Galilee onto this sacred ground, and paid the price of
trespass. I could take you to their graves right now, though I haven't
ventured near them in a hundred and thirty years. (Even as I write this
the face of one of these men, a man called Captain Holt, comes into my
mind's eye. I can see him in his grave, his form in such disarray it
seemed every bone in his body, even to the littlest, had been
shattered.)

What else am I certain of? That I lost the love of my life that night.
That I saw her in my father's arms--oh Lord, that's a sight that I've
prayed to have removed from me; but who listens to the prayers of a man

sinned against by God?--and that she looked at me in her last moments
and I knew she'd loved me, and I would never be loved with snch ferocity
again. All this I know is incontestably true. If you like, it's history.

But the rest? I couldn't tell you whether it was real or not. There was
so much high emotion unleashed that night, and in a place such as this
rage and love and sorrow do not remain invisible. They exist here as
they existed at the beginning of the world, as those primal forces from
which we lesser things take our purpose and our shape.

That night--with senses raw and skins stripped--we moved in flood of
visible feeling, which made itself into a thousand fantastic forms. I
don't expect to see such a spectacle ever again; nor do I particularly
want to. For every part of my being that comes from my father, and takes
pleasure in chaos for its own sake, there is a part that me my mother's
child, and wants tranquillity; a place to write and thinks. and dream of
heaven. (Did I tell you that my mother was a poet? No, I don't believe I
did. I must quote you some of her work, later.)

So, after all my claiming I could not find the courage to describe that
night, I just gave you a taste of it. There's so much more to tell,
course, and I'll tell it as time goes by. But not just yet. These things
to be done by degrees.

Trust me; when you know all there is to know, you'll wonder that was
even able to begin.

X X ]. ere did I last leave Rachel? On the road, was it?, heading  
into Manhattan contemplating the relative merits of

Wilkens and her husband?

Oh yes, and then thinking that they were both in their sec

sad men, and wondering why. (My own theory is that Neil and were in no
way unusual; that they were unhappy in their souls many men, perhaps
even most, are unhappy in their souls. We burn hard, but we shed so
little light; it makes us crazy and sad.)

Anyway, she came back into Manhattan determined to tell husband that she
could not bear to live as his wife a moment lon and it was time for them
to part. She hadn't worked out the she'd use; she preferred to trust to
the moment.

That moment was delayed by a day. Mitchell had left for Boston the night
before, she was told by Ellen, one of Mitchell's phalanx of secretaries.
Rachel felt a twinge of anger that he'd departed this way; wholly
irrational, of course, given that she'd done precisely the same thing a
few days earlier. She called the Ritz-Carlton in Boston, where he always
stayed. Yes, he was a guest there, she was informed; but no, he wasn't
in. She left a short message, telling him she was back at the apartment.
He was obsessive about messages, she knew, usually picking them up on
the hour, every hour. The fact that he didn't call back could only mean
that he was choosing not to speak to her; punishing her, in other words.
She resisted the temptation to call him again. She didn't want to give
him the satisfaction of imagining her doing exactly what she was doing,
sitting by the phone waiting for him to call her back.

About two in the morning, just as she'd finally fallen asleep, he

returned the call. His manner was suspiciously convivial.

"Have you been partying?" she asked him.

"Just a few friends," he replied. "Nobody you'd know. Harvard guys."
"When are you coming home?"

"I'm not quite sure yet. Thursday or Friday." "Is Garrison with you?"
"No. Why?"

"I just wondered."

"I'm having some fun if that's what you're getting at," Mitch said, his
tone losing its warmth, "I'm sick of being a workhorse, just so that
everybody stays rich."

"Don't do it for me," she said. "Oh don't start that--" "I mean it. I--"

"--was quite happy with nothing," he said, doing a squeaky imitation of
her voice.

"Well I was."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Rachel. All I said was, I was working too
hard..."

"So that we could all stay rich, you said." "Don't be so fucking
sensitive." "Don't swear at me." "Oh Jesus."

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

"I told you, I've been partying. I don't have to apologize for that.
Look, I don't want to have this conversation any more. We'll talk when I
get back."

"Come back tomorrow."

"I said I'd come Thursday or Friday."

"We've got to have a proper conversation, Mitch, and we've got have it
sooner rather than later."

"A conversation about what?"

"About us. About what we do. We can'tgo on like this."

There was a long, long silence. "I'll come back tomorrow," he finally.

ii

While Rachel and Mitchell played out their melancholy drama, there were
other events occurring, none of them so su noteworthy as the separation
of lovers, which would in the long prove to have far more tragic
consequences.

You'll remember, perhaps, that I made mention in passing Loretta's
astrologer7 I don't know whether the fellow was a fake or (though I have
to think that any man who sells his services as a to rich women is not
driven by any visionary ambition). I do know, ever, that his predictions
proved--after a labyrinthine fashion become apparent-over the course of
the next several become true. Would they have done so had he kept them
to himself? was his very speaking of them part of the great plot fate
was against the Gearys? Again, I cannot say. All I can do is tell you
pened, and leave the rest to your good judgment.

Let me begin with Cadmus. The week Rachel returned from was good for the
old man. He managed a short car trip out to Island, and had spent a
couple of hours sitting on the beach there, ing out at the ocean. Two
days later one of his old enemies, a man by the name of Ashfield who had
attempted to start investigation into the Gearys' business practices in
the forties, had of pneumonia, which had quite brightened Cadmus's day.
The had been painful, sources reported, and Ashfield's final hours
ating. Hearing this, Cadmus had laughed out loud. The next day announced
to Loretta that he intended to make a list of all the who'd attempted to
get in his way over the years whom he'd now lived. Then he wanted her to
send it into The Times, for the column: a collective in memoriam for
those who would never cross path again. The conceit had gone out of his
head an hour later, but lively mood remained. He stayed up well past his
usual bedtime

arid demanded a vodka martini as a nightcap. It was as he sipped it,
sitting in his wheelchair looking out on the city, that he said: "I
heard a rumor..." "What about?" Loretta said.

"You saw that astrologer of yours."

"Yes."

"What did he have to say?"

"Are you sure you should finish that martini, Cadmus? You're not
supposed to drink on your medications."

"Actually, it's rather a pleasant feeling," he said, his voice a little
slurred. "You were telling me about the astrologer. He told you
something grim, I gather."

"You don't believe any of that stuff- anyway," Loretta said. "So why the
hell does it matter?"

"Was it that terrible?" Cadmus inquired. He studied his wife's face

woozily. "What in God's name did he say, Loretta?" She sighed. "I don't
think--" "Tell me!" he roared.

Loretta stared at him, amazed that a sound so solid could emanate from a
body so frail.

"He said something was about to change all our lives," Loretta

replied. "And that I should be ready for the worst." "The worst being
what exactly?" "I suppose death." "Mine?"

"He didn't say."

"Because if it's mine..." he reached out and took her hand "... that's
not the end of the world. I feel quite ready to be off somewhere
restful." His hand went up to her face. "My only concern is you. I know
how you hate to be alone."

"I won't be long following you," Loretta said softly. "Oh now hush. I
won't hear that. You've got a good long life ahead of you."

"Not without you I don't."

"There's nothing to be afraid of. I've made very good financial

arrangements for you. You'll never want for anything." "It's not money
I'm worried about." "What then?"

She reached for her cigarettes, fumbling with the packet a moment. "Is
there something about this family you've never told me?" she said.

"Oh I'm sure there's a thousand things," Cadmus remarked blithel "I'm
not talking about a thousand things, Cadmus," Loretta sai "I'm talking
about something important. Something you've kept me. And don't lie to
me, Cadmus. It's too late for lies."

"I'm not lying to you," he said. "I meant what I said: there are a th
sand things I haven't told you about this family, but none of them, I
swear, none of them is very terrible." Loretta looked somewhat Smiling
and stroking her hand, Cadmus quickly capitalized on his tess. "Every
family has a few unfortunates in its midst. We've got My own mother died
miserably. But you know that. There ness done in the Depression that
doesn't reflect well on me, but--" shrugged "--the Good Lord seems to
have forgiven me. He granted beautiful children and grandchildren, and a
longer, healthier life ever dared hope I'd have. And most of all, He
gave me you." He kissed Loretta's hand. "And believe me, darling, when I
tell you not a day goes by without my thanking Him for His generosity."

That was more or less the end of the conversation. But it was only the
beginning of the consequences of the astrologer's prediction.

The following day, when Loretta was out at her monthly lune with several
philanthropic widows of Manhattan, the old man wheel4 himself into the
library, locked the door, and took from a certain hiding place behind
the rows of leather-bound tomes, all undisturbed by an

curious reader, a small metal box, bound with a thin leather thong. Hi
fingers were too weak to untie the knot, so he took a pair of scissors
tt and then lifted the lid. If anyone had witnessed him doing this would
have assumed the box contained some priceless treasure, manner was so
reverential. They would have been disappointed. was nothing glorious in
the box. Just a small book that smelled with age, its cover stained, its
pages stained, the handwritten lines those stained pages faded with the
years. And between the pages, and there, loose sheets of paper, a small
fragment of blue cloth, a tal leaf that went to motes of grey dust when
he tried to pick it up.

He roved back and forth through the book perhaps half a

times, pausing for a moment to study the contents of a page, then

ing on.

Only when he'd examined it this way did he return to one of pieces of
loose paper and remove it, unfolding it with such delicacy might have
been a living thing--a butterfly perhaps, whose wings wanted to admire
without doing the creature harm. .

It was a letter. The hand it was written in was elegant, but the mind
shaping the words more eloquent still, the thoughts so compressed it
read less like prose than poetry.

My dearest brother, it said. The great griefs of the day have passed,
and through the twilight, all pink and gold, I hear the tender music of
sleep.

The philosophers are misled, I have come to believe, when they teach us
that sleep is death's similitude. It is rather a nightward journey back
into our mother's arms, where we may be blessed to hear the lovely
rhythm of a slumber song.

I hear it now, even as I write these words to you. And though our mother
has been dead a decade, I am returned to her, and she to me, and the
world is good again.

Tomorrow, we do battle at Bentonville, and are so greatly outnumbered
there is no hope of victory. So forgive me if I do not tell you I long
to embrace you, for I entertain no such hope, at least in this world.

Pray for me, brother, for the worst is yet to come. And if your prayers

are answered, perhaps also the best.

I have ever loved thee.

The letter was signed Charles.

Cadmus studied it for more than a little time; especially the
penultimate paragraph. The words made him shake. Pray for me, brother,
for the worst is yet to come. There was nothing in this library, in all
the great, grim masterworks of the world, that had the power to distress
him that these words possessed. He'd not known the letter-writer
personally, of course-- the battle of Bentonville had been fought in
1865-- but he felt a powerful empathy with him nonetheless. When he read
the page it was as though he was sitting beside the man as he sat in his
tent before that calamitous battle, listening to the rain beating on the
canvas, and the forlorn songs of the infantrymen as they huddled about
their smoky fires, knowing that the following day a vastly superior
force would be upon them.

Earlier in his life, when he'd first become familiar with the journal,
and particularly with this letter, Cadmus had made it his business to
disCover as best he could the circumstances in which it had been
written. What he discovered was this: that in March of 1865 the depleted
forces of the Rebel States, led by Generals Johnston and Bragg, had been
driven across North Carolina, and at a place called Bentonville,
exhausted, hungry and despairing, they had dug in to face the might of
the North. Sherman had the scent of victory; he knew his opponents would
not last much longer. The previous November, he had overseen the burning
of Atlanta, and Charleston--brave, besieged Charleston--

would very soon fall beneath his assault. There was no hope of

		for the South, and surely every man who made up the forces at

		tonville knew it.

			The battle would last three days; and by the standards of that

		there was not a great loss of life. A thousand and some soldiers of

		Union perished, two thousand and some Confederates. But such

		bets mean nothing to a soldier in battle, for he need only die one

			Cadmus had often thought about going to visit the battle

		which had been left, he'd been told, relatively untouched by time.

		Harper house, a modest domicile that stood close by the field, and

		been turned into a makeshift surgery during the conflict, still stood

	' trenches where the Confederate soldiers had waited for the army

		North could still be lain in. With a little research he could

		have discovered where the officers' tents had been pitched; and sat hi

		self down close to the place where the letter he held in his hand

		been penned.

			Why had he never gone? Had he simply been afraid that the thn

		binding his destiny to that of the melancholy Captain Charles

		would have been strengthened by such a visit? If so, then he'd

		himself in vain: those threads were getting stronger by the moment.

		could feel them wrapped around him now--tightening, tightening

		if to draw his fate and that of the captain into some final embrace.

		might not have been so troubled had it only been his life which

		affected, but of course that wasn't the case. Loretta's damned

'. knew more than he realized, with his insinuations of Geary

! secrets and predictions of apocalypse. The intervention of almost a

		dred and forty years could not provide asylum from what was in

		wind; its message carried like a contagion from that

			Pray for me, brother, the captain had written, for the worst is

No doubt those words had been true enough when they were ten, Cadmus
thought, but the passage of time had made them truer Grime had mounted
upon crime over the generations, sin sin, and God help them all--every
Geary, and child of a Geary, wife and mistress and servant of a Geary--
it was time for the come to judgment.

The conversation between Rachel and Mitch was surprisingly civilized.
There were no raised voices; no tears on either side; no accusations.
They simply exchanged disappointments in hushed voices, and agreed,
after an hour or so, that they were failing to give one another joy, and
that it would be best to part. Their only difference of opinion lay in
this: Rachel had come to believe that there was no chance of reviving
the marriage, and it would be best to start divorce proceedings
immediately, while Mitch begged that they give one another a grace
period of a few weeks to turn the decision over and be certain they were
doing the right thing. After a little discussion, she said she'd go
along with this. What was a few weeks? In the meantime they agreed to
keep any discussion of the matter to a very small circle, and not
consult lawyers. The moment a lawyer was brought into the picture, Mitch
argued, any hope of reconciliation would be at an end. As to living
arrangements, they would keep it very simple. Rachel would stay in the
Central Park apartment; Mitch would either go back to the mansion or
take a suite at a hotel.

They parted with a tentative embrace, like two people made of glass.

The following day, Rachel got a call from Margie. How about lunch, she
said; somewhere grotesquely expensive, where they could linger so long
over dessert that they could go straight on to cocktails?

"Just as long as we don't talk about Mitch," Rachel said.

"Oh no," Margie said, with a faint air of mystery in her voice, "I've
got something much more interesting than him to talk about."

The restaurant Margie had chosen had been open only a few months, but it
had already won a spate of four-star reviews, so it was packed, with a
line of people all vainly hoping they'd get themselves a table.
Inevitably, Margie knew the maitre d' (in a much earlier incarnation,
she later explained, he'd been a barman at a little dive she'd
frequented in Soho). He treated them both royally, taking them to a
table which offered a full view of the room.

"Plenty of people to gossip about," Margie said, surveying the faces
before them. Rachel knew a few of them by sight; a couple by name.

"Something for you to drink?" the waiter wanted to know. "How many
martinis do you have?"

"We have sixteen on our list," the waiter replied, proffering document,
"but if you have some particular request..."

"Bring us two very dry martinis to start. Straight up. No olives. we'll
look at the list while you're bringing them."

"I didn't know you could mix so many martinis," Rachel said. "Well I'm
quite sure after the third or fourth you can't tell the ference," Margie
said. "Oh look.., the table by the window... that Cecil?"

"Yes it is."

The Gearys' lawyer, who was a man in his early sixties, was

across the table gazing at a blonde, decorative woman a third his age,'
"That's not his wife, I presume?" Rachel said. "Absolutely not. His
wife--what's her name? Phyllis, I

looks like our maitre d' in bad drag. No, that's one of his mistresses."
"He has more than one?"

Margie roiled her eyes. "When Cecil shuffles off to heaven, will be more
women at the graveside than are walking Fifth right now."

"Why?" said Rachel. "I mean, he's so unattractive."

Margie cocked her head a little. "Is he?" she said. "I think quite well
preserved for his age. And he's fabulously wealthy, all a woman like
that cares about. She's going to get a little something before lunch is
over. You just watch. She's counting minutes. Every time his hand gets
near his pocket she salivhtes," "If he's so rich, why does he go on
working? Couldn't he j retire?"

"He only has the family as clients now. And I think he doi

of loyalty to the old man. Garrison says he's very smart. Could

been the best of the best, Garrison says."

"So what happened?"

"The same thing that happened to you and me. He got

into the Geary family. And,once you're in there's really no way out.".
"You promised, Margie. No talking about Mitchell."

"I'm not going to talk about Mitchell. You asked me what pened to Cecil.
I'm telling you."

The waiter was back at the table with the martinis. Margie intrigued to
know what a Cajun Martini--number thirteen on list--was like. The waiter
began to describe the recipe, but she him after halfa florid phrase.

"Just bring us two," she said.

"You'll have me drunk," Rachel said.

"I need you a little tipsy," Margie said, "for what I'm going to tell
you about."

"Oh my Lord."

"What?"

"You were right," Rachel said, nodding across the room in the direction
of Cecil's table. Just as Margie had predicted the lawyer had taken out
a slim box from his pocket, and was opening it to let the blonde see her
reward.

"Didn't I say?" Margie murmured. "Sparkly."

"It used to happen all the time in Boston," Rachel said.

"Oh that's right, you worked in a jewelry store."

"These men would come in and they'd ask me to choose something for their
wives. At least they'd say wives, but I got the picture after a few
weeks. These were older men, you know--forties, fifties--and they'd
always want something for a younger woman. That's why they'd ask me. It
was like they were saying: if you were my mistress, what would you like?
That's how I met Mitchell."

"Now who's talking about Mitchell? I thought he was verboten."

Rachel drained her martini. "I don't mind. In a way I'd sort of like

to talk about him."

"You would?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

"What's to talk about?" Margie said, "He's your husband. If you love
him, that's fine. If you don't, that's fine too. lust don't depend on
him for anything. Get your own life. That way he hasn't got any power
over you. Oh, look, that's a pretty sight." The waiter, who'd appeared
with the next round of martinis, thought she meant him, and smiled
dazzlingly. "I meant the drinks, honey," Margie said. The smile decayed

somewhat. "But you're sweet. What's your name?"

"Stefano."

"Stefano. What do you recommend? RacheI's very hungry, and I'm on a
diet."

"The chef's specialty is the sea bass. It's lightly sauteed in pure
olive oil with a little cilantro--"

"I think that sounds fine for me. Rachel?"

"I'm in the mood for meat."

"Oh," Margie said, with a cocked eyebrow. "Stefano. The lady wants meat.
Any suggestions?"

The waiter momentarily lost his cool. "Urn... well we have..."

"Maybe just a steak?" Margie suggested to Rachel.

Stefano looked flustered. "We don't actually serve a strai

steak. We don't have it on the menu."

"Good Lord," Margie said, thoroughly relishing the young

discomfort. "This is New York and you don't serve a simple steak?" "I
don't really want steak," Rachel said.

"Well that's not the point," Margie said, perversely. "It's the

ple of the thing. Well... do you have anything that can be served

"We have lamb cutlets which the chef offers with almonds ginger."

"That's fine," Rachel told him. Grateful to have the resolved, Stefano
beat a hasty retreat.

"You're mean," Rachel said to Margie once he'd gone.

"Oh, he enjoyed it. Men secretly love to be humiliated. As long l it
isn't too public."

"Have you ever thought of writing all this down?"

"M1 what?"

"Your pithy observations."

"They don't stand up to close scrutiny, honey," she said. "Like really.
I'm very impressive as long as you don't look too closely." guffawed at
this. "So now, drink up. Number thirteen's really good."

Rachel declined. "My head's already spinning," she said. "Will' stop
teasing me and tell me what all This is about?"

"Well... it's very simple, really. You need to take a

honey."

"I just came back from--"

"I don't mean a trip home, for God's sake. That's not a vacation

a sentence. You need to go somewhere you can be yourself, and

can't be yourself with family." .

	"Why do I think you've already got something planned?"

	"Have you ever been to Hawaii?"

	"I stopped over in Honolulu with Miteh, on our way to

	"Horrible," Margie said.

	"Australia or Honolulu?"

	"Well, actually both. But I'm not talking about Honolulu. I'ming about
Kaua'i. The Garden Island."

	"I've never heard of it."

	"Oh honey, it's simply the most beautiful place on earth. It's

adise. I swear. Paradise." She sipped her martini. "And it so ha

I know a little house in a little bay on the North Shore which is fifty
yards from the water, if that. It's so perfect. Oh you can't imagine.
Truly, you can't imagine. I mean I could tell you about it and it'd
sound idyllic, but.., it's more than that."

"How SO?"

Margie's voice had become sultry as she talked about the house; now it
was so quiet Rachel had to lean in to catch what she was saying. "I know
this is going to sound silly, but it's a place where there's still just
a chance that something.., oh shit, I don't know.., something magical
might happen."

"It sounds wonderful," Rachel said. She'd never seen Margie this way
before, and found it strangely moving. Margie the cynic, Margie the
lush, talking like a little girl who'd thought she'd seen wonderland.

It almost made Rachel believe she had.

"Who does the house belong to7"

"Ah," she said, raising her index finger over the rim of her glass, and
giving Rachel a narrow-eyed smile. "That's the thing. It belongs

to US."

"The Geary women."

"Really?"

"The men are forbidden to go anywhere near the place. It's an

ancient Geary tradition."

"Who started it?"

"Cadmus's mother I believe. She was quite the feminist, in her time. Or
it may have been a generation earlier, I don't know. The point is, the
house isn't used very much any longer. There's a couple of local people
who go every other month and mow the lawn and trim the palm

trees, dust a little, but basically the place is left empty."

"Loretta doesn't go?"

"She went just after she and Cadmus first got married. So she said. But
now she just stays right here with him, night and day. I think she's
afraid he's going to start changing the will behind her back. Oh...
speaking of legal matters..." She nodded across the restaurant. Cecil
and the blonde were rising from the table. "He's going to have a busy
afternoon. She looks like the acrobatic type."

"Maybe she'll just lay back and let him get it over with," Rachel said.
"I know how that feels," Margie replied.

"I hope he doesn't look in our direction," Rachel said as Cecil headed
for the door.

"I rather hope he does," Margie said, and as luck would have that very
instant Cecil glanced back across the' restaurant and laid on them.
Rachel froze, still hoping Cecil wouldn't recognize them Margie,
murmuring oh good under her breath, raised her arm, re with empty
martini glass, above her head.

"Now look what you've done," Rachel said. "He's coming over talk to us."

"lust don't mention Kaua'i," Margie said. "That's our little sec

"Ladies," Cecil was saying. He'd left the blonde at the door. almost
missed you, tucked away in the corner."

"Oh you know us," Margie said. "We're the shy, retiring Unlike..." she
glanced back toward Cecil's girlfriend "... what's name?"

"Ambrosina."

"Well that's a bit of a mouthful for such a precious little Margie said.

Gecil glanced back at his conquest. "She is precious," he said,
surprising sincerity.

"And extremely blonde," Margie replied, without any

irony. "Actress, is she?"

"Model."

"Of course she is. You're helping her get started. How sweet, Cecil's
smile had faded. "I must get back to her," he said. looked over at
Rachel. "I heard from Mitchell this morning.. "I'm sorry things aren't
going well." He reached up and oh-so-li wrapped his hand around Rachel's
wrist. "But we'll sort it all out, Rachel glanced down at his encircling
fingers. He removed his his manner effortlessly shifting into the
paternal mode. "If there's

thing you need, Rachel. Anything at all, to make things easier."

I'll be fine."

"Oh I know," he said, as though he were a doctor reassuring a patient.
"You'll be just dandy. But if you need anything..."

"I think she gets the message, Cecil," Margie remarked.

"Yes... well, it's lovely to see you, Rachel... and Margie,

wonderful..."

"Really?"

"Really," Cecil replied, and headed back to his girlfriend, who looking
decidedly pouty.

"I think the drinking's finally catching up with me," Margie staring
after the lawyer as he put his arm around the blonde escorted her out.

"Why?"

"I was just looking at Cecil's face, and I thought: I wonder what

he's going to look like when he's dead?"

"Oh, that's not very nice."

"Then I thought: well I just hope I'm there to find out."

VII

I Rp

achel called Mirth,that evening and told him she'd seen Cecil, ointing
out that he d broken the terms of their agreement by talking to a
lawyer. Mirth protested that he hadn't been seeking legal advice. He
thought of Cecil as a surrogate father, he said. They'd talked about
love, not about the law; to which Rachel couldn't help but observe that
she doubted Cecil knew a damn thing about love.

"Don't be mad at me," Mitchell begged. "It was a genuine mistake. I'm
sorry. I know it must look like I was going behind your back, but I
wasn't. I swear I wasn't."

His whining apology only irritated her further. She wanted to tell him
he could take his apology and his lawyer and his whole damn family and
go to hell. Instead, she found herself saying something she hadn't
planned to say.

"I'm going away for a while," she told him.

The statement surprised her almost as much as it surprised Mitchell;
she'd not been aware of making a decision either way about going to
Kaua'i.

Mitchell asked her if she was going back home. She said no. Where then?
he asked her. Just away, she said. Away from me, you

mean, he said. No, she replied, I'm not running away from you. "Well
where the hell are you running?" he demanded.

There was an answer, right there on her tongue, ready to be spoken, but
this time she governed herself and said nothing. It was only when the
exchange with Mitchell was over, and she was sitting on the balcony,
looking over the park and thinking about nothing in particular that the
unspoken reply came onto her lips..

"I'm not running away," she murmured to herself, "I'm running toward
something..."

She shared this thought with no one, not even Margie. It was sill' the
face of it. She was going off to an island she'd never heard before, on
the suggestion of a woman whose blood was seventy cent alcohol. There
was no reason for her to be going, much less sense any purpose in the
journey. And yet she felt it, indisputably, the feeling made her happy.
So what did it matter if the source feeling was a mystery? She was
grateful to have some measure lightness back in her heart, and content
to take the pleasure in while it lasted. She knew from experience it
could be gone warning, like love.

Margie made all the arrangements for the trip. All Rachel had to do be
ready to leave the following Thursday, with all her business in York
done and dusted. Once she got to the island, Margie predicted, s
wouldn't want to be talking on the telephone. She wouldn't even to think
about the city, or even her friends. There was a there; a different
perspective.

"I almost feel as though I have to say goodbye to the old

Margie said, "because believe me, she's not coming back."

"Now you're exaggerating," Rachel said.

"I am not," Margie said. "You'll see. The first couple

be restless, and thinking there's nothing to do, there's nobody about.
And then it'll slowly dawn on you that you don't need

You'll be sitting watching the clouds on the mountains, or a whale at
sea, or just listening to the rain on the roof--oh my Lord, so beautiful
when it rains--and you'll think: I don't need haven't got right now."

It seemed to Rachel each time Margie talked about the place spoke more
lovingly of it.

"How many times have you been there?" she asked.

"Just twice," Margie replied. "But I should never have gone the second
time. That was a nistake. I went for the wrong reasons second time."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's a long story," Margie said. "And it's not important.

got the first time ahead of you, and that's all that matters."

"So I get to be a virgin again," Rachel said.

"You know, honey, that's exactly right. You're going to be a again.

If Rachel had entertained any last doubts about taking the trip, they
evaporated once she got on the plane, settled back in her seat in the
first class cabin and took a sip of champagne. Even if the island wasn't
all that Margie had advertised it as being--and in truth nothing short
of Eden would match up to the promises--it was still good to be going
away where she wasn't known; where she could quietly and quirkily be
herself.

The first leg of the journey, to Los Angeles, was unremarkable. A couple
of glasses of alcohol and she began to feel pleasantly sleepy, and dozed
through most of the flight. There was a two-hour stopover in Los
Angeles, and she got off the plane to stretch her legs and get herself a
cup of coffee. The airport was frenetic, and she watched the parade of
people-- rushing, sweating, tearful, frustrated--like a visitor from
another world, interested but unmoved. When she got back on the plane
there was a delay. A minor mechanical problem, the captain explained;
nothing that would keep them on the ground for long. For once, the
prediction from the flight deck was correct. After twenty, perhaps
twenty-five minutes, the captain duly announced that the flight was now
ready for departure. Rachel stayed awake for the second flight. A little
tick of anticipation had begun in her. She found herself turning over in
her head things that Margie had said about the island and the house.
What was it she'd said at the lunch table? Something about it being a
place where magic still happened, miracles still happened?

If only, Rachel thought; if only she could get back to the beginning
again; back to the Rachel she'd been before the hurt, before the
disappointment. But when had that been, exactly? The careless Rachel,
who'd had some faith in the essential goodness of things; where was she?
It was years since she'd seen that brazen, happy creature in the mirror.
Life in Dansky--especially after the death of her father--had knocked
that girl to the ground and kept her from getting up again. She'd lost
hope by and by; hope that she'd ever be unburdened again, ever be
blithe, ever be wild. Even when Mitchell had come into her life, and
rned her into a princess, she'd not been able to shake her doubts. In
fact for the first two or three months, even after he'd confessed his
love for her, she'd been expecting him to tell her she needed to
brighten her outlook a little. But he seemed not to notice what a
quietly despairing partner he had. Or perhaps he had noticed, he'd just
assumed he could rescue her from her doubts with a touch of Geag
largesse.

Thinking about him, she became sad. Poor Mitchell; poor mistic Mitchell.
In parting from him, she had done both of kindness.

Honolulu Airport was much as she remembered it. Stores hula-hula girls
crudely carved from coconuts, and bars advertising ical cocktails,
parties of lei-draped travelers being led about by carrying notices on
sticks. And everywhere that preeminent the crass American tourist: the
Hawaiian print shirt. Was it the paradise Margie had described lay just
a twenty-minute fli this? It was hard to believe.

But her doubts started to fall away once she stepped outside to, the
charmingly dubbed Wikki-Wikki Shuttle that ferried her to the minal from
which her flight would depart. The air was balmy and grant. Though it
came off the sea, it came with the scent of blossom

The plane was small, but it was still less than half full. A good she
thought. She was leaving the Hawaiian-shirted vacationers The plane rose
more suddenly and more steeply than its brethren, and in what seemed
seconds she was looking down on turquoise ocean, and the high-rises of
Honolulu were gone from si

	VIII

T

he flight that carries the traveler from the high-rises of the Garden
Island is short; less than twenty-five minutes. Rachel's in the air let
me describe to you a scene that occurred two weeks before.

The place is a small, raffish town called Puerto Bueno, a nity which
probably takes the prize as the most unfrequented book. It is located on
one of the outlying islands of the Magallanes, which lies in Chile, at
the tip of South America. place people go to take relaxing vacations;
the islands are and charmless, many of them so desolate they are
completely ited. In such a region, a town like Puerto Bueno, which
boasts hundred citizens, represents a sizable community, but neighboring
islands talks about the place much. It is a town rule of law is only
loosely observed, which fact has over the attracted a motley collection
of men and women who have lived lives at, or sometimes beyond, the
limits of permissible behavior.

who have escaped justice or revenge in their own countries, who have
gone from one place to another looking for a place of refuge. A few have
even enjoyed a certain notoriety in the outside world. There was a man
who'd laundered fortunes for the Vatican; and a woman who'd murdered her
husband in Adelaide and who still kept a snapshot of the body in her
purse. But most of the citizens are unimportant felons-- abusers of
substances and forgers of banknotes-whose capture is not of great
significance to their pursuers.

Strange to say, given its populace, Puerto Bueno is a curiously
civilized little place. There is no crime, nor is the subject of crime
ever raised in conversation. The townspeople have turned their backs on
their pasts, and want only to live out their remaining years in peace.
Puerto Bueno isn't the most comfortable of places to retire (it has only
two stores, and the,electricity supply is tetchy) but it is preferable
to a prison cell or the grave. And on certain days it is possible to sit
on the crumbling harbor wall and--viewing a sky unmarked by the trails
of air craft--think that even this charmless spot is proof of God's
charity.

Very few boats come to drop anchor here. Occasionally a fishing vessel,
plying its way up and down the coast, takes shelter from a squall, and
even more occasionally a pleasure boat, its captain hopelessly lost,
will appear, only to disappear again just as soon as its passengers get
a glimpse of the town. Other than these, the harbor is a hospice for a
handful of small boats, none of which look healthy enough to put out to
sea again. In the winter, at least one of them will sink there in the
harbor, and rot.

But there was one vessel that fell into none of these categories: a
vessel, called The Samarkand, more practical than any of the fishing
boats and yet more beautiful than any of the pleasure boats. It was a
yacht, of sorts, the timbers of its hull not painted but stained and
varnished. Its cabin, wheel and two masts were likewise deeply stained,
so that in certain lights the grain of the wood was uncannily clear, as
though the vessel had been etched by a master draughtsman. As for the
sails, they were of course white, but they'd been repaired many times
over the years, and the patches were apparent; irregular shapes of
canvas that were slightly paler or darker.

Perhaps to most eyes it was not as remarkable a vessel as I'm making it
out to be. In one of the fancier marinas of the world, in Florida or San
Diego, it would have not looked particularly fine a thing, I suppose.
But here in Puerto Bueno, its arrival on a gray, cold day seemed like
the visitation of something from a realm of dreams. Even though its
captain (who was also its first mate and bosun and sole passenger) had
been

bringing the vessel to Puerto Bueno for far longer than any could
remember, its appearance on the horizon always brought down to the quay
to watch its approach. There was a certain ri its coming--like the
return of spring birds after a season of ice-- made even these hard
hearts a little more pliant.

Once the vessel was safely within the arms of the harbor,

the spectators would hurry away. They knew better than to watch actual
docking, or worse still spy on the solitary black man who tained this
boat as he disembarked. Indeed something very like stition had occurred
over the years that anyone watching

The Samarkand set foot on terra firma would die before a year or so
passed and the vessel came back again. All eyes were therefore when the
man known by just one name made his way up the hill to house he kept
high above the harbor. The name, of course, you know. It was Galilee.

How, you may well ask, did my half brother come to be kee ' dence in a
criminal community somewhere in the back of Chance, is the answer. He
had been sailing down the coast when--I one of those fishing boats I
made mention of earlier--he was seek refuge from a storm or be drowned.
Believe it or not, this was l an easy decision at the time. He had been
passing through a profound depression, and when the storm came he was to
let The Samarkand be driven before it and turned to timberwo0d' had
decided against this course not for his own sake but for that off
vessel, which he considered his only true friend. It was no decent for a
boat as noble as his to have its entrails washed up on this coast and
picked over by peasants. He had promised Samarkand that when the time
came he'd make certain it died a death, somewhere far, far from land.

So he took shelter in Puerto Bueno--which at that time was a ter of its
present size, or less, its harbor newly built, and unused. The man who'd
founded the construction was one Arturo gins, a man of English descent
who had lost all his money in endeavor, and had taken his own life the
year before. His house unoccupied at the top of the hill, and Galilee,
out of some perverse to see the place of suicide, had gone up the hill
and entered. visited the house since the body had been removed: gulls
had roost in its bedrooms, and there were rats' nests in the fireplace,
desolation suited the trespasser mightily. He purchased the house I

next day, from Higgins's daughter, and moved a few belongings in. The
view, on clear days, was peaceful, and he came to think of it as his
second home; his first, of course, being the vessel moored in the
harbor.

After a couple of weeks he'd departed, locking the house up behind him
and making it quietly known that anyone who ventured over the threshold
would regret it.

He'd not come back for thirteen months, but come back he did, sometimes
three or four times in a single year, sometimes with several years
intervening. He became a mystery of some note, and there's force to the
argument that the felons and the fugitives who came to the town
thereafter did so because they'd heard of him. If this is so, you may
ask, then why did the tale of the voyager, a man with divine blood
running in his veins, not also attract a few finer spirits? It's a
reasonable question. Why didn't saints come to Puerto Bueno, and
Galilee's presence turn it into a town where the lame skipped and the
dumb sang patter songs?

I have only this answer: he was too crippled. How could his legend
inspire healing saints when he was incapable of healing himself?

So there you have the way things were, until a week or so before Rachel
departed for Hawaii.

It happened that Galilee was not out at sea at that time, but resident
in the house on the hill. He'd brought The Samarkand into Puerto Bueno
because it was in need of repairs, and for the last few weeks he'd been
back and forth between the harbor and the house daily, laboring from
dawn to dusk on repairing the boat, and spending the hours of darkness
sitting at the window of the Higgins house looking out over the Pacific.
He would not let anybody set foot on The Samarkand to help him. He was a
perfectionist: no other hand but his could be put to the tasks of
nailing and planing and staining. Occasionally some inquisitive soul
would idle along the quayside and watch him at work, but his glare was
enough to drive them away after a little while. Only once did he engage
in any social activity in the town, and that was one windy night-just a
few days before his departure-when he appeared at the little bar on the
hill where it seemed half of Puerto Bueno's citizens came to drink on
any given evening, and downed enough brandy to have pole axed any man in
the bar. All it did was make Galilee a little merry, and he became quite
loquacious-at least by previous standards. Those who talked with him
came away with the flattering impression that he'd opened up to them:
shared a few intimacies. The following morning, however, when they came
to repeat what he'd .said, they could recall very little that had
pertained to

Galilee himself. His conversation, it seemed, had been a form of ing;
and when he had chimed in with something it had invariabl fragment of
somebody else's life he'd been recounting.

Two days later, his work on The Samarkand seemed sudde become much more
intensive. He worked the next seventy-two without a break, his nightly
labors lit by hurricane lamps set all the boat. It was as though he'd
suddenly been given sailing orders, was obliged to depart sooner than
he'd expected.

Sure enough, he was at the general store in the late

the third day of his labors, ordering supplies. His manner was his
expression thunderous: nobody dared ask him where he was this time. The
supplies were delivered to the boat by Hernand, son of the owner of the
store; Galilee paid him extravagantly efforts, and asked the young man
if he'd apologize to Hernandez Galilee's behalf; that he knew he'd been
less than civil earlier in the. and he'd meant to cause no offense by
it.

That was the last conversation anyone in Puerto Bueno hac their fellow
citizen during his visit. Galilee weighed anchor as the fell, and The
Samarkand slipped out of the tiny harbor on the tide, to destinations
much speculated upon, but unknown.

I 'icodemus, as I've already indicated, was a man of

 N energies. He loved all things erotic (except books, of doubt more
than two consecutive minutes ever passed ing some sexual thought. Nor
was his interest limited to superhuman, congress. He enjoyed the
spectacle of an in whatever skin it showed itself. His horses
especially, of loved to watch his horses luck. Many times he'd be right
there them, in a fine old sweat himself, whispering now to the stalli6n,
the mare, encouraging them in the act. And if things weren't going he'd
have his hands in the heat of things, helping it all along. bating the
stallion if need be, and guiding him home if he was touching the mare
with such tenderness she'd be calmed and

I remember one such incident with particular clarity; it perhaps two
years before his death. He had a horse called

which he was particularly proud. And with reason. This was a stallion in
the genes of which I'm certain my father had divinely meddled, for I
never saw, nor expect to ever see again, so remarkable a horse. Forget
all you've heard of Arabian stallions, or of the warrior steeds of the
Kazak. Dumnzzi was another order of animal, preternaturally intelligent,
exquisitely proportioned and magnificently formed. His bloodline, if it
had survived, would have redefined what we understand by the word
"horse." I've sometimes wondered if my father hadn't been sculpting this
splendor as a kind of inspiration to the human world; a species of such
perfection it would make all who witnessed its strength and beauty
meditate on the sublimity of creation. (Then again: perhaps it was
merely a selfish indulgence and he intended to keep Dumuzzi's son and
daughters at UEnfant; I will probably never know.)

The point is: the night of which I speak there was a thunderstorm of
majestic scale, which had been moving in since the late afternoon.
Darkness had fallen prematurely, as great bruise-and-iron clouds covered
the last of the sun. Even at several miles distance the thunder was so
deep it made the ground shake.

The horses were panicky, of course; in no mood to be fucking. Especially
Dumuzzi, whose only real frailty was temperamental: he seemed to know he
was a special creature and was wont to behave operatically. That night
he was feeling particularly difficult: when my father came to the stable
to prepare him Dumuzzi stamped and kicked and refused every calming
word. I remember suggesting to Nicodemus that we try again the following
morning, when the storm had passed, but there was a battle of wills here
that no suggestion of mine was going to pacify. Nicodemus addressed
Dumuzzi as he might have spoken to an inebriated and volatile friend;
told him that he was in no mood for this drama, and the sooner Dumuzzi
calmed down and began to behave sensibly, the better for all concerned.
Dumuzzi ignored the warning; if anything his shenanigans escalated. He
kicked his trough to splinters, and then kicked a hole in the stable
wall--just punched out a dozen bricks as though they were so much
papier-mach4. I wasn't afraid for my father-at that time I believed him
immune from harm--but I was certainly anxious for my own safety. In my
various travels on behalf of Nicodemus, in search of great horses, I'd
seen what harm they could do. I'd visited the grave of a breeder in
Limoges who'd had his brain kicked to mush two days before I arrived (by
the very horse I'd come to view); I'd seen another fellow, in the Tian
Shan mountains, who'd lost his hands to an irate mare, just had them
bitten off: one! two! And I'd seen horses fight among themselves until
there was more blood on their

flanks and the ground beneath their hooves than in their veins. So I
was, afraid for my limbs and my life, but unable to take my eyes
spectacle before me. The storm was almost overhead by Dumuzzi was in an
eye-rolling frenzy. Sparks of static electricity and down his mane, and
leapt between his hooves and the complaints were so loud they cut
through the thunder.

Nicodemus was undismayed. He'd dealt with countless fra animals in his
time; for all Dumuzzi's heroic strength and size, just one more. After
some struggle, my father bridled the dragged him out of the stable to
the open ground where he mare tethered. As I describe this now my heart
has quickened, the is so vivid in my mind's eye: the lightning erupting
in the clouds head, the horses shrieking in their hysteria, foamy lips
curled back lethal teeth; Nicodemus yelling at his beauties against the
din storm, the front of his trousers showing plainly how much this
aroused him.

I swear he looked half-bestial himself, by the glare of the li

his hair, which hung to his waist when he was standing still, around
him, his face cracked in half by a rabid smile, his skin cent. If he'd
lost all trace of his human form then and and stretched and cracked his
spine to become some other horse, a storm; a little of both)--I wouldn't
have been surprised. more astonished that his humanity held in the midst
of this; didn't unleash himself. Perhaps it excited him better to be his
anatomy in such circumstances; to have to sweat and fight.

There he was--divinity made flesh, and that flesh becoming
animal--hauling the protesting Dumuzzi into the of the mare. I thought
the last thing the stallion would want to do luck, but I was wrong.
Nicodemus insinuated himself between the horses and proceeded to arouse
them: rubbing their flanks, their their heads, and all the while talking
to them. Despite his Dumuzzi became hot for the mare. His massive
phallus sheathed, and he promptly threw himself up on her. Still patting
and rubbing, my father took hold of the stallion's rod and at the mare's
opening. Dumuzzi needed no help with the rest. ered the mare with the
efficiency of one born to the task.

My father stood back and let them couple. His entire body

to be bristling: I swear to have touched him then we'uld have fatal to
my common heart. He was no longer laughing. His drooped, his shoulders
were hunched: he seemed like a stalking tot, ready to tear out the
throats of these creatures should they fail

They didn't. Though the storm continued to rage around--the lightning so
frequent it visited a ghastly vivid day upon this midnight, he thunder
so loud its reverberations shook down several trees and cracked a .dozen
windows in the house--the animals fucked and fucked and fucked, their
panic subsumed into the frenzy of their mating.

The foal that came of this coupling was a male. Nicodemus called

him Temujin, the birth name of Genghis Khan. As for Dumuzzi, he seemed
to dote on my father thereafter; as though that night they'd become
brothers. I say seemed because I suspect the animal's devotion was a
sham. Why do I think that? Because the night my father died the panicked
charge that trampled him to death was led by Dumuzzi, whose eyes carried
in them--I swear--a flicker of revenge.

Fve told you all this in part to give you a better picture of my father,
whose presence in this story must necessarily be anecdotal, and in part
because it serves as a reminder to me of the capacities that lie dormant
in my nature.

As I said at the opening of the chapter, my own libido is a pitiful echo
of Nicodemus's sexual appetites. My erotic life has never been
particularly complex or interesting, except for a short period in Japan,
when I was courting, in the most formal fashion, Ghiyojo, the woman who
would become my wife, while nightly sharing the bed of her brother
Takeda, who was a Kabuki actor of some renown (an onagatta, to be
precise; that is to say, he only played women). Otherwise, the scandals
of my sexual life would not fill a small pamphlet.

And yet--as I prepare to enter the portion of this story dedicated to
the act of love, I can't help wondering where my father's fire went to
when it flowed into me. Is there a lover in me somewhere, waiting for
his moment to show his skills? Or has that energy been turned to less
frenetic purpose? Is it what fuels my laying these very words on the
page? Have the juices of Nicodemus' desire become the ink in my pen?

I've taken the analogy too far. Ah well. It's written, and I'm not going
to abort it now, after so much effort.

I have to move on. Leave the memories of my father, and the Storm, and
the horses. I only hope that if the passion which drives me to ray desk
(obsessively now; every waking moment I'm thinking about what I've
written, or about to write) isn't as blind and confused as love can be.
I need clarity. Oh Lord, how I need clarity!

You see there are times now, often, when I think to myself: I've lost
ray way. I've got all these tantalizing pieces laid out, but I don't
know

how to put them together. They seem so utterly disparate: the fish,

at Atva, the hanged monks, Zelim in Samarkand; a letter from

facing death on a Givil War battlefield; a silent movie star

Germany, loved by a man too rich to know his true worth;

Geary dead in a car on a Long Island shore, and Loretta's astrologer

dieting catastrophe; Rachel Pallenberg, out of love with love,

Galilee Barbarossa, out of love with life itself. How the hell do all

pieces belong in one coherent pattern?

Perhaps (this thought nauseates me, but I have to entertain it) don't
belong together. Perhaps I lost my bearings some while ago, I've simply
been gathering up pieces that for all their individual ness can never be
made to fit together.

Well, it's too late to do anything about it now. I can't stop I've got
too much momentum. I have to forge on, using whatever part of my
father's genius I've inherited to interpret the scenes ofhl need which
are about to come before me, and hope that in their preting I'll
discover some way to make sense of all that I've hitherto.

		ii

One last thing. I can't let another chapter go by without making

tion of the conversation I had with Luman.

	I don't want you to think I'm a coward; I'm not. I fully realize

at some point I have to address the accusations my

me; both face to face with him, and face to face with m,

say: here, in this book). He said my devotion to Nicodemus was in

measure the reason for my wife's death; that if I'd been the

band I claimed I would not have turned a blind eye to Chiyojo's

tion. I would have told Nicodemus she was mine, and he was to

his hands off her. I didn't. I let him work his wiles upon her,

paid the price.

	I'm guilty as charged.

	There; I've admitted it. Now what? It's too late to make

Ghiyojo. At least I can't do so here; if her ghost still walks the

realm--which I suspect it does-then she's, at home in the hil].

Ichinoseki, waiting for the cherry trees to blossom. .'

The only peace I can make here in L'Enfant is with Luman, don't doubt
stirred up this trouble between us out of perfectly motives. He's not a
man who knows how to conceal his thoughts had an. opinion and he spat it
out. Not only that, but what he said right, though it agonizes me to
admit the fact. I should go down to

smoke House (with a conciliatory offering of cigars) and tell him that
I'm sorry for my outburst; that I want us to start talking again.

But I fear the fliought of venturing down that overgrown path to the
Smoke House door makes my head ache: I can't do it. At least not yet.
The time will come, I'm sure, when I have no excuses left--when I
haven't got a character suspended in the air-and I'll go make my
apologies.

Maybe I'll go tomorrow, or the day after. When I've written about the
island, that's when I'll go. Yes, that's it. Once I've cleared my head
of all that I have to tell you about the island, and what happened to
Rachel there, I'll be in a better state to sit and talk with him. He
deserves my full attention, after all, and I can't possibly give it to
him when I'm so distracted.

I feel a little better now. I've confessed my guilt, and that's oddly
comforting. I won't undermine that confession by attempting to justify
what I did. I was weak, and too eager to please. But I can't leave this
passage without returning to the image of Nicodemus, the night of the
storm. He was a rare creature, no question of that; I think many sons
would have put their service to such a father before their duties as a
husband. The irony is this: that if I hoped to be like him, as I did,
and that in letting him have Chiyojo I would gain his approbation, and
come closer to him, I worked against my own interests with heroic
thoroughness. In one night I lost my idol, I lost my wife, and--let this
be said, once and for all-I lost myself. What little there was of me--a
self separate from my desire to please my father--was trampled under the
same hooves that took his life. It's only been in the last few weeks, as
I've been writing this history, that my sense of a soul called Maddox,
alive in my flesh and worthy of preservation, has appeared. I suppose
the moment of my rebirth was the moment I walked out of the skyroom,
leaving the wheelchair behind me.

Another irony, of Course: the strength to do that was ignited in me by
my stepmother; she's the architect of my resurrection. Even if she
doesn't want payment for that service--beyond the words I'm writing--I
know there's a debt to be paid; and with every sentence, every
paragraph, the Maddox who will make that payment comes into dearer
focus.

This is what I see: a man who has just confessed his guilt, and will
make amends, in time. A man who loves telling stories, and will find a

way to understand what he's telling, in time. And a man who is of love,
and who will find somebody to love again--oh please in time, in time.

X

R

achel's first view of Kaua'i was tantalizingly brief; just glimpse a
series of bright scalloped beaches, and lush, Then the plane was making
its steep descent into the airport at and moments later a bumpy landing.
The airport was small and She wandered through to pick up her bags,
keeping her eyes the manager of the house where she'd be staying. And
there dutifully standing by the tiny baggage carousel, with a cart for
her gage. They recognized one another at the same moment.

"Mrs. Geary..." he said, forsaking his cart to come and himself before
her. "I'm Jimmy Hornbeck."

"Yes. I thought it must be you. Margie told me to look out best-pressed
clothes on Kaua'i."

Jimmy laughed. "So that's my reputation," he said. "Well, pose it could
be worse."

They exchanged a few pleasantries about the flights until gage arrived,
then he led the way out into the sunshine.

"If you'd like to wait here," he said, "I'll go and fetch the bring it
round for you. It saves you the walk to the parking lot."

She didn't protest this; she was perfectly happy to stand on walk and
feel the ocean breeze on her face. It seemed as she she could feel the
grime and anxiety of New York ooze out of her Soon, she'd wash it all
away.

Hornbeck was back with the vehicle-which looked robust

for jungle exploration--in two or three minutes. Another minute to]
Rachel's bags, and then they were out of the little maze of roads the
airport and onto the closest thing the island had to a highway.

"I'm sorry about the transport, by the way," he said. "I

to pick you up in something a bit more civilized, but the road

house has deteriorated so badly in the last couple of months--" "Oh,
really?"

"We've had a lot of rain recently, which is why the island looks
ticularly lush at the moment."

Lush was an understatement. Off to the left of the highway, toward the
island's interior, were fields of rich red earth and green sugar cane.
Beyond them, velvety hills, rising in ambition as they receded, until
they became steep peaks whose heights were draped with sumptuous cloud.

"The problem is that the little backroads just aren't being taken care
of the way they should be," Hornbeck was saying. "And there's a lit.

	the tussle going on right now about who's actually responsible for the
road to the house. The local council says it's really part of the
property,

and so I should be getting money from your people to get it fixed. But
that's nonsense. It's public property. The council should be filling in
the holes, not a private contractor."

Rachel was only half-attending to this. The beauty of the fields and
mountains--and on the other side of the highway, the blue, pounding
ocean-had claimed her attentions.

"So this argument has been going on for two years," Hornbeek went on.
"Two years! And of course nothing's going to be done about the road
until it's resolved. Which means it just deteriorates whenever there's
rain. It's very frustrating so I apologize--"

"There's really no need..." Rachel said dreamily. "-for the vehicle."
"Really," she said, "it's fine."

"Well just as long as you understand. I don't want you thinking I'm

neglecting my duties."

"Hm?"

"When you see the road."

She glanced at the man, and saw by his fretful demeanor, and the
whiteness of his knuckles, that he was genuinely concerned that his job
was in jeopardy. As far as he was concerned she was a visiting
potentate; he was afraid of making a mistake.

"Don't worry, James. Do people call you James or Jim?" "Usually Jimmy,"
he said. "You're English, yes?"

"I was born and raised in London. But then I came here. It'll be thirty
years ago n.e,x,t November. And I said to myself: this is perfect. So I
never went back.

"And you still think it's perfect?"

"Sometimes I get a little stir-crazy," Jimmy admitted. "But then you get
a day like today and you think: where else would I want to be? I mean,
look at it."

Rachel looked back toward the mountains. The clouds had parted on the
heights, and the sun was breaking through.

"Can you see the waterfalls?" Jimmy said. She could. threads of water
plummeting down from cracks in the mountai "Up there's the wettest place
on earth," Jimmy informed her.

Waialeale gets about forty feet of rain a year. It's raining right
now.", "Have you been up?"

"I've taken a helicopter trip once or twice. It's spectacular. If like
I'll organize a flight for you. One of my best friends runs operation
down in Po'ipu. He and his brother-in-law pilot these choppers."

"I don't know that I trust helicopters."

"It's really the best way to see the island. And if you ask Tort

take you out over the ocean whale-spotting." "Oh that I'd like to see."
"You like whales?"

"I've never seen any up close."

"I can arrange that too," Jimmy said. "I can have a boat o for you at a
day's notice."

"That's kind, Jimmy. Thank you."

"No problem. That's what I'm here for. If there's anything, need, just
ask."

They were coming into a little town--Kapa'a, Jimmy her-where there were
some regrettable signs of mainland Beside the small stores of
well-weathered clapboard stood the tous hamburger franchise, its gaud
somewhat suppressed by island nance or corporate shame, but still ugly.

"There's a wonderful restaurant here in Kapa'a which is booked up, but-"

"Let me guess. You have a friend--"

Jimmy laughed. "I do indeed. They always keep a

open each night, for special guests. Actually, I think your

stepmother invested some money in the place." "Loretta?" "That's right."

"When was she last here?"

"Oh... it must be ten years, maybe more."

"Did she come with Cadmus?"

"No, no. On her own. She's quite a lady."

"She is indeed."

He looked over at Rachel. Clearly he had more to say on the ject, but
was afraid to say anything out of place.

"Go on ..." Rachel said.

"I was just thinking that.., well, you're different from the other

ladies I've met. I mean, the other members of the family."

"How SO?"

"Well, you're just less.., how should I put it?"

"Imperious."

He chuckled. "Yes. That's good. Imperious. That's perfect."

They had emerged from Kapa'a by now, and the road, which still hugged
the coastline, became narrower and more serpentine. There was very
little traffic. A few of the locals passed by in rusted trucks, there
was a small group of bicyclists sweating on one of the inclines, and now
and then they were overtaken by a slicker vehicle--tourists, Jimmy
remarked, a little contemptuously. There were however several long
stretches when they were the only travelers on the road.

Nor was there much evidence of a human presence beyond the highway.
Occasionally there'd be a house visible between the trees, sometimes a
church (most so small they could only have served a tiny

congregation), and on the beaches a handful of fishermen.

"Is it always this quiet?" Rachel asked.

"No, it's off-season right now," Jimmy said. "And we're only slowly
recovering from the last hurricane. It closed a lot of the hotels and
some

of them still haven't reopened."

"But they will?"

"Of course. You can't hold back the rule of Mammon for ever."

"The rule of what?"

"Mammon. The demon of acquisitiveness? I mean commerce. People
exploiting the island for profit."

She looked back at the mountain, which in the ten minutes since she'd
last glanced toward the interior had transformed yet again. "It seems
such a pity," she said, picturing the Hawaiian-shirred tourists she'd
seen in Honolulu traipsing through this Eden, leaving trails of Coke
cans and half-eaten hamburgers.

"Of course he wasn't always a demon," Jimmy went on. "I think originally
he was a she: Mammetun, the mother of desires. She's Sumer-Babylonian.
And with a name like that she probably had a lot of breasts. It's the
same root as mammary. And Mama, of course." M1 this he said in an
uninflected voice, almost as though he were talking to

himself. "Don't mind me," he said.

"No, it's interesting," she said.

"I was a student of comparative religion in my younger days."

"What made you study that?"

"Oh... I don't know. Mysteries, I suppose. Things I explain. There's a
lot of that here."

Rachel glanced again at the clouded mountains. "Maybe why it's so
beautiful," she said.

"Oh, I like that," Jimmy murmured. "No beauty without m'

hadn't really thought about it that way before, but that's nice. "I'm
sorry?"

"The thought," he said. "It's elegant."

	They drove on in silence for a time, while Rachel pondered the

	that a thought, of all things, could be elegant. It was a new idea for

	People were sometimes elegant, clothes could of course be

	even an age; but a thought? Her musings were interrupted

		"You see the cliff straight ahead of us? The house is half a

	from there."

		"Margie said it was right on the beach."

		"Fifty yards from the ocean, if that. You can practically fish

	your bedroom window." :

		Despite this promise the road now took them out of sight

	water, descending by a winding route to a bridge. They were now in:

	shadow of the crag which Jimmy had pointed out earlier, the

	the river which the bridge spanned, a torrent of water that

	down the rock face above.

		"Hang on," Jimmy said, once they were over the bridge,

	going on to that lousy road I was telling you about."

		Moments later they made a hard right, and just as Jimmy

	warned, the road deteriorated rapidly, the hard asphalt of the hi

	replaced by a pitted, puddled track that wound back and

	trees that had obviously not been trimmed for many years, their

	branches, heavy with blossom and foliage, brushing the top

	vehicle.

		"Watch out for the dog!" Rachel yelled over the din of the

	engine.

		"I see him," Jimmy said, and leaning out of the window,

	the yellow mutt, who continued to sit in the middle of the track

	the last possible moment, when it lazily raised its flea-bitten rump

	sauntered to safety.

		There was other animal traffic on the track: a fine-lookin

	strutted about while his wives pecked in the ruts of the road. This

Jimmy didn't need to yell. They were up in a flurry of aborted little
flights, and into the dense foliage of what had once perhaps been
hedgerows. Here and there, when there was a break in the greenery, she
saw signs of habitation. A small house, in an advanced state of
disrepair; a piece of farm machinery, rusted beyond reclamation, in a
field that had mutinied many seasons before.

"Are there people living around here?"

"Very few," he said. "There was a flood about four years ago. Terrible
rains; disastrous. In maybe two or three hours the river washed out the
bridge we crossed, and washed a lot of houses away at the same time. A
few people came back to rebuild. But a lot more decided to go somewhere
less risky."

"Was anybody hurt?"

"Three people drowned, including a little kiddie. But the waters never
came as far as the Geary house. So you're quite safe."

During this conversation the track had deteriorated yet further, if that
were possible, the thicket to the left and right so fecund it threatened
to obliterate the track completely. Now the birds that rose before the
vehicle were not wild chickens but species Rachel had never seen before,
winged flashes of scarlet and iridescent blue.

"Mmost there," Jimmy promised, as the track threw the vehicle back and
forth. "I hope you didn't pack any fine china." There was one last kink
in the rutted track, which Jimmy took a little too fast. The vehicle
tipped sideways, and for a few moments it seemed they'd overturn. Rachel
let out a little shout of alarm.

"Sorry," Jimmy said. The vehicle righted itself with a thump and a
squeak. He applied the brakes, and brought them to a halt perhaps ten or
twelve yards from a pair of large wooden gates. "We're here," he
announced.

He turned off the engine, and there was a sudden flood of music from the
birds in the trees and thicket, and from somewhere out of siglt, the
thump and draw of the ocean.

"Do you want to go in alone, or shall I show you around?"

"I wouldn't mind just a couple of minutes on my own," she said.

"Of course," he said. "Take your time. I'll just unload the baggage, and
have a cigarette."

She got out of the vehicle.

"I wouldn't mind one of those," she said, as Jimmy lit up.

He proffered the packet. "I'm sorry, I should have offered. So few folks
smoke these days."

"I don't usually. But it's a special occasion."

She took a cigarette. He lit it for her. She drew a lungful

smoke. It was the first cigarette she'd had in a while, and the rush her
feel pleasantly light-headed: a perfect state, in fact, to enter the

She went to the gate, stepping gingerly between the frogs

in the long, damp grass, and lifted the latch. The gate opened her
needing to push it. She glanced back at Hornbeck. He was with his back
to her, staring up at the sky. Comforted that he was good as his word,
and would not be interrupting her, she ste, through the gate and into
the presence of the house.

t was not magnificent; not by any stretch of the imagination. .modest
structure, built in the plantation style, a veranda around it, shuttered
windows and pale pink walls. For perhaps thirds of its length it was a
single story, but at one end a second been added, giving the whole
structure a lopsided look. The portion of the roof were ocher rather
than reddish brown, as elsewhere, and the windows were mismatched, but
none the place of its charm. Quite the reverse. She was so used to ments
that had been designed by protofascists, polished and that it was a
relief to discover the house was so quirky.

All of this would have been beguiling enough had it stood tion, but it
did not. The house was entirely swathed in greenery blossom. Giddy palms
swayed languidly over its roof and vines over its veranda and along the
eaves.

She fingered at the gate for a minute or so to take all this in. Y she
took a last drag of the cigarette, put it out beneath her heel, wandered
up the front path to the door. Vivid green geckos ahead of her like a
nervous welcoming committee, ushering her threshold.

She opened the front door. Before her was an extraordinary The interior
doors stood open, and by some conceit of the so aligned that standing on
the doorstep a visitor might see house and out the other side, as far as
the glittering ocean. The themselves were dark--especially by contrast
with the sunny

so for a few enchanted moments it seemed she was staring into a dark
maze in which a sliver of sky and sea had been caught.

She paused there on the threshold to admire the illusion, then stepped
inside. The impression she'd had from the exterior--that this was by no
means as luxurious a property as the rest the Gearys owned-- was quickly
confirmed. The place smelt pleasantly musty; not the must of neglect,
perhaps, but rather of walls dampened by the sea air, or by the humidity
of the island. She wandered from room to room to get some general sense
of the layout of the place. The house was furnished eclectically, almost
as though it had been at some time a repository of items that had some
sentimental attachment. None of it matched. Around the dining
table-which was itself scored and nicked and stained--were five
distinctively different wooden chairs, and one pair. In the sizable
kitchen the pots and pans that hung overhead were refugees from a dozen
mis j matched sets. The cushions that were heaped in hedonistic excess
on the sofa were similarly unlike. Only the pictures on the walls showed
any sign of homogeny. By contrast with the austere modernist pieces
Mitchell had chosen for Rachel's apartment, or the vast American West
paintings Cadmus collected (he owned a Bierstadt the size of a wall),
there were modest little watercolors and pencil sketches hung every
where--all renderings of the island: bays and boats; studies of blossoms
or of butterflies. On the stairs was a series of drawings of the house,
which though unsigned and undated had obviously been made many years
before: the paper was yellowed, the pencil marks fading.

The furniture upstairs was every bit as odd as that below. One of the
beds looked spartan enough for a barracks, but shared its room with a
chaise lounge that would not have shamed a boudoir, while the master
bedroom contained furniture which had been carved and painted with
bowers of strange flora, in the midst of which naked men and Women lay
in blissful sleep. The paint had been worn to flecks of color over the
years, and the carving itself was crude, but the presence of these
pieces rendered the room strangely magical.

She thought again of what Margie had said about the place. It was
proving to be true. She'd been on the island perhaps two hours and
already she had felt its enchantment at work.

She went to the window. From it she had a view across the small unkempt
lawn to a patch of low-lying scrub, on the other side of which lay the
beach, its sand bright in the sunlight; and a little way beyond that the
glittering turquoise water.

There was no doubt which bedroom she was going to use, she thought,
throwing herself back on the bed like a ten-year old. "Oh

God--" she said, throwing her eyes up to the ceiling, "--thank you this.
Thank you so much."

By the time she came back downstairs Jimmy had her bags on doorstep, and
was dutifully standing among them, lighting up cigarette.

"Bring them in," she told him. He went to toss the cigarette

"No, you can smoke inside the house, Jimmy."

"Are you sure?"

"I will be," she said. "I'll be smoking and drinking and--" halted
there: what else would she be doing? "And eating shouldn't."

"Speaking of which... ," Jimmy said, "the cook's name is and she lives a
couple of miles from here. Her sister comes in to four times a week, but
you can have her come in every day if you'd

fer, to change the bed--"

"No, that's fine."

"I took the liberty of stocking up the fridge and the freezer food. Oh,
and there's a few bottles of wine and so forth in one oft kitchen
cabinets. Just send Heidi into Kapa'a for whatever else

need. I presume you're taking the larger bedroom?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll take the luggage up."

He went to his task, leaving Rachel to finish her exploration house. She
wandered to the French windows through which she'd glimpsed the beach,
unlocked them and stepped out into the There were some weather-beaten
chairs and a small wrought out here; along with more vines, more
blossoms, more geckos terflies. The wind had deposited an enormous
desiccated palm on the stairs. She stepped over it and went down to the
lawn, her set on the beach itself. The water looked wonderfully

waves breaking like soft, creamy thunder.

"Mrs. Geary?"

Jimmy was calling, but it wasn't until he'd done so three times she
snapped out of her mesmerized state and remembered that she the Mrs.
Geary he was calling to. She turned back toward the was even more
beautiful from this direction than from the front. wind and rain coming
off the sea had battered it a little more this side; and the vegetation,
as though to compensate for its cradled it more lushly. I could live
here forever, she thought.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Geary--"

"Please call me Rachel."

"Thank you. Rachel it'll be. I put your bags up in your room, and I've
left a list with my telephone number and Heidi's number, on the kitchen
counter. Oh by the way--I almost forgot--there's a jeep in the garage.
If you want something fancier I'll rent something for you. I'm sorry
I've got to rush away, but I have a church meeting..."

"No, that's fine," Rachel said. "You've done more than enough."

"I'll be off then," he said, heading back into the house. "If there's

anything you need.., anything at all." "Thank you. I'm sure I'll be
fine."

"Then I'll see you soon," he said, waving as he departed for the front
door.

She heard it slam, then listened for the sound of the vehicle as he
drove away. At last, it faded completely, leaving her with birdsong and
sea.

"Perfect," she said to herself, imitating Jimmy's slightly clipped
English pronunciation. It wasn't a word she would have thought of using
until she'd heard it on Jimmy's lips; but was there any place on earth,
or any time in her life, when it had seemed more appropriate?

No; this was perfect, perfect.

XII

I S

he decided, now that Jimmy was gone and she had the house to herself, to
delay her visit to the beach and instead shower and make herself a
drink. He'd stocked the kitchen with wonderful thoroughness. When she'd
cleaned up and changed out of her traveling clothes into a light summer
dress, she went in search of the makings of a Bloody Mary and to her
delight found all she needed. A bottle of vodka, tomato juice, Tabasco
sauce, a little horseradish; even celery. Drink in hand she made one
telephone call to Margie, to tell her that she'd arrived safely. Margie
Wasn't home, so she left a message, and then headed out to the beach.

The balmy afternoon had mellowed into a lovely evening; the last of the
sun catching the heads of the palms, and gilding the clouds as they
sailed on south. A couple of hundred yards from her a trio of local boys
were surfing, shouting to one another as they plowed up an dover the
waves to catch a ride. Otherwise, the vast crescent of the beach was

deserted. She set her glass in the sand and walked down to the venturing
in until she was calf-deep. The shallows were warm, over sand heated by
a day of sun. She let the waves break against legs, the spray splashing
her torso, her neck, her face.

The trio of surfers had meanwhile given up their sport for the and had
built a small fire at the top of the beach, which they were ing with
driftwood. Rachel was starting to feel somewhat chilly, so left the
water and went back up the sand to fetch her drink. It was than twenty
minutes since she'd stepped out of the house, but tropical dusk was
already almost over. The clouds and palms had their gold, and there were
eager stars overhead.

She drained the spicy dregs of her Bloody Mary, and went b. the house.
In her haste to be out on the beach she'd neglected to any lights on,
and once she got onto the path that wound through scrub she was
stumbling in near darkness. But the house, even in murk, looked
beautiful, its pale walls and white paintwork all bluish the deepening
night. She'd forgotten what it was like to be in a where there were no
street lights nor ear lights; not even a distant glow to taint the sky.
It made her aware of the world in a new way; rather, a very old way that
she was suddenly rediscovering. She nuances in the air around her she
would normally have missed, in t voices of flogs and nightbirds, in the
subtle shifting of palm and smelled a dozen different scents: up out of
the dewy earth beneath feet, and from blooms the night was hiding.

Eventually she got back to the house, and after some around switched on
a couple of lamps. Then she went u change out of her damp clothes. As
she did so she caught sight self in the long dressing mirror in the
bedroom. What she laugh out loud: in the space of a few minutes the
combined wind and sea-spray had made a wild woman of her: tangled
reddened her cheeks; undone any pretensions to chieness she mi have
entertained. No matter; she liked what she saw. Perhaps she been
entirely tamed by sorrow and the Gearys. Perhaps the she'd been in the
easy years before Daddy's death, before the pointment of Gincinnati and
all that came after, was still alive in Yes, there! There! Smiling at
her out of the mirror: the wildling of her youth, the scourge of
schoolmistress and sheriffs,

who'd loved nothing more than to make mischief; there she was. "Where
the hell have you been?" she said to herself.

I never left, that smile seemed to say. I was just waiting until time
was right to show myself again.

She made herself a light supper of cold cuts and cheese, and opened a
bottle of wine-red, not white, for a change; something with a bit of
body to it. Then she curled up on the sofa, and ate. There was a small
television in the living room, but she had no desire to watch it. If the
stock market had crashed, or the White House gone up in flames, so what?
The rest of the world and its problems could go to hell, at least

for now.

Halfway through her leisurely meal, the phone rang. She was sorely
tempted to let it ring out, but thinking it was probably Jimmy Hornbeck
checking to see that she was comfortable she picked up. It wasn't
Hornbeck, it was Margie, returning her call. She sounded weary.

"What time is it in New York?"

"I don't know: two, two4hirty," Margie said. "Are you all settled in7"
"I'm perfect," Rachel said. "It's even better than 5ou said it would
be." "It's just beginning, honey," Margie said. "You'll be amazed what
happens when you get into the rhythm of the place. Did you take the big
bedroomT"

"With all of the carved furniture..."

"Isn't that place amazing?"

"The whole house is amazing," Rachel replied. "I felt right at home as
soon as I stepped inside."

"You'll never guess where I've been," Margie said. "Where?" "With
Gadmus."

"Loretta had a dinner party?" "No, just the two of us." "What did he
want?"

"It was weird. He swore me to secrecy. But I'll tell you when you

get back." She laughed. "I don't know," she said. "This family." "What
about it7"

"All the men are crazy," Margie said. "And I think we must be even
crazier, because we fell in love with the bastards." Her voice dropped
to

a whisper. "I've got to go, honey. I hear Garrison. Love you." Without
waiting for a reply, she put down the phone.

The call unsettled Rachel slightly, putting back into her head a notion
she didn't want there: that until she divorced Mitchell she was a part
of the Geary sto.

She was too tired for the uneasiness to keep her from sleep, however.
The bed was a joy to lie in, when she got there; the pillows deep,

the sheets fragrant. She had scarcely pulled the cover up over her then
she was gone into a place where the Gearys -- their crazy men, sad
women, their secrets and all--could not come after her.

XIII

I S

he woke at first light, got up, went to the window, admired the the
world was looking, and went straight back to bed for an, three blissful
hours. Only then did she clamber out of bed and go to brew herself some
coffee. The feeling of rediscovery she'd enced the night before-dead
senses awakened, the wildling the mirror--had not deserted her; nor did
the morning light the charms of the house. She was as happy wandering
around as been the afternoon before; every shelf and nook carried some
new esting item. She'd even missed a couple of rooms in her I: rations:
one a little writing room facing out to a side yard, with a some old,
comfortable chairs and several shelves ofwell4humbed the other a much
smaller room, which seemed to have been used depository for items found
on the beach: pieces of sea-smoothed shells, fragments of coral, lengths
of unraveling rope, even a box filled with stones that had caught some
beachcomber's eye. most promising discovery however was in a cupboard in
the living a collection of old phonograph records, still nearly sleeved;
and on shelf above a player. The last time she'd seen either was at the
Caleb's Creek, although these recordings looked to be much older
anything in George's treasured collection. Later, she promised she'd
select a few tunes and see if she could get the phonograph running. That
would be her one and only project for the

Toward noon, having made herself some brunch (:

she was surprised at how hungry she was, given how little she'd she went
back down to the beach, this time intending to take a along its entire
length. Halfway along the path a brown hen darted in front of her,
panicking to join her three chicks, who were ing for her on the other
side. Clucking to them, the mother led away through the debris of dead
palm fronds and rotting coconut

This time the beach was completely deserted. The waves smaller than
they'd been the night before; too small to tempt even

tnost cautious surfer. She wandered down the beach as she'd planned--
wishing after a few minutes she'd had the forethought to look for a
wider brimmed hat in the house; the sun was fierce--until she came to
the place where the waters that cascaded from the crag emptied
themselves into the sea. Red-brown with the freight of silt they had
picked up on their way, they spread once they reached the beach, and
though the waters didn't look treacherous, she didn't want to risk
wading the fifty yards to get to the other side, so she turned back. On
the return journey she kept her eyes on the horizon. Jimmy had said this
was whale-spotting season; if she was lucky perhaps she'd see one of the
humpbacks breaching. She was out of luck however; there were no whales
to be seen. Just a couple of small fishing boats bobbing around not far
from the shore, and much, much further off, a white sail. She paused to
watch it for a minute or two as it flickered there at the limit of her
gaze, bright against the sky one moment, gone the next. At last she
tired of watching and headed back to the house, parched and a little
sunburned.

There was a visitor waiting at the front door. A dark-skinned, broad
shouldered man of perhaps thirty-five, who introduced himself as
Niolopua.

"I'm here to take care of some stuff around the house," he said. "Like
what?" Rachel said. She didn't remember Jimmy mentioning this man, and
despite his open expression and his easy manner, she'd brought her New
York suspicion of strangers with her.

"The lawn," he said, nodding towards the back of the house. "The

plants."

"Oh... you mean outside the house?"

"Yeah."

"No problem," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

"I'll go around the side," he said, looking at her more intensely

now. "I just wanted to introduce myself."

"Well thank you," she said. There was something about the way he

looked at her that made Rachel think maybe there was some subtext to
this; but then his body language contradicted the suspicion. He stood a
respectful distance from her, his hands behind his back, Simply looking.
She returned his gaze, fully expecting him to look away, but he didn't.

He kept staring, with almost childlike frankness until she said:

"Is there anything else?"

"No," he said. "It's fine. Everything's fine." He spoke as though to

reassure her.

"Good," she said. "Then I'll let you go." With that she turned from

him and closed the door.

Later, she heard the drone of the lawnmower, and went to the ing room
window to glance out at him. He was shirtless now, the color of the
silted river. If this were one of the trashy novels Mar so adored,
Rachel thought, then all she'd have to do was invite himi for a glass of
ice water and a minute later she'd be backed u door with his tongue down
her throat. She smiled to herself wicked. Maybe she'd try it, in a
couple of days; see how reality up to the fantasy.

A little later, as she was attempting to get the phonograph to she
realized the sound of the mower had ceased, and glanced up that Niolopua
had left off his labors and had wandered down to the tom of the lawn.
There he was standing, staring out to sea, one shading his eyes from the
blaze of the sky.

There was no doubt as to what he was watching. The boat with white sail
had come closer to shore, close enough for her to see had not one sail,
but at least two. She watched for a little time as the sel rose and fell
against the dark blue waters. It was mesmeric; watching the hands of a
clock, the motion so subtle it was impossible catch. Yet there was no
doubt that even as she watched the boat, it come a little closer to the
shore.

There was a sudden eruption of squawking in the palms off to right of
the house, which drew her gaze. Several house finches involved in a
bitter dispute among the fronds; feathers drifted down. the time the
argument had been settled, and she again looked the lawn, Niolopua had
forsaken his watch and returned to his mower. The boat bad meanwhile
passed out of sight, the wind or currents or both carrying it down the
coast, and she felt mildly pointed. She'd been looking forward to
watching the boat's while she sipped her cocktail. No matter, she said
to herself. surely be plenty of other vessels plying their way between
the next few days.

ii

The wind rose in strength as the day progressed, shaking the around the
house and whipping the ocean, which had looked so at daybreak, into a
white-headed frenzy. It made her uneasy; it had. Even as a child she'd
become fractious when the wind blew; voices in it, sometimes, crying and
sobbing. Lost souls, her had explained, which had of course done nothing
to

She decided not to stay in the house but to take the jeep

along the coast. It turned out to be a fine idea. After driving around

a while she found herself on a narrow spit of land, at the end of which
sat a tiny white church, with thirty or so graves around it. The
building itself was only partially intact: a victim, perhaps, of the
hurricane Jimmy Hornbeck had mentioned. Its roof tiles had been entirely
stripped away, as had many of the ceiling timbers. Only three of the
four walls were still standing; the seaward wall was missing. So was the
altar. All that remained inside were a few plain wooden chairs, which
for some reason nobody had claimed.

She wandered among the graves, most of which were at least thirty or
forty years old, and some, to judge by their eroded and sunken state,
considerably older. A few of those buried here had names she could
pronounce-a Robertson, a Montgomery, even a Schmutz--but several were
beyond her. How was Kaohelaulii said aloud she wondered; or
Hokunohoaupuni?

After spending maybe ten minutes examining the names she started to
realize she'd come out underdressed for the elements. Though the sun
still appeared now and then between the speeding clouds, the wind was
chilling her to the bone. She was reluctant to get back into the jeep
and drive home, however, so she took refuge in what remained of the
church. The wooden walls creaked whenever a strong gust of wind came
along. It would only take one more heavy storm, she thought, and the
whole structure would come crashing down. In the meantime it provided
her with exactly what she needed; protection from the worst of the
bluster, while still offering her a clear view of both sky and sea.

She sat in one of the battered chairs and listened to the changing notes
of the wind as it whistled between the boards. Perhaps her grandmother
had been right after all. It certainly wasn't hard to imagine, in such a
place as this, that the departed were indeed voicing their grief in the
wind. Perhaps the souls of men and women buried on this headland--
Montgomerys and Kaohelauliis-- came back off the sea to the spot where
their bones lay. It was a melancholy thought; but it didn't unsettle
her. Perhaps they'd see her sitting calmly here, unafraid of their
voices, and when they returned to the wastes be comforted by the memory.

She felt a spatter of rain on her face. Getting up out of her chair she
stepped back out onto the headland and saw that a great mass of dark
cloud was moving toward the island, its gloomy offspring driven ahead to
sprinkle a warning shower or two. It was time to go. She pulled up the
collar of her blouse and started to pick her way through the graves back
to the jeep. The rain was coming quickly; before she was halfway to the
vehicle it was coming down hard, and getting harder. It Was cold; cold
enough to take her breath away.

She got into the car, Fumbling for the ignition key. The rain beating
hard on the roof, its din drowning out the noise of the wind. she put
the car into reverse she glanced back at the ocean, the rain-smeared
windshield saw a white shape in the dark sea. turned on the windshield
wipers, clearing the glass.

There, out in the bay, was the boat she'd seen earlier in the da
two-masted vessel which had been the object of Niolopua's scrutiny. I
was foolish to get back out of the car to look, but For some reason she
f the need to do so.

Out she got, the rain so heavy it soaked her to the skin in five onds.
But she didn't care. It was worth the soaking to see her boating the
swell, its sails fat with wind, its bows cutting a white through the
gray-green water. Satisfied that this was without a doubt t vessel she'd
seen earlier, and that its master and crew she ducked back into the car,
slammed the door, and started the ward journey.

XIV

o

f late when I write I find myself gripping my pen so tightly can feel
the tick of my pulse in my thumb and forefinger. is more and more an
obsessive's grip. I swear if I were to die at moment, writing these very
words, it would take several strong part me from my pen.

You'll remember I confessed a few chapters back that I was that I didn't
know how all the pieces of the story I have fitted In the last few
nights of writing that unease is beginning to lift. it's self-deception,
but it seems to me I can see the connections clearly than before: the
grand scheme of what I'm telling is becoming apparent to me. And as it
comes clear I feel myself deeper into the tale I'm telling, the way a
worshipper is drawn altar steps, and-dare I venture this?-for much the
same reason. hoping to ascend to a place of revelation.

Meanwhile, I keep the company of my characters as though were dear
friends. I have only to close my eyes, and there

Rachel, for instance? I can see her in my mind's eye

ping her evening's Bloody Mary before she goes to bed; not suspecting
that the night of her life lies before her. I can [

rnus just as clearly. There he is, sitting in his wheelchair in front of
his sixty-inch television, his eyes glazed as he contemplates a scene
remote from him in years yet closer than the liver spots on the back of
his hand. I can bring Garrison before me--poor, sick Garrison, who has
such harm in his heart, and knows it--and Margie, in her cups; and
Loretta, plotting successions; and my father's wife, busy with plots of
her own; and Luman and Marietta and Galilee.

Oh, my Galilee. I see him more clearly tonight than ever I've seen him
in my life, even when he was standing before me in the flesh. Does that
sound absurd, that he should appear in my imagination more completely
than he ever did before my eyes7 However it sounds, it's true. Dreaming
of Galilee as I do, conjuring him not as a thing of flesh and
personality, but as a creature half gone into myth, I believe I am in
the presence of a truer soul than that phantom man whom I lately met.

You may say: what nonsense. We live in flesh and blood, you may say. To
which I reply: yes, but we die into spirit. Even divinities like Galilee
give up the limitations of the flesh eventually, and unbounded swell
into legend. So imagining him in his mythic form-as a wanderer, as a
lover, as a brute--am I not closer to the Galilee with whom my soul will
spend eternity?

I just made the mistake of proudly reading the preceding paragraphs to
Marietta. She snorted at them; called them "pretentious claptrap" (that
was the mildest epithet); told me I should strike all such ruminations
from my text and get on with doing my job, which is-as far as she's
concerned-simply to report what I know about the history of the Bar
barossas and the Gearys in as clear and concise a fashion as I can.

So I've decided I'm not going to share any more of what I'm writing with
Marietta. If she wants a book about the rise and fall of the Geary
dynasty, then she can damn well write it herself. I'm making something
entirely different. It'll be a ragtag thing, no question, sewn together
from mismatched parts, but I find that just as beautiful in its way as a
small, nicely formed tale. And, by the way, more like life.

Oh, there was two other things Marietta said that day which bear
reporting here, if only because they both contain more than a measure of
truth. One, she accused me of liking words because of their music. I
pleaded guilty to this, which infuriated her. "You put music before
meaning!" she said. (This was just spiteful; I don't. But I think
meaning

is always a latecomer. Beauty and music seduce us first; later,

of our own sensuality, we insist on meaning.)

Which brings me to her second remark: something to the that I was no
better than a village storyteller. I smiled from ear to this, and told
her that nothing would give me more pleasure than have my book by heart,
and to tell it aloud. Then she'd see how pleasure there was to he had
from my bag of tales. You don't like I'm telling you, sir? Don't worry.
It'll change in two minutes. You like scandal? I'll tell you something
about God. You hate God? recite you a love scene. You're a puritan? Have
patience; the lovers suffer. Lovers always suffer.

Marietta's response to all this was inevitably sour.

"You're no better than a crowd-pleaser then, are you?" Mar replied.
"Pandering to whatever people want to hear. Why don't

just slather the thing in sex and have done with it?"

"Have you quite finished?"

"Well I'd really like you to leave. You just came in here to havel
argument, and I've got better things to be doing."

"Ha!" she said, snatching one of the sheets I'd been reading from my
desk. "This is one of your better things? We live in may say--" I
retrieved the page from her hand before she could go further. "Just...
go away," I said, very firmly. "You're being a t

"Oh so now I'm too stupid to appreciate your artistic ambitions/ that
it?"

I contemplated this for a moment. "Well, as you put it that way, I said.
"Yes."

"Fine. Then we both know where we stand don't we? I think

work is wretched cra# and you think I'm stupid."

"That seems to be a fair summary."

"No," she said, as though I was about to change my mind

wasn't). "You've said it now. And that's the end of it."

"I'm agreeing with you, Marietta."

"I won't be coming back in here," she warned.

"Good," I said.

"You'll get no more support from me."

"I just said: good."

She was red-faced with rage by now. "I mean it, Maddox," she "I know you
mean it, Marietta," I said, quietly. "And believe me tearing me apart.
It may not appear that way, but I am in agonies at prospect." I pointed
to the door. "That's the way out."

"God, Maddox," she said. "Sometimes you can be such a dickhead." That
was, as best I remember it, the entire exchange. I haven't seen her
since. Of course, she'll come crawling back sooner or later, probably
pretending that the conversation never happened. Meanwhile, I'm
undisturbed, which suits me fine. I have to write what may be the most
important passages of my story so far. The less distraction I have the
better I can focus upon it.

There's only one portion of the conversation that I have returned to
muse over: and that's the part about being a village storyteller. I
realize she meant it as a form of condemnation, but in truth I can see
nothing undesirable about being thus employed. Indeed I have imagined
myself many, many times sitting beneath an ancient tree in some dusty
square-in Samarkand, perhaps; yes! in Samarkand--telling my epic in
pieces, for the price of bread and opium. I would have had a fine time
doing that: get myself fat and flying by parceling my tale out, day
after day. I would have had my audience wrapped around my little finger;
coming back every afternoon to visit me in the blue shadows, and asking
me to sell them another piece of the family saga.

My father was a great improviser of stories. In fact, it's one of the
few truly fond memories I have of him. My sitting at his feet when I was
a child, while he wove wonderful fictions for me. There were often
malevolent stories, by the way: violent, blood-thirsty tales about the
way the world was in some uncalendered time. When he was young, perhaps;
if indeed he ever was.

A lot later, when I was approaching adulthood and about ready to go out
looking for female company, he told me that I shouldn't underestimate
the potency of stories in the art of seduction. He had not seduced my
mother with kisses or compliments, he said (and he certainly hadn't got
her drunk and raped her, as Cesaria had told me); he'd brought her to
his lap, and thence to his bed, with a story.

Which brings us back (though you do not yet see why, you will) to that
night on Kaua'i, and to Rachel.

PART FIVE

The Act of Low,

The wind had carried the rain clouds offtoward Mount Waialeale by early
evening, where they d shed the bulk of their freight. The skies cleared
over the North Shore, and about seven-fifteen the gusts died to nothing
with uncanny suddenness. Rachel was eating at the time--a plate of baked
chicken, prepared by Heidi, who'd come in, cooked, and departed. She
looked up from her meal to see that the palms were no longer churning,
and the sea was quite placid.

The silence unnerved her a little, so she put on some music: a big- band
melody. It was a mistake; it reminded her of a night early in her
courtship with Mitchell when they'd gone out dancing, and he'd chosen a
very exclusive place uptown where a small band played forties tunes, and
everyone danced cheek to cheek. Oh but she'd been in love that night;
like a fifteen-year-old infatuated with the school quarterback. He'd
plied her with champagne, and told her that he was devoted to her, and
always would be.

"Liar..." she murmured as she stared out at the sea. Sometimes, when she
remembered things he'd said--sweet things that he'd betrayed, hard
things that he'd known he would hurt her by saying--she wanted him right
there in front of her, to point an accusing finger and say: why did you
say that? God Mitchell, you were such a liar, such a miserable liar...

Rather than turn the music oft-, however, she sat it out, determined to
endure every last, melancholy note. The only way to get past the hurt
was to face it. If this trip to Eden did nothing else, she thought, it
would at least give her an opportunity to leaf through her memories, and
look at them clearly. Then, and only then, could she move on. Put
Mitchell and all he'd been to her in the past, where he belonged, and
start a new life.

A new life. There was a daunting thought. It wasn't the first time he d
wondered what would become of her now, but the question had a new
pertinence on this island, where she knew others had come before

her, and begun again. Jimmy Hombeck, for one. And what of Montgomerys
and the Robertsons and Schmutzes buried on the They too had been
emigrants, presumably. Fugitives perhaps, like running from lives that
had hurt and disappointed them. It wouldn't so bad at that, she thought,
to disappear from the world and live and, in this paradise; to be buried
on a cliff where nobody came, mourned, nobody remembered.

She went to bed at ten, or thereabouts, and fell asleep as quickly as
had the night before. But this time she didn't sleep through till break.
Instead she stirred from a dream some while after midnight. had the
impression that she'd been woken by something, sure what it was. All she
could hear was the rhythmic rasp of and the soft croaking of frogs.
There was a little moonlight between the drapes, but there was nothing
disturbing enough roused her.

Then she realized: it was a smell that had woken her. The sweet scent of
something burning. Her mind reluctantly formed thought that she'd better
get up and check that the source of the wasn't somewhere in the house.
Her body still heavy with dee pulled back the sheet and climbed out of
bed. Then she slipped T-shirt and knickers and went downstairs to
investigate. As soon reached the living room she spotted the fire: it
was burning the top of the beach. Had the three surfers she'd seen the
first back in the middle of the night to make a bonfire, and maybe
little pot? If so, they'd built a much bigger fire than last time. It
steep pyramid of timbers, from the flanks and apex of which low flames
sprang. The smell however, wasn't just There was an aromatic pungency
about it, which lent it a cism.

She slid open the French doors and stepped outside,

would see the fire-tenders better. But she could see nobody. stars, a
great array of them bright overhead, but no moon. She back into the
house, located a pack of cigarettes she'd bought in lulu Airport, lit
one, and wandered back out again, this time off the veranda onto the
chilly grass, and on down the lawn to the

Though she was now no more than ten or twelve yards from fire, she could
still see no sign of its architects. But she could fragrance more
strongly than ever, rising out of the pyramid like

from a mountainous censer. The smell pleased her even more than it had
at first. It was sweet yet sharp, like the honey from ancient hives.

She wandered through the shrubs an dover the sand toward the fire,
enjoying its warmth on her face and bare legs. Obviously the fire rakers
had departed, leaving their handiwork to blaze away through the night.
Not the cleverest thing to do, she thought. If the wind were to rise
again it could easily blow splinters of fiery wood into the bushes, ad,
worse still, toward the house.

What should she do, she wondered? Wait here until the fire burned itself
out or atempt to smother the flames with sand? The sec ord option was
beyond her, she decided. The fire was simply too big, arid too well
made. And as to waiting here; well, it would be a long, long wait.

Perhaps for once she was just going to have to have a little faith that
the worst would not happen.

She should just go back to bed and sleep. By morning the fire would be a
blackened, smoky pit in the sand, and her fears of cataclysm would seem
ridiculous. Still, she might tell the surfers next time she saw them not
to build their fires so big, or so close to the tree line. So thinking,
she walked once around the fire, and started back to the house.

The scent came with her. It was in her clothes, in her hair, on her
skin, in her mouth even. And it seemed--though this was plainly non
sensical-that the further she got from its source the more powerful it
became, as though cooler air was refining it. By the time she got into
the house it was so strong it might have been oozing out of her pores.

She was of half a mind to shower before she climbed back into bed, but
she decided against it, persuaded less by fatigue as by the subtle sense
of intoxication the fragrance had induced. Her head felt feathery, her
perceptions a little awry (when she reached to turn off the bedside lamp
she missed it by a couple of inches, which amused her). Vv'hen she'd
finally found the switch, and lay her head down in darkness, there were
colors billowing behind her lids, intense as the hues crawling on a soap
bubble. She watched them entranced, vaguely wondering if they'd been
burned onto her retina from staring at the fire. The thought came into
her head that they were with her for ever now--the colors, the aroma--
and that she was therefore their captive: bounded by them, shaped by.
them. She would never see the world without it being colored for her;
never draw breath but that she'd smell the fragrance of the fire.

She opened her eyes again, just to be certain the world she'd left out
there, beyond her lids, was still in existence. There was a nice, reel

low sense of dislocation in all this: no paranoia, no fear; simply cion
that things outside her head were not to be taken too seri tonight.

The room was still there: the ring of lamplight on the ceilii open
window, the drapes lifted and let go by the breeze; the carved in which
she lay, with its lovers lying in their ripe bowers; the door end of the
bed, leading out onto the hallway, down the stairs--

Her gaze seemed to go with her thoughts, out onto the landing--floating
up to the ceiling one moment, grazing the weave of the rug the next.

By the time she got to the top of the stairs an unbidden had formed in
her head: she wasn't alone in the house. Someb. come in. As silent as
smoke, and just as harmless--surely, on a like this nobody meant
harm-somebody had entered the was there at the bottom of the stairs.

The realization didn't trouble her in the slightest. She felt inviolate,
as though she had not simply watched the fire on the but stood in its
midst and walked through it unscorched.

She looked down the flight in the hope of seeing him,

she caught the vaguest impression of his form, there in the big, broad
man; a black man, she thought. He started to stairs. She could feel the
air at the top of the flight become his approach, excited at the
prospect of being drawn into his lungs: gaze retreated along the
landing, back toward the bedroom; her head. She would pretend she was
asleep, perhaps. Let him her bedside and touch her awake. Put his hand
to her lips, or if he wanted to, press his fingers against her belly;
then between her legs. She'd let him do that. None of this was quite
way, so why the hell not? He could do whatever he wanted, harm would
come to her. Not here, in her carved bower-bed. here; only bliss.

For all these fearless thoughts there was still a corner of

lect that was counseling caution.

"You're not being rational," this fretful self said to her.

got into your head. The smoke and this island. They'e got you about."

Probably true, the dreamy wildling in her said. So what? "But you don't
know who he is," the cautious one pointed out. he's black. There aren't
any blacks in Dansky, Ohio. Or if there are; don't know any. They're
different."

So am I, the wildling replied. I'm not who I was, and I'm all the better
for it. So what if the island's working magic on me? I need a little
ragic. I'm ready. Oh Lord, I'm more than ready.

She'd closed her eyes, still thinking she would pretend to be sleeping
when he came in. But as soon as she felt the stirring of the air against
her face, announcing his presence at the threshold, she opened

them again, and asked him, very quietly, who he was. By way of reply, he
spoke one word only. "Galilee," he said.

	II

AWa

t that moment, on the cloud-obscured summit of Mount ialeale, the rain
was falling at the rate of an inch and a half an hour. In gorges too
inaccessible for exploration, plants that had never been named were
drinking down the deluge; insects that would never venture where a human
heel could crush them were sheltering their brittle heads. These were
secret places, secret species; rare phenomena on a planet where little
was deemed sacred enough, exquisite enough, tremulous enough, to be
preserved from the prod, the scalpel, the exhibition.

Out in the benighted sea, whales were passing between the islands,
mothers and their children flank to flank, playful adolescents breaching
in the dark, rising up in frenzied coats of foam and twisting so as to
spy the stars before they came crashing down again. In the coral reef
below them, its eaves and gullies as untainted as Waileale's heights,
other secret lives proceeded: the warm currents carrying myriad tiny
forms, transparent flecks of purpose which for all their insignificant
size nourished the great whales above.

And in between the summit and the reef? There was mystery there too. No
less an order of life than the flower or the plankton, though it
belonged to no class or hierarchy. It lived, this life, in the human
head, the human heart. It moved only when touched, which was rarely, but
when it did--when it shifted itself, showed itself to the creature in
which it lived--there was revelation. The prospect of love could stir
it, the prospect of death could stir it; even, on occasion a simpler
thing: a Song, a fine thought. Most of all it was moved by the prospect
of its own

apotheosis. If it felt its moment was near, then it would rise into of
its host like a light, and blaze and blaze--

"Whoever you are..." Rachel said softly, "... come and show me

face."

The man stepped into the doorway. She couldn't see his she'd requested,
but she could see his form, and it was, as she'd a fine form: tall and
broad.

"Who are you?" she said. Then, when he didn't reply: "Did make the
fire?"

"Yes." His voice was soft. "The smoke..." "... followed you." "Yes."

"I asked it to."

"You asked the smoke," she said. It made an unlikely

to her.

"I wanted it to introduce you to me," he said. There was a humor in his
voice, as though he only half-expected her to

But the half that did believe it believed it utterly.

"Why?" she said.

"Why did I want to meet you?"

"Yes..."

"I was curious," he said. "And so were you."

"t didn't even know you were here," she said. "How could I be ous?"

"You came out to see the fire," he reminded her.

"I was afraid..." she began; but the rest of the thought

What had she been afraid of?

"You were afraid the wind would blow the sparks..." "Yes..." she
murmured, vaguely remembering her anxiety.

"I wouldn't have let that happen," Galilee reassured her. Niolopua tell
you why?"

"He will," Galilee replied. Then, more softly.

Do you like him?"

She mused on this for a moment; it hadn't been something given much
thought to. "He seems very gentle," she said. "But think he is. I think
he's angry."

"He has reason," Galilee replied.

"Everybody hates the Gearys."

"We all do what we have to do," he replied.

"And what does Niolopua do? Besides cutting the grass?" "He brings me
here,' when I'm needed." "How does he do that?"

"We have ways of communicating that aren't easy to explain," Galilee
said. "But here I am."

"Okay," she said. "So now you're here. Now what?"

There was more than enquiry in her voice. Though her tongue was

lazy, the words slow, she knew what she was inviting; she knew what
answer she wanted to hear. That he'd come to share her bed, whoever he
was; come to exploit the dreamy ease she'd inhaled, and make love to
her. Come to kiss her back to life, after an age of thorns and sorrow.

He didn't give her the answer she expected. At least, not in so many
words.

"I want to tell you a story," he said.

She laughed lightly. "Aren't I a bit too old for that?"

"No," he said softly. "Never."

He was right of course. She was perfectly ready to have him weave

a story for her; to let the deep music of his voice shape the colors in
her head: give them lives, give them destinies.

"First," she said, "will you come into the light where I can see you?"
"That's part of the story," he said. "That's always part of it."

"Oh..." she said, not understanding the principle of this, but accepting
that at least for tonight it was true. "Then tell me."

"It would be my pleasure," he said. "Where should I start?" There

was a little pause while he considered this. When he spoke again his
voice had changed subtly; there was a lilting rhythm in it, as though
there was a melody to these words, that he was close to singing.

"Imagine please," he began, "a country far from here, in a time of
plenty, when the rich were kind and the poor had God. In that country
there lived a girl called Jerusha, whom this story concerns. She was
fifteen at the time when what I'm about to tell you happened, and there
was no happier girl in the world. Why? Because she was loved. Her father
owned a great house, filled with treasures from the furthest reaches of
the empire, but he loved his Jerusha more than anything he owned or
anything he ever dreamed of owning. And not a day went by without his
telling her so. Now on this particular day, a day in late summer, Jemsha
had gone out taking a winding path through the woods to a favorite place
of hers: a spot on the banks of the River Zun, which marked the southern
perimeter of her father's land.

"Sometimes in the morning when she visited the river bank the women
would be there washing their clothes, then spreading them out the rocks
to dry, but the later in the day she went the more likely she to be
there alone. Today, however, though it was late afternoon, saw--as she
wound between the trees--that there was somebody sitting the water. It
was not one of the women. It was a man, or nearly a and he was staring
down at his own reflection in the river. I say he nearly a man, because
although this creature had a man's shape, pretty shape at that, his form
glistened strangely in the sunlight, one moment, dark the next.

"Now Lord Laurent, who was Jerusha's father, had taught her afraid of
nothing. He was a rational man. He didn't believe in the and he had over
the years punished any man who committed a crime his land so quickly and
severely that no felon ventured there. And he also taught his daughter
that there were far stranger things in than she'd seen in her
schoolbooks. Perfectly rational things, he'd that one day science would
explain, though they might at first seem unusual.

"So ]erusha didn't run away when she saw this stranger. She marched down
to the river's edge and said hello. The fellow looked. from his
reflection. He had no hair on his head; nor did he have brows; but there
was an uncanny beauty to him, which awoke feelings ]erusha that had not
stirred until this moment. He looked at her with

flickering eyes, and smiled. But he said nothing.

" 'Who are you?' she asked him.

" 'I don't have a name,' he told her.

" 'Of course you do,' she said.

" 'No I don't. I swear,' the stranger said.

" 'Were you not baptized?' she asked him.

" 'Not that I remember,' he told her. 'Were you?' " 'Of course.' " 'in
the river?'

" 'No. In a church. My mother wanted it. She's dead now--'

" 'If it was in a church then it wasn't a true baptism,' the replied.
'You should come into the river with me. I would give you a

" 'I like the one I have.' " 'Which is what?' " 'lerusha.'

" 'So, ]erusha. Please come into the river with me.'As he

stood Up, and she saw that at his groin, where a normal man

a penis, there was instead a column of water, running from him the way
ater pours from a pipe, all corded and glittering, and seeming almost
solid in the sunlight..."

Rachel had been completely still until this moment; enraptured by the
pictures these simple words were conjuring: of the girl, of the sum
reef's day and the riverbank. But now she sat up a little in the bed and
began to scrutinize the shadowy man in the doorway. What kind of story
was he telling here? It was certainly no fairy story.

He read her unease. "Don't worry," he said. "It's not going to get
obscene."

	"Are you sure?"

	"Why? Would you prefer that it did?"

	"I just want to be ready."

	" 'Don't be afraid.'

	"I'm

		not afraid," she said.

	" 'Come into the river.' "

	Oh, she thought; he's started again.

'What is that. Jemsha said, pointing to the stranger s groin.

		" 'Do you have no brothers?'

" 'They went away to war,' ]erusha said. 'And they're supposed to come
back, but every time I ask my father when that will be he kisses me and
tells me to be patient.'

	" 'So what do you think?'

	" 'I think maybe they're dead,' Jerusha said.

"The fellow in the water laughed. 'I meant of this,' he said, looking
down at the water flowing out of him. 'What do you think of this?'

"]erusha just shrugged. She wasn't very impressed, but she didn't want
to say so."

	Rachel smiled. "Polite girl," she remarked.

	"You wouldn't be so polite?" Galilee said.

"No. I'd be the same. You don't want to break his heart with the truth."

	"And what's the truth?"

	"That it's not as pretty as..."

	"... you'd like to believe?"

	"That's not what you were going to say, is it?" Rachel kept her

silence. "Please. Tell me what you were going to say."

	"I want to see your face first."

There followed a moment in which neither of them moved, neither of them
spoke. At last Galilee made a soft sigh, as though of resignation,

and took half a step toward the bed. The moonlight grazed his face, ] so
lightly she had only the most rudimentary sense of his features. flesh
was a burnished umber, and he had several days' growth which was even
darker than his skin. His head was shaved clean. could not see his eyes:
they were set too deeply for the light to them. His mouth seemed to be
beautiful, his cheekbones high perhaps there were some scars on his
brow, she couldn't be sure.

As to the rest of him: he was dressed in a heavily stained T-shirt and
loosely belted ieans and sandals. His frame was, as already guessed,
impressive; a wide, solid chest, a slight swell of a massive arms,
massive hands.

But here was what she hadn't guessed: that he'd lingered in shadows not
to tease her but because he was unhappy being His discomfort was plain
in the way he held himself; in the wa fled his feet, ready to retreat
once she'd seen all she needed to see. almost expected him to say can I
go now? Instead he said: "Please your thought."

She'd forgotten what she was talking about; the sight of him, in its
contrary sweetness--his effortless authority and his desire to be ible,
his beauty, and his strange inelegance--had taken all anything but his
presence out of her head.

"You were telling me," he prompted her, "how what he has pretty as..."

Now she remembered. "As what we have down there," she softly.

"Oh..." he replied. "I couldn't agree more." Then, so quietly would not
have caught the words had she not seen the sha made: "There's nothing
more perfect."

He raised his head a fraction as he spoke, and the moonli

his eyes. For all the depth of their setting, they were huge; filling
sockets with feeling; so much feeling she could not hold his gaze more
than a few seconds.

"Shall I go on with the story?" he asked her.

"Please," she said.

He kindly averted his stare, as though he knew its effect from rience,
and didn't want to discomfort her. "I was telling you how man had asked
Jerusha how she felt about his cock." The word her. "And Jerusha had not
answered."

"But she wanted to go into the river to join him; she wanted to what it
would feel like to have his face close to hers, his body close to his
fingers on her breasts and belly, and down between her legs.

"He seemed to know what she'was thinking, because he said:

" 'Will you show me what's under your petticoats?'

"Jemsha pretended to be shocked. No, that's not fair. She was shocked,
though not as much as she pretended. You have to remember this was a
time when women wore clothes that smothered them from neck to ankle, and
here was this man asking--as though it were lust a casual

question-to show him her most private place."

"What did she say?" Rachel asked.

"Nothing at first. But as I told you at the beginning, she was fearless,
thanks to her father. He would have been appalled, of course, if he'd
seen what his lessons and his kisses had created, but he wasn't there to
tell her no. She had only her instincts to go by, and her instincts
said: why not do it? why not show him? So she said:

"Tm going to lie down on the grass where it's comfortable. You can come
and look if you like.'

" 'Don't go into the trees,' he said to her.

" 'Why not?' she asked him.

" 'Because there are poisonous things there,' he replied. 'Things that
have fed on the flesh of dead men.'

"Jerusha didn't believe him. 'That's where I'm going,' she said. 'If you
want to come, then come. If you're afraid, stay where you are.' And she
got up to leave.

"The man called after her, telling her to wait. 'There's another
reason,' he said.

" 'What's that?' she said.

" 'I can't go very far from the water. Every step I take is dangerous

to me.'

"]erusha just laughed at this. It was a silly excuse she thought. 'Then

you're just weak,' she said.

" 'No. I--'

" 'Yes you are! You're weak! A man who can't climb out of a river
without complaining? I never heard anything so ridiculous!'

"She didn't wait for him to reply. She could tell by the expression on
his ]:ace that she stirred him up. She just turned around and traipsed
off into the trees, wandering until she found a small grove where the
grass looked soft and inviting. There she lay down on her back, with her
feet tOWards the river, so that when the stranger found her the first
thing he'd see was what lay between her legs."

Rachel had not missed the fact that her own position, lying there on the
bed in front of C;alilee, was not so unlike that oflerusha.

"What are you thinking?" he said to her.

"I want to know what happens next."

"You could make it up for yourself if you'd prefer," he replied..; "No,"
she said. "I want you to tell me."

"Your version might be better," he said to her. "Less sad."

"Is this going to end sadly?"

He turned his head toward the window, and for the first tim moonlight
showed her his full face. She hadn't been mistaken his forehead was
scarred, deeply scarred, from the middle of his lefi brow to his
hairline, and his mouth was indeed wide and full: a alist's mouth, if
ever there was one. But it was the foundation which these details rode
that were the true astonishment. She seen a face, in a photograph or a
painting or the flesh, that so wed the curves and gullies of its bones
with the filigree of nerve covering them. It was as though his flesh,
instead skull, expressed it. And his skull--which had been made long the
sorrow in his eyes--had known in the womb that sorrow was ing, and had
shaped itself accordingly.

"Of course it's going to end sadly," he said. "It has to." "Why?"

"Let me tell how it goes," he said, glancing down at her. you know a
better way to finish it, please God tell me."

So he began again, revisiting the scene that he'd been

sure she remembered where the story stood.

"Jerusha was lying down on the grass, a little distance from the She was
certain he'd come, and she wanted to be ready for him when so she pulled
off her shoes and her stockings, then lifted her hips ground to pull her
underwear down. Then she drew up her her skirt until they were over her
knees. She didn't need to touch be aroused. A warm breeze came along
just as she opened her legs: moved like a breath against her sweet pink
pussy; spears of grass and gently pricked the insides of her thighs. She
started to moan;, couldn't help herself. If her life had depended on her
silence at

then she would have perished, she was so utterly overwhelmed. "Then she
heard him..." "The river god, Rachel said. "You've heard this before."

Rachel laughed. "That's what he is, lsn r he.

"A god, no. But something like that."

"Is he oldT"

"Ancient."

"But not very clever."

"What makes you say thatT"

"If he was smart he'd know to stay in the river. That's where he
be]ongs."

Galilee sighed. "It's not always possible to stay where you belong. You
know that."

She stared at him in silence for several seconds. "You know who I am,"
she said.

"You're my Jemsha," he replied, conferring the name upon her with the
greatest gentility. "My child bride."

At this, Rachel reached up and took hold of the sheet that concealed her
lower body. "Then I should let you see me," she said, and pulled the
sheet off. Her knees were a little raised; the space between them was
shadowy. But Galilee's eyes lingered there nonetheless, as though his
gaze was piercing the darkness and seeing her clearly; piercing her too,
maybe: insinuating himself between her labia to see what he would find.

The thought did not distress her; quite the reverse. She wanted him to
look at her, and keep looking. She was his ]erusha, his child bride
lying on a bed of soft grass, excited as she'd never been excited
before. She was trembling with pleasure, and the prospect of pleasure,
as aroused by him as he was by her; by his face, by his words, by his
very presence. Most of all, by the sight of his watching her. She'd
never experienced anything remotely like this before. She'd had sex with
seven men in her life, including her rumblings with Nell Wilkens. She
was no great sexual sophisticate, to be sure; but nor was she a complete
novice. She'd had wild times. But nothing so intense as this; nothing so
naked.

They hadn't even touched one another, for Cod's sake, and she was
shaking. The bed between her legs was soaked. Her breaths were shallow
and fast.

"You were telling me..." she said.

"]erusha . . ."

"... lying on her back, waiting for the river god..." "She looked up-"
"Yes."

"-- it was strange to see him coming between the trees the way he did,
with every step an effort, a terrible effort, that made his head sink
lower and lower."

"Did she wish she'd never asked him?" Rachel whispered.

"No," Galilee replied. "She was too excited for regrets. She wat him to
see her more than she'd wanted anything in her life."

"And as he came toward her, there were times when he passed

a shaft of sunlight, and rainbows sprang from him, rising up into the

"She was about to ask him if he liked what he saw when she the whirring
of wings, and a beetle--about as big as a hummingbird, dark and
ugly--came circling over her. She remembered what the the river had
said--"

"Poisonous things," Rachel said. "Things that have been corpses."

"This beetle was the worst of the worst. It ate only the bodies ple
who'd died of disease. It carried ever kind of contagion."

Rachel made a disgusted sound. "Can't you make it fly

said.

"I told you before: you can finish it if you like."

She shook her head. "No," she said. "I want to hear it from

"Then the beetle has to circle.., and suddenly it dropped

onto her body."

"Where?"

"Shall I show you?" Galilee said, and without waiting

went to the bottom of the bed and reached between her le wanted him to
touch her labia, but instead his fingers nipped the insi

of her thigh between finger and thumb. "It bit her," he said. "Hard.".
She cried out.

"She cried out, more with surprise than pain, and killed the with one
blow, squashing its body against her white skin."

He withdrew his hand. Rachel could feel the beetle's ooze down her leg;
she reached up as if to wipe it away, and then reached I

ther, to catch hold of Galilee's fingers.

"Don't go yet," she said.

"I have not finished telling you what happened," he

and eased his fingers from her grip. Instinctively she pulled the back
over her nakedness. The story was souring. If Galilee she'd done, he
made no sign of it. He simply kept talking.

"It was as if the beetle's bite had broken a trance," he said. looked
down at herself in horror. What was she doing lying here She started to
get up, tears stinging her eyes."

" 'Where are you going?' she heard somebody ask her, and round to see
that the man from the river was standing just a few from her.

"He looked wasted. His body, which had been shiny and strong when he was
sitting in the water, was thinner now. His teeth were chattering. His
eyes were rolling in their sockets. How could she ever have thought he
was beautiful, she wondered?

"Then she turned her back on him and started to make her way home." "Did
he follow her?"

"No. He was too confused. He hadn't seen the beetle, you see. He just
assumed she'd changed her mind; decided he was too strange for her after
all. It wasn't the first time a woman had rejected him. He went back to
the river, and sank from sight."

"What happened to Jerusha?"

"Terrible things."

"Almost as soon as she got back into her father's house she started to
sicken. The beetle had put so much poison into her she was barely
conscious by sunset. Of course her father sent for his doctors but none
of them looked between her legs, because they didn't dare, not with
their patron standing over them, telling them what a good, pure child
she was. They did what they could to bring down her fever--cold
compresses, leeches, the usual rigmarole-but none of it worked. Hour by
hour through the night she grew hotter and sicker, until blisters
started to appear on her neck and face and breasts as the poisons showed
themselves."

"Finally, Jerusha's father lost patience with the doctors and sent them
away. Then, once he was alone with her, lying on the bed, he started to
talk to her, whispering close to her ear.

" 'Can you hear me, child?' he asked her. 'Please, my sweet Jernsha,
(you can hear me, tell me what happened to you, so I can find somebody
to heal you.'

"At first she said nothing. He wasn't even sure she'd even heard him.
But he was persistent. He kept talking to her as daylight approached.
And

finally, just as dawn was breaking, she said one word..." "River,"
Rachel whispered. "Yes. She said river."

"Her father instantly sent for his majordomo, and told him to take all
the maids and footmen and cooks and to comb the banks of the river until
they discovered what had happened to his beloved Jerusha.

"The majordomo immediately roused the whole house, even to the smallest
boy who dusted the ashes from the hearth, and they all went down through
the woods to the river. ]erusha and her father were the only ones left
in the great house, as the light crept through it room by

room.

"He wept, and he waited, holding his daughter's hand all the rocking her
in his arms sometimes, telling her how much he loved) then--forgetting
all his rational principles, going down on his knees, praying to God for
a miracle. It was the first prayer he'd spoken was a little boy and he'd
been made to pray over his mother's casket, thought to himself: if you
don't wake her up God, then I'm never believe in you ever again. Of
course his mother had remained dead in casket, and the boy had become a
rationalist. .:

"But now all his faith in reason failed him, and he prayed with passion
than the Pope, begging God to bring a miracle.

"Down by the river, the servants were praying too, sobbing as searched
the bank.

"It was the smallest boy, the one who brushed away the ashes the hearth,
who saw the man in the river first. He started yelling one to come and
see, come and see.

"By the time the majordomo got to where the boy was stan

ure had risen out of the river, and the morning sun, striking him ways,
pierced him, and emerged again as beams of pure color. knew whether to
be terrified or ecstatic, so they simply stood rooted spot while the
creature emerged from the water. Some of the averted their eyes when
they saw his naked state, but most tears they'd been shedding forgotten.

" 'I heard somebody praying for my ]erusha,' the riverman said. she
sick?'

" 'To thedeath,' said the boy.

" 'Will you lead me to her?' the riverman asked the child.

"The boy simply took the creature's hand, and off they

the trees."

"Nobody tried to stop them?" Rachel said.

"It crossed the majordomo's mind. But he wasn't a

He shared his lord's belief that there was nothing in this world not
finally natural, that one day science would explain. So he the boy and
the riverman at a little distance, without interfering.

"Meanwhile, in the house, Jerusha was very close to death. The was so
high it was as though she would catch fire in the bed and away to
nothing.

"Then her father heard a sound like somebody mopping the outside the
bedroom; slapping a wet mop down on the marble, then ging it up a step
and slapping it down again. He let go of his hand for a moment and
opened the door. There was a flickering

ing the kallway, like sunligkt off water. And there on the stairs,
mounting one torturous step after anotker, was the riverman. His watery
body was diminisked witk every stair he climbed. The furtker from kis
kome he strayed, the more of his life-essence he spent.

"Of course Jeruska's fatker demanded to know wko he was, and what he was
doing in the kouse. But the riverman kad no strengtk to waste

answering questions. It was the boy wko spoke.

" 'He'S come to kelp ker,' he said.

"Jemska 's fatker didn't know what to make of tkis. The rational part of
him said: don't be afraid, just because you've never seen anything like
this before. While the part that had prayed to God for intercession now
whispered: this is what heaven has sent. And that part was very much
afraid, for if this was an angel--this silvery form, swaying in front of
him--then what kind of God sent it? And what kind of salvation had it
brought his daughter?

"He was still puzzling over this, and blocking the riverman's way to the
door, when he heard ]erusha say:

'Please, Papa... let.., him.., in...'

"Amazed to hear his daughter speaking, he pushed open the door, and with
a sudden rush, like a broken dam, the riverman pushed through it and
went to stand at the end of ]erusha 's bed.

"Her eyes were still closed, but she knew her saviour was there. She
started to pull at the clothes she was wearing, which were horribly
dirtied with pus and blood and all the rest. She tore them with such
ferocity she was lying there naked in half a minute, every inch of her
wounded body exposed to her father and to the riverman.

"Then she raised her arms, like a woman welcoming her love into her
bed..." Galilee halted here; then began again more softly: "... which of
course was what she was doing.

"The room was suddenly completely still. ]erusha's arms raised, the
riverman waiting at the bottom of the bed, the father staring at him,
still

not certain what he'd done, letting this thing into his daughter's
presence.

"Then, without a word, the riverman threw himself down onto the girl.
And as he touched her he broke like a wave, splashing against her face
and arms and breasts and belly and thighs. In that instant all trace of
his human shape disappeared. ]erusha cried out in pain and shock, as the
water seethed and hissed on her body like water thrown onto a fire.

Steam rose off the bed, and a foul stench filled the room.

"But when it cleared..."

"She was healed?" Rachel said.

"She was healed."

"Completely?"

"Every wound she'd had was gone. Every sore, every blister. She healed
from head to foot. Even the first bite, on her thigh, had washed away."

"And the riverman?"

"Well of course he'd gone too," Galilee said lightly, as though part of
the story wasn't very important to him.

But it was to Rachel. "So he sacrificed himself," she said.

"I suppose he did," Galilee replied. Then, as though he were comfortable
addressing this question in the body of his story, he said:

"Jerusha's father believed that the whole thing had been

by his own lack of faith; that God had visited these torments on his

in order to make him realize that he needed divine help sometimes." "To
make him pray, in other words." "That's right."

"And if it was indeed the work of God, then it was effective because
Jerusha's father became a very religious man. He money building a
cathedral right beside the river, where the first been seen. It was a
magnificent place. Vast. An eighth wonder.

would have been if it had ever been finished."

"Why wasn't it finished?" "Well... this part of the story's very
strange," Galilee warned. "Stranger than the rest?" . "I think so. You
see it was the old man's idea that the water from river should supply
the font in the cathedral. This met with tion from the local bishops who
insisted that the water could not be to baptize babies because it wasn't
holy water. To which Jerusha's said.., well, you can imagine what he
said. These were already waters, he told the bishops. They'd healed his
Jerusha. They didn't somebody mumbling Latin over them to make them
holy. The complained to Rome. The Pope said he'd look into it.

vleanw the work went on laying the pipes from the river into nave, where
a beautiful font, carved in Florence, had been set.

"I should explain that this was very early spring. The snows in
mountains had been heavy that winter, and now that they were the river
was high and white; more violent than it had been in ory. People working
on the cathedral could barely hear one another, when they were shouting;
the din was so great. All of which may what happened next..."

"Which was what?"

"]erusha's father was taking a tour around the cathedral, and happened
to be approaching the font when somebody-perhaps misunderstanding some
instruction--let the water flow through the pipes for the first time.

"There was a noise like an earthquake. The cathedral shook, to its
highest spire. The stone flags laid over the pipes--each one of them
weighing a ton or a ton and a half--were thrown up into the air like
playing cards as the waters washed down the pipe toward the font--"

Rachel could see all this quite clearly: her head was filled with noise
and chaos. She felt the walls shaking, heard people screaming and
praying, watched them running in all directions, hoping to escape the
cataclysm. She knew they wouldn't make it; even before Galilee had said
so. They were all going to die.

"--and when the water came up through the font it came with such force,
such power, the font simply shattered. A thousand pieces of stone

flew--"

Oh this she hadn't seen--

"--like bullets, some of them. Others big as cannonballs."

--she'd imagined the roof collapsing on everyone, the walls caving in.
But it was the font that was going to do the most damage--

"--splitting open skulls, piercing people's hearts, slicing off their
arms, their legs. All in a matter of seconds.

"[erusha's father was the closest to the font, so he was the luckiest,
because he was the first to die. A huge slab of stone, decorated with a
cherub, slammed into him and carried his body out into the river. He was
never found."

"And the rest?"

"It's as you imagine."

"They all died."

"Every single one. Nobody working in the cathedral that day survived."
"Where was ]emsha?"

"Back at her father's house, which had fallen into terrible disrepair

since he'd begun to build the cathedral."

"So she survived."

"She, and a few of the servants. Including, by the way, the boy who'd
swept the ashes from the hearth.

"The one who'd let the riverman to her bed." There he stopped, much to
her astonishment. "Is that it?" she said.

"That's it," he replied. "What more could there be?"

"I don't know.., something more ..." She pondered the tion. "Some
closure..."

Galilee shrugged. "I'm sorry," he said. "If there's more to tell have
it."

She felt faintly annoyed; as though he'd led her on, tempting with clues
as to what all this meant, but now that she was at the end

at least as far as he claimed to be able to take her-it wasn't clear at
"It's a simple little story," he said. "But it hasn't got a proper
ending."

"It's as I said before: you could make it up for yourself."

"I said I wanted you to tell me."

"I've told all I know," Galilee replied. He glanced toward the

dow. "I think it's about time I was going."

"Where?"

"Just back to my boat. It's called The Samarkand. It's anchored shore."

She didn't ask him why he had to go, in part because of her tion at the
way he'd finished his story, in part because she didn't

him to think her needy. Still she couldn't help asking:

"Will you be coming back?"

"That depends on you," he said. "If you want me to come back This was
said so simply, so sweetly, that her irritation "Of course I want you to
come back," she said.

"Then I will," he replied, and then he was gone. She listened moving
away through the house, but she heard nothing--not a not a footfall. She
slipped out of bed and went to the window. Clouds come in to cover the
moon and stars; there was very little light lawn. But her eyes found him
nevertheless, moving quickly down the beach. She watched him until he
disappeared. Then she her bed, and lay awake in the darkness for an
hour, listening rhythm of her heart and the waves, wondering idly if
she'd lost

{he woke at first light and headed straight down to the beach. i.3 hoped
to find The Samarkand moored close to the shore-- even see Galilee on
deck--but the bay was deserted. She

horizon, looking for a sail, but there was no boat in sight. Where the
hell had he gone? Just a few hours before he'd asked if she wanted him
to come back, and she'd told him unequivocally that she did. Had that
just been a sop to her feelings; a way to extricate himself from her
presence without having to say goodbye? If so, then he was a coward.

She turned her back on the water and started up the sand toward the
house. A few yards from the path she came upon the remains of the fire
Galilee had made the night before: a black circle of burned timber and
ash, the latter being slowly spread across the beach by the breeze. She
went down on her haunches beside the pit, still quietly cursing the
fire-maker for his inconstancy. A bittersweet smell rose up from the
embers: the acrid smell of dead fire mingled with a hint of the
flagrance she'd carried into the house with her the night before: the
aroma which had set her head spinning and put such strange pictures
behind her eyes.

Was it possible, she wondered, that her first instincts had been correct
and Galilee had been some kind of hallucination, a waking dream induced
by an inhalation of smoke?

She got to her feet, and looked out toward the empty bay. Her memory of
his presence was perfect: the way he'd appeared, the sound of his voice,
the intricacies of the story he'd told her: Jerusha at the water, the
river god in all his glory, the beetle carrying contagion. If there was
any certain proof that he'd been there in the flesh, it was the story.
She hadn't invented it, she hadn't told it to herself; somebody had been
there to put those images and ideas in her head.

Galilee was no figment of her imagination. He was just another
unreliable male.

She brewed herself a very strong pot of coffee, which she drank sickly
sweet, showered, ate a miserable breakfast, made some more coffee, and
then called Margie.

"Is this a good time to talk?" she asked.

"I've got about ten minutes," Margie said. "Then I'm out of the house.
I've got to be on time today."

Rachel was surprised at this; punctuality wasn't Margie's strong suit.
"What's the occasion?"

"You mean: who's the occasion?" Margie said.

"Oh... the Fuck Fuck Man."

"Danny," Margie reminded her. "He's really good for me, honey. I mean
really good. He told me last week he wouldn't make love with me if I was
drunk, so the last couple of nights I didn't drink. We fucked

instead. Oh Lord, we fucked! Then I didn't want to drink. I just

to go to sleep in his arms. Oh God, listen to me."

"It sounds wonderful, Margied'

"It is. So wonderful it's scary. Anyway... I've got to dash off, so j
give me the highlights. How is it all?" ,i

"It's as you said: it's magical." She wanted to start talking to about
her visitor, but with so little time to do it in, she was afraid end up
trivializing the event, so she said nothing. Instead she "When were you
last here?"

"Oh... sixteen or seventeen years ago. I was very happy there little
while. I was very consoled." The strangeness of the word was lost on
Rachel. "It was one of those times when I saw my life

once. Do you know what I mean?"

"Not really..."

"Well that's what happened to me. I saw my life. And instead of{
'something about what I saw, I just took the path of less resistance. Oh

honey, I really have to go. I don't want to leave my lover-boy waiting,"
"I understand."

"Let's talk again tomorrow." "Before you go--" "Yes?"

"--did anything really strange happen to you while you

There was a long silence.

At last Margie said: "When I've got more time we have to

honey. Yes, of course strange stuff happened."

"And what did you do?"

"I told you. I took the path of least resistance. And I've regretted it.
Believe me, there'll never be another time in your this, hon. It comes
round once, and if you back, you don't worry about what other people are
going to think, don't even wonder what the consequences are going to be.
You just I Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "We'll all be jealous as
hell, course. We']| all curse you for doing what we didn't do, maybe
what

couldn't do. But deep down we'll be happy for you."

"Who's we?'." Rachel said.

"The Geary women, honey," Margie replied. "All of us ,sad, and utterly
fucked-up Geary women."

ii

After lunch, Rachel went walking, not along the beach this time, inland.
There'd been a light breeze in the morning, but it had dro

away completely at noon, and the air now felt hot and stale. The
atmosphere suited Rachel's mood. She felt stagnated; unable to move very
far from the house in case she missed Galilee's return, and unable to
think of very much other than him; him or his story.

There were some sizable bugs out today. Whenever one of them rose up
from the shrubbery she thought of the beetle on Jerusha's thigh; and of
how Galilee had imitated its bite. That had been his only touch, hadn't
it? A cruel nip at her skin. So much for tenderness. But then as he'd
retreated from her she'd caught hold of his hand, and felt the hard skin
of his wide fingers, and the heat of his flesh.

She would have that again, and next time they wouldn't just be holding
hands. She'd make him put his mouth to the place he'd pinched; make him
kiss her hurt better. Kiss her and keep kissing, lower and deeper, and
deeper, until he'd made amends. He'd do it too. She knew he'd do it. The
story had been a game; a way of deliciously postponing the inevitable
moment when they made love.

She sat down at the side of the road, fanning herself with a plate sized
leaf she'd plucked, and thought about him, standing there in her
doorway. The way his T-shirt had clung to his body; the way his eyes had
glinted when he looked at her; the tentative smile that had come into
his face now and then. These few details, and his name, were all she
really knew about him. Why then, she asked herself, did she feel such a
sense of loneliness, thinking she might never see him again? If she was
so desperate for the physical comfort of a man then she could find it
readily enough; either here on the island or back in New York. It wasn't
about the presence of another body, it was about him, about Galilee. But
that was nonsensical. Yes, he was handsome, but she'd met more beautiful
men. And she knew too little about him to be enchanted by his spirit. Sb
why was she sitting here moping over him like a lovelorn
fifteen-year-old?

She cast her makeshift fan aside, and got to her feet. Whatever the
reasons for her feelings, she had them, and they weren't about to
evaporate just because she couldn't get to their root. She wanted
Galilee; it was as simple as that. And the possibility that he'd sailed
away without telling her where she could find him made her sick with
sorrow.

Niolopua was sitting on the front step when she got back to the house,
drinking a can of beer. There was a ladder leaning against the eaves of
the house, and a great litter of pruned vines on the lawn. He'd been
hard at work, for a while at least. Now he was simply sitting in the
sun, drinking his beer. He made no attempt to conceal what he was doing

when Rachel appeared. He didn't even stand. He sim

her, his face pouring sweat, and said:

"There you are..."

"Were you looking for me?" He shook his head. "I was just surprised
you'd gone, that's all." He set his beer can down at his side. It was
not the first he'd she saw. There were three more empty cans sitting
there. No the shyness he'd evidenced at their first meeting had
disappeared.

look like you didn't sleep very well," he said.

"As it happens, I didn't."

He reached into his bag and pulled out another beer. "Want he said.

"No. Thank you."

"I don't always drink on duty," he said, "but today's a special sion."

"Oh?" Rachel said. "What's that?"

"Guess."

She could no longer keep up a pretense of bonhomie: his ton irritating
her. "Look, I think you should just pack up your tools home," she said.

"Oh do you now?" he said, popping the beer can. "And

said to you: this is home."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, and open the
front door.

"My mother worked here all her life. I've been coming

I was a baby."

"I see." ' "I know this house better than you'll ever know it." He
turned from her, now that he was certain he had her attention. "I house.
You come, one after the other, and you act like the to you--"

"It doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the Geary family." "No, it
doesn't," Niolopua said, "it belongs to the Geary There's never been any
men come here. Just women." A look tempt crossed his face. "Why can't
you have your husba Why'd you have to come here and..." the contempt
"... and.., defile everything?"

"What the hell are you talking about7" Rachel said,

from the door and going to stand right beside him. avert his gaze. He
stared right up at her with something very hatred on his face.

'Xou don't think about what you do to him, do you?"

"Him?"

"It's not like there's ever any love." "Him." "Yes. Him." "Galilee?"

"Yes! Of course!" Niolopua said, as though she was an imbecile for
asking the question. "Who the hell else would it be?" There were tears
in his eyes now: of rage, of frustration. "My mother was the only one
who ever loved him. The only one!" He looked away from Rachel, and tears
dropped from his eyes onto the wooden steps. "He built this house for
her."

"Galilee built this house?" Niolopua nodded, still not looking up.
"When?"

"I don't know exactly. A long time ago. It was the first house to be
built on this shore."

"That can't be right," Rachel said. "He's not that old. I mean he's
what, forty? If that."

"You don't know what he is," Niolopua said. There was a measure of pity
in the remark, as though Raehel's ignorance was more profound than a
lack of information.

"So tell me," she said. "Help me understand."

Niolopua took a mouthful of beer. Stared at the ground. Said nothing.

"Please," she said softly.

"All you want to do is use him," came the reply.

"You've got me wrong," she said. He didn't respond to this. At last she
said: "I'm not like all the rest, Niolopua. I'm not a Geary. Well... no
that's not true... I married a man I thought I loved and his

name happened to be Geary. I didn't realize what that meant."

"Well, my father hates you all. In his heart, he hates you."

"Your father being?" She paused, realizing the answer. "Oh Lord. You're
Galilee's son."

"Yes. I'm his son."

Rachel put her hands over her face and sighed into her palms. There was
so much here she didn't comprehend: secrets and anger and Sorrow. The
only thing she grasped with any certainty was this: that even here, even
in paradise, the Gearys had done their spoiling. No wonder Galilee hated
them. She hated them too. At that moment she wished every one of them
dead. A little part of her even wished herself dead. There seemed to be
no other way out of the trap she'd married into.

"Is he coming back?" she said after a time.

"Oh yes," Niolopua replied, his voice monotonal. "He knows
responsibilities."

"To whom?"

"To you. You're a Geary woman, whether you like it or not. why he's with
you. He wouldn't come otherwise." He glanced up at "You've got nothing
he needs."

He was being cruel for the satisfaction of it, she knew, words stung her
nevertheless.

"I don't need to listen to this," she said, and leaving him on steps to
drink his warm beer, she went back into the house.

IV

I I t's no accident that events of great significance, when they so in
dusters; it's the nature of things. Having been a in my youth, I know
from experience how this principle works, instance, in a casino. The
roulette table suddenly becomes there's win after win after win. And if
you happen to be at the right at the right time then the odds are
suddenly tipped spectacularly in favor. (The trick, of course, is to
sense the moment when the cools, and not to keep betting beyond that
point, or shirt.) Observers of natural phenmnena large and small,
entomologists, will tell you the same thing. For long pe of years in the
life of a star, minutes in the life of a butterfl3 moment seems to
happen. And then, suddenly, a plethora convulsions, transformations,
cataclysms.

Of course it's the apparently tranquil periods that deceive Though our
instruments or our senses or our wits may not k the processes that are
leading toward these clusters of events, happening. The star, the wheel,
the butterfly--all are in a subtle unrest, waiting for the moment when
some invisible mechanism that the time has come. Then the star explodes;
the wheel makes I men rich; the butterfly mates and dies.

If we think of the Geary family as a single entity, then the firs

that would transform it had already taken place: Rachel and Galilee

met. Though much of what happened in the next few days had, at least
superficially, nothing to do with that meeting, it seems from a little
distance that everything else was somehow precipitated by their liaison.

I don't entirely discount the possibility. Any feeling as profound (and
as profoundly irrational) as the passion which moved these two has
consequences; vibrations, which may begin processes utterly remote from
it.

In this sense love is of different order to any other phenomenon, for it
may be both an event and a sign of that invisible mechanism I spoke of
before; perhaps the finest sign, the most certain. In its throes we need
neither luck nor science. We are the wheel, and the man who profits by
it. We are the star, and the darkness it pierces. We are the butterfly,
brief and beautiful.

All of this was by way of preparing you for how things proceeded with
the Gearys in a short space of time following Galilee's encounter with
Rachel: how all at once a system that had survived and prospered for a
hundred and forty years came apart at the seams in forty-eight hours.

ii

For those who knew Cadmus Geary well the most certain sign of his sudden
deterioration was sartorial. Even though he'd had bad, and sometimes
extended, periods of ill health from his early dghties on, he had
continued to pride himself on the way he looked. This had been a
preoccupation since childhood. There's a photograph taken of him when he
was barely four years old in which he presents himself like a little
dandy, clearly proud of his perfectly pressed shirt and his immaculately
polished Shoes. He'd more than once been mistaken for a homosexual,
which never troubled him. He'd laid more women that way.

Today, however, he refused his freshly laundered clothes; he wanted to
stay in his pajamas, he declared. When his nurse, Celeste, gently
pointed out that he'd soiled them in the night he replied that it was
his shit and he liked its company. Then he demanded to be taken
downstairs and put in front of the television. The nurse complied, and
called in the doctor. Cadmus would have nothing to do with being
examined however. He told Waxman to go away and leave him alone.
Noncompliance, he warned, would result in a withdrawal of all funds made
by the Geary family or any of its trusts to medical research, along with
Waxman's retirement bonus.

"He still sounds like the Cadmus we all know and love," the doctor told
Loretta. "Do you want me to try again?"

Loretta told him not to bother. If there was some worsening of|
husband's condition she'd call. Much relieved the good doctor dul, as
Cadmus had demanded and went away, leaving the old man to the sofa and
watch baseball. After an hour or so Loretta brought food in: soup, half
a toasted bagel and some cream cheese. He told to set it down on the
table, and he'd get to it later.Right now, he he wanted to watch the
game.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked him.

He didn't take his eyes off the screen, though his features not a
flicker of interest in what was going on. "Never better," he

She set the tray down on the table. "Gould I get you somethir

ferent.., maybe some fruit?" .. "I've already got the shits, thank you,"
he said politely. "Some chocolate pudding?"

"I'm not a child, Loretta," he said. "Though I realize it's a

time since I proved it to you. I'm sure you're getting a good

from somebody--"

"Cadmus--"

"--I just hope he appreciates how much of my money you getting your tits
tucked and your ass tucked and that belly of yours. stapled up--"

"Stop that!"

"Did you get a pussy tuck while you were at it?" he remarked tone not
once wavering from the lightly conversational. "You sloppy down there
after all these years."

"Don't be disgusting," Loretta said. "Do I take that as a yes?" "If you
don't stop this--"

"What will you do?" he said, a tiny smile coming onto his ment lips.
"Throw me over your lap and spank me? Remember used to do that to you,
love? Remember that lacquered hairbrush used to present me with when you
were in need of a little Loretta was having no more of this. She walked
smartly to the heels clicking on the hardwood floor. "Don't you ever
wonder much of it I told people about?" he said.

She stopped a yard short of the door. "You didn't," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Of course I told people.

select little group. Cecil of course. Some members of your family." "Oh
you are a filthy, disgusting old man--"

"That's it, sweet pea. Let it out. It may be your last chance." "You
never had any shame--" '

"If I had I daresay I wouldn't have married you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nobody else would have had you. Not with your reputation. I thought
when I first got you naked: there isn't anywhere on this body that's
still virgin territory. Every inch of it's been licked and pinched and
screwed and smacked. I found that quite arousing at the time. And when
people said, why her, she's a whore, she's slept with half of
Washington, I used to tell them, I can still show her a few tricks she
hasn't seen." He paused for a moment. Loretta was quietly weeping. "What
the luck are you crying for?" Cadmus said. "When I'm dead you can tell
everyone what a brute I was. You can write a book about what a dirty
minded, decadent old goat I was. I don't care. I won't be listening.
I'll be too busy paying for my sins." At last, having not taken his eyes
off the screen throughout this exchange, he slowly, painfully, turned
his head to look back at her. "There's a special hell for people who die
as rich as us," he said. "So say a few prayers for me, will you?" She
looked at him blankly. "What are you thinking?"

"I was wondering.., if you ever loved me."

"Oh sweet pea," he said. "Isn't it a little late to be sentimental?" She
left without another word. There was no purpose arguing with him;
clearly his medication was disordering his thoughts. She'd have to talk
to Waxman; perhaps the doses were too strong. She went upstairs and put
on a dress she'd had made for her the previous season, but had then
never been in the mood to wear. It was white, and rather plain, and when
she'd first tried it on she'd thought it made her look pallid. But now,
seeing herself in the mirror, she approved of its severity; and of the
somewhat frigid quality it conferred.

He'd called her whore, and that wasn't just. She'd had her high times,
to be sure: what he'd said about there not being a piece of her body
untouched was true. But so what? She'd made the best of what God had
given her; taken her pleasures where, when and with whom she could.
There was nothing shameful in that. Indeed, Cadmus had been perversely
proud of her wild reputation at the beginning. He'd liked nothing better
than to know that their courtship was the subject of gossip and
little-tattle. And yes, she'd succumbed to the demands of vanity several
times, and gone under the knife. But again: so what? She looked ten
years her own junior; fifteen in a flattering light. But she had no wish
to use her beauty the way Cadmus had implied. Once she'd taken his name,
she'd had one lover only besides Cadmus, and even that had barely lasted
a week. It would have been nice to think she'd broken his heart, but she
harbored no such illusions. He'd been

immune to love, that other one. He'd sailed away when he had with her,
and nearly broken her heart.

	So out she went, dressed in white, leaving Cadmus sitting on the

	front of his beloved baseball. Of course, he saw none of it. He

	actually watched a game in months. There was something about

	there that helped him remove his thoughts from his present

	tion- from its pain and humiliation-and talk himself into the past t

	had work to do there; things to put in order before death took him'

	he found h'himself removed into that special hell made for the richl

		Catholic atheist that he was, he half-believed in that hell;

	believed he would suffer-if not eternally at least for a long,

	time--in a barren spot where every comfort wealth and power

	bestow was denied him. He'd never really cared about luxury

	wouldn't miss the silk pajamas and the Italian shoes and the

	bucks-a-bottle champagne. He'd miss control. He'd miss kn

	could get any politician, to the very highest, on the phone in

	minutes, whatever their affiliations. He'd miss knowing every word

	uttered was scrutinized for a clue to his desires. He'd miss being

	ized. He'd miss being hated. He'd miss having a purpose. That was

	real hell waiting for him: the wasteland where his will meant noth:

	because he had nothing to work it upon.

		Yesterday he'd cried quietly to himself at the prospect.

	had no tears left. His head was just a cesspool, filled with dirty

	words that he had no use for now that his bitch-wife had gone.

	get herself fucked, no doubt; gone to spread her cunt for some

	donkey-dick--

		He was saying the words aloud, he vaguely realized; talking

	himself while he sat in his own caked shit. And in his head there

	pictures to accompany the monologue; too blurred for him to

	they were excremental or erotic.

		Somewhere in the midst of all this confusion there were

	cerns he knew he should address. Business unfinished,

	unsaid. But he couldn't pin his thoughts down long enough to

	them; the dirt kept distracting him.

		At one point the nurse came in and asked him how he was

	It took the greatest effort of will not to let out a flood of filth

.i II the last remnants of his self-control to order her out of the
room.

liii thentld himleft, she'd be back in ten minutes with his noon
medication

As he listened to her footsteps receding across the hall he heard a
whirring sound in his head. It seemed to be coming from the back of his
skull; an irritating little din that rose in volume by degrees. He tried
to shake it out--like a dog with a flea in its ear--but it wouldn't go.
It simply got louder, and more shrill. He grabbed hold of the arm of the
sofa so as to pull himself to his feet. He needed help. A head awash
with dirty words was one thing, but this was too vile to be endured. He
got to his feet, but his legs weren't strong enough to support him. His
hand slipped out from under him and he fell sideways. He cried out as he
went down, but he heard no sound. The whine had become so loud it
overwhelmed everything else: the crack of his brittle bones as he hit
the floor, the din of the table lamp as it came smashing down, caught by
his outflung hand.

For a few moments, when he hit the ground, he lost consciousness, and in
a kinder world than this he might never have found it again. But fate
hadn't finished with him yet. After a period of blissful darkness his
eyes flickered open again. He was lying on his side where he'd fallen,
the whine now so loud he felt certain it would shake his skull apart.

No; not even that excruciating luxury was granted him. He lay there
alive, and deafened, until somebody.came and found him.

His thoughts, if such they could be called, were chaotic. There were
still fragments of filth in the stew, but they were no longer complete
words. They were just syllables, thrown against the wall of his skull by
the relentless whine.

When Celeste came back in, she was a model of proficiency. She cleared
her patient's throat of some vestiges of vomit, ascertained that he was
breathing properly, and then called for an ambulance. That done, she
went back out into the hallway, alerted a member of the household staff
to the crisis, and told them to find Loretta, and have her go to Mount
Sinai where Cadmus would be taken. When she returned to Cadmus she found
that he'd opened his eyes, just a fraction, and that his head had turned
away from the door.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Geary?" she asked him gently.

He made no reply, but his eyes opened a little wider. He was trying to
focus, she saw, the object of his attempted scrutiny the painting that
Was hung on the far wall of the room. The nurse knew nothing about art
Whatsoever, but this mammoth picture had slowly exercised a fascination
over her, so much so that she'd asked the old man about it. He'd told
her it was painted by an artist called Albert Bierstadt and that it
represented his conception of a limitless American wilderness. Looking
it, he'd said, was supposed to be like taking a journey: your eye from
one part of the panorama to the next, always finding something new. He'd
even shown her how to look at it through a rolled-up paper, as if
viewing the scene through a telescope. On the left was waterfall feeding
a pool where buffalo drank; behind them, across the canvas, was a
rolling plain, with patches of bright sunli and shadow, and beyond the
grasslands a range of snowcapped tains, the grandest of which had its
heights wreathed in creamy except for its topmost crag, which was set
against a pocket of deep sky. The only human presence in the picture was
a solitary a dappled horse, who was perched on a ridge to the right of
the studying the terrain before him.

"That man's a Geary," Gadmus had once told the nurse. She known whether
the old man was joking or not, and she hadn't wanted! risk his are by
asking. But now, watching his face as he struggled on the painting, she
somehow knew that the pioneer was what eyes were straining to see. Not
the buffalo, not the mountains, but man who was surveying all of this,
in readiness for conquest. At last, gave up: the effort was too much for
him. He made a tiny, and his top lip curled a little, as if in contempt
at his own inca all right..." she said to him, smoothing a stray strand
of silver-white back from his brow. "I can hear them coming."

This was no lie. She could indeed hear the medics outside in hallway. A
moment later, and they were tending to him, liftin up off the floor and
onto the stretcher, covering him with blankets, gentle reassurances
echoing her own.

At the last, as they picked the stretcher up to carry him out, his I
went back in the direction of the canvas. She hoped his exhausted had
caught a glimpse this time, though she doubted it. The his ever coming
back to study the painted pioneer again were, remote.

V

l.or Rachel the house was a different place now that she knew  '
Galilee had built it. What a labor it must have been for a man on own;
digging and laying the foundations, raising the walls,

windows and doors, roofing it, tiling it, painting it. No doubt his
sweat was in its timbers, and his curses, and a kind of genius, to make
a house that felt so comforting. It was no wonder Niolopua's mother had
wanted to possess it. If she couldn't have its builder, then it was the
next best thing.

Following the conversation on the veranda Rachel no longer doubted that
Galilee would come back, but as the afternoon went on, and she turned
over all she knew about the man her mood grew steadily darker. Perhaps
she was deceiving herself, thinking that something rare and tender had
passed between them the previous night; perhaps when he returned he'd be
doing so out of some bizarre obligation. After all she was just another
Geary wife as far as he was concerned; another bored bitch getting her
little fix of paradise. He didn't know how much of a captive she felt:
how could he? And how could he be blamed if he thought her despicable,
taking up residence in his dream house, lying in the cool like some
planter's wife while Niolopua trimmed the grass?

And then, as if that weren't enough, the things she'd done last night!
She grew sick with embarrassment thinking about it. The way she'd
displayed herself to him; what the hell had she been thinking? If she'd
seen any other woman behave that way she'd have called them a slut; and
she'd have had reason. She should have protested the instant she'd
realized where his story was going. She should have said: I can't listen
to this, and firmly told him to leave. Then maybe he would have

come back because he wanted to; instead of"Oh my Lord..." she said
softly. There he was, on the beach.

There he was, and her heart was suddenly beating so loudly she could
hear it in her head, and her hands were clammy and her stomach was
churning. There he was, and it was all she could do not to just go to
him; tell him she wasn't a Geary, not in her heart; she wasn't even a
wife, not really; it had all been a stupid mistake, and would he please
forgive her, would he please pretend he'd never laid eyes on her before,
so that they could start again as though they'd just met, walking on the
beach?

She did none of this, of course. She simply watched him as he made his
way toward the house. He saw her now; waved at her, and smiled. She went
to the French window, slid it open and stepped out onto the veranda. He
was halfway up the lawn, still smiling. His pants were soaked to the
knee, the rest of him wet with spray, his grubby T-shirt clinging to his
belly and chest. He extended his hand to her.

"Will you come with me?" he said.

"Where are we going?"

"I want to show you something." ,, "Let me get my shoes."

"You won't need shoes. We're just going along the beach." She closed the
screen door to keep out the mosquitoes and down onto the lawn to join
him. He took her hand, the gesture so cas it was as though this was a
daily ritual for them, and he'd come to lawn a hundred times, and called
to her, and smiled at her, and her hand in his.

"I want to show you my boat," he explained as they took the

path to the sand. "It's moored in the next bay."

"Wonderful," she said. "Oh... by the way... I really

should apologize for last night. I wasn't.., behaving.., the way, I

mally behave." ; "No?" he said.

She couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. All

could see was the smile on his face, and it seemed perfectly genuine..

"Well I had a wonderful time last night," he said, "so if you wantl
behave that way again, go for it." She offered an awkward grin. "Do,
want to walk in the water?" he said, moving on from her though the whole
subject was over and done with. "It's not cold."

"I don't mind cold water," she said. "We have hard winters

come from."

"Which is where?"

"Dansky, Ohio." ::i "Dansky, Ohio," he said, turning the words over on
his tongue he spoke them, as though savoring the syllables. "I went to
Ohio This is before I took to the sea. A place called Bellefontaine. I
there long."

"What do you mean when you say you 'took to the sea?' "

"lust that. I gave up the land. And the people on it.

the people I gave up on, not the land."

"You don't like people?"

'% few," he said, throwing her a sideways glance. "But

"You don't like the Gearys, for instance."

The smile that had been at play on his face dropped away.

told you that?"

"Niolopua."

"Huh. Well he should keep his mouth shut."

"Don't blame him. He was upset. And from what he was tellin

it sounds like the family gave everybody a raw deal."

Galilee shook his head. "I'm not complaining," he said. "This is a hard
world to get by in. It makes people cruel sometimes. There's a lot worse
than the Gearys. Anyway... you're a Geary." The smile crept back. "And
you're not so bad."

"I'm getting a divorce," she said. "Oh? Don't you love him then?" "No."

"Did you ever?"

"I don't know. It's hard to be sure of what you feel when you meet
somebody like Mitchell. Especially when you're just a Midwestern girl,
and you're lost and you're not sure what you want. And there he is,
telling you not to worry about that anymore. He'll take care of
everything."

"But he didn't?" Galilee said.

She thought about this for a moment. "He did his best," she admitted.
"But as time went by..."

"The things you wanted changed," Galilee said.

"That's right."

"And eventually, the things you end up wanting are the things they can't
give you." He wasn't talking about her any longer, she realized. He was
talking about himself; of his own relationship with the Gearys, the
nature of which she did not yet comprehend.

"You're doing the right thing," he said. "Leaving before you start to
hate yourself."

Again he was talking autobiographically, she knew, and she took comfort
from the fact. He seemed to see some parallel between their lives. The
fears that had threatened her that afternoon were toothless. If he
understood her situation as he seemed to-if he saw some sense in which
his pain and hers overlapped-then they had some common ground upon which
to build.

Of course now she wanted to know more, but having made the remark about
hating yourself he fell silent, and she couldn't think of a way to raise
the subject again without seeming pushy. No matter, she thought. Why
waste time talking about the Gearys, when there was so much to enjoy:
the sky turning pink as the sun slid away, the sea calmer than she'd
seen it, the motion of the water around her legs, the heat of Galilee's
palm against hers.

Apparently much the same thoughts were passing through her Companion's
head.

"Sometimes I talk myself into such foul moods," he said, "and then |
think: what the hell do I have to complain about?" He looked up at the

reef of coral clouds that was accruing high, high above them. "S if I
don't understand the world?" he went on. "I'm a free man. At most of the
time. I go where I want when I want. And wherever I his gaze went from
the clouds to Rachel "... I see beautiful leaned toward her and kissed
her lightly. "Things to be gratefuli They stopped walking now. "Things
that I can't quite believe ing." Again he put his lips against hers, but
this time there was no heSS. This time they wrapped their arms around
one another and deeply, like the lovers they'd been bound to be from the
be '

It passed through Rachel's head that she wasn't living dreaming it: that
every detail of this moment was in such a perfect there was no improving
it. Sky, sea, clouds, lips. His eyes,

His hands on her back, at her neck, in her hair. "I'm sorry..." he
murmured to her. "For what?"

"For not coming to find you," he said. "I should have come

yOU."

"I don't understand."

"I was looking away. I was staring at the sea when I should

been watching for you. Then you wouldn't have married him." "If I hadn't
married him we'd never have met."

"Oh yes we would," he said. "If I'd not been watching would have known
you were out there. And I would have come for you."

They walked on after a time, but now they walked with around one
another. He took her to the end of the beach, then way over the spit of
rocks that marked the divide between the two' On the other side was a
stretch of sand perhaps half the length beach behind them, in the middle
of which was a small, and very antiquated, wooden jetty, its timbers
weathered to a pale legs shaggy with vivid green weed. There was only
one vessel there: The Samarkand. Its sails were furled, and it rode

incoming tide, the very picture of tranquillity.

"Did you build it?" she asked him.

"Not from scratch. I bought her in Mauritius, stripped her the bare
essentials and fashioned her the way I wanted her. It years, because I
was working on my own."

"Like the house."

"Yeah, well, I prefer it that way. I'm not very comfortable with other
people. I used to be..."

"But?"

"I got tired of pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That I liked them," he said. "That I enjoyed talking about..." he

shrugged ".. whatever people talk about."

"Themselves," Rachel said.

"Is that what people talk about?" he said quizzically. It was as

though he'd been out of human company so long he'd forgotten. "I mustn't
have been paying attention." Rachel laughed at this. "No seriously," he
said, "I wouldn't have minded if they'd really want to talk about what
was going on in their souls. I'd have welcomed that. But that's not what
you hear. You hear about pretty stuff. How fat their wives are getting
and, how stupid their husbands are and why they hate their children. Who
could bear that for very long? I'd prefer to hear nothing

"Or tell a story?"

"Oh yes," he said, luxuriating in the thought, "that's even better.

But it can't be just any story. It has to be something true."

"What about the story you told me last night?"

"That was true," he protested. "I swear, I never told a truer story in

all my life." She looked at him quizzically. "You'll see," he said, "if
it

isn't true yet, it will be."

"Anybody could say that," she replied.

"Yes, but anybody didn't. I did. And I wouldn't waste my time with

things that weren't true." He put his hand to her face. "You have to
tell

me a story sometime soon. And it has to be just as true." "I don't know
any stories like that." "Like what?"

"You know," she said. "Stories that could stir you up the way that

story stirred me up."

"Oh it stirred you up did it?"

"You know it did."

"You see. Then it must have been true."

She had no answer to this. Not because it made no sense but

because after some fashion that she couldn't articulate, it did.
Obviously his definition of true wasn't the standard definition, but
there was a kind of cockeyed logic to it nevertheless.

"Shall we go?" he said, "I think the boat's getting lonely."

VI

Ala

S they walked along the creaking jetty Rachel asked him ad dubbed his
boat The Samarkand. Galilee explained Samarkand was the name of a city.

"I've never heard of it," she told him.

"There's no reason why you should. It's a long way from

"Did you live there?"

"No. I just passed through. I've done a lot of passing through

life."

"You've traveled a lot?"

"More than I'd like."

"Why don't you just find a place you like and settle down?" "That's a
long story. I suppose the simple answer is that I've really felt I
belonged anywhere. Except out there." He glanced "And even there..

For the first time since they'd begun this conversation, she his
attention wandering, as though this talk of things far off was him yearn
for them. Perhaps not for the specific of Samarkand;

for something remote from the here and now. She touched his arm:: "Come
back to me," she said. "Sorry," he replied. "I'm here."

They'd reached the end of the iett. The boat was before rocking gently
in the arms of the tide.

"Are we going aboard then?" she asked him.

"We surely are."

He stepped aside, and she climbed the narrow plank laid

the jetty and the deck. He followed her. "Welcome," he said with.not the
pride. "To my Samarkand."

The tour of the boat didn't take long; it was in most unremarkable
vessel. There were a few details of its crafting he out to her as having
been difficult to fashion or pretty in the result, it wasn't until they
got below deck that she really saw his

The walls of the narrow cabin were inlaid with wood; the colors, grain
and even the knotholes in the timber so chosen and arranged they almost
suggested images.

"Is it my imagination," Rachel said, "or am I seeing things in the
walls?"

"Anything in particular?"

"Well... over there I can see a kind of landscape, with some ruins, and
maybe some trees. And there's something that could be a tree, but might
be a person..."

"I think it's a person."

"So you put it there?"

"No. I did all of this work thinking I was just making patterns. It

wasn't until I was a week into my next voyage I started to see things."
"It's like looking at inkblots--" Rachel said. "-- or clouds--"

"--or clouds. The more you look the more you see."

"It's useful on !ong voyages," Galilee said, "when I'm sick of looking
at the waves and the fish I come down here, smoke a little, get a buzz
going, and look at the walls. There's always something I hadn't seen."
He put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her round. "See
that?" he said, pointing to the door at the far end of the cabin, which
was constructed in the same way as the walls.

"The design on the door?"

"Does it remind you of anything?"

She walked toward it. Galilee followed, his hands still laid on her
shoulders. "I'll give you a clue," he said, his voice dropping to a
whisper.

"The grass looks very comfortable..."

"The grass?"

She stopped a yard or so from the door, and looked at the patterns in
the wood. There were arrangements of dark shapes towards the top of the
door; and a sliver of pale wood running horizontally, broken in places,
and some more forms she could make no sense of arbitrarily laid

here and there. But where was the grass? And why was it so comfortable?
"I'm not getting it," she said.

"Just look for the virgin," Galilee said.

"The virgin?" she said. "What virgin?" He drew breath to give her
another clue, but before he could speak she said: "You mean Jerusha?"

He put his smiling lips against the nape of her neck and kept his
silence.

She kept looking, and piece by piece the picture began to emerge. The
grass--that comfortable bed on which Jerusha had lain down-- was there
in the middle of the door, a patch of lightly speckled wood. Above it
were those dark, massy shapes she'd first puzzled over: the

heavy summer foliage of ancient trees. And that bright horizontal
running across the door? It was the river, glimpsed from a distance.

Now it was she who smiled, as the mystery came clear in

her. She had only one question: "Where are the people?"

"You have to put those in for yourself," he said. "Unless ..." stepped
past her and put his finger on a narrow,

the grain of one of the pieces of wood. "Gould this be the riverman "No.
He was better looking than that."

Galilee laughed. "So maybe it isn't Jerusha's forest after all," said.
"I'll have to invent a new story."

"You like telling stories?"

"I like what it does to people," he said, smiling a little guiltily,
makes them feel safe."

"Going to your country? Where the rich were kind and the poor God--"

"I suppose that is my country. I hadn't thought about it that before."
The notion seemed to trouble him somewhat. He for a moment; just a
moment. Then he looked up from his

and said: "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, I am a little."

"Good. Then I'll cook," he said. "It'll take a couple of hours. you wait
that long?"

"A couple of hours?" she said, "What are you going to cook?"

"Oh it's not the cooking that takes the time," he said. catching."

ii

There was no trace of the day remaining when The Samarkand jetty; nor
was there a moon. Only the stars, in brilliant array. on deck while the
boat glided away from the island. The heavens brighter the further they
sailed, or such was her impression. She'd seen so many stars, nor seen
the Milky Way so clearly; a wide, band of studded sky.

"What are you thinking about?" Galilee asked her.

"I used to work in a jewelry store in Boston," she said. "And

this necklace that was called the Milky Way. It was supposed to look
that." She pointed to the sky. "I think it was eight hundred

thousand dollars. You never saw so many diamonds." "Did you want to
steal it?" Galilee said. "I'm not a thief."

"But did you?"

	She grinned sheepishly. "I did try it on when nobody was looking.

was very pretty. But the real thing's prettier."

And

'tl would have stolen it for you," Galilee said. "No problem. All you

needed to say was--I want that--and it would have been yours."

Suppose you d got caught?"

	"I never get caught."

	"So " 2"

		what have you stolen.

	"Oh my Lord ." he said. "Where do I start.

	"Is that a joke?"

	"No.

I take theft very seriously."

	"It is a joke."

	"I stole this boat."

	"You did not."

	"How else was I going to get it?"

	"Buy it?"

"You know how much vessels like this cost?" he said reasonably. She
still wasn't sure whether he was joking or not. "I either stole the
money to buy the boat, or stole the boat itself. It seemed simpler to
steal the boat. That cut out the middle man." Rachel laughed. "Besides,
the guy who had the boat didn't care about her. He left her tied up most
of

the time. I took her out, showed her the world."

	"You make it sound like you married her."

"I'm not that crazy," Galilee replied. "I like sailing, but I like
fucking better." An expression of surprise must have crossed her face,

because he hurriedly said: "Sorry. That was etude. I mean

	"No, if that's what you meant you should say it."

He looked sideways at her, his eyes gleaming by the light of the lamp.
Despite his claim not to be crazy, that was exactly how he looked at
that moment: sublimely, exquisitely crazy.

	"You realize what you're inviting?" he said.

	No."

"Giving me permission to say what I mean? That's a dangerous
invitation."

	"I'll take the risk."

	"All right," he said with a shrug. "But you remember..."

	"... I invited it."

	He kept looking at her: that same gleaming gaze.

	"I brought you on this boat because I want to make love to you."

	"Make love is it now?"

"No, fuck. I want to luck you."

"Is that your usual method?" she asked him. "Get the girl out sea where
she hasn't got any choice?"

"You could swim," he said. He wasn't smiling.

"I suppose I could."

"But as they say on the islands: Uliuli kai holo ka mano." "Which means
what?"

"Where the sea is dark, sharks swim."

"Oh that's very reassuring," she said, glancing down at the slopping
against the hull of The Samarkand. They were indeed

"So that may not be the wisest option. You're safer here. With

Getting what you want."

"I haven't said--"

"You don't need to tell me. You just need to be near me. I smell what
you want."

If Mitchell had ever said anything like that as a sexual

would have killed his chances stone dead. But she'd invited this say
what was in his head. It was too late to play the Puritan. Bes coming
from him, right now, the idea was curiously beguiling. smell her. Her
breath, her sweat; God knows what else. She was him and he could smell
her; she was wasting his time and hers ing and denying...

So she said: "I thought we were going to fish?"

He grinned at her. "You want a lover who keeps his f "Absolutely."

"I'll get a fish," he said, and standing up he stripped off his
unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his pants; all this so swiftly
didn't comprehend what he was intending to do until he threw overboard.
It wasn't an elegant dive, it was a ragged plunge, and splash soaked
her. But that wasn't what got her up and shouting It was what he'd said
about sharks and dark water.

"Don't do this!" she yelled. She could barely see him.

of there!"

"I'm not going to be long."

"Galilee. You said there were sharks."

"And the longer I talk to you the more likely they'll come and my ass,
so can I please go fish?"

"I'm not hungry any more."

"You will be," he said. She could hear the smile in his voice, saw him
throw his arms above his head and dive out of sight.

"You sonofabiteh," she said to herself, her mind filling with unwelcome
questions. How long could he hold his breath for? When should she start
to be concerned for his safety? And what if she saw a shark: what was
she to do then? Lean over the side and beat on the hull of the boat to
divert its attention? Not a very pleasant idea, with the water so
concealing. The thing would be on her before she knew it; taking off her
hand, her arm, dragging her overboard.

There was no doubt in her mind: when he got back on board she was going
to tell him to take her straight back to the jetty; the sonofabitch, the
sonofabitch, leaving her here staring down into the darkness with her
heart in her mouth--

She heard a splashing sound on the other side of the boat.

"Is that you?" she called out. There was no reply. She crossed the deck,
stumbling over something in the dark. "Galilee, damn you! Answer me!"

The splashing came again. She scanned the water, looking for some sign
of life. Praying it was a man not a fin.

"Oh God, don't let anything happen to him," she found herself saying,
"Please God, please, don't hurt him."

"You sound like a native."

She looked in the direction of the voice. There was something that
looked like a black ball bobbing in the water. And around it, fish were
leaping, their backs silvery in the starlight.

"Okay," she said, determined not to sound concerned for fear she
encouraged his cavortings. "You got the fish? That's great."

"There was a shark god at Puhi, called KaholiaKane--" "I don't want to
hear it!" she yelled. "But I heard you praying--" "No --"

"Please God, you were saying."

"I wasn't praying to the fucking shark!" she yelled, her fury and fear
getting the better of her.

"Well you should. They listen. At least this one did. The women

used to call to him, whenever somebody was lost at sea--" "Galilee?"
"Yes?"

"It's not funny anymore. I want you back on board."

"I'm coming," he said. "Let me just--" She saw his arm shoot out of the
water and catch one of the leaping fish. "Gotcha! Okay. I'm on my way."
He began to plow through the water toward the boat. She

scanned the surface in every direction, superstitiously fearful that

	fin would appear just as Galilee came in striking distance of the

	But he made it to the side without incident.

	"Here," he said, passing the fish up to her. It was large, and still

	much intending to return to its native element, thrashing so

	that she had to use both hands to keep hold of it.

	By the time she'd set the fish down where it couldn't dance its

	back over the side Galilee had hoisted himself up out of the water

	was standing, dripping wet, just a step or two behind her.

	"I'm sorry," he said, before she could start to tell him h

	was. "I didn't realize I was upsetting you. I thought you knew it wa

	a joke."

	"You mean there aren't any sharks?"

	"Oh no. There are sharks out there. And the islanders do say

	kai kolo ka mano. But I don't think they're talking about real

	when they say that."

	"What are they talking about?"

	"Men."

	"Oh I see," Rachel said. "When it gets dark, the men come out

	"--looking for something to eat." He nodded.

	"But you could still have got attacked," she said, "if there

	sharks out there."

	"They wouldn't have touched me." .. :

	"And why's that? Too tough?"

	He reached out and took hold of her hand, escorting it back

	him, and laying her palm against the middle of his massive chest.

	heart was thumping furiously. He felt as though there was just a

	layer of skin between hand and heart; as though if she

	have reached into his chest and taken hold of it. And now

	could smell him. His skin like smoke and burnt coffee; his breath

	"There's a lot of tales about sharks, men and gods," he said.

	"More of your true stones.

	"Absolutely true," he replied. "I swear."

	"Such as?"

	"Well, they come in four varieties. Legends about men who

	really shape-changing sharks; that's the first. These creatures walk

	beaches at night, taking souls; sometimes taking children."

	Rachel made a face. "Doesn't sound like a lot of fun."

	"Then there are stories about men who decided to go into

and become sharks."

	"Why would they do that?"

"For the same reason I got myself a boat and sailed away: they were fed
up with pretending. They wanted to be in the water, always moving.

Sharks die if they don't keep moving, did you know that?" "No..." "Well
they do."

"So that's number two."

"Then there's the one you already know. Kaholia-Kane and his

brothers and sisters."

"Shark gods."

"Protectors of sailors and ships. There's one in Pearl Harbor, watching
over the dead. Her name's Ka'ahupahau. And the greatest of them is
called Kuhaimuana. He's thirty fathoms long..."

Rachel shook her head. "Sorry. I don't like any of these stories," she

said.

"That leaves us with just one category."

"Men who are gods?" Rachel said. Galilee nodded. "No, I'm not buying
that either," she told him.

met the "Don't right be man." so quick to judge," Galilee said. "Maybe
you just haven't

She laughed. "And maybe it's all just stories," she replied. "Look, I'm
quite happy to talk about sharks and religion tomorrow. But tonight
let's just be ordinary people."

"You make it sound easy," he said.

"It is," she told him. She moved closer to him, her hand still pressed
against his chest. His heart seemed to beat more powerfully still. "I
don't understand what's going on between us," she said, their faces so
dose she could feel the heat of his breath. "And to be honest I don't
really care any more." She kissed him. He was staring at her,
unblinking, and continued to stare as he returned her kiss.

"What do you want to do?" he said, very quietly.

She slid her other hand down over the hard shallow dome of his stomach,
to his sex. "Whatever you want," she said, unhooding him. He shuddered.

"There's so much I need to tell you," he said.

"Later."

"Things you have to know about me."

"Later."

"Don't say I didn't try," he said, staring at her with no little
severity. "I won't.",

"Then let's go downstairs and be ordinary for a while."

She led the way. But before he followed her he walked back across

the deck to where the fish lay, and going down on his haunches, it up.
She watched his body by the lamplight; the muscles of his It and
buttocks, the bunching of his thighs as he squatted down, laden sac
hanging between his legs. He was glorious, she thought; haps the most
glorious man she'd ever seen.

He stood up again-apparently unaware that she was him--and seemed to
murmur a few words to the dead fish before ing it overboard. "What was
that about?" she asked him.

"An offering," he explained. "To the shark god."

VII

I M

y half brother Galilee was always impatient with other doesn't surprise
me that he became "tired of pretendin explained to Rachel. What does
surprise me is that he didn't that sooner or later he'd find himself
playing that same game with and tire of her too.

Then again, perhaps he did. Perhaps even at the beginning, look at what
he said to her more closely, there were there. On the one hand he seemed
to be infatuated with her-all sentimental talk about staring at the sea
when he should have watching for her--on the other quite capable of
Samarkand, he dryly explains, is a long way from Ohio, as thou were too
parochial to have any knowledge of what lay immediate experience. It's a
wonder she didn't kick him off the

But then I think that from the beginning she understood contradictions
and all-better than I ever have. And of course susceptible to his charms
in a way that I'll never be, and perhaps fore more forgiving of his
flaws. I'm doing my best to evoke a of his allure for you. I think I
caught his voice, and the physical are right. But it's difficult to go
into the sexual business. act of coitus involving your own sibling feels
like a form of incest, though I'm certain that my reticence does him an
in haven't, for instance, told you how finely he was made But for the
record, very finely indeed.

So on. For the sake of my blushes, on.

There is, as I promised, much more calamity within the Geary family to
report, but before I start into that I want to tell you about a little
drama here in the Barbarossa household.

It happened last night, just as I was midway through describing Rachel
and Galilee's encounter on The Samarkand. There was a great din at the
other end of the house (and I really mean a cacophony: shouting and
thundering enough to shake down a few of the smaller books off my
shelves). I couldn't work, of course. I was far too curious. I ventured
out into the hallway, and tried to make some sense of the noise. It
wasn't difficult. Marietta was one portion of it: when she gets angry
she becomes so shrill it makes your head ring, and she was shouting up a
storm. Accompanying her complaints--which I could make no real

sense of-was the sound of slamming doors, as she apparently raged her
way from room to room. But these weren't the only elements in the noise.
There was something far more disturbing: a clamor that was like the din
of some benighted jungle; a lunatic mingling of chatters and howls.

My mother, of course. I'm sorry, my father's wife. (It's strange, and
probably significant, that I think of her as my mother whenever I
picture her more peaceful aspects. The warrior Gesaria Yaos is my
father's wife.) Anyway, it was she, no doubt. Who else had a voice that
could express the rage of a baboon, a leopard and a hippopotamus in one
rise and fell swoop?

But what was she so furious about? I wasn't entirely certain I wanted to
find out. There was some merit in retreat, I thought. But before I could
about turn and creep back to my room I saw Marietta running down the
hallway, with what appeared to be an armful of garments. You'll recall
that the last time we two had spoken we'd parted furious with one
another, she having commented less than favorably on my work. But I
think even if we'd been bosom buddies she would not have halted at that
moment. Cesaria's menagerie noises were escalating by the second.

As Marietta ducked out of sight, I did what I'd been planning to do ten
seconds before, and turned around so as to head back to my room. Too
late. I'd barely taken a step when the noises ceased all at once, every
last howl, only to leave room for Gesaria's other voice; her human
voice,

which is- I'm sure I've told you-- nothing short of mellifluous.
"Maddox," she said. Shit, I thought. "Where are you going?"

(Isn't it strange, by the way, that we're never too old to feel errant
children? There I was, old by any human standards, frozen in! tracks and
guilty as any infant caught with sticky fingers.)

"I was going back to my work," I said. Then added, "Mama," as It may
have mellowed her. "Is it going well?" she asked me, conversationally. I
was sufficiently reassured to turn round and her, but she wasn't visible
to me. There was just a busy darkness at far end of the hallway where
moments before there'd been a wel lobby. I was frankly grateful. I've
never actually witnessed the form mother takes in these legendary furies
of hers, but I'm quite sure it's ficient to drop a saint in his tracks.

"It's going okay," I replied. "I have days when-"

Gesaria broke in before I got any further. "Did Marietta go side?" she
said.

"I... yes.., yes, I believe she did." "Fetch her back." "I'm sorry?"

"You're not deaf, Maddox. Go find your sister and bring her inside."

"What happened?"

"Just fetch her."

(There's another second strangeness here, worth remarking Just as
there's a guilty child lurking in everyone, there's also a self that
prickles at the idea of being ordered about, and is not silenced. It was
this voice that answered Gesaria back, foolish was to do so.)

"Why can't you go and fetch her yourself?" I heard

I knew I was going to regret the words even as I spoke them. was already
too late to recant: Cesaria's shadow self was in was moving-not quickly,
but steadily, inevitably-down the toward me. Though the ceiling is not
especially high, there was something vast about her manifestation; she
seemed like a that moment. And I diminished to a fraction of myself
before her; I a mote, a sliver--

She began to speak as she approached, but every word she seemed about to
collapse back into that terrible cacophony of though she was only
keeping anarchy at bay with the greatest effort.

"You," she said "remind me" I knew what was coming father."

I don't believe I said anything by way of reply. I was frankly
intimidated. Besides, if I'd tried to speak I doubt my tongue

worked. I simply stood there as she roiled before me, and the animal din
erupted out of her with fresh ferocity.

This time, however, there was a vision to go with the din, not uncovered
by the cloud but seemingly sculpted from it. I had a mercifully short
glimpse of it, though I'm certain that had Cesaria not wanted me to be
her errand boy she might have given me more. That wasn't to her present
purpose, however, so she showed me just enough to make me lose control
of my bladder; perhaps three or four seconds' worth, if that. What did I
see? It's no use telling you there are no words. Of course there are
words; there are always words. The question is: can I wield them well
enough to evoke the power of what I witnessed? That I doubt. But let me
do my best.

I saw, I think, a woman erupting at every pore and orifice; spewing
unfinished forms. Giving birth, I suppose you'd say, expelling not one,
nor even ten, but a thousand creatures; ten thousand. And yet here's the
problem with that description. It doesn't take account of the fact that
at the same time she was becoming--how do I express this?-denser; like
certain stars I've read about, which as they collapse upon themselves
draw light and matter into them. So was she. How did my mind deal with
the fact that she was doing two contrary things? Not well. In fact the
vision did such violence to my system I fell down as though she'd struck
me, and covered my head with my hands as though she might get the sight
into me again through the top of my skull.

She chose to spare me. Just left me lying on the ground in my wet

pants, sobbing. It took me a little time to recover my composure, but
when I finally raised my head and chanced a look in her direction, I
found that the thunderhead was no longer looming over me. She'd covered
that

furious face of hers and was waiting some little distance from me.

"I'm sorry.. 7 were the first words out of my mouth.

"No," she said, h6r voice suddenly drained of either music or strength.
"It was my fault. You're not a child to be ordered around. It was

just that in that moment I saw your father so clearly." "May... I... ask
you a question?" "Ask anything," she said, sighing, "That face I .just
saw..." "What about it?"

"Did Nieodemus ever see it?"

Despite her fatigue she was amused by this. There was a hint of a smile
in her voice when she replied. "Are you asking me if I scared him off?"
I nodded. "Then I'll tell you: that face, as you call it, is what he
chiefly loved me for."

"Really?" I must have sounded astonished--as indeed I because she
replied somewhat defensively:

"He had aspects that were just as terrible."

"Yes I know."

"Of course you know. You saw some of what he could do." "But that wasn't
all he was," I said.

"Just as what you saw a moment ago isn't all of me."

"But it's the truest part, isn't it?" I said. Under other circumsta I
surely wouldn't have pressed her on this business so closely, the
chances of my having the freedom to interrogate her like this were nil.
iF i was to know who Cesaria Yaos was before the house of] barossa came
crashing down, it was now or never.

"The truest part?" she said. "No. I don't think I have one fac truer
than any other. I used to be worshipped in dozens of temples, know."

"I know."

"They're all heaps of rubble now. Nobody remembers how I loved..." Her
voice trailed off. She'd apparently lost her point. was I saying?"

"Nobody remembering."

"Before that."

"All the temples--"

"Oh yes. So many temples, with statues and embroideries.

depicting me. But not one of them resembled any other."

"How do you know?"

"Because I visited them," she said. "When your father and I spat we'd go
our separate ways for a while. He'd go find himself poor woman to
seduce, and I'd go touring my holy sites. when you're feeling a little
woebegone."

"Hard to imagine." '.

"What? Me, woebegone? Oh I can be self-pitying, just like body else."

"No. I meant it's hard to imagine how it must feel, going temple where
you're being worshipped."

"Oh it can be wonderful. Wandering among your devotees." "Were you ever
tempted to tell them who you were?"

"I did it many, many times. I usually picked somebody who

a particularly reliable witness. The very old. The very young.

with a sanity problem, or a saint, which is often one and the same.

"Why do that? Why not show yourself to somebody literate, gent? Somebody
who could spread your gospel?"

"Somebody like you?"

"If you like."

"Is that what your book's going to be: one last desperate attempt to put
your father and me back up on our pedestals?" What did she want to hear
from me? I wondered. And if I chose incorrectly, would I be sub iected
to her fury again? "Is that what you're up to, Maddox?"

I decided on the truth. "No," I said, "I'm simply telling the story as
best I can."

"And this conversation? Will it be in your book?"

"I'll put it in if it seems relevant."

There was a silence. Finally, she said: "Well, I suppose it doesn't
matter whether you do or you don't. Stories; temples. Who cares
nowadays?

You're going to have fewer readers than I have worshippers, Maddox." "I
don't have to be read to be a writer," I pointed out.

"And I don't have to be worshipped to be a goddess. But it helps.
Believe me, it helps." She made a phantom smile, and I-to my great
surprise-returned it. We understood one another better at that

moment than we ever had. "So, now... Marietta." "One more question," I
begged. "No, enough."

"Please, Mama. Just one. For the book." "One then. And only one." "Did
my father have temples?" "He certainly did." "Where were they?"

"That's another question, Maddox. But, as you're so curious... The

finest of his temples to my way of thinking was in Paris." "Really?
Paris. I thought Nicodemus hated Paris." "Later, he did. It's where I
met Mr. Jefferson, you see." "I didn't know that."

"There's a great deal about that man you don't know; that the world
doesn't know. I could tell you enough about him to fill five books. He
was such a charmer. But quiet.., so quiet when he talked that you had to
strain to hear him. I remember the first time I met him he'd just been
given an apricot, which he'd never tasted before. And oh, the blissful
look on that pinched face of his! I wanted him to make love to me on the
spot."

"Did he?"

"Oh no. He played very hard to get. He was in love with an English
actress.at the time. What a wretched combination that was: English and
an actress. The worst of all possible worlds. Anyway, Thomas toyed with

my affections for weeks. There was a revolution going on around us, I
swear I was so besotted with him I barely noticed. Heads being off every
hour and I was wandering around in an adolescent daze

to find a way to make this scrawny little American diplomat love m "How
did you do it?"

"I'm not sure I ever did. If I were to raise him up now, out of grave at
Monticello, and say to him: did you love me? I think he'd at best, for a
day or two, an hour or two, that afternoon you showed the temple."

'You took him to my father's temple?"

"Every woman knows if you fail to get the man you want words, you show
him a sacred place." She laughed. "Usually it's the between your legs.
Don't look so shocked, Maddox. It's a fact of life. woman's going to get
a man on his knees, she has to give him som to worship. But I knew
raising my skirts for Jefferson wasn't going to enough. He'd had that
from his tarry little actress, Miss Cosway. I show him something that
she could never supply. So I took him to father's temple."

"What happened?"

"He was very impressed. He asked me how I knew about the

It was a very secret cult your father had at that time. Noble mostly.
And of course they'd either fled or lost their heads. $o the pie was
deserted. We wandered around while the mobs raged on streets outside,
and I think--just for that little while-he was quite love.

"I remember he asked me who'd designed the place, and I him to the
altar, where there was a statue of your father. It had a red vet cloth
draped over it. And I said to Jefferson: before I show will you promise
me something? He said yes, of course, if it was power. So I said to him:
design me a house, where I can live because it'll remind me of you."

"So that's how you got him to design you this place?"

"I made him swear. On his wife. On his dreams of Mo

his dearest hopes for democracy. I made him swear on them all." "You
didn't trust him?" "Not remotely." "So he swore--"

"--and I uncovered your father's statue. There he was in allt tumescent
glory!" Again she laughed. "Oh, Thomas was the very ture of discomfort.
But to be fair to him, he kept his aplomb

me, with great seriousness, if the representation was a true and
proportionate likeness. [ reassured him that it was an exaggeration,
though not much of one. I remember exactly what he said to that. 'Then I
am certain, ma'am, you are a very contented wife.' Ha! 'A very contented
wife.'

"I showed him how contented I was, there and then. With your father's
painted eyes looking down at us, I showed Jefferson how little I cared
for marriage.

"We never did it again. I didn't really want to, and I'm quite certain
he didn't. His affair with the actress ended in tears, and he went back
to his wife."

"But he built you your house, just as he promised he would."

"Oh he did more than that," she said. "He also built a perfect copy

of the temple. Perfect down to the last detail."

"Why?"

"That's another question for his ghost. I don't know. He was a strange
man. Beautiful things obsessed him. And the temple was beautiful."

"Did he put an altar in it?"

"Do you mean did he have a statue of your father? I wouldn't be
surprised."

"Where was this place?" "Where is it, you mean." "It's still standing?"

"I believe so. It's one of the best kept secrets in Washington."
"Washington..." The thought that there was a place of ritual sacred to
my perpetually priapic father laid in the heart of the nation's capitol
astonished me. "I want to see it," I said.

"I'll write a letter of introduction," Cesaria said.

"To whom?"

She smiled. "To the highest in the land. I'm not entirely forgotten,"
she said. "Jefferson made certain I would never want for influence," "So
he knew you'd outlive him?"

"Oh yes, he understood perfectly, though he never put what he

knew into words. I think that-would have been too much for him."
"Mother... you astonish me."

"Do I really?" she said, with something approximating fondness in her
voice. "Well I'm pleased to hear it." She shook her head. "Enough of
this," she said. "I'm quite talked out." She pointed at me. "And you be
careful how you quote me," she said. "I won't have my past
misrepresented, even if it is in a book that nobody's going to read."

So saying, she turned her back on me, and calling

to follow, she headed off down the passageway. I called aider her: "What
do you want me to do about Marietta?"

"Nothing," she growled. "Let her play. She'll regret what done. Maybe
not tonight, but soon."

While I was pleased to be relieved of the dut of going after etta, I was
left somewhat curious as to the felony my half sister had mitred. Indeed
I was tempted to seek her out and ask her for myself. I had such a
wonderful freight of information from Cesaria, and I Want to risk
forgetting a word of it. So I went straight back to my the lamps, poured
myself some gin, and started to set it down. I only once, to reflect on
what it might mean that Thomas Jefferson, principal architect of the
Declaration, the father of democracy in ica, should have built a replica
of my father's temple. To have gone to that trouble in pursuit of beauty
seemed to me unlikely. Which two questions: one, why had he done it? And
two, if there was some purpose, did anybody on Capitol Hill know what it
was?

VIII

I I-will revisit Marietta's theft in due course; be assured of that.
].several threads of this tapestry woven together in her crime as see.
And--just as Cesaria predicted-there would be

But first, I 'must return to The Samarkand, and the pair passed the
night upon it.

When Rachel woke, dawn was creeping into the tiny cabin, and virtuous
}ight she saw Galilee asleep at her side, one arm thrown his face, the
other across her body. Comforted by the sight, she her eyes and went
back to sleep. When she stirred again, he was stroking her breasts,
kissing her face. Still only half-awake she slid hand down between their
bodies and raised her leg a little to guide into her. He murmured
something against her cheek that she catch, but she was in too dreamy a
state to ask him to repeat it: wanted was the fullness of him inside
her; his gentle motion, his

She didn't even need to see him: he was there in her mind's eye when she
closed her lids; her perfect lover, who'd brought her more sexual
pleasure in one night than she'd experienced in all the years preceding
it. She reached out and touched his chest, his nipples, then to his
armpit and the mass of his shoulder, luxuriating in the polished muscle
beneath her fingertips. One of his huge hands was at her face, stroking
her with the back of his fingers, the other down between her legs,
parting her, easing the passage of his sex by spreading her fluids down
its length.

She made a little sob of pleasure when he was fully housed; begged him
to sthy there. He didn't move. Just kept his place, her body enclosing
him so tightly she could feel the tick of his blood. At last, she began
to move; just a tiny motion at first, but enough to send a shudder
through him.

"You like that?" she whispered.

He replied with short expulsion of air, almost a grunt, as he pressed
his sex back into her, and the next instant withdrew it almost entirely.
She let him do so without protest; the emptiness was delicious, as long
as she knew it was only temporary.

She reached up and put her arms around his neck, knotting her fingers at
the base of his skull. Then, oh so slowly, she preempted his return
stroke by raising her hips toward his.

He spoke again. This time she heard what he said.

"Oh Lord in heaven..."

Slowly, slowly, she took him into her, both of them tender from a night
of excesses; the line between bliss and discomfort perilously fine. As
she rose he started down to meet her motion, and the image of him she'd
had in her mind's eye lost its particularity, his substance dissolved in
the wash of pleasure. The gleaming darkness of his limbs spread behind
her lids, filling her thoughts completely. He was quickening now. She
urged him on, her urges incoherent. No matter; he understood. She didn't
need to tell him when to redirect his pressure, she'd no sooner formed
the thought than he was doing so. And before he lost control of his body
and came, she was distracting him from his crisis, slowing her own
motion so as not to have their pleasure end too quickly.

So it went on, for two hours, almost three: sometimes a contest-- jabs
and sobbing; sometimes so quiet, so still, they might almost have been
asleep in one another's arms. They made no declarations of love; at
least nothing audible. They didn't even speak, not even to call out

one another's name. There was no failure of feeling in this; just

reverse. They were so entirely immersed in one another, so

joined in their bliss, that for a short, sacred time they imagined

selves indivisible.

ii

Not so, of course.

	The illusion passed when their bodies had been wracked

	exhaustion. They lay beside one another shivering in their sweat,

	ously satisfied, but returned into their own skins.

	"I'm hungry," Rachel said.

	They hadn't gone entirely without sustenance since

	Saraarkand. Though Galilee had returned the fish to the sea as an.

	ing to Kuhaimuana--all thirty fathoms of him--he'd opened

	shucked oysters and brandied peaches in the middle of the night,

	they'd eaten off and out of one another's bodies, so that the sati:

	one appetite didn't interrupt the satisfying of the other.

	Still, it was now midmorning, and her stomach was complaini

	"We can be back on land in an hour," Galilee said.

	"I don't want to go," Rachel replied. "I never want to go. I stay out
here, just the two of us..."

	"People would come looking," he said. "You're still a Geary."

	"We'd find somewhere to hide," she said. "People disappear all

	time, and they're never found."

	"I have a house..."

	"You do?"

	"In a tiny village in Chile, called Puerto Bueno. It's right at

	of the hill. A view of the harbor. Parakeets in the trees."

	"Let's go there," she said. Galilee laughed. "I'm serious," she

	"I know you are."

	"We could have children .. .i:

	The amusement left his face. "I don't think that'd be wise," "Why not?"

	"Because I'd be no use as a father."

	"How do you know?" she said, putting her hand over his: might find out
you really liked it."

	"Bad fathers run in our family," Galilee said. "Or rather, one

	"One bad father out of how many?"

	"One out of one," he said. :

	She thought he'd misunderstood what she was saying.

mean, what about your grandfathers?"

"There aren't any."

"You mean they're dead."

"No, I mean there aren't any. There never were."

She laughed. "Don't be silly. Your mother and father had parents. They
might have been dead before you were born, but-"

"They had no parents," (alilee said, ta[ing his eyes off her. "Believe
me."

There was something faintly intimidating about the way he said believe
me. It wasn't an invitation, it was a command. He didn't wait to see if
she'd obey it or not; he just got up and started to dress. "It's time we
went back," he said. "People'll be looking for you."

"Let them look," she said, sliding her arms around him from behind, and
pressing her body against him, "We don't have to go yet. I want to talk;
I want to get to know you better."

"There'll be other times," he said, moving away from her to pick up his
shirt.

"Will there?" she said.

"Of course," he replied, not turning back to look at her.

"What was it I said that offended you?"

"You haven't said anything," he replied. "I just think we should get
back, that's all."

"Last night-"

He stopped buttoning his shirt. "Was wonderful," he said.

"So stop being like this," she said, irritation creeping into her voice.
"I'm sorry if I talked out of turn. It was just a joke."

He sighed. "No it wasn't. You meant it or you wouldn't have said it.
You'd like to have children..."

"Yes," she said, "I would. And I'd like to have them with you."

"We scarcely know one another," he replied, and started up the stairs to
the deck.

She went after him, angry now. "What about what you said on the beach?"
she demanded. "About watching for me? Was that just a way to get me
here?" She followed him up the stairs. By the time she got on deck he
was sitting on the narrow bench beside the wheel, his face in his hands.
"Is that all this was about?" she said to him. "And now we've had the
night together you're just going to move on?"

He kept his face buried. From the sound of his voice, he might have been
dead. "I meant nothing by any of this," he said. "I just got caught up
in the moment, and that wasn't fair to you. It wasn't fair. I thought
you understood..."

"Understood what?"

"That this was just another story," he replied.

"Look at me," she said. He didn't move; his face remained from her.
"Look at me and say that!" she demanded.

With great reluctance he looked up at her. His face was was the
expression in his eyes. "I meant nothing by any of this," he steadily.
"I thought you nnderstood this was just another story."

Her eyes pricked, she heard the whine of the blood in her How could he
be saying this? Her vision began to blur as the tears. How could he sit
there and tell her it was all just a game, when both knew, they both
knew, surely, surely, that something had happened?

"You're a liar," she said.

"That may be."

"You know it's not true!"

"It's as true as any story I ever told you," he said, looking

the deck. She wanted to quote him back at himself on the sub what was
true and what was not, but she couldn't remember ment he'd made. All she
could think was: he's running away

I'm never going to see him again. It was unbearable. Ten minutes they'd
been talking about his house on the hilltop. Now he was her nothing he'd
said was worth a damn.

"Liar," she said again. "Liar, liar, liar."

He got up and went into the wheelhouse, not looking

He switched on the engine, and then flipped the switch to haul anchor.
Betv(een engine and anchor-raising there was quite further conversation
was out of the question. Frustrated, below to dress.

The cabin was in total disarray, the pillows and sheets cast in
direction about the bed, her clothes scattered. She focused tions on a
missing shoe for a minute or two, which kept the coming again. By the
time she'd found the shoe and the weepy feeling had passed, and she was
almost ready to have hal conversation.

Shoes on, she went back up on deck. The boat was through the placid
waters at quite a clip, the wind cold and

"Look!" Galilee yelled to her, pointing toward the bow.

see nothing. "Go see!" he urged her.

She climbed up past the wheelhouse and onto the forward

see what he was so anxious she see. There was a pod of dolphins pace
with The Samarkand, three or four of them racing to stay so the bow they
were practically touching it, their bodies like

does as they sped along. Now and then a smaller individual--a juvenile,
she supposed--leaped out of the water to one side of the boat or the
other, the leaps decorated with a fillip of the tail or a half-twist of
the body.

She glanced back at Galilee to show her appreciation, but he had his
eyes on the island. There were rain clouds obscuring the hdghts of Mount
Waialeale, as there had been the first day she'd arrived. It was just a
short time since she'd been driving with Jimmy Hornbeck and they'd had
their conversation about Mammon, the demon of acquisitiveness; but it
seemed like weeks. No; more than weeks: another life. She'd been a
different Rachel then; she'd been a Rachel who hadn't known Galilee was
in the world. For better or worse, that changed everything.

	IX

T

he jetty had an occupant when they came in sight of it: a solitary
figure sitting staring out at the sea. Rachel assumed the man was
fishing, and paid him little attention. It wasn't until The Samarkand
was within a few boaflengths of its destination that she studied the
figure more closely and realized that it was Niolopua. He'd risen now
and was waiting at the end of the jetty, plainly agitated. Before the
boat had even come alongside the jetty he leapt aboard. He took no
notice of his father; it was Rachel he needed to talk to; and urgently.

"There have been messages for you," he said, "from New York." "About
what?"

"The woman wouldn't say. She just told me to find you. Very

important, she said. I've been looking for you since dawn." "Who was it
you were talking to?" "Mrs. Geary."

"Yes, but which Mrs. Geary? Was it Margaret?" The man shook his head.
"Loretta? It was Loretta?"

"The old one?" Niolopua said.

Before Rachel could confirm that yes, Loretta was the old one, Galilee
had done it for her. "And she didn't tell you what it was about?"

"No. Just that.., this Mrs. Geary had to call as soon as possible,
because there was something she had to know."

"Cadmus," Rachel said. The old man was dead, more than likely. "Come
with me," she said to Galilee.

"Niolopua can go with you. I'll follow."

"You promise me?" she said.

"Of course."

"We need to talk."

"I know. I understand. I'll come in a while. Let me just take care the
boat."

It was hard not to look back as she and Niolopua returned to the hard
not to fear that Galilee was lying to her, and that the moment was out
of sight he'd cast off and sail away. But she had to have faith, she
told herself. If she didn't believe the promise he'd made then there was
no hope for them. And if he broke that promise, there'd been no hope
anyway.

Still, it was hard. The closer they came to the ridge of rocks divided
one bay from the other, on the far side of which she would out of sight
of the jetty, the more the temptation grew to cast just glance over her
shoulder and confirm that he was still there. resisted successfully, but
the effort of doing so must have been visible Niolopua because once they
were down on the sand again, with house almost in view, he said:

"Don't worry. He'll come."

She glanced sideways at him. "Is it that obvious?" Niolopua shrugged.
"He's who he is. You're who you are." "What's that supposed to mean?
.... "That he won't break his promise."

It was only once she reached the house, and stood still for a moments,
that she realized how she'd lost some of her equilit being on board The
Samarkand. The floor felt unreliable beneath bare soles, and she felt
oddly queasy: a strange reversal of

She went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on her then
asked Niolopua if he'd mind making her some hot, sweet tea she called
New York. He was happy to oblige. She retired to the privacy of the
dining room and dialed the mansion, wonderin did so how to best express
her condolences. Would Loretta exf be tearful at the news? Surely not.

The voice at the other end of the telephone was not one she ognized: a
man with a Bronx accent and what sounded like a cold. She asked for
Loretta.

"Mrs. Geary can't come to the phone right now. Who is this?" ttachel
told him. There followed some muffled sounds as the receiver was passed
over to somebody else. This time she recognized the voice. It was
Mitchell. She felt a sudden spasm of panic--the way she felt when an
elevator lurched between floors, and she feared it was going to stop.
The prospect of entrapment loomed.

"I had a message from Loretta," Rachel said.

"Yes. I know."

"Who was that I was talking to?" '% detective." "What's going on?" "It's
Margie ..." "What about her?"

There was a short silence. Then Mitchell said: "She's dead, Rachel.
Somebody shot her dead."

The elevator lurched a second time. "Oh God, Mitch..."

"They're saying Garrison did it," Mitchell went on. "But that's just

bullshit. He was set up. It's just bullshit."

"When did it happenT"

"Late last night. Somebody must have broken into the house. Somebody
with a grudge against her. God knows, Margie could piss people off."

"Poor Margie. Oh Lord, poor Margie."

"You have to come back, Rachel. The police need to talk to you." "I
don't know anything."

"You talked to Margie a lot lately. Maybe she told you something--" "I
don't want to come back, Mitchell."

"What are you talking about?" For the first time in the exchange there
was some emotion in his voice; a mingling of rage and disbelief.

"You've got to come back. Where the hell are you anyway?"

"It's none of your business."

"You're out on that fucking island, aren't you?" he said, his tone all
anger now. "You think we don't know about that place? You think it's
Some big secret? I know what goes on out there."

"You don't have the first clue," she said, hoping he heard the certainty
in her voice.

"If you don't come back, the police are going to come looking for you.
Is that what you want7"

"Dou't try bullying me. It won't work any more."

"Rachel."

"I'll call you back."

"Don't hang up."

She hung up. "You bastard," she said quietly. Then, more

still: "Poor Margie."

"Something bad?" Niolopua said. He was at the door with her of hot tea.

"Very bad," she said. He brought the tea to her table and set

down. "My sister-in-law was murdered last night."

"How?"

"She was shot. By... her own husband." She was laying all out more for
her own benefit than for Niolopua's; putting what nearly beyond belief
into words.

"Do you want me to go tell my father?"

'/es," Rachel said, "if you don't mind. Would you ask him to

up? Tell him I need him here."

"Is there anything else before I go?"

"No, thank you," "I'm sorry," he said. "She was a nice woman." So
saying, he left

alone.

She took a few sips of tea, which Niolopua had sweetened honey, then got
up and went to the cabinet. If her memory served seen a half-emptied
carton of cigarettes in one of the drawers. what she needed right now: a
bitter lungful of carcinogenic inhaled in memory of her Margie. Several
lungfuls, in fact, and the consequences.

The carton was where she'd hoped it was, but there were matches. Taking
her tea and the cigarettes, she went through to kitchen. The vestiges of
her land-sickness remained; not the but the unsettling sense that the
ground beneath her was rocking. found some matches and went out to sit
in the veranda, where could watch for Galilee.

The cigarette tasted stale, but she smoked it anyway,

the countless times she'd sat happily immersed in the cloud of that hung
about Margie, talking with happy purposelessness. If the tim had been
somebody else, Margie would have been thorou entranced, she knew; eager
to talk over every possible scenario of the murder had come about. She'd
had no sense of tragedy, she'd Rachel once. Tragedy only happened to
people who gave a damn, she'd never met anybody who did. Rachel had said
this was Amongst all the important people Margie had rubbed shoulders

there'd been some who genuinely wanted to make a difference. Not a one,
Margie had replied; cheats, liars and thieves, every last one. Rachel
remembered the conversation not for Margie's cynicism, but because there
had been such disappointment in her voice as she spoke. Somewhere behind
the veil there'd been a woman who'd wanted nothing more than to be
proved wrong about what wretched bastards the movers and shakers of the
world were.

Which thought led on, inevitably, to Garrison, about whom Margie had
never said one good word. According to her he'd been-- among other
things--selfish, pompous and inept in bed. But these were minor felonies
beside the crime of which he was now accused; and it was difficult for
Rachel to imagine any circumstances in which he would pick up a gun and
shoot his own wife. Yes, it seemed they'd despised one another; but
they'd lived in a state of mutual contempt for years. It didn't make him
a murderer, if he'd wanted an end to the marriage, there were easier
resolutions.

She turned over what Mitchell had said, about coming home of her own
volition, or having the police come and fetch her. It was nonsense,
surely. She plainly wasn't a suspect, so any information she could
supply would be purely anecdotal. If they needed to talk to her, they
could do it by phone. She didn't have to go back if she didn't want to;
and she didn't want to. Especially now, with so much to work out between
Galilee and herself.

She'd finished her cigarette by now, and had almost finished her tea.
Rather than sit on the veranda she decided to go back inside and change
into fresh clothes. She picked up some cookies on her way through the
kitchen, and went into the bathroom to shower.

It was only when she caught sight of herself in the mirror--her skin
flushed from wind and sun-that she realized how strangely calm she felt.
Was she simply too stunned by all that had happened in the last few
hours to respond to it? Why wasn't she weeping? Her best friend was
dead, for God's sake, and here she was staring at herself out of the
mirror without a tear shed. She looked hard at her reflection, as though
it might speak back to her and solve this mystery; but her face showed
her nothing.

She went to the shower, and turned it on, shedding her clothes where she
stood. The flow of water was weak, but she luxuriated in it
nevertheless, remembering Galilee's touches as she sluiced off her
salted skin. His hands on her face, her breasts, her belly, his tongue
at play between her legs. She wanted him again, now. Wanted him to be
whispering to her the way he'd whispered that first night: atory of
water

and love. She'd even take a tale of sharks if that was what he felt
telling. She was in the mood to be devoured.

Taking her leisurely time, she washed her hair and then rin remaining
soap from her body. She'd neglected to bring a towel the rack, so she
stepped out of the shower soaking wet, and there he' standing in the
doorway, looking at her.

Her first instinct was to cover her nakedness, but the way he looking at
her made the idea nonsensical. There was nothing in his stare; the
expression he wore was almost childlike in its ity. His eyes were wide,
his face almost slack.

"So now they're killing their own," he murmured. "I suppose to happen
sooner or later." He shook his head. "This is the the end, Rachel."

"What do you mean?"

"My brother Luman predicted all this."

"He knew there was going to be a murder?"

"Murder's the least of it. Margie was a sad creature, and she's ably
better off--"

"Don't say that."

"It's true. We both know it's true." "I loved Margie." "I'm sure you
did."

"So don't say she's better off dead, because that's not right, not
true."

"Nobody could have healed her. She'd been swimming in that son for too
long."

"So I shouldn't care that she's dead?"

"Oh no, I'm not saying that. Of course you should care.

you should mourn. But don't expect any justice to be done." "T1-/e
police already have her husband." "They won't have him for long."
"Another of your brother's predictions?"

"No, that one's mine," he said. "Garrison'll walk away

he did. He's a Geary. They always find someone else to blame." "How do
you know so much about them?" "They're the enemy," he said simply.

"So what makes me any different?" Rachel said. "I've been ming in the
poison too."

He nodded. "I know," he said. "I tasted it."

She was reminded of her nakedness as he spoke. It was no

dent; as he spoke of tasting the poison his eyes had left her face. Gone
to her breasts; to her sex.

"Will you pass me a towel?" she said to him.

He dutifully took the largest of the towels off the rack. She reached
out to take it from him, but rather than pass it over he said, "Please,
let me..." and, opening the towel, he pressed it against her body and
began to dry her. Despite the prickly exchanges they'd had of
late--first in the boat, now here--she was instantly comforted by his
attentions; the intimacy of his touch muted by the plushness of the
towel, but all the more teasing for the fact. When he dried her breasts
she couldn't

keep herself from sighing appreciatively. "That feels nice," she said.
"Yeses.

He drew her a little closer, carefully drying beneath her breasts, then
making his way down towards her groin. "When will you go back to New
York?" he asked her.

She had some trouble concentrating on the question; even more

formulating an answer. "I don't see.., any reason why I should."

"I thought she was a friend of yours."

"She was. But I'm no use to her now. I'm better off here, with you. I
know that's what Margie would tell me. She'd say: you've got something
that gives you pleasure, hold on to it." "And I've given you pleasure?"
"You know you have," she purred.

"Good," he said, with a kind of forced brightness, as though the idea
was in equal measure pleasing and troubling to him.

His hands were between her legs now. She took hold of the towel and
pulled it away. "Let's go to the bedroom," she said.

"No," he said. "Here," and suddenly his fingers were inside her, and he
was pressing her against the wall, his mouth on hers, He tasted strange,
almost acidic; and the way he stroked her was far from tender. There was
suddenly something ungainly about all of this. She wanted to call a
halt, but she was afraid of driving him away.

He was unbuckling his pants now, pressing himself so hard against her
she could barely draw breath.

"Wait..." she said to him. "Please. Slow down."

He didn't heed her. If anything his behavior became more frenzied. He
pushed her legs open. She felt his erection jabbing at her, like
SOmething blind, poking around for its bed. She told herself to re]llx;
to

trust him. He'd made the most extraordinary love to her last ni
understood the signals her body was putting out better than any she'd
ever been with.

So why did she want to push him away now? Why did it hurt, he got inside
her? What had seemed like a wonderful hours before now made her want to
cry out. There was no this; none.

She couldn't govern her instincts any longer. She closed mouth against
his kisses, and put her hands on his chest to push away.

"I don't like this," she said.

He ignored her. He was buried deep in her, to the root, his brutally
rigid, his hips grinding against hers.

"No," she said. "No! Will you please get off me!"

Now she pushed him as hard as she could, but his body strong, his
erection was too implacable: she was pinned against the

"Galilee," she said, trying to look into his eyes.

Listen to me! You're hurting me."

Was it the fact that she was shouting now, her words around the tiled
walls, that roused him out of his stupor? Or was ply bored with his own
cruelty, as his body language seemed to su He pushed himself off and out
of her like someone leaving a dit table because the food didn't suit
them, his expression one of taste.

"Get out of here," she told him.

He retreated a step or two, still not looking at her, then turned
crossed to the door. She hated everything about him at that his idling
gait, the way he glanced down at his erection, the little she caught in
the mirror as he slipped through the door. after him, then listened as
he made his way through the house. when she heard the sound of the
French window opened, and being slammed as he exited, did she go to her
clothes and start to By the time she ventured out into the house he'd
disappeared.

Niolopua was sitting on the lawn watching the ocean. She

out onto the veranda, and called to him. "You had an argument?" he said.
She nodded.

"He didn't even speak to me. He just went down onto the looking like
thunder."

"Will you stay here for a little while? I don't want him back."

"I'll stay, if it makes you feel more comfortable, but I'm sure he's

not coming back."

"Thank you," she said.

"He'll set sail now," Niolopua said. "You'll see."

"I don't care what he does as long as he stays the hell away from me,"
she said.

just as Niolopua had predicted, Galilee didn't come back. The day waned,
and Rachel stayed in the house, feeling drained of any energy or desire,
eating a little, drinking a little, but getting pleasure from nothing.
As she'd requested Niolopua kept his watch on the lawn, coming to the
veranda once to ask for a beer, otherwise leaving her alone. The
telephone rang several times, but she didn't pick up. It was probably
Mitch, or perhaps Loretta, trying to persuade her to go back home. In
fact, since Galilee's leaving, she'd started to think that returning to
New York was not such a bad idea. Certainly staying here in the house
would not be wise; she'd only brood on things. Better to go back to the
family, where at least she understood her feelings. After the emotional
chaos of the last few days there would be something bracingly plain
about being among the Gearys. They were hateful, it was as simple as
that. No confusion, no ambiguity, no kisses one moment and brutality the
next. Maybe she'd just get drunk and stay that way, like Margie;
pronounce against the world from behind her funeral veil. It wasn't a
very pretty prospect, but what did she have left? This island had been a
last 'resort: a place to heal herself; to watch the miraculous at play.
But it had failed her. She was left empty-handed.

As the last of the light was going out of the sky she heard Niolopua
calling her name, and went out onto the veranda to find him standing at
the bottom of the lawn pointing out to sea.

	There

	was The Samarkand. Even though its sails were little more

than white specks against the darkening blue, Rachel knew without a

doubt it was Galilee's vessel, For an aching moment she imagined her
self on deck with him, looking back at the island from the sea. The
stars

COming out overhead; the bed below, waiting for them. She indulged

the romance ford moment only, then told herself to stop it. Even so, she
couldn't turn her back on the ocean; not until he'd

gone. She watched the boat get smaller and smaller, until at last i was

Utterly eroded by distance and darkness. Only then did she look away.

So that's the end of it, she thought. The man

ined might be her prince had gone. And what a perfect departure made,
carried away by the tide; who knew where?

Still she didn't weep. Her prince was gone, and she didn't Yes, there
was regret. Of course there was regret. However long.! lived, she'd
never stop wondering what would have happened better navigated the
shoals of his hat, are; wonder what kind of life

	might have had together in his house on the hill. :

		But there was something else besides regret: there was

	she finally decided, was what kept the tears from coming: her

	way life piled hurt on hurt. It dried her eyes the moment they

	cried.

		Margie's methodology had been much the same, hadn't

	turning spite into an art form, by pronouncing loudly on the ml

	lessness of life, Margie kept herself functioning. ,i

		That's how things would have to be for Rachel from now on.

	have to learn to be just like Margie.

		God help them both.

PART SIX

Ink and Water

o Galilee sailed away; I cannot tell you where. If this were a different
kind of book I might well invent the details of his route, culled from
books and maps. But in doing so I would be trading on your ignorance;
assuming you wouldn't notice if I failed to get the details right.

It's better I admit the truth: Galilee sailed away, and I don't know
where he went. When I close my eyes, and wait for an image of him to
come I usually find him sitting on the rolling deck of The Samarkand
looking less than happy with his lot. But though I've searched the
horizon for some clue as to his whereabouts I see only the wastes of the
ocean. To an eye more canny than mine perhaps there are clues even here,
but I'm no sailor. To me, one seascape looks much like the next.

I will confess that I tried to apply what I thought would be simple
logic to the question. I took down from the shelves several maps I'd
been given over the years (the older ones may even have belonged to
Galilee himself; long before he left to wander the world, he loved to
trace imaginary journeys) and having spread them out on the floor of my
study I walked among them with a book on celestial navigation in one
hand and a volume on tides and currents in the other, trying to plot the
likeliest course for The Samarkand to have taken. But the challenge
defeated me. I set his course north past the island (that much I
remember seeing, through Rachel's eyes); I began to calculate the
prevailing winds at that time, and set The Samarkand before them, but I
became .hopelessly distracted by the very charts that were supposed to
be anchorng my imagination. They were, as I said, old charts; made at a
time When knowledge was not so vigorously (some would say calamitously)
divided from the pleasures of fancy. The makers of these maps had seen
nothing wrong with adding a few decorative touches here and there:
filigreed beasts that rose out of the painted ocean to foam at passing
ships; flights of windy angels poised at every quarter, with streaning
hair and trumpeters' cheeks; even a great squid on one of the maps'with
eyes like

twin furnaces and tentacles (so the note informed me) the length of
clippers.

In the midst of such wonders, my pathetic attempts at rational jections
went south. I left off my calculations and sat in the midst maps like a
man trading in such things, waiting for a buyer.

ii

Galilee had been in love before, of course, and survived to tell the But
he'd only once been in love with a Geary, and that made all the ference
in the world. Loving a woman who belonged in the family of enemy wasn't
wise; there were plenty of tragedies that testified to And in his
experience love always ended up a bitter business. Sweet time yes, but
never for long enough to justify the eonse( weeks of self-recrimination,
the months of lost sleep, the years hess. Every time a romance ended,
he'd tell himself that he'd again. He'd stay out at sea, where he was
safe from his own appetites.

What did he want from love anyway? A mate or a hiding Both perhaps. And
yet hadn't he raged again and again against less contentment of his
animal self, smug in its nest, in its ease, comfort of its own dirt? He
hated that part of himself: the part wanted to be wrapped in the arms of
some beloved; that asked hushed and sung to and forgiven. What
stupidity! But even as he against it, fled it, out to sea, he shuddered
at the thought ahead, now that love was gone again. Not just the
loneliness and sleepless nights, but the horror of being out in the
fierce, hard li burned over him, set there by his own divinity. I

As he guided The Samarkand out into the ocean currents, he how many more
times he'd be able to sail away before the toll of, ings became
intolerable. Perhaps this was the last. That such a terrible oath to
take: to swear that after Rachel there'd more seductions, no more
breaking of hearts. It would be his respect to her, though she'd never
know he'd made it: to say her there would only be the sea.

That said, he couldn't readily put the woman from his mind. He on deck
through the night, while The Samarkand was carried and further from
land, thinking .about what had passed between How she'd looked, lying in
the carved bed that first night;

talked to him as he told the story of Jerusha and the riverman, asking
questions, prodding him to make the story better, finer, deeper. How
she'd imitated the child bride while she lay there, pulling the sheet
off her body to show herself to him; and how exquisite that sight had
been. How they'd touched; how he thought of her all the time they were
parted, wondering whether to risk bringing her on hoard the boat. He'd
never let a woman set foot on The Samarkand before, holding to ancient
superstition on the matter. But her presence made such fears seem
nonsensical. What boat would not be blessed to have such a creature
tread its boards?

Nor did he now regret the decision. Sitting under the stars he seemed to
see her, turning to smile at him. There she was, with her arms open to
welcome him in. There she was, saying she loved him. Whatever wonders he
saw after this--and he'd seen wonders: the sea turned silver with squid,
storms of gold and vermilion--there would be no vision out of sea or sky
that would command his devotion as she had.

If only she hadn't been a Geary.

	II

S

o, Galilee sailed away, and--as I said--I don't know where he wandered.
I do know where he ended up, however. After three weeks The Samarkand
put into the little harbor at Puerto Bueno. There had been storms all
along that coast earlier in the month, and the town had taken a severe
battering. Several houses close to the quay, repeatedly assaulted by
waves breaking over the harbor wall, had been damaged; and one had
collapsed entirely, killing the widow who'd lived there. But Galilee's
house at the top of the hill was virtually unharmed, and it was here he
returned, climbing the steep streets of the town without speaking to
anyone he encountered, though he knew them all, and they all knew him.

The roof of the Higgins house had leaked during the storms, and the
place smelled damp. There was mildew everywhere; and much of the
furniture in the upper rooms had begun to rot. He didn t care. There'
was nothing here that mattered to him. Any vague dreams he

might have once entertained of bringing a companion here, and living a
kind of ordinary life, now seemed foolish; laughable. Xnat a perfect
Waste of time, to indulge dreams of domesticity.

By chance the weather brightened the day after he a

which fact did nothing to harm his reputation as a man of power am the
townspeople--but the scene from the windows of his house-- clouds
steadily sculpted to nothingness by the wind, the sea glittering the
sun-gave him no pleasure. He'd seen it all before. This, and other
glory. There was nothing new to watch for; no surprises left earth or
heaven. He could close his eyes forever, and pass away regret, knowing
he'd seen the best of things. Oh, and the worst. He'd seen the worst,
over an dover again. He wandered from one stagnant room to the next, and
up the and down; and everywhere he went, he saw visions of things he
he'd never witnessed. Some of them had seemed like brave si time. In his
youth, bloody business had excited him; why did its now come to bruise
him the way they did?

Why when he lay down on the mildewed bed did he whorehouse in Chicago,
where he'd chased down two men and sial tered them like the cattle they
made such profit from? Why, afteri these years, did he remember how one
of them had made a little as he lay dying, and thanked his murderer for
the ease of it all?

Why when he sat down to empty his bowels did his mind con up a yellow
dog, which had shit itself in terror, seeing its throat cut on the
stairs, and Galilee sitting at the bottom of the fli drinking the dead
man's champagne?

And why, when he tried to sleep--not in the bed but on threadbare sofa
in the living room--did he remember a rainy night and a man who had no
better reason to die than that he'd the will of one mightier, and he,
Galilee, no better reason murder than that he served that same will? Oh
that was a terrible ory. In some ways--though it was not the bloodiest
of his tions-- it was the most distressing because it had been such an
intir encounter. He remembered it so clearly: the car rocking as wind
came off the ocean; the rain rattling on the car roof; the of the
interior, and the still staler heat that came off the man in his arms.

Poor George; poor, innocent George. He'd looked up at with such
confusion on his face; his lips trying to form some last ent question.
He'd been too far gone to shape the words; but had supplied the answer
anyway.

"I was sent by your father," he'd said.

The confounded look had slipped away and George's

become oddly placid, hearing that he was dying at the behest of his
father; as though this were some last, wretched service he could render
the old man, after which he was finally free of Cadmus's jurisdiction.

Any ambition Galilee might have entertained of fathering a child had
gone at that moment: to be the father's agent in the murder of a son had
killed all appetite in him. Not simply the appetite for parenthood--
though that had been the saddest casualty of the night at Smith Point
Beach; the very desire to live had lost its piquancy at that moment.
Destroying a man because he stood between your family and its ascendance
was one thing (all kings did it, sooner or later); but to order the
death of your own child because he disappointed you: that was another
order of deed entirely, and to have been obliged to perform it had
broken Galilee's heart.

And still, aPcer all this time, he couldn't get the scene out of his
head. The hours of the whorehouse in Chicago, and his memories of the
yellow dog shitting on the stairs, were bad enough; but they were
nothing by comparison with the memory of the look on George Geary's face
that rainy night.

And so it went on for a week and a half.' memories by day and dreams by
night, and nothing to do but endure them. He ventured out of the house
at evening, and went down to check that all was well with The Samarkand,
but even that journey became harder as time passed; he was so exhausted.

This could not go on. The time had come to make a decision. There was no
great heroism in suffering, unless perhaps it was for a cause. But he
had no causes, nor ever had; not to live for, not to die for. M1 he had
was himself.

No, that wasn't true. If he'd just had himself he wouldn't have been
haunted this way.

She'd done this to him. The Geary woman; the wretched, gentle Ceary
woman, whom he'd wanted so badly to put out of his heart, but could not.
It was she who'd reminded him of his capacity for feeling, and in so
doing had opened him up as surely as if she'd wielded a knife, letting
these unwelcome things have access to his heart. It was she who'd
reminded him of his humanity, and of all that he'd done in defrance of
his better self. She who'd stirred the voice of the man on the
whorehouse floor, and roused the yellow dog, and put the sight of Ceorge
Ceary before him. t

His Rachel. His beautiful Rachel, whom he tried not to col but who was
there all the time, holding his hand, touching his telling him she loved
him.

Damn her to hell for tormenting him this way! Nothing was this pain,
this constant gnawing pain. He no longer felt safe in his skin. She'd
invaded him, somehow; possessed him. Sleeplessness x him irrational. He
began to hear her voice, as though she were in next room, and calling to
him. Twice he came into the dining room found the table set for two.

There was no happy end to this, he knew. There would be escaping her,
however patiently he waited. She had too strong his soul for him to hope
for deliverance.

It was as though he were suddenly old-as though the deca. which time had
left him untouched had suddenly caught up him-and all he could look
forward to now was certain de, inevitable descent into obsessive lunacy.
He would become the man on the hill, locked away in a world of rotted
visions; seeing hearing her, and tormented day and night by the shameful
m that came with love: the knowledge of his cruelties, his " cruelties.

Better to die soon, he thought. Kinder to himself, though

ably didn't deserve the kindness.

On the sixth evening, climbing the hill to the house, he plan. He'd
known several suicides in his life, and none of made a good job of it.
They'd left other people with a mess to for one thing, which was not his
style at all. He wanted to go, as were possible, invisibly. That night,
he made fires in all the hearths in the house burned everything that
might be used to construe some story him. The few books he'd gathered
over the years, an assortment a-brae from the shelves and windowsills,
some carvings he'd idle hour (nothing fancy, but who knew what people
would read'I what they found here?). There wasn't a lot to burn, but it
took time': ertheless, what with his state of mind so dreamy and his
limbs from want of rest.

When he had finished, he opened all the doors and windows one, and just
before dawn headed down the hill to the neighbors would get the message,
seeing the house left open. couple of days some brave soul would venture
inside, and once I:

spread that he'd made a permanent departure the place would be stripped
of anything useful. At least so he hoped. BeVcer somebody was using the
chairs and tables and clocks and lamps than that they all rot away.

The wind was strong. Once The Samarkand was clear of the harbor, its
sails filled; and long before the people of Puerto Bueno were up and
brewing their morning coffee or pouring their breakfast whiskies their
sometime neighbor was gone.

His plan was very simple. He would sail The Samarkand a good distance
from land, and then--once he was certain neither wind nor current would
not bear him back the way he'd come--he'd surrender his captaincy over
both vessels, his body and his boat, and let nature take its course. He
would not trim his sails if a storm arose. He would not steer the boat
from reef or rocks. He would simply let the sea have him, whenever and
however she chose to take him. If she chose to overturn The Samarkand
and drown him, so be it. If she chose to dash the boat to pieces, and
him along with it, then that was fine too. Or if she chose to match his
passivity with her own, and let him linger becalmed until he perished on
deck, and was withered by the sun, then that lay in her power too, and
he wouldn't lift a hand to contradict her will.

He had only one fear: that if hunger and thirst made him delirious he
might lose the certainty that moved him now, and in a moment of weakness
attempt to take control of the vessel again, so he scoured the Boat for
anything that might be put to practical use, and threw it all overboard.
His mariner's charts, his life jackets, his compass, his flares, his
inflatable life raft: all of it went. He left only a few luxuries to
sweeten these last days, reasoning that suicide didn't have to be an
uncivilized business. He kept his cigars, his brandy, a book or two.
Thus supplied, he gave himself over to fate and the tides.

III

I M

ost murder, as you're probably aware, is domestic. The conventions of
popular fiction tell an untruth: the person tiost likely to take your
life by violence is not some anonymous maniac but the man

or woman with whom you breakfasted this morning. So I doubt spoiling any
great mystery if I confirm here that the man who mu Margie was Garrison
Geary.

He didn't do it because he despised her, though he did. He do it because
she had a lover, though she had. He did it because, refused him
knowledge, which may seem like an obscure slaughtering your spouse, but
will probably be one of the lesser nesses ahead.

	By the time Rachel got back to New York, Garrison had confessed:

	to cold-blooded murder, of course, but rather to an act of self

	the face of his wife's crazed attempt on his life, According to hist

	mony it had happened like this: he'd come home to find M:

	drunken state, wielding a Colt .38. She was sick of their life

	she'd told him, and wanted an end to it all. He'd tried to reason I

	her, but she'd been in far too inflamed a state to be talked down. h

	she'd fired at him. The bullet had missed, however, and

	could fire a second time Garrison had attempted to disarm her.

	struggle the gun had gone off, wounding Margie. He'd called the

	instantly, but by the time medical help arrived it was too late:

	body- weakened by years of abuse-- had given up.

		There was a good deal of evidence in support

	The first and most potent piece was this: the gun was Margie's.

	bought it six years ago, after one of her drinking circle had been on
the street, and died in the resulting coma. Margie hadn't cone

	her pleasure in the weapon; it was a "pretty gun," she'd said.

" have not the least hesitation in using it should the occasion arise.

		According to Garrison, she had. She'd intended to kill him

	done what anybody would have done under the circumstances.

	make any false show of grief. His marriage to Margie had b

	than a duty for years, he freely admitted. But if he'd wanted her

	life, he pointed out, there were less foolhardy ways to eng

	to shoot her in his own bathroom. Divorce, for instance. It

	any sense for him to murder her. It only jeopardized his

		Portions of his testimony appeared on the front pages

	York Times and The Wall Street Journal, along with quotes from a I

	bet of sources that suggested his arguments carried weight.

'i most of the commentators refrain from reporting some

	anecdote about Margie's alcoholism, which had been public

	(and on occasion a public spectacle) for a decade or more.

there was also no scarcity of gossip pieces, both in magazines and on
television, raking up some of the less savory stories from Garrison's
past. Two of his former mistresses consented to be interviewed, as did a
number of sometime employees. The portraits they drew weren't
particularly flattering. Even if only half of what they were remembering
was true Garrison still emerged as self-centered, autocratic and on
occasion sexually compuMve. But when each of them was asked the
important question-- in your opinion, was this selfidefense or
murder?--they were all of the opinion that the man they'd known would
not have shot his wife in cold blood. One of the mistresses even added
that "Garrison was very sentimental about Margie. He'd always be telling
me how it had been when they were first in love. I used to tell him I
didn't want to hear about all that, but sometimes I think he couldn't
help talking about her. It used to make me a little jealous, but looking
back I think it's sort of sweet."

The other subject that came under close scrutiny during this period was
the family itself. The Garrison Geary Murder Case gave the press across
the country, from the most high-minded journals to the lowliest gutter
rags, a perfect excuse to dust offall their old stories about the
Gearys. "As rich as the Rockefellers and as influential as the
Kennedys," the piece in Newsweek began, "the Geary family has been an
American institution since the end of the Civil War, when its founding
fathers came to a sudden and impressive prominence which has not
diminished since that time. Whatever the demands of the age, the Gearys
have been their equal. Warmongers and peacemakers, traditionalists and
radicals, hedonists and Puritans; it has sometimes seemed that within
the ranks of the Geary clan an example of every American extreme could
be found. With the police investigations into the murder of Margaret
Geary ongoing, a cloud of doubt hangs over the family's reputation; but
however those investigations are concluded one thing may be reliably
predicted: the family will survive, as will the American public's
endless fascination with its affairs."

ii

Rachel had not told anybody she was on her way back, but she didn't
doubt that word would precede her, courtesy of Jimmy Hornbeck. She Was
right. The Central Park apartment was adorned with fresh flowers, and
there was a note on the table from Mitchell, welcoming her home, and
thanking her for coming. It was a curiously detached little missive, not
that far removed from a hotel manager's note of thanks to a returning
guest. But nothing about Mitchell surprised her any rnore. She was
perfectly sanguine about what lay before her. Whatever"new grotes

queries she was about to witness she was determined to view them the
same amused detachment that she'd seen in Margie.

She called Mitchell in the early evening to announce her

He suggested she come to the mansion for some supper. Loretta like to
see her, he said; and so would he. She agreed to come. Good, said, he'd
send Ralphie to pick her up.

"There are reporters outside the home all the time," he warne "Yes, they
were waiting for me when I came back here." "What did you tell them?"
"Absolutely nothing."

"Who the hell's telling them our business, that's what I know. When all
this is over, I'm going to find out who the fuek people are--"

"And do what?"

"Fire their asses! I'm so sick of having cameras everywhere people
asking stupid fucking questions." She'd never heard Mitch perated this
way before; he'd always accepted scrutiny as the price ing the high
life. "You know some sonofabitch got a

Garrison in jail, sitting on the can. And some fucking rag printed
picture of my brother taking a dump in a cell. Can you believe

The outburst shocked her; not because somebody had taken a ture of
Garrison relieving himself, but because until this moment hadn't
imagined his being behind bars. She'd just assumed that or the phalanx
of lawyers the family had hired to defend Garrison, l secured his
release on bail.

"When does he get out?" she asked him.

"We're pressing for that right now," Mitch said. "I mean, he's cent. We
all know that. It was a horrible accident and we all hadn't happened,
hut it's ridiculous keeping him locked up like a common criminal."

A common criminal: that went to the heart of it. Whatever else might
have been, Mitchell seemed to be saying, he was American and deserved to
be treated with appropriate respect. It was an ' Rachel had reinforced
when she went over to the mansion: the sphere was one ofbesiegement; the
drapes closed against the of the hoi polloi, while the noble Gearys
debated their response to thei sis. Loretta set the tone for these
exchanges. The imt intact, but it was shaded now with a certain bruised

though some martyrdom had been visited upon her which she was bearing
with fortitude. She welcomed Rachel back with a dry kiss.

They gathered for supper around the dining room table, with Lo retta at
one end and--rather pointedly positioned, Rachel thought-- Cecil at the
other. Besides Deborah, Rachel and Mitch three Other members of the clan
were present. Norah was there, tanned and brittle; George's brother
Richard had come up from Miami, where he'd just successfully defended a
man who'd cut up a hooker with an electric carving knife, and Karen,
flown in from Europe. She was the one member of the group Rachel had not
met; she'd been out of the country during the wedding. She was a
contained woman, her body, her gestures and her voice neat and
unassuming. Rachel had the impression that she'd not come back out of
love for either Garrison or the family, but because an edict had gone
out, demanding her presence. She certainly had little to contribute to
the debate. In fact she said scarcely a word throughout the supper,
seldom even looking up from her plate.

There was no doubt as to the star of the evening: it was Loretta. She
made a statement of intent the moment they all sat down.

"We're going to start acting like a family again," she said to everyone.
"This business with Garrison is a wake-up call, to us all. It's time to
put our differences aside. Whatever problems we have with one
another--and they're bound to come along in the best of
circumstances--this is the time to forget about them and show people
what we're made of. Cadmus, as I'm sure you know, is now bedridden, and
I'm afraid he's very weak. In fact, some of the time he doesn't even
know who I am, which is of course very painful. But he has periods when
his mind's suddenly very lucid, and then he can be astonishingly acute.
Earlier this evening he started talking about hearing voices in the
house. And I told him that yes, we were having a little family
gathering. I didn't tell him why, of course. He doesn't know about..,
what happened.., and I don't intend to tell him. But he did say to me,
when I explained to him that we were all gathering together, that he was
going to be here with us. And I think in a very real sense he is. He
should be our inspiration right now." There were murmurs of assent
around the table, the loudest coming from Richard. "We all know what
Cadmus would say if he knew what was going on," Loretta said.

"Fuek 'em all," said Mitch. Norah laughed into her wine glass. Loretta
moved on without glancing in her stepson's direction. "He'd say:
business as usual. We have t,o demonstrate our strength as a family. Our
solidarity. Which is why I m particularly grateful to you, Rachel, for
coming back at such short notice. I know thngs between

yOU and Mitchell aren't very easy at the moment, so it means a lot
personally that you're here. Now, Cecil, why don't you tell us all
uation as far as Garrison's bail is concerned?"

The next hour was dedicated to legal issues: the history of the who
would be presiding over the hearing, supplied by Richard; assessments of
the prosecutors from Cecil, then onto the business. lems arising from
Garrison's temporary indisposal. Rachel didn't stand many of the issues
under discussion, but there was no doubt I despite Loretta's talk of
business as usual family affairs were keep on track without Garrison to
give the orders. A dozen maybe more, a question had to be left
unanswered because it felI Garrison's area of expertise.

Finally, the conversation returned to Rachel.

"Has Mitchell told you about the fund-raiser on Friday

Loretta asked her.

"No, I ..."

Loretta threw Mitchell a weary look. "It's for the hospital. pediatric
ward. It was about the only charily Margaret had the sli

interest in, and I think it's important we have a presence there." "I
was going to talk to Rachel about it later," Mitchell "Later's no good,
Mitchell," Loretta said. "We've had too 'later' in this household.
Things being put off and put off..." hell was she talking about, Rachel
wondered. "We've got to get on

do what we need to do. Even if it makes us uncomfortable or-" "All
right, Loretta," Mitchell said. "Calm down."

"Don't you condescend to me," Loretta replied, her voice tonal. "You're
going to listen to me for once in your life. We're in a mess here. Do
you understand me?" Mitchell, stared, which inflamed Loretta all the
more. "DO YOU STAND ME?" she yelled, slamming her palm down on the the
silverware jumped.

"Loretta--" Cecil said softly.

"Don't you start pouring oil, Cecil. This isn't any time to being nice.
We're in terrible trouble. All of us. The whole famib terrible trouble."

"He'll be out in a week," Mitchell said.

"Is this willful or are you just too stupid to see what's right in of
your nose?" Loretta said, her voice not quite so loud, but still notches
above the conversational. "There's more to all this than happened to
poor Margie..."

"Oh don't start your Cassandra act, for God's sake," Mitchell said,

his voice thick with contempt.

"Mitchell," Cecil said, "a little respect..."

"If she wants some respect she should start being practical, and not
telling us it's all in the fucking stars."

"That's not what I'm saying," Loretta said. "Oh I'm sorry. What is it
today? Tarot cards?" "If your father could hear you-"

"My father thought you were as crazy as a coot," Mitchell said, getting
up from the table. "And I'm not going to waste my time sitting here
listening to you chatter on like you understand a damn thing about the
way the business life of this family works."

"You're the one who's out of his depth," Loretta said.

"There you go again with your inane little threats!" Mitchell yelled. "I
know what you're doing! You think 1 don't see you trying to get Rachel
over to your side?" "Oh for God's sake--"

"Sending her off to that stinking little island, thinking it's some kind
of secret."

Rachel caught hold of his hand. "Mitch," she said. "You're making a fool
of yourself. Shut up."

He looked as though she'd just slapped him, hard. He pulled his hand out
of her grip. "Are you in with her then?" he said, looking at Rachel but
pointing at Loretta. "Is this some fucking conspiracy? Cecil? Help me
out here. I want to know what's going on."

"Nothing's going on," Cecil said, wearily. "We're just all tired and
stressed out. And sad."

"She isn't sad," Mitchell said, looking back at Loretta, who was wearing
an expression of regal inviolability. "She's fucking glad Mar gie's dead
and my brother's in a jail cell."

"I think you should apologize for that," Cecil said.

"It's the truth!" Mitchell protested. "Look at her!"

Now it was Cecil who rose. "I'm sorry, Mitchell, I can't permit you to
talk to Loretta that way."

"Sit the fucl down!" Mitchell yelled. "Who the hell do you think you
are?" Cecil did and said nothing. "You know what happens when the old
man goes? It's Garrison and me. We're in charge. And if Garrison staffs
in jail, then it's just me." He made a tight little smile. "So you'd
better watch yourself, Cecil. I'm going to be looking very hard at the
kind of support I'm getting. And if I see a lack of loyalty, i'm not
going

to think twice." Cecil glanced down at his plate. Then he sat "Better,"
Mitchell said. "Rachel. We're leaving."

"So go," Rachel said, "I'll talk to you tomorrow." Mitchell tated. "I'm
not coming with you," Rachel said.

"It's up to you," Mitchell replied, with an unconvincing indifference.

"I know," Rachel said. "And I'm staying here."

Mitchell made no further attempt to convince her. He room without
another word.

"Brat," Loretta remarked quietly.

"I'd better go and calm him down," Richard said.

"Why don't we all just go home to bed?" Norah suggested. ';: "I think
that's probably a very good idea," Loretta said." chel.., would you stay
just a couple of minutes? I need to word with you."

The rest of the company departed. When the last of them

gone, and the door was closed Loretta said: "I noticed you didn't eat "I
wasn't hungry."

"Lovesick?" Rachel said nothing. "It'll pass," Loretta went.' "You'll
have plenty to distract you in the next few days." She si her white
wine. "You've got nothing to hide," she said. "We've what you're feeling
now."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Him," Loretta said quietly. "Galilee. I'm talking about Rachel looked
up, and found Loretta's eyes there, ready to read: "Was he all you
wanted him to be?" she asked.

Loretta looked pained. "There's no need for deceit," she

to Mitchell, by all means. But not to me." She kept looking

as if waiting for her to spill her pain. Greedy for it, in fact.

"Why should I lie to Mitchell?" Rachel said, determined

this interrogation by gaze..

"Because it's all he deserves," Loretta said flatly. "He was

too many blessings for his own good. It's made him stupid.

harelip he'd have been twice the man he is."

"So I take it you think I'm rather stupid too." "Why would I think
that?" "I married him."

"Brilliant women marry perfect clods every day of the week. times you
have to do that to get on in the world. If you're a a shoestore and if
you don't get out all you'll ever do is sell shoes

by God you do everything in your power to change your circumstances.
There's no shame in that. You did what you had to do. And now you're
finished with him. And there's no shame in that either." She paused for
moment, as if to allow time for Rachel to respond; but this little
speech had left Rachel dumbstruck. "Is it really so hard to admit to?"

Loretta went on. "If I were you I'd be proud of myself. I really would."
"Proud of what?"

"Now you're being obtuse," Loretta said, "and it's not worthy of you.
What are you afraid of?"

"I just don't know... I don't know why you're talking this way to me
when we scarcely know one another and ... well, to be honest I thought
you didn't really like me."

"Oh I like you well enough," Loretta said. "But liking isn't really

the point any more, is it? We need one another, Rachel."

"For what?"

"For self-protection. Whatever your dense husband thinks, he's not

going to be running the Geary empire."

"Why not?"

"Because he's inheriting a lot more than he'll be able to deal with.
He'll crack. He's already cracking because he doesn't have Garrison to
hold his hand."

"What if Garrison gets off?"

"I don't think there's any 'what if?' about it. He'll get off. But
there's

other stuff, just waiting to be uncovered. His women, for one thing."
"So he has a mistress. Nobody's going to care."

"You know what he likes to do?" Loretta said. "He likes to hire women to
play dead. Doll themselves up to look like corpses and lie

there and be violated. That's one of his milder obsessions."

"Oh my God..."

"He's been getting more indiscreet over the last year or so. In fact,

I think he wants to get caught. There are some photographs..."

"Of what?"

"You don't need to know," Loretta said. "lust take it from me that if
the least disgusting of them was to be made public Garrison's little
circle of influence would disappear overnight."

"And who has these pictures?" Loretta smiled. "You?" Rachel said.
'Tou've got them?"

Loretta smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth, her tone completely
detached. "I'm not going to sit back and watch a necrophile and his
idiot brother take charge of all this family owns. All this fomily
stands for." She looked up from te smoothed lien. "The point I." we all
have

to take sides. You can either work with me to make sure we dot
everything when Cadmus dies, or you can run to Mitchell and tell I'm
conspiring against the two of them, and take your chancesi them. It's up
to you."

"Why are you trusting me now?" Rachel said. "Because Ma dead?"

"God, no. She was no use to me. She was too far gone.

again. God knows what he put Margie through, behind locked "She'd never
have put up with-"

"With playing dead on a Saturday night? I think a lot of'

that and a lot worse to keep their husbands happy."

"So you still haven't answered my question. Why are you me all this
now?"

"Because now there's something you want and I can help you There was a
long silence. Then Rachel said: "Galilee?"

Loretta nodded. "Who else?" she said. "In the end, comes back to
Galilee."

IV

I U

nder normal circumstances Rachel would have hated the Benefit Gala. It
was exactly the kind of grand, glittering had come to seem like an
unpleasant duty after a all glassy gazes and frigid smiles. But
circumstances had one thing, Mitchell was wary of her, which she liked.
Several ing the evening when she strayed from his side for some he came
to join her and qnietly told her to stay close by. When she him why he
told her he didn't want her cornered by some sonofabiteh who'd pump her
for information about Garrison, she replied that she was quite capable
of talking her way out of a situation, and anyway what did she know that
was worth gossiping

"You're making a fool of me," he said when he caught

for the fourth time. There was fury in his eyes, but he had to the trick
of maintaining a benign expression despite his true the accusations
emerged through an opulent smile. "I d talking to anybody--,do you
understand me: anybody right there with yoh. I m perfectly serious,
Rachel."

"I'm going to go where the hell I like and say Whatever I feel like
saying, Mitchell, and neither you nor your brother nor Cecil nor Cadmus
nor any other damn Geary is going to stop me."

"Garrison'll destroy you, you know that," Mitchell said. He wasn't even
attempting to smile any longer.

Rachel was incredulous. "You sound like a bad imitation of a gangster."

"But he will. He's not going to let you get away with anything."

"God, you are so infantile. Now you're going to set your big brother on
me?"

"I'm just trying to warn you."

"No. You're trying to frighten me. And it's not going to work."

He looked away for a moment, to see that nobody was close enough to hear
him. "Who do you think's going to be there to help you if you get into
trouble?" he said. "We're the only real family you've got, baby. The
only people you could turn to if things got nasty."

Rachel was beginning to feel faintly sick. There was no mistaking what
Miteh was saying.

"I think I need to go home," she told him.

"You know, you do look a little flushed," he said, his hand going up

to her cheek. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just tired," she said.

"I'll take you down to the street."

"I'll be all right."

"No," he said, linking his arm through hers, and drawing her close to
him. "I'll go with you."

Together they made their way through the crowd, pausing a couple of
times so that Mitchell could exchange a few words with someone he knew.
Rachel made little attempt to play the attentive wife; she slipped his
hold and moved on toward the door after a few seconds, leaving him to
follow her.

"We should talk some more," he said once they reached the street. "About
what? I have nothing to say to you."

"Just because we'd had some hard times-hear me out, Rachel please--that
doesn't mean we have to throw up our hands and let everything we ever
had, everything we ,,ever felt for one another, go to hell. We should
talk. We really should. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I want the
best for you."

"Is that why you threatened me in there?" Rachel said.

"If it came out that way then I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, t's not what I
meant at all. I just want ou to see things the way I see them." She

stared at him, hoping he felt her contempt. "I've got a much ture of the
situation right now," he said. "I have more ... infm about the way
things are. And I know--trust me, Rachel, I

you're not in a safe place." "I'll take the risk." "Rachel--"

"Go to hell," she told him very calmly.

The chauffeur was out of the car, opening the door for her. "Gall me
tomorrow," Mitchell said. She ignored him.

done yet, Rachel."

"You can close the door," she told the driver, who obliged

ing a muted Mitchell standing on the sidewalk, looking both and faintly
forlorn.

ii

As she stepped out of the car at the other end of her journey, a
bespectacled man--who'd been out of sight behind the potted at the
door--stepped into view.

"Mrs. Geary?" he said. "I have to talk to you."

He was dressed in what her mother would have called his best: a
powder-blue suit; a thin black tie; polished shoes. His was trimmed
close to his scalp, but the severity of the cut didn't amiability of his
features. His face was round, his nose and small; his eyes soft and
anxious.

"Please hear me out," he begged, though Rachel had nothing to indicate
that she would ignore him. "It's very He glanced nervously toward the
security guard who kept hour vigilance at the door of her building. "I'm
not crazy. And begging. It's--"

"Is he causing a problem here, Mrs. Geary?" the guard know.

"--it's about Margie," the young man said hurriedly. His dropped to a
whisper.

"What about her?"

"We knew one another," the young man said. "My name's "The barman?"
"Yeah. The barman."

"Do you want to just go inside, Mrs. Geary?" the guard went can deal
with this guy for you." "

"No, he's okay," Rachel said. Then, to Danny: "You'd

on in."

"No, I think I'd feel safer if we just walked."

"All right, we'll walk."

At Danny's request they crossed to the other side of the street, and
walked under the trees around the park. "Why all the secrecy?" she asked
him. "You're not in any danger." "I don't trust the family. Margie said
they were like the Mafia." "Margie exaggerated."

"She also said you were the only one worth a damn."

"That's nice to hear."

"She loved you so much, you know?"

"I loved her," Rachel said. "She was a wonderful lady."

"So she told you about me?"

"A little. She said she had a younger man in her life. Boasted, really."

"We got on great. She liked my martinis and I... I thought she was

like somebody you'd see in a movie, you know?" "Larger than life."
"Right. Larger than life."

"She never did anything by halves, that's for sure."

"I know that," he said, with a little smile. "She was, you know,
really.., passionate. I never met any woman like her. Not that I've been
around that many older women-- I mean, I wouldn't want you to

think I was some kind of gigolo or something." "What a nice,
old-fashioned word." "Well, that's not me."

"I understand, Danny," Rachel said gently. "You genuinely felt something
for Margie."

"And she felt something for me," Danny replied. "I know she did. But she
didn't want everybody gossiping. She knew people would think she was
being sleazy. You know, with me being younger; and a barman, for
Chrissakes."

"So is all this about making sure I don't say anything? Because you
needn't worry. I'm not going to blab about it."

"Oh, I know that," he said. "Really. She trusted you and so do I." "So,
what do you want?"

He studied the sidewalk for a few yards. Then he said: "I wrote her SOme
letters, talking about things we'd done together. Physical things." He
put his hand to his face and plucked at his moustache. "It was a stupid
thing to do; but there were days when I was so full of flings I had to
write it down."

"And where are these letters?" "Somewhere in her apartment, I guess."
"And you want me to get them back?"

"Yes. If possible. And... there's some photographs too." "How much stuff
are we talking about?"

"Only five or six photographs. There's more letters. Maybe twelve. I
wasn't keeping track. I mean, I never expected..." For the time in the
conversation she thought he was going to start voice cracked; he reached
into his pocket and dug out a "God," he said. "I'm a wreck."

"You're doing really well," Rachel said.

"I know you probably think I was in it for what she could

and right at the beginning that's what it was about. I'm not going about
that. I liked that she had plenty of money, and I liked gave me things.
But in the end, I didn't care any more. I just her." Without warning,
the tears became a rant. "And that bastard ab itch husband of hers!
Jesus! ]esus! How could anybody believe he says? He should be fried!
Fucking fried!"

"He's going to get off," Rachel said quietly.

"Then there's no justice. Because he killed her in cold blood: ''You
seem very sure about that," Rachel said. Danny

"Is that because you were with her that night?"

"I don't know that we should get into this," Danny said. "It seems to me
we're already there." "Suppose you have to testiS, under oath." "Then
I'll lie," Rachel said flatly.

Danny cast her a sideways glance. "How come you're like "Like what?"

"Just... not all pissy with me, you know? I'm just a "And I'm a girl who
sold jewelry." "But you're a Geary now."

"That's a mistake I'm going to fix."

"So you're not afraid of them?"

"I don't want Margie's name dragged in the dirt any

do. I'm not guaranteeing I'll find this stuff, but I'll do what I

Danny gave her his telephone number, and they

didn't hear from her, he said, he'd just assume she'd changed which he'd
perfectly understand, given the circumstances.

But Rachel had no intention of changing her mJ

home she was already laying plans for how best to get

Garrison's apartment in the Trump Tower and search it

discovered. There were risks involved, no doubt of that; she was
consorting with somebody who the police would surely want to
interrogate, if they knew of his existence. Her silence in the matter
was probably a crime; and searching a murder site, then removing (if she
was successful) evidence of the affair was certainly interfering with
the processes of the law. But she didn't care. There was more at stake
in this endeavor than finding Danny's love letters and a few indiscreet
photographs.

She was all but lost in a labyrinth of potential alliances: Loretta
wanted her on her side, Danny needed her help, Mitchell had effectively
threatened her if she didn't stay close by. Suddenly she was important
to the balance of power; but she didn't entirely know why. Nor did she
know what the consequences of choosing the wrong allegiance would be.
What fell to the victor in this battle between sons and stepmother?
Simply the incalculable wealth of the Gearys? Prize enough to murder
for, without question; but only if those involved were not already rich
beyond dreams of avarice.

Something else moved these people, and it wasn't money. Nor was it love;
nor did she think it was power. Until she knew what it was she would not
be safe, of that she was certain. Perhaps if she went to the place where
Margie had died--Margie, who had been-a victim of this thing she could
not grasp or understand-its nature would come clear. It was a primitive
hope, she realized; close to a kind of superstition. But what else was
she to do? Her analytical powers had failed her. It was time to trust to
her instincts, and her instincts told her to go and look where the harm
had already been done; to look, as it were, back along the path of the
bullet that had taken poor Margie's life. Back into the "dark heart of
Garrison Geary, and to whatever hopes or fears had moved him to murder.

GV

I /' anclng back over the last several chapters, I reahze that Ive left
-]thfead of my story dangling (actually, I'm certain I've left a good
many more than one, but the rest will be sewn into the design in due
Course). I'm speaking of my sister's adventures. You'll rell that the
last time I saw her she was in flight from Cesaria, who was ftlrious
with her

for some unspecified crime. If you'll allow me a moment here you what
all that was about. My fear is that if I don't tell you urgency of what
is about to happen in the lives of the Gearys wilt vent me from breaking
in at a later point. In short, this may be real breath I can take. After
this, the deluge.

So; Marietta. She appeared in my chambers three or four days,

my encounter with Gesaria, wearing a dreamy smile.

"What are you on?" I asked her.

"I've had a couple of mushrooms," she replied.

I was irritated with her, and I said so. She had too little
responsibility, I said: always in pursuit of some altered state or

"Oh, listen to you. So you didn't take the cocaine and

I admitted that I had, but that I'd had a legitimate reason: helping me
stay alert through the long hours of writing. It was

different situation, I said, to indulging day after day, the way she
"You're exaggerating," she said.

In my fine self-righteousness I made a list for her. There

she wouldn't try. She smoked opium and chewed coca leaves;
pharmaceutical painkillers like candies and washed them down tequila and
rum; she liked heroin and cherries in brandy and brownies.

"Lord, Maddox, you can be so tiresome sometimes. If I play and the
music's worth a damn, I'm altering my state. If I touch

and I give myself pleasure, I'm altering my state."

"They're not comparable."

"Why not?" I drew a breath before replying. "See? You

an answer."

"Wait, wait, wait--" I protested.

"Anyway," she went on, "I don't see that it's your bus

with my head."

"It becomes my business if I have to deal with your mother."

Marietta rolled her eyes. "Oh Lord, I knew we'd get round eventually."

"I think I deserve an explanation."

"She found me going through some old clothes, that's all," etta replied.

"Old clothes?"

"Yes,... it was ridiculous. I mean, who cares after all this Despite her
cavalier attitude she was plainly

she felt guilty about. "Whose clothes were they?" I asked her.

"His," she said with a little shrug.

"Galilee's?"

"No... his." Another shrug. "Father's."

"You found clothes that belonged to our father--" "--who art in
Heaven... yes." "And you were touching them?"

"Oh for God's sake, Maddox, don't you start. They were clothes. Old
clothes. I don't think he'd even worn them. You know what a peacock he
was."

"That's not what I remember."

"Well maybe he only did it for my benefit," she said with a sly smirk.
"I had the pleasure of sitting in his dressing room with him many
times--"

"I've heard enough, thank you," I told her. I didn't like the direction
the conversation was taking; nor the gleam in Marietta's eye. But I was
too late. The rebel in her was roused, and she wasn't about to be
quelled.

"You started this," she said. "So you can damn well hear me out. It's

all true; every word of it."

"I still--"

"Listen to me," she insisted. "You should know what he got up to when
nobody else was looking. He was a priapic old bastard. Have you used
that word yet by the way? Priapic?"

"No."

"Well now you can, quoting me."

"This isn't going in the book."

"Christ, you can be an old woman sometimes, Maddox. It's part of the
story."

"It's got nothing to do with what I'm writing."

"The fact that the founding father of our family was so oversexed he
used to parade around in front of his six-year-old daughter with a hard
on? Oh, I think that's got everything to do with what you're writing."
She grinned at me, and I swear any God-fearing individual would have
said the Devil was in that face. The beautiful exuberance of her
features; the naked pleasure she took in shocking me.

"Of course I was fascinated. You know the origin of the word fascinated?
It's Latin. Faseinare means to put under a spell. It was particularly
att6buted to serpents--"

"Why do you insist on doing this?"

"He had that power. No question. He way,,ed hi sn,a.ke and I Was...
enchanted." She smiled at the memory. I eou'ldn t take my

eyes off it. I would have followed it anywhere. Of course I wan touch
it, but he told me no: When you're a little older, he said, show what it
can do."

She stopped talking; stared out the window at the passing sky.

ashamed of my curiosity, but I couldn't help myself."

"And did he?" I said.

She kept staring. "No, he never did. He wanted to--I could see his eyes
sometimes--but he didn't dare. You see I told Galilee all it. That was
my big mistake. I told him I'd seen Papa's snake and wonderful. I swore
him to secrecy of course but I'm damn sure he

Gesaria, and she probably gave Papa hell. She was always jealous of
"That's ridiculous."

"She was. She still is. She threw a fit when she found me dressing room.
After all these years she didn't want me near his ings." She finally
pulled her gaze from the clouds and looked me. "I love women more than
life itself," she said. "I love about them. Their feel, their smell, the
way they move when you them... And I really can't bear men. Not in that
way.

lumpen. But I'd have made an exception for Papa."

"You're grotesque, you know that?"

"Why?" I just made a pained face. "We don't have to

same rules as everybody else," she said. "Because we're not like body
else."

"Maybe we'd all be a little happier if we were."

"Happy? I'm ecstatic. I'm in love. And I really mean it this I'm in
love. With a farmgirl no less."

"A farmgirl." " "I know it doesn't sound very promising but she's
Maddox. Her name's Mice Pennstrom, and I met her at a barn Raleigh

"They have lesbian barn dances these days?"

"It wasn't a dyke thing. It was men and women. You know always liked
helping straight girls discover themselves. wonderful. And I wanted to
dress up in something special for week anniversary."

"That's why you were looking through the clothes?" "Yeah. I thought
maybe I'd find something special. would really get Mice going," Marietta
said. "Which I did, by So anyway thank you for taking the heat from
Cesaria. I'll do for you one of these days."

"I'm going to hold you to that," I said.

"No problem," Marietta said. "iF i make a promise, I'm good for it." She
glanced at her watch. "Hey, I gotta go. I'm meeting Alice in half an

hour. What I came in here for was a book of poems."

"Poems?"

"Something I can recite to her. Something sexy and romantic, to get her
in the mood."

"You're welcome to look around," I said. "I presume, by the way, that
all this means you think we've made peace?"

"Were we ever at war?" Marietta said, as though a little puzzled at my
remark. "Where's the poetry section?"

"There isn't one. They're scattered all over." "You need some
organization in here." "Thank you, but it suits me just the way it is."
"So point me to a poet."

"You want a lesbian poet? There's some Sappho up there, and a book of
Marina Tsvetaeva."

"Is any of that going to make Alice moist?" "Lord, you can be crude
sometimes." "Well is it or isn't it?"

"I don't know," I snapped. "Anyway, I thought you'd already seduced this
woman."

"I have," Marietta said, scanning the shelves. "And it was aazing

sex. So amazing that I've decided to propose to her."

"Is this a joke?"

"No. I want to marry my Alice. I want to set up house and adopt
children. Dozens of children. But first I need a poem, to make her
feel.., you know what I mean.., no, come to think of it, you probably

don't... I want her to be so in love with me it hurts." I pointed. "To
your le--" "What?"

"--the little dark turquoise book. Try that." Marietta took it down.
"It's a book of poems by a nun."

"A nun?" Marietta went to put the book back.

"Wait," I said to her, "give it a chance. Here--" I went over to
Marietta, and took the book-which she hadn't yet opened-from her hand.
"Let me find something for you, then you can leave me alone." I flicked
through the musty pages. It was years since I'd perused these lyrics,
but I remembered one that had moved me.

"Who is she?" Marietta said.

"I told you: a nnn. Her name was Mary-Elizabeth Bowen. Shei

in the forties, at the age of a hundred and one."

'% virgin?"

"Is that re]evant?"

"Well it is if I'm trying to find something sexy." "Try this," I said,
and passed the book back to her. "Which one?"

"I was a very narrow creature."

Marietta read it aloud:

"I was a very narrow creature at my heart,

Until you came.

None got in and out of me with ease;

Yet when you spoke my name

I was unbounded, like the world-"

She looked up at me. "Oh I like this," she said. "Are you

	was a FIun."

"lust read it..."

"I was unbounded, like the world.

I never felt such fear as then, being so limitless,

When I'd known only walls and whisperings.

I fled you foolishly;

Looked in every quarter for a place to hide.

Went into a bud, it blossomed.

Went into a cloud, it rained.

Went into a man, who died,

And bore me out again,

Into your arms."

"Oh my Lord," she said.

"You like that?"

"Who did she write it for?"

"Christ, I assume. But you needn't tell Nice that."

I ,, ii

	She went away happy, and despite my protests at her

) felt curiously refreshed by her conversation. The idea

i) I Mice Pennstrom still seemed absurd, but who am I to judge? It's

since I felt the kind of sensual love Marietta obviously felt; and I
suppose I was slightly envious of it.

There's nothing more personal, I think, than the shape that emptiness
takes inside you; nor more particular than the means by which you fill
it. This book has become that means for me: when I'm writing about other
people's loss, and the imminence of disaster, I feel comforted. Thank
God this isn't happening to me, I think, and lick my lips as I relate
the next catastrophe.

But before I get to that next catastrophe, I want to add a coda to my
account of Marietta's visit. The very next day, at noon or thereabouts,
she returned to my study. She'd obviously not slept since the previous
meeting-there were bruisy rings around her eyes, and her voice was a
growl-but she was in a fine mood. The poem had worked, she said. Alice
had accepted her proposal of marriage.

"She didn't hesitate. She just told me she loved me more than anybody
she'd ever met, and she wanted to be with me for the rest of our lives,"
"And did you tell her that your life's going to be a hell of a lot
longer than hers?"

"I don't care."

"She's going to have to know sooner or later."

"And I'll tell her, when I think she's ready for it. In fact, I'm going
to bring her here after we're married. I'm going to show her everything.

And you know what, brother o' mine?"

"What?"

Marietta's voice dropped to a raspy whisper. "I'm going to find a way to
keep her with me. The years aren't going to take Alice away from me. I
won't let it happen."

"It's a natural process, Marietta. And how do you propose to stop it?"
"Papa knew a way. He told me."

"Was this one of your dressing room conversations?"

"No, this was a lot later. Just before Galilee came home."

I was fascinated now. Clearly this was no joke. "What did he tell you?"

"That he'd contemplated keeping your mother with him, but Cesaria had
forbidden it."

"Did he tell you how he'd intended to do it?"

"No. But I'm going to find out," Marietta said nonchalantly. Then,
dropping, her voice to something less than a whisper: "f I have to break
into his tomb and shake it out of him," she said, "I'll c[o it. Whatever
it takes, I'm marrying my Alice till the end of the world."

What do I make of all this? To be truthful, I try my best not to thi
hard about all that she said. It Unsettles me. Besides, I've got tales
Garrison's in jail and Margie's in the morgue; Loretta's insurrection. I
have more than enough to occupy my thoughts having Marietta's obsessions
to puzzle over.

All that said, I'm certain there's some truth in what she My father was
undoubtedly capable of extraordinary deeds. H divine, after his own
peculiar fashion, and divinity brings capacities ambitions that don't
trouble the rest of us. So it seems quite that at some point in his
relationship with my mother, whom I thi loved, he contemplated a gift of
life to her.

But if my sister believes she can get his bones to tell her how might
have been given, she's in for a disappointment. My father is
interrogation, even by his own daughter, and however much may strut and
boast, she wouldn't dare go where his soul has gone.

If you think I'm tempting fate with these assertions, then so be don't
have the will to explain to you where Nicodemus has. fervently
hope--hope more passionately than I could ima for anything--that I never
have cause to try and find that will:: because I would fail in
thatpursuit (though I surely would) it would mean the unknowable was
attempting to make and the laws by which this world lives would be
littered at our

On such a day, I would not want to be sitting writing

such a day I'm not certain | would want to be alive.

VI

T

he day after Rachel's encounter with Danny was the day funeral. Margie
had told her lawyers some years before wanted to be buried: alongside
her brother Sam--who'd died:i motorcycle accident at the age of
twenty-two--and her motherl father, in a small churchyard in Wilmington,
Pennsylvania. The nificance of this wasn't lost on anybody. It was
Margie's reiection. Whatever choices she'd made in her life, she knew
where she wanted to be in death: and it wasn't entombed Gearys.

Rachel got an early morning call from Mitchell suggesting they travel
together, but she declined, and drove to Wilmington alone. It was an
ill-tempered day, blustery and bleak, and only the most hardy of
celebrity-spotters had trekked through the rain to ogle the mourners.
The press were present in force, however, and they had a rare assort
rnent of luminaries to report on. Gossip though she was, Margie had
never been much of a name-dropper (she was almost as gleeful discussing
the intricacies of a favorite waiter's adnlteries as those of a
congressman), and it wasn't until now that Rachel realized just how many
famous and influential people Margie had known. Not simply known, but
impressed herself so favorably upon that they'd left the comfort of
their fancy houses and their congressional offices, their weekend homes
by the shore and in the mountains, to pay their respects. Rachel found
herself wondering if Margie's spirit was here, mingling with the mighty.
If so, she was probably remarking uncharitably on this one's facelift
and that one's waistline; but in her heart she'd surely be proud that
the life she'd lived--despite its excesses--had earned this show of
sorrow and gratitude.

Mitchell had not yet arrived, but Loretta was already sitting on the
front row of the pews, staring fixedly at the flower-bedecked casket.
Rachel didn't particularly want to share the woman's company, but then
nor did she want to be seen to be making any statement by sitting apart,
so she made her way down the aisle, pausing in front of the casket for a
few moments, then went to sit at Loretta's side.

There were tears on Loretta's immaculately painted face; in her
trembling hands a sodden handkerchief. This was not the calculating
woman who'd presided over the family table at the mansion a few evenings
before. Her sadness was too unflattering to be faked: her eyes puffy,
her nose running. Rachel put her hand over Loretta's hand, and gripped
it. Loretta sniffed.

"I wondered if you'd come," she said quietly.

"I'm not going anywhere," Rachel said.

"I wouldn't blame you if you did," Loretta said. "This is all such a
mess." She kept staring at the casket. "At least she's out of it. It's
just us now." There was a long silence. Then Loretta murmured: "She
hated me."

Rachel was about to mouth some platitude; then thought better of it.
Instehd she said: "I know."

"Do you know why?"

"Because of Galilee."

It was the last name Rachel had expected to hear in these stances.
Galilee belonged in another world; a warm, enchanted where the air
smelled of the sea. She dosed her eyes for a mom, brought that place
into her mind's eye. The deck of The Sam, evening: the sleepy ocean
rolling against the hull, the creaki calling out the stars, and Galilee
encircling her. She longed to as she'd longed for nothing in her life.
Longed to hear his even knowing he'd break them.

Her thoughts were interrupted by murmurings from the behind her. She
opened her eyes, in time to follow toward the back of the church. There
was a small group mourners there. The first one she recognized was
Cecil; then the of them turned to look toward the altar, and she heard
Loretta oh Lord, that's all we need and realized she was looking at He'd
changed since Rachel had seen him last: his hair was face pinched and
pale. He looked almost flail.

The murmurs quickly subsided, and eyes were averted, but a the change
had passed through the assembly. The man res the death of the woman
they'd come to mourn was here, walking :i the aisle to pay his respects
before her casket. Mitchell

him, his arm lightly holding Garrison's elbow, as if to guide "When did
he get out?" Rachel whispered to Loretta.

"This morning," she replied. "I told Cecil to keep him away.' shook her
head. "It's grotesque."

Garrison was standing in front of Margie's casket now.

over to his brother, and whispered something. Mitchell Then Garrison
reached over and put both his hands on There was nothing theatrical
about the gesture; indeed he oblivious to the presence of those around
him. He simply with his head bowed, as if attempting to commune with
thi Rachel glanced over her shoulder. Everyone--even those the
congregation who'd earlier averted their eyes--were now the mourning
man. How many of them, she wondered, version of events? Probably most.
Lord knows it was hard to believe that Garrison was capable of mourning
at the woman he'd murdered.

As she turned back she found Mitchell staring at her. exhausted. For the
first time in the years she'd known him resemblance to Garrison: in the
fierceness of his stare and shape of his shoulders. In other
circumstances she might couple of weeks in the Caribbean would have
cured his ills

knew better: he was sliding away from himself--or at least from the
polished illusion of himself he'd presented to the world; away into the
sad, shadowy place where Garrison had skulked all these years.

What had Loretta called them? The idiot and the necrophile7 A little
excessive perhaps, but it probably wasn't so very far from the truth.
They certainly belonged together, the tainted fruit of a tainted tree.

Mitchell had taken his gaze off her by now, and was gently tugging on
his brother's arm. Garrison looked back at him. Rachel saw Mitchell say
come along, and lamblike Garrison went with him. They sat together at
the far end of the same row as Rachel and Loretta. Again, Mitchell
glanced Rachel's way. This time she too averted her gaze.

The service was conducted with considerable decorum by a very elderly
preacher who during his eulogy told the gathering that he'd baptized
Margie in this very church, forty-eight years before. He had followed
the life of "this remarkable woman," as he called her, with the same
mixture of astonishment and sadness he was certain they all felt. She
had been troubled, he said, and had perhaps not always made the best of
choices in her life's journey, but now she stood on the Golden Floor,
where the vicissitudes of her life were lifted from her, and she could
go lightly on her way. Rachel had never heard anybody refer to heaven as
the Golden Floor before. She liked the phrase immensely, though she
suspected that if Margie had been one of the mourners rather than the
mourned she would have slipped away at the first mention of paradise,
and gone to sit among the gravestones and smoke a cigarette.

With the service over, the casket was carried out to the graveside. This
was the part Rachel had been dreading; but by the time the moment of
descent came, and she was standing there in the drizzle watching the
casket go from view, she'd been anticipating the horror of it for so
long the actuality was something of an anticlimax. There were more
prayers; flowers thrown down into the grave; then it was over.

ii

The rain came on heavily as she drove back to the city. A few miles
short of the bridge she was overtaken by a white Mercedes being driven
at suicidal speed, which was pursued through the deluge by two police
cars. Another two miles and she saw red lights flashing through the
downpour, arid flames burning on the highway. The pursued car had plowed
into the back of a large truck; and two other vehicles had then struck
it, spinning across the slick asphalt. One was burnin,, its lucky
occupants Standing in the rain watching the conflagration. 'l'he other
had turned

over and sat in the rain like a tortured tortoise, while the attempted
to free the family inside. As for whoever had been drivi: Mercedes, he
or she had presumably been given up for dead, with any passengers: it
had concertinaed against the rear of the and was virtually
unrecognizable. Needless to say, the entire hi was blocked. She waited
for half an hour before the flow was lished, during which time she saw a
whole melancholy scenario out before her like a piece of rain-sodden
theater. The firetrucks and ambulances; the freeing of the family (one
child, was delivered from the wreckage dead); grief and accu and finally
the prying apart of the truck and the Mercedes, the of which were
thankfully concealed from her view.

It was only when she was off on her way again that she thoughts to the
business of the following day: the search ters. If she was lucky
Garrison would go to Mass in the morning, sometimes did. He had his
liberty to give thanks for. And while being a good Catholic boy she'd go
up to the apartment in the Tower and start her search. If she failed to
find anything in attempt, she'd either have to wait for the following
Sunday, could guarantee his absence, or else somehow monitor his during
the week. It would be hard to spy on the Tower noticed. There'd be
journalists cruising around for a little while' there had of course been
some staff in residence, though she'd from somebody that two of them had
left after Margie's murder andl third had been telling all kinds of
tales to the gutter-press, so sumably been fired.

In the end she'd just have to trust to luck, and have a excuse for her
presence in the apartment if she was discovered. was she felt perversely
exhilarated at the thought of going Tower. For too long she'd been a
passive object; part of the scheme. Even her trip to Kaua'i had been
initiated by somebody the family. By helping Danny--or attempting to do
so--she was her allotted role; and her only regret was that she'd taken
so it. Such were the seductions of luxury.

Now, as she began to see the path before her more

found herself wondering whether Galilee, the prince of her also one of
those seductions. Was he the ultimate luxury? her path to distract her
from looking where she was not look? How she longed to have Margie at
the other end of a to share these ruminations with her. Margie had
always been unerringly to the heart of a subject; to strip away all the
hi

stuff and focus on the real meat of a thing. What would she have said
about Raehel's theorizing? That it was irrelevant, probably, to the
business of getting through the day. That attempting to understand the
big picture was to partake of a peculiarly male delusion: the belief
that events could be shaped and dictated, forced to reflect the will of
an individual. Margie had never had much time for that kind of thinking.
The only things in life that could truly be controlled were the little
things: the number of olives in your martini, the height of your heel.
And the men who believed otherwise--the potentates and the
plutocrats--were setting themselves up for terrible disappointment
sooner or later; which fact, of course, gave her no little pleasure.

Perhaps, Rachel thought, these things worked differently on the Golden
Floor. Perhaps up there the Grand Design was the subject of daily
chitchat, and the spirits of the dead took pleasure in working out the
vast patterns of human endeavor. But she doubted it. Certainly she
couldn't imagine Margie having much time for that kind of business.
Matters of destiny might be the subject of debate in other quarters, but
where Margie held court there would be a happy throng of gossipers,
rolling their eyes at the theorists.

The thought made Rachel smile; the first smile of that long, unhappy
day. Margie had earned her freedom. Whether her suffering had been
self-inflicted (or at least self-perpetuated) the point was surely that
she'd endured it without losing sight of the sweet soul she'd been
before the Gearys had found her. She'd made the trick look simple, but,
as Rachel had found, it was hard to pull off. This world was like a
labyrinth; it was easy to get lost in, to become a stranger to yourself.
Rachel had been lucky. She'd rediscovered herself back on the island;
found the wildling Rachel, the woman of flesh and blood and appetite.
She would not lose that woman again. However dark the maze became,
however threatening its occupants, she would never again let go of the
creature she was; not now that Galilee loved her.

GVII

S

unday morning, and the rain was heavier than ever, so heavy at times you
couldn't see more than a block in any direction. Ifthere'd been any
photographers outside the Tower they'd taken refuge until their subject
came back from Mass; or else they' followed hm there.

Margie had given Rachel a key to the apartment when the first ties with
Mitchell had begun, telling her to use the place whet wanted to escape.
.

"Garrison's scarcely ever here," she'd said, "so you needn't about
meeting him in his underwear. Vghich is quite a sight, me. He looks like
a stick of dough with a paunch."

Rachel had never liked the Tower, or the apartment. It had seemed,
despite its glitz, a rather depressing place, even on br: And on a day
like today, with the sky gray, it was murky and mel.. The fact that the
rooms were furnished with antiques, and the hung with huge, futile
paintings which Garrison had colh investments in the early eighties,
only added to the charmlessness place.

She waited in the hallway for a few moments listening sound of
occupancy. The only noise she heard came from outside beating against
the windows; the distant wail of a siren. She was Time to begin.

She started up the stairs, her ascent taking her into still ritory.
There was a grandfather clock at the top of the flight heart jumped when
she saw it looming there, imagining for a it was Garrison, waiting for
her.

She paused while the hammering in her heart subsided. I'm of him, she
thought. It was the first time she'd admitted the fact she was afraid of
what he might do if he found her trespassing had no business going. It
was one thing to hear Loretta versions, or to see him, weak and pale,
standing before Margie's was quite another to imagine encountering him
here, in the he'd slaughtered his own wife. What would she say to him
denly appear? Did she have a single lie in her head that he'd Probably
not. Her only defense against his malice was the had once been his
brother's bride, and how secure a lien was that? The bond between the
brothers was far stronger than aw she might have. At that moment,
standing on the stairs, she would probably kill her if the occasion
called for it.

She thought of what Mitchell had said two days before; about how
dangerous her life would become if he weren tect her. It wasn't an empty
threat; it had carried weight. She feitable, just like Margie. .'i

"Get a grip," she murmured to herself. This was neither nor time to
contemplate her vulnerability. '.'

She had to do what she'd come here to do and then

ing the pale face of the clock (which had not worked, Margie had once
told her, since the last years of the Civil War) she climbed the rest of
the stairs to the second floor. Margie's private siring room was on this
floor; so was her bedroom, and the bathroom where she'd died. Rachel had
intended not to go into the bathroom unless she ran out of places to
search, but now, marooned on the landing, she knew the proximity of the
place would haunt her unless she confronted it. Flipping on the landing
light she went to the bedroom door. It was open a few inches. The room
was bright: the investigating officers had left all the drapes wide.
They'd also left the room in a state of complete disarray; the whole
place had clearly been picked over for evidence. This was the only room
in the house hung with pictures that reflected Margie's eclectic taste:
a cloyingly sweet Chagall, a small Pissarro depicting a lib He French
village, two Kandinskys. And in bizarre contrast to all this color, two
Motherwell Elegies, stark black forms against dirty white, which hung
like memento mori to either side of her bed.

Rachel picked her way through the numerous drawers which had been pulled
out and lain on the floor to be searched, and went to the bathroom door.
Her heart began to hammer again as she reached for the handle. She
disregarded its din, and opened the door.

It was a big room, all pink marble and gold; the tub--which Margie had
loved to lounge in--enormous. "I feel like a million-dollar hooker when
I'm in that tub," Margie had liked to boast.

There were still countless reminders of her presence littered about.
Perfume bottles and ashtrays, a photograph of her brother Sam tucked
into the frame of the Venetian mirror, another photograph (this one of
Margie in lacy underwear, taken by a society photographer who'd
specialized in aesthetically sleazy portraits), hanging beside the door
to the shower. Again, there was also ample evidence that the police had
been here. In several places the black marble surface had been dusted
for fingerprints, and a layer of dust remained. The congealed remains of
a .pizza -- presumably consumed while the investigators were at work--
sat m a greasy box beside the bath. And the contents of the drawers had
been sorted through; a selection of questionable items set on the
COunter. A plethora of pill bottles; a small square mirror, along with a
razor (kept for sentiment's sake, presumably; Margie had stopped using
recreational cocaine years ago) and a collection of sexual items: a
small pink vibrator, a jar of chergc-flavored body lubricant, some
condoms.

The sight of all this distressed Rachel. She couldn't help but imagine
the officers smirking as they dug through the drawers; making tasteless
jokes at Margie's expense. Not that she would have given a damn.

Rachel had seen enough. She wasn't going to be haunted place; any power
it might have had over her had been trampled least so she thought until
she went to switch off the light. There wall was a dark spatter. She
told herself to look away, but her no further than the next dried drop,
which was larger. She tou. The drop came away on her fingertip, like
cracked paint. It Margie's blood. And there was more of it, a lot more
of it, the speckled marble until now. :

Suddenly it didn't matter that the police had defiled the room their
pizza and their sticky fingers. Margie had died here. Oh, Heaven, Margie
had died here. This was her lifeblood, spilled wall: a smear close to
Rachel's shoulder, where she'd fallen reached out in the hope of keeping
herself from falling, a the floor between Rachel's feet, almost as dark
as the marble.

She looked away, revolted, but the defenses she'd put up herself from
picturing what had happened here had collapsed.!' denly she had the
scene before her, in horrid detail. The sound shots echoing off the
marble, off the mirrors; the look of Margie's fade as she retreated from
her husband; the blood between her fingers, slapping on the floor.

What had Garrison done when the shots were fired?

gun and fallen to his knees beside her? Or stumbled to the phone I for
an ambulance? More likely he'd called Mitchell, or a lawyer; the moment
when help could come for as long as possible, to be that the life had
gone from Margie. Every last breath.

Rachel covered her face with her hands, but the image banished so
easily. It pulsed before her: Margie's face, her hands, fluttering, her
body, robbed of motion, or the

motion, darkening as the blood spread over it.

"Stop this," Rachel said to herself.

She wanted to get out of the bathroom without looking at it but she knew
that was the worst thing she could do. She had to her eyes and confront
what she'd seen. There was nothing could hurt her, except for her own
superstition.

She reluctantly let her hands drop from her face a

to study the scene afresh. First the sink and its surrounds; then for
and the tub. Finally, the blood on the floor. Only when she'd'i it all
in did she turn to leave the bathroom.

Where now? The bedroom lay before her, with all the

out. She could waste an hour going through the room, but it

errand. If the letters were here, then they were so well hidden the
police had failed to find them, and so, more than likely, would she.

Instead she picked her way back across the littered floor to the landing
and crossed to Margie's sitting room. She glanced at her watch as she
did so. She'd been in the house twelve minutes already. There was no
time for further delay.

She opened the sitting room door, and immediately retreated, pursued out
onto the landing by Didi, Margie's pug, who yapped with all the ferocity
of a dog three times his size.

"Hush, hush--." She dropped down to her knees so he could sniff her
hands. "It's only me."

He ceased his din on the instant, and instead began a round of grateful
mewlings, dancing around in circles before her. She'd never much cared
for the animal, but her heart went out to it now. It was doubtless
wondering where its mistress had disappeared to, and took Rachel's
presence as a sign of her return.

"You come with me," she said to the animal. It duly trotted after her
into the sitting room, where a plate of uneaten food and an excrement
caked newspaper testified to its sorry state. The rest of the room was
in a far tidier condition than either the bedroom or the bathroom.
Either the police had neglected to examine it thoroughly, or else the
officer who'd done so was a woman.

Rachel didn't linger. She immediately started to go round the room,
opening every cupboard and drawer. There were plenty of plausible hiding
places--rows of books (mostly airport romances), heaps of Broadway
playbills, even a collection of letters (all of them from charitable
organizations begging Margie's support)--but there was no sign of
anything vaguely incriminating. Didi stayed close by throughout the
search, plainly determined not to lose his companion now he had her.
Once only did he leave her side, waddling to the door as though he'd
heard somebody in the house. Rachel paused and ventured out onto the
landing, listening as intently as the dog, but it seemed to be a false
alarm. Back to her search she went, checking on the time as she did so.
She'd spent almost half an hour in the sitting room; she couldn't afford
to stay in the house much longer. But if she left empt-handed, would she
have the courage to return? Certainly she'd used up every cent of
enthusiasm she had for the venture. It wouldn't be easy to persuade
herself to rpeat the process; not now that she had specifics to dwell
on: the blood, the murk, the disarray.

When she returned into the sitting room Didi was not at her heel.

She called to him, but he didn't come. She called again, and this heard
a lapping sound from the far side of the room. There was door, which led
into a small bathroom, with room for only a sink toilet. Didi had
somehow scrambled up onto the toilet seat and. drinking from the bowl,
the sight both sad and absurd. She told get down. He looked up, water
dripping from his chops, and gave quizzical look. She told him again to
get down, this time pluck him off his perch. He was off the seat before
she could however, and scampered off between her legs.

She glanced around the tiny room: there was nowhere here to] anything,
except for the plain cabinet that boxed the sink. She bent and opened it
up. It smelt of disinfectant. There was a small store of room cleansers
and spare toilet tissue. She pulled them out and into the shadows. The
pipes coming from the sink were wet; reached up to touch them her
fingers came away covered in mold;: peered in again. There was something
else in beneath the sink pipes; something wrapped up in paper. She
reached a second time, I this time took hold of the object, which was
wedged between the and the damp-sodden plaster. It wouldn't move. She
cursed, which. Didi, who'd returned to see what was going on, scurrying
from her Suddenly, the object shifted, and her cold fingers weren't
quick to catch it before it dropped to the ground. There was the of a
breaking bottle, and then the smell of brandy wafted up out cabinet.
Clearly what she'd found was liquor Margie had stashed: during some
long-surrendered attempt at drying out. Didi was sniffing after the
brandy, the smell of which was giddying.

"Get out of there!" Rachel said, catching hold of him to from the muck.
He squealed like a piglet. She told'him to plaining and unceremoniously
threw him in the direction Then she proceeded to put the bleach and
disinfectant and back. Hopefully if she closed the cabinet door tight
nobody the smell of liquor. And even if they did, she reasoned, going to
find? Just a broken bottle. As she slid the last of the into the cabinet
she caught sight of something else, lying brandy. Not one but two
envelopes, both bulky. Either Danny I very long letters, she thought, or
else he'd miscalculated the photographs he'd taken. She pulled the
envelopes out into the I They had both been in contact with the wall;
there were decayed plaster adhering to them. Otherwise, they'ding place
intact. One of them was considerably heavier than

however. It didn't contain letters or photographs, she thought; more
like

a small, thick book.

This wasn't the place to examine the contents; she could do that at
home. She finished putting the disinfectants into the cabinet, firmly
closed the door, and bidding Didi a quick farewell headed out of the
sitting room onto the landing.

If Garrison came in now, she thought, she wouldn't be able to tell a lie
worth a damn. The pleasure at her discovery was written all over her
face. She tucked the envelopes into her coat and hurried down the
stairs, keeping her eye on the front door as she descended; but the good
fortune which had delivered the envelopes into her hands held. She
opened the door a few inches, checking to see if there were any
photographers out there, and finding that the rain was still pelting
down and the sidewalk deserted, slipped out and down the steps,
thoroughly pleased with herself.

VIII

I I have to make room here for the briefest of digressions on the
inevitable and probably inexhaustible subject of my invert sister. The
last I wrote of her she'd come into my room flushed with success, having
read Sister Mary-Elizabeth's poem to her beloved, and had her proposal
of marriage accepted. A few hours ago she came back with details of the
arrangements.

"No excuses," she said to me. "You have to be there."

"I've never been to a lesbian wedding," I said, "I wouldn't know what to
do."

"Be happy for me."

"I am."

"I want you to dance and get drunk and make a sentimental speech about
our childhood." "Oh what? You and Daddy in the dressing room?"

She gave me a fierce look. Maybe it's some renmant of an atavistic

power" lodged in her, but when she gets fierce she looks rabid. "Has
Alice ever seen you angry?" I asked her. "Once or twice."

"No. I mean really angry. Crazy-angry.

and-eat-it angry."

"Hm . . . no."

"Shouldn't she be warned, before you tie the knot? I mean;. can be a
terror."

"So can she. She's the only girl in a family of eight."

"She has seven brothers?"

"Seven brothers. And they treat her very respectfully."

"Rich family?"

"White trash. Two of the brothers are in jail. The father's an holic.
Beer for breakfast."

"Are you sure she's not just after you for your money?" I said. etta
glowered. "Jesus, I'm just asking. I don't want to see you

"If you're so suspicious, then you come and meet her. them all."

"You know I can't do that."

"Why not? And don't tell me you're working."

"But that's the truth. I am. Morning, noon and night."

"This is a damn sight more important than your book. This woman I love
and adore and idolize."

"Hm. Love, adore and idolize, huh? She must be good in

"She's the best, Eddie. I mean, the very best. She eats me outi

she'd just invented it. I scream so loud the trailer shakes." "She lives
in a trailer? Are you sure you're doing the

Marietta picked at her front tooth, which she always does

she's uneasy. "Most of the time," she replied.

"But... ?"

"But what?" I "No. You tell me. Most of the time's enough?" "Okay,
smartass. When you met Ghiyojo were you

tain--not even a breath of doubt-that she was the one?" ', "Absolutely."

"You had an affair with her brother," she reminded me li

"So?"

"So how certain could you be about marrying a woman when were screwing
her brother?"

"That was different. He was..."

"A transvestite."

"No. He was an actor." She rolled her eyes. "How did we get this?" I
said.

"You were trying to talk me out of marrying Ahce.

"No I wasn't. I really wasn't. I was observing that... I don't know what
I was observing. Never mind."

Marietta came over to me and took hold of my hand. "You know,

you're very good for me," she said.

"I am?"

"You make me question things. You make me think twice."

"I don't know if that's such a good thing. Sometimes I wish I hadn't
thought twice so many times, if you see what I mean. I might have done
more with my life."

"I think Alice is the one, Eddie."

"Then marry her, for God's sake."

She squeezed my hand hard. "I really want you to meet her first. I want
your opinion. It means a lot to me."

"So maybe you should bring her here," I said. Marietta looked doubtful.
"She's going to see this place eventually. And I think we'd both have a
better idea of whether it was going to work out once we saw how she
responded."

"You mean: tell her evewhing?"

"Not everything. Nobody could handle everything. Just enough to

see whether she's ready for the truth." "Hm. Would you help me?" "Like
how?"

"Keep Cesaria from scaring her."

"I can't stop her if she wants to do something. Nobody could. Not even
Dad."

"But you'd do your best."

"Yes. I'll be the voice of reason, if that makes any difference." "You'd
tell Cesaria you suggested it?" I sighed. "If I must," I said.

"Then that's settled. I'll go talk to Alice now."

"Just give me a little warning. So I can organize myself."

"I'm excited."

"Oh Lord. I don't like the sound of that."

Of course I'm regretting it. Who wouldn't? The best it can be is a
fiasco. But what else was I going to do? This obviously isn't some
OVernight romance. Marietta feels something profound for this Woman. I
can see it in her eyes. I can hear it in her voice. And it would be
hypocritical of me to be writing with such enthusiasm about the
grand--if stymied--passion between Rachel and Galilee and at the

same time turn a blind eye to something that's happening right in

of me.

Anyway, I've agreed. The woman will come to us and we! what we'll see.

Meanwhile, I have a story to tell.

.,

ii

The Central Park apartment was deserted when Rachel got her expedition
to the Trump Tower. Even so, she didn't sit down dining room table and
open the two envelopes she'd found, justi somebody were to walk in on
her. She went to her bedroom, locked the door and drew the drapes. Only
then did she on the bed to examine her booty.

In the less bulky of the two envelopes she found the letters
photographs. Danny was quite the eroticist, to judge b! ten. His concern
that if these letters had fallen into the they might be used to besmirch
Margie were well founded. Th, dates and times and locations here; there
were heated deeds done and boastful promises of how much more going to
get next time. Nor was any of this put in a

"We're going to have to start fucking in a soundproof room," he one of
the letters, "the way you like to shout. I'm sitting here rock thinking
about you yelling your head off, and me out, long strokes, the way you
like. There isn't a thing I you, you know that? When we're together I
feel as though the world can just go to hell--we don't need anybody but
each

I could have been a baby, sometimes, and drunk the milk beautiful tits.
Or been born out of you. Fuck, I know th but you said we shouldn't be
afraid of any of the things we feel, like to luck you so deep I get lost
inside you, and you'd carry for a while, like I was your baby. Then when
you wanted me outing you the nasty you'd just open your legs and out I'd
come, senqce you."

The photographs were not as graphic as the letters, by any I but they
were still notably perverse. Danny was obviously endowment, and quite
happy to have it recorded for Margie's sense of humor was evident in the
way she toyed one photograph she had drawn on his lower belly and upper
lipstick; flames perhaps, as though his groin was on fire. In was
coupling with her while wearing her pantyhose, through dick stuck, ripe
cherry red. All good old-fashioned fun.

Rache] called Danny at home and told him the good news. He was just
about to go down to the bar to start his shift, but he was happy to call
in sick and come and pick the letters and photographs up immediately if
that suited Rachel best. She told him not to do anything that would make
people even faintly suspicious. The stuff was quite safe in her
possession, she said. They could meet when Danny's shift was over, at
midnight or so, and she could give everything to him then. They agreed
on a meeting place, two blocks north of the bar where Danny worked.

That duty done, she turned her attention to the contents of the other
envelope. She was expecting to find further evidence of Margie's
philanderings; but what she found was something else entirely. It was a
journal, clothbound and in an advanced state of disrepair, its cover
stained and torn, its spine cracked, its pages loosened from their
stitching. A thin brown leather strap had been tied around it to keep
its contents together: when she untied it she discovered that several
separate sheets of paper had been interleaved with the journal's pages.
Their condition varied wildly. There were a few neatly folded, and well
preserved, there were others that were little more than scraps. What was
written on the sheets similarly ran the gamut: from perfect copperplate
to a chaotic scrawl. Some were letters, some seemed to be fragments of a
sermon (at least there was much talk of God and redemption there); some
were crudely illustrated, their subjects always the same: soldiers, in
what looked to be Civil War garb. There was no form of identification at
the beginning of the book-- indeed it seemed to start in midsenfence-but
when she flipped on through it she found that the first four or five
pages had come loose at some point, and the owner had slipped them into
the middle of the book. On the first page was an inscription written in
an elegant, feminine hand.

This is for your thoughts, my darling Charles.

Bring it back to me when this horrid war is over, and we'll put

it away, and put all the suffering away with it.

I love you more than life, and will show my love a thousand

ways when you are here again. Your adoring wife, Adina

Below this, the date:

September the Second, 1863

So they were Civil War soldiers in the sketches, Rachel This journal had
belonged to some military man who'd used it to experiences as he went to
battle. She knew little about the war the states; history had never been
a subject she'd warmed to. Es when it was brutal; and what little she
did remember of her about the period concerned the cruelties that had
brought the about and the cruelties that had ended it. There had been
nothii engage her sympathies, so whatever dates and names she'd learned
quickly fled from her head.

But a history book and a journal such as this were very things. One was
filled with facts, to be learned parrot-fashion. The had a voice, a
drama, a sense of the specific. In a short time, she herself entranced,
not by the details of what was being described of it was a forlorn
catalog of woes and privations: inedible food, mals, long, exhausting
marches, foot rot and gut rot and lice tangible presence of the man who
was doing the describing,, his portrait becoming more detailed, line by
line. He loved his wife faith in God and in the cause of the South, he
hated Lincoln hypocrite") and almost all Northerners ("they pretend
because it suits them"); he liked his horse better than most of the
commanded, and yet seemed to feel their hardship more than

Isn't there a better way to settle our differences, he wrote, than to
before the bullet and the bayonet common men such as these, have no true
comprehension of what is at issue here, nor in truth care to, but only
want to have this bloody business done so that return to doing what the
Lord made them to do: to plow and drink', and die surr6unded by their
children and their children's children.

When I hear them talking among themselves they don't

of politics and the greatness of our cause: they talk about clean water
and strawberry pie. What is the use of putting such souls to death?
Better that we chose ten princes of the South, and ten gentleman of the
North, if they could find that number, them in a field with swords, to
fight until there was only one: remaining. Let the victory go to that
side then, and spill only the blood of nineteen men, instead of this
wholesale slaughter, so grievously wounds the body of the nation. '

Just a few pages later, in a passage dated August 22nd, filthy, clammy
night") he returned to the subject of how the but from a different point
of view.

I find myself losing patience with the idea that this war is the Lord's
work. We were given free will; and we have chosen what? To make one
another suffer.

Yesterday we came upon a hill which had apparently been, for a week or a
month, who knows now, a place of some strategic importance. There were
dead men, or what the foul heat of this season makes of dead men,
everywhere. Blue and gray, in what seemed to me equal numbers. Why had
they not been given Christian burials? I can only assume because there
were not enough infantrymen of either side left alive to perform that
duty, nor enough compassion left in their commanders to bring in a
brigade and put the dead in the ground. The battle moves on to another
hill--which will for a week or a month seem of vital strategic
importance-- and these hundreds of men, all somebody's sons, left for
flies to breed in.

I'm ashamed of myself tonight. I wish I were not a man, if this is what
men are.

The more Rachel read, the more questions she had. Who was this fellow,
who had poured his feelings onto the page so eloquently she felt as
though she could hear him, speaking to her? How had he learned to
express himself so powerfully, and what purpose had he turned that power
to when the fighting was finished? A preacher? A pacifist politician? Or
had he done as his wife intended, and taken the book, with all its rage
and its disappointment, back home to be sealed up and never spoken of
again?

Then there was another series of questions, that were nothing to do with
Gharles and Adina. How had Margie come by the book? And why had she
wrapped it up and hidden it alongside the letters from Danny? This was
scarcely scandalous material. Perhaps at the time Charles's views would
have been thought radical, but almost a century and a half later, what
did it matter what he'd written?

She read on. Every now and then she'd unfold one of the loose notes
tucked between the pages, some of which had nothing to do with anything
she'd so far read, some of which looked to be thoughts he'd jotted down
when he couldn't get to his journal, some of which were letters. There
were two, side by side, from Adina, both sad and curiously abrupt. The
first said:

Dearest husband,

I write with the worst of news, and know of no way to sweeten it. Two
days ago the Lord took our darling Nathaniel from us, in a

fever which came so suddenly that he was gone before Henrietta could
bring Dr. Sarris to the house.

He would be four the first Tuesday of next month, and I had promised him
you would take him up on your horse as a birthday treat when you came
home. He spoke of this at the last.

I do not think he much suffered.

The second was shorter still.

I must go to Georgia, if I can, Adina wrote. I have word from Hamilton
that the plantation has been brought to ruin, and that our father is in
such despair he has twice attempted to end his own life. I will bring
him back to Charleston with me, and tend to him there. ,:.

The hand that had written these letters was still just

the same that had penned the inscription, but it had deteriorated into
spiky scrawl. Rachel could scarcely imagine what state the have been
reduced to: her husband gone, one of her children dead family fortune
lost; it was a wonder she'd kept her sanity. But then, I haps she
hadn't.

Again, Rachel moved on. In an hour or so she'd have to set out her
meeting with Danny, but she didn't want to leave the journal. cinated
her; these tragic lives, unraveling before her, like the lives. people
in a novel. Except that this book gave her none of the comforts of
fiction. No authorial voice to put these events in a lar context; no
certainty, even, that she would be shown were resolved.

A few pages on, however, about halfway through the journal, chanced upon
a page which would significantly change the all that followed.

Tonight I do not know if I am a sane, man, Charles wrote. I have had
such a strange experience today, and want to write it down before I go
to sleep so that I do not dismiss it tomorrow as something my exhausted
mind invented. It was not. I'm certain, it was not. I know how the
visions that arise from fatigue appear--I've seen some of them--and this
was of a different order.

We are marching southeast, through North Carolina. It rains constantly,
and the ground has turned to mud; the men are so tired they neither sing
nor complain, barely having the energy left to put "

one boot in front of another. I wonder how long it will be before I have
to join them; my horse is sick, and I believe he only continues to walk
out of love of me. Poor thing! I've seen the cook, Nickel berry, eyeing
him now and then, wondering if there's any way in the world he can turn
such a carcass into edible fare.

So, that was what the day brought, and it was horrible enough. But then,
as dusk came, and it was that hour when nothing in the world seems solid
and certain, I looked down and saw--oh God in Heaven, my pen does not
want to make these words-- I saw my boy, my golden-haired Nathaniel,
sitting on the saddle in front

of me.

I thought of Adina's letter: of how she had promised that ride upon the
horse, and my heart quickened, for today was Nathaniel's birthday.

I expected the presence to disappear after a time, but it did not. As
the night drew on he stayed there, as though to comfort me. Once, in the
darkness, I sensed him look round and back at me,

and saw his pale face and his dark eyes there before me.

I spoke then. I said: I love you, my son.

He replied to me! As if all this weren't extraordinary enough,

he replied. Papa, he said, the horse is tired, and wants me to ride her
away.

It was unbearable, to hear that little voice in the darkness telling me
that my horse was not long for this world.

I told him: then you must take her. And I had no sooner spoken than I
felt my horse shudder beneath me, and the life went out of her, and she
fell to the ground. I fell with her, of course, into the mud. There were
lamps brought, and some fuss made of me, but I had fallen, I think, in a
kind of swoon, which had perhaps kept me from any serious harm.

Of Nathaniel, of course, there was no sign. He had gone, riding the
spirit of my horse away, wherever the souls of the loyal and the loving
go.

There was a small space on the page now. When Charles took up his
account again, he was plainly in an even more agitated state.

I cannot steep. I wonder if I will ever sleep again. I think of the
child

all the time. Why did he come to me? What was he telling me?

Nickelberry is a better man than I took him to be. Most cooks

are vile men in my experience. He is not. The men call him Nub.

He saw me writing in this book earlier, and came to me and asked me if I
would write a letter for him, to send back to his mother. I told him I
would. Then he said he was sorry my horse had died but' I should take
comfort that it had nourished many men who were so sick if they had not
eaten tonight they would have perished. I thanked him for the thought,
but I could see that he wanted to say more, and couldn't find a way to
begin. So I told him simply to spit it out. And out it came. lie said
he'd heard that there was now no hope that we could win this war. I told
him that was probabl), true. To which he said, plain as day: then wh),
are we still fighting?

Such a simple question. And I listened to the rain beating on the tent,
and heard the wounded sobbing somewhere near, and thought of Nathaniel,
come to ride with me, and I wanted to weep, but I did not dare. Not
because I was ashamed. I like this Nickelberry; I wouldn't care that I
wept in front of him. I didn't dare begin to weep because I was afraid I
would never stop.

I told him truthfully: "Once I would have said we should fight to the
death to prove the righteousness of our cause. But now I think nothing
is pure in this world, nor ever was, and we will die uselessly, as we
have lived."

Did I say that he was a little drunk? I think he was. But he seemed
quickly sobered by this, and said he would visit me again tomorrow, so
that I could write the letter to his mother. Then he left me to sleep.

But I cannot. I think of what he said, and what I replied,

I wonder if tomorrow I should not forsake my uniform, and the cause I
was ready to die for, and act as a man not as a soldier; and go my own
way.

I can scarcely believe I wrote those words. But I believe

why Nathaniel came to take the horse: it was his way of shaking me out
of my stupor; of stopping me marching to my death. What would I have
died for? For nothing. All of this for nothing.

Rachel looked at the clock. It was time to go, but she di& reading, so
she slipped the letters and the photographs back envelope, and the book
back into the other, and took them both her. As so often happened in
this city the weather had denly: a warm wind had blown the rain clouds
upstate, and for streets smelled sweet. As the cab bounced and rattled
its way Soho she took out the journal again, and began to read.

battle of Bentonville began or Monday, the twenty-first day of I March,
in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-four. It was not, by
the standards of the war between the states, a great, decisive or even
particularly bloody battle: but it has this distinction: it is the last
hurrah of the Southern Confederacy. Thirty-six days later General Joseph
E. Johnston would meet William T. Sherman at the Bennett farmhouse and
surrender his men. The war would be over.

Captain Charles Rainwill Holt did not desert on the night before the
battle, as he had intended to; he thought better of it. The weather,
which had been inclement during the march, became fouler still, and he
judged his chances of getting away in the darkness without some harm or
other coming to him less than good.

On the following day the battle began, and from the beginning it was a
mess. The terrain was in places forested with pine, and in others swamp
and briar. The men on both sides were exhausted, and there was scarcely
an encounter through that first day and night that did not end
chaotically. Men lost in smoke and rain and darkness firing back upon
their own comrades. Charges led upon lines that did not exist.
Earthworks abandoned before they were half dug. The wounded left in the
woods (which had been set alight by cannon fire despite the rain) and
burned alive within earshot of their fellows.

There was worse to come, and the captain knew it, but as the hours
passed that stupor from which his son had come to stir him fell upon him
again More than once he saw an opportunity, and could not bring nrnself
to take it. It was not fear of a stray bullet that kept hm from moving.
There was something leaden in him, like a weight that war had poured
into his bowels, and it kept him from his escape.

It was Niekelberry the cook who finally persuaded him to leave. Not with
words, but with his own departure.

It was just after dusk on the second day, and Charles had gone out from
the encampment a little way, to try and put his thoughts in order.
Behind him the men gathered round their cautious fires, trying by what

ever means they could to keep their spirits up. Somebody was a banjo;
one or two exhausted voices were raised to sing along. sound came
strangely between the trees, like the sound of Charles tried to bring to
mind the garden in Charleston where he'd posed to Adina; he'd calmed his
troubled spirits many times think: that spot. Of the fragrance of its
air; of the nightbirds that made melody in the trees. But tonight he
could not remember to that place, or its music. It was as if that Eden
had never existed.

As he stared off into the darkness, lost in these m thoughts, he saw a
figme moving between the trees not ten yards

him. He was about to challenge the man, when he realized who it
"Nickelberry... ?" he whispered.

The figure froze, so still the captain could barely distinguish

from the trees amongst which he stood.

"Is that you, Nickelberry?"

There was no reply, but he was certain that it was indeed the

so he began to walk in the man's direction. "Nickelberry? It's Holt."

Nickelberry responded by moving off again, away from the "Where are you
going?" the captain demanded, picking upi pace to catch up with the
cook. The briars slowed the advance men, but Nickelberry in particular.
He had walked into a very patch, and flailed at them, cursing in his
frustration.

The captain was almost upon him now. I "Don't get any closer!"
Nickelberry said. "I don't want none, but I ain't staying and you ain't
gonna make me stay. No "It's all right, Nub. Calm down." "I'm done with
this damn war."

"Keep your voice down, will you? They'll hear us."

"You ain't gonna try and turn me in?" , "No I'm not."

"If you try--" The captain saw one of Nub's meat carving

pale silver, between them. "I'll kill you before they take me." 'I "I'm
sure you would." , "I don't care no more. You hear me? I'd prefer to
take my

out there than stay and be killed."

The captain studied the man before him. He could

Nub's expression in the darkness, but he could bring the man's
expressive face into his mind's eye readily enough. There was in that
face; and tenacity. He wouldn't make a bad companion, thought, if a man
had to be living by his wits out there.

"You want to go on your own?" Holt said.

"Huh?"

"Or we could go together." "Together?" "Why not?"

'% captain and a cook?"

"Makes no difference what we were back there. Once we run we're both
deserters."

'Tou're not trying to trick me?"

"No. I'm going. If you want to come with me, then come. If you don't-"

"I'm coming," Nicke]berry said.

"Then put away the knife." Holt could feel Nickelberry's gaze on him,
still doubtful. "Put it away, Nub." There was a further moment of
vacillation; then Nickelberry slid the knife back into his belt. "Good,"
Charles

said. "Now... did you know ytm were headed toward enemy lines?"

"I thought they were east of here."

"No. They're right there," Holt said, pointing offbetween the trees. "If
you look carefully, you can see their fires."

Nickelberry looked. The fires were indeed visible; flickers of yellow in
the enveloping night.

"Lord, look at that. I would have walked straight into their arms." Any
lingering reservations he might have had about the captain's allegiances
were plainly allayed. "So which way we going'?" he said.

"The way I've reckoned it," the Captain said, "our best hope is to head
south toward the Goldsboro Road, and then make our way from there. I
want to head home to Charleston."

"Then I'll come with you," Nickelberry said. "I ain't got no better
place to go."

ii

None of what I've just recounted found its way into the pages of Holt's
journal. He did not write in it again for almost two weeks, by which
time the battle of Bentonville was long since over.

This is what Rachel read, as the cab carried her down Madison Avenue:

We came into Charleston last night. 1 can barely recognize the city,
such is the violence that has been done to it by the Yankees.
Nickelberry kept asking me questions as we went, but I had not the life
in me to answer. When I think of how this noble city stood

before the war, and the way it is laid waste now, such

in me, for truly all that was good seems to me to have passed

This city, which was so fine, is now a kind of hell: blackened by fire
and haunted by the dead. Entire streets I knew have disappeared People
wander the rubble, their faces blank, their hands after turning over
brick upon brick upon brick, looking for something by which to remember
the life they had.

We went straight way to Tradd Street, expecting the worst, but I found a
strange thing. Though much around in the street lay ruins, my house was
almost whole. Some damage to the roof, dows blown in, and the gardens
all withered of course, but otherwise intact.

But, oh, when I went inside, l almost wished a volley blown it to
smithereens. My house, my precious house, had used as a place for the
dying and the dead. I do not know was so chosen-I cannot believe Adina
would have allowed this; must assume it was done after she had departed
for Georgia. I only know that every room seemed to contain some sight
more sickening than the one before.

The living room had been stripped of furniture, but for the mahogany
table which had been fetched from the dining used for a surgeon to work
upon. old blood, the table the same. And all around the room, the
remnants of the surgeon's craft: saws and hammers and knives. The
kitchen had been used to make poultices and the like, and stank So badly
that Nickelberry, who I may say has a most, vomited. I did the same, but
I went on from room to despite Nub telling me I should not.

Upstairs, in what used to be the bedroom in which Adina and I slept-the
bedroom where Nathaniel was conceived, and Evangeline and Miles--I found
an empty coffin. The bed had gone; looted, I presume, or used for
firewood, And in the other filthy mattresses, blankets, bowls and all
the accoutrements sickroom. I cannot bring myself to write further what
vile signs Ii found of the souls who had passed their last there.

Nickelberry kept urging me away, and finally I went

him. But before I left I said I wanted to go out into the garden. begged
me not to; said he had come to like my company on road and was fearful
for my sanity. But I would not be to depart until I had seen the place
where I had sat in the before the war, and taken such joy. Somehow I
knew that the

would be there; and I would not be finished with this business until

I had laid eyes upon that worst, whatever it was.

I know of no place that proffered such fragrances as that little plot of
ground: jasmine and magnolia, tea olive and banana shrub; all lent the
air a sweetness that could make my head swim on summer nights. And now,
despite the harms all around, nature was still doing its best to grace
the air. Some of the smaller trees and shrubs had survived the
destruction, and their branches were budding. There were een a few
flowers underfoot.

But these little victories could not compete with the terrible sight
that lay in the middle of the garden. The surgeons' accomplices had dug
holes there, to bury the gangrenous parts hacked from the wounded. They
had done their job poorly. Upon their departure dogs had come and dug up
this horrid meat, and picked it clean. Here, where my children had
played, and my darling Adina walked in love, were human bones in their
many dozens. I think my coming out had disturbed some of the animals,
because in places the dirt was freshly turned, and as yet undevoured
trophies lay. A leg, its foot still booted. An arm, severed at midbicep.
Much else I could not make sense of, nor wanted to.

I have seen every kind of misery in these three years, and endured
everything as best a man may be expected to endure such horrors. But to
find sights that rank with the worst I have witnessed in this place,
where my children played, where I spoke words of devotion to my wife,
where--in short-- I made my heaven, is nearly more than I can bear.

Were it not for Nub, I should now surely be dead by my own hand.

He says we should leave the city tomorrow. I have agreed. For tonight,
we are sleeping on the steps of St. Michael's Church, where I am
presently writing this. Nub has gone off to beg or steal some food
(which he's very good at doing) but the thought of what I saw this
evening makes me so sick to my stomach I doubt I shall eat.

in

The little club where Danny had arranged to meet Rachel was thronged
with the late-night crowd, and she had to search it for several rninute
before she located him. She felt strangely dislocated, as though she'd
left some part of herself behind her in the pages of Captain Holt's
journal. There was nothing in her experience that remotely approached
the horrors he had described, but the fact that she was holding in her

hands the book which he'd had in his pocket when he'd walked into house
on Tradd Street made the vision he was evoking a]l the immediate. It was
the crowd before her which seemed unreal; alcohol-flushed features
smeared in the murk.

Even Danny, when she finally located him, seemed remote her, viewed
through smoke-thickened gloom.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to come," he said. voice was
a little slurred with drink. "You want one?"

"I'll have a brandy," Rachel said. "Make it a double, will you?" "Why
don't you go sit down? I'm sorry about the crowd. I somebody's having a
birthday party. Do you want to go elseT"

"No, I'll just have a drink, and give you the stuff, then--" "--you
don't have to lay eyes on me again," Danny said. promise." He didn't
wait for Rachel to protest, which she would done out of politeness, but
headed off into the midst of the birthday ebrants.

Rachel went to an empty table at the back of the room, down. She was
sorely tempted to take out the journal again, though was scarcely an
ideal place to be reading it. The lights were so dim probably wouldn't
be able to make sense of it, she told herself. tract herself she looked
for Danny. He was still at the bar, to attract somebody's attention.

Without consciously planning to do so, she reached into the lope and
pulled out the journal again. At a nearby table a group drunken partiers
had started to sing a birthday song. Several attempting vainly to
harmonize. The cacophony troubled her as the end of the first sentence.
Then she was back with the the silent city.

I am writing this two days after we came into Charleston, and I am not
certain I know how to describe what has taken place since my last entry.
" 's

Best to keep it plain, I think. Nub came back to St. Mzchael

	a little before dawn, and he not only brought food, good food, the

	best I'd seen in many months, he also came with news of a strange

	encounter he'd had. ' " It seemed he'd met a woman whom he'd first
taken to be some: kind of apparition, she was, he said, so perfect in
this ghostly place, so beautiful, so graceful. Her name was Olivia, and
she was apparently so charmed by Nickelberry, and he so enamored of her,

when she invited him halfway across the city to meet a friend of hers,
he went.

By the time he came back to see me he had not only met this friend, who
goes by the strange name of Galilee--

Rachel stopped reading, as though struck. She looked up. The crowd was
wild around her. The singers were up from their table, reeling around,
the unlucky focus of their attentions still sitting, dumbfounded by
drink. Danny had secured a glass of brandy, along with something for
himself, and was working his way back towards Rachel's table, but he was
having difficulty weaving between the partiers. Before he could catch
Rachel's eye, she looked back at the journal, half expecting the words
she'd seen there to have disappeared.

But no. They were there:

--this friend, who goes by the strange name of Galilee--

It couldn't be the same man, of course. This Galilee had lived and died
in an earlier age; long before the Galilee she knew had been born.

She had a few seconds before Danny reached her. Long enough to quickly
scan the next few lines:

-but had tasted some generosity of his which had changed him in a
fashion I cannot quite describe. He said to me that we had to go
together to meet this man, and that when we'd met I would feel to some
measure the hurts I had suffered in this city undone

"What are you reading?"

Danny was setting the drinks down on the table. Holt's words were still
in Rachel's eyes- the hurts I had suffered in this city"Oh it's just an
old diary." "Family heirloom?" "No."

-- undone--

Danny sat down. "Your brandy," he said, pushing the glass in Rachel's
direction.

"Thank you." She picked up the brandy and sipped. It burned a lit

He against her lips and on her tongue. "Are you all right?" Danny said.
"Ye, I'm fine."

"You look a little shaken up."

"No... I'm just.., these last few days..." She could barely put a
Coherent sentence together, she was so distracted by what she'd just
read.

"I don't want to seem rude--" she said, making a concerted effor
articulate. The sooner this conversation was over, the sooner sh, back
with the iournal, nding out what awaited the captain. "I've a lot on my
mind right now. This is what I found at the apartment." handed Danny the
envelope containing leffers and the glanced around to see if anybody was
looking his way, and then,

tentatively, reached into the envelope and slid out the contents.

"I didn't count them," Rachel said, "but I assume it's

"I'm sure it is," Danny said, staring down at the evidence of romance.
"Thank you so much."

"What are you going to do with it all?"

"Keep it." "Just be careful, Danny." He glanced up at her. "Don't talk
to body about Margie. I wouldn't want.., you know..."

'q(ou wouldn't want me to be found in the East River."

"I'm not saying--"

"I know what you're saying," he replied. "And thank you. But don't have
to worry about me. Really you don't. I'm going to be

"Good," she said, draining the last of her brandy. "Thank

the drink."

"You're going already?"

"Stuff to do."

Danny got up, and somewhat awkwardly took her hand. "I it's a clich4,"
he said, "but I don't know what I would have done you." He looked,
suddenly, like a lost twelve-year-old. "You took risks, I know."

"For Margie..." she said.

"Yes," he replied, with a sad little smile, "for Margie."

"You keep well, Danny," Rachel said, hugging him. "I

good things ahead for you."

"Oh?" he said doubtfully. "I think the best times went Margie." He
kissed her on the cheek. "She loved us both, something."

"That's a lot, Danny."

"Yeah," he said, trying to put on a little brightness. "You're That's a
lot."

about the time Rachel caught her cab back uptown, and opened the journal
to pick up Captain Holt's story where she'd left off, Garrison was
pouring his fourth Scotch of the night, slipping the bottle down beside
the high-backed armchair set before his dining room window. He wasn't
alone in his liquored state. Mitchell was sitting in front of the fire,
which he'd insisted be lit, in a worse state of intoxication than he'd
been in since law school. Two maudlin drunks, talking of how their women
had betrayed them. They'd poured out their hearts tonight, as liberally
as they'd poured the Scotch: confessed their indifference to the labors
of the marital bed, and their weariness with their adulteries; promised
that their only loyalties lay with one another, and that whatever
betrayals there might have been, they were a thing of the past; and most
significantly, debated in detail how their dealings had to be handled
from now on, now that they knew how isolated they were. "I know it's no
good looking back..." Mitchell slurred. "No it isn't..."

"But I can't help it. When I think of the way things were."

"They weren't as wonderful as you remember. Memories are lies.
Especially the good ones."

"Were you never happy?" Mitch said. "Not once? Not for an after

lqOOFl?"

Garrison grunted as he thought about this. "Well now you mention it," he
said finally. "I do remember that day I dumped you in the yard with the
fire ants, and you got bit all over your ass. I was pretty damn

happy that day. Do you remember that?"

"Do I remember--"

"I got beaten black and blue for that."

"By Poppa?"

"No, by mother. She never left it to George when it came to something
important, because she knew we weren't scared of him. She beat me within
an inch of my life."

"You deserved it," Mitchell said, "I was sick for a week. And you didn't
give a shit."

"I didn't like that you got all the attention. But you know what? When I
was moping around, pissed off that you we,e, being pampered,

Cadmus said to me: see what happens if you make people sorry for one? I
remember him saying that, plain as day. He wasn't angry me. He just
wanted me to understand that I'd done a stupid thing: made everybody
lovey-dovey with you. So I didn't try and hurt you that, in case you got
the attention."

Mitchell got up and went to fetch the bottle from Garrison.

"Speaking of the old man--" Mitchell said, "Jocelyn told me kept him
company last night."

"I sure did. I sat by his bed for a few hours when they brought back
from the hospital. I tell you, he's tough. The doctors didn't he was
going to come home."

"Did he tell you anything?"

Garrison shook his head. "He was raving most of the time. It's
painkillers they've got him on. They make him delirious." Garrison

silent for a long moment. "You know what I started to wonder." "What?"

"If we took him off the medication..."

"We can't--"

"I mean just took his pills away."

"Waxman wouldn't allow that."

"We wouldn't tell Waxman. We'd just do it."

"He'd be in agony."

A tiny smile appeared on Garrison's face. "But we'd get straight answers
from him, if we had the pills." He shook his

though it contained the means to Gadmus's comfort.

"Fuck..." Mitchell said softly.

"I know it's not a very pretty idea," Garrison said, "but we have a lot
of options left. He's not going to hang on forever. And he's gone..."

"There's got to be some other way," Mitch said. "Let me tp

to him.

"You can't get anything out of him. He doesn't trust

more. I don't think he ever did. He didn't trust anybody but

Garrison thought on this for a moment. "Smart man."

"So how do you know all this stuff exists.

"Because Kitty told me about it. She was the only one

talked to me about the Barbarossas. She'd seen the journal."

"So at least the old man trusted her."

"I guess he did. At the beginning. I guess we all start out

our wives..."

"Wait," Mitch said. "I just had a thought--" "Margie." "Yeah."

"I'm there before you, brother."

"Cadmus liked her."

"So maybe he gave her the journal? Yeah. Like I say, I'm there before
you." He slid deeper into his seat, cocooned in shadow. "But if she had
it, she certainly wasn't going to tell me about it. Even with a gun
waved in her face."

"Have you searched your apartment?"

"The police already went through .it, top to hot*om."

"So maybe they took it."

"Yeah, maybe.. ," Garrison said, without much confidence. "Cecil's
trying to find out what they lifted from the place while I was locked
up. But I can't see why they'd remove something like that. It's no use
to them."

Mitchell sighed. "I'm so sick of this," he said.

"Sick of what?"

"All this shit about the Barbarossas. I don't know why we don't just
forget about 'em. If they were such a fucking problem, the old man would
have done something about them years ago."

"He couldn't," Garrison said, sipping on his whisky. "They're too
powerful."

"If they're so powerful why have I never heard of them?" "Because they
don't want you to know. They're secretive."

"So what have they got to hide? Maybe it's something we can use against
them."

"I don't think so," Garrison said, very quietly. Mitchell looked at him,
expecting him to say more, but he kept his silence. Several seconds
passed. Then Garrison murmured, "The women know more than we do."

"Because they get serviced by that sonofabitch?" "I think they get more
than that," Garrison said. "I want to kill the luck," Mitchell replied.

"I don't want you trying anything," Garrison said calmly. "Do you
Understand me, Mitch?"

"He fucked my wife."

"You kneu; you'd have to let her go to him sooner or later."

"It's bullshit..

"It won't happen again," Garrison said, his voice colorless. "She

was the last." He looked out at his brother from the cleft of the "We're
going to bring them down, Mitch. Him and all his family. why I don't
want any personal vendettas from you. I don't want getting twitchy. I
want to know everything there is to know about before we move &against
them."

"Which brings us back to the journal," Mitchell said. He set glass on
the sill. "You know maybe I should talk to Cadmus."

Garrison didn't reply to the suggestion. He didn't even ac edge it.
Instead he drained his whisky glass, and then-his

more than a bruised whisper-he said: "You know what Kitty told "What?"

	"That they're not human."

	Mitchell laughed; the sound hard and ragged.

Garrison waited until it died away, then he said: "I think she telling
the truth," "That's fucking stupid." Mitchell said. "I don't want to
hear it." He bared his teeth in disgust. "How could you fucking believe
a like that?"

	"I think she even took me to the Barbarossa house, when

	baby." I

		'Tuck the house," Mitchell said, swatting all this irritatir

	away. "I don't want to hear any more! Okay?" "We've got to face it
sooner or later."

		"No," Mitchell said, with absolute resolution. "If you're

	start talking like this, I'm going home."

		"It's not something we can hide from," Garrison said

	fact of our lives, Miteh. It always has been. We just

		Mitchell paused at the door. Sluggish and befuddled he couldn't raise
any coherent counter to what Garrison was

	he could say was: "Bull. Shit."

		Garrison went on, as though Mitch hadn't spoken.

	what?" he said. "Maybe it's for the best. We've run our course

	we are. It's time for something new." He was talking to an em

	now; Mitch had already left. Still, he finished his thought.

	new," he said again, "or maybe something very old."

Garrison didn't sleep that night. He'd never needed more than three and
a half hours' rest a night, and since Margie's death that number had
gone down to two hours, sometimes just one. He was running on fumes, of
course, and he knew it. He couldn't go on denying his body the rest it
needed without paying a price. But with his fatigue came a strange
clariy. The conversation he'd had with his brother tonight, for
instance, would have been unthinkable a few weeks before: his mind would
have rejected the ideas he'd espoused as surely as Mitchell had done.
But now he knew better. He was living in a world of mysteries, and out
of fear he'd chosen to ignore their presence. Now I seemed to him the
only way forward was to reach out and touch those mysteries; know what
they were, know what they mean; let them work whatever changes they
wished upon him.

Mitchell would come to share his point of view in i me. He'd have no
choice. The old empire was receding into oblivion: he old powers dying,
he old certainties going with hem. Something had o replace those powers,
and I wouldn' be a democracy of love and rueh; of that Garrison was
certain. The new age, when I came, would be just as 61are as the one
passing away. A chosen few-those wifh he will to live superior
lives-would have the wherewithal o do so. The rest, as ever, would live
and die in futility. The difference lay only in the coinage of power.
The age of railroads and stockyards and imber and oil would give way to
a time in which power was measured by some other means; a means which he
as yet had no language to describe. He felt its imminence as he
sometimes felt things in dreams; a knowledge beyond the SCope of his
five senses; beyond measurement or even materiality. He did not know
where his appetite for such possibilities came from, but he knew it had
always been in him. The day Grandma Kitty had told him fthe Barbarossas
he'd felt some sleeping part of his nature awaken. He !Could remember
everything about that conversation still. How she'd at him as she spoke,
watching every nuance of his response; how touched his face, her ouch
kindlier than he'd ever had from her how she'd promised to tell him
secrets that would change his life when the time was right. Of course
she'd been the one to tell

him about the journal, though he'd pretended to Mitchell he certain this
was so. There was a book, she'd said, in which into the heart of the
Barbarossas' land was described; along with all! had to be endured on
that road. Terrible things, she'd implied; that would drive a soul to
insanity if they weren't prepared. That why it was essential to have
this book: the information it contained! vital to any endeavor
concerning the Barbarossas.

Oh, the nights he'd lain awake, wondering about that book

to imagine how it might look, how it might feel in his hands. large or
small; were its pages thick or thin? Would he know the he read it what
wisdom it was imparting, or would it be written in which he had to
crack? Then there was the most the lot: where did his Cadmus keep this
book? He would steal into his grandfather's study-which was a room he
was stri bid to enter--and stare at the shelves and cupbdards (he
didn't, touch anything) wondering where it might be hidden. Was there
behind the books, or a secret compartment under the floor? Or hidden
away in one of the drawers of Cadmus's antique seemed so intimidating to
him as a child that he'd had an stitious fear of it, as though it had a
life of its own and might him, snorting like a bull, if he stared at it
for too long?

He was never once caught in the study. He was far too

that. He knew how to wait and watch and plan; he knew how

one thing he couldn't do was charm; not even his own

When, after Cadmus's recovery, he'd asked Kitty to talk about she'd
intimated to him, she bluntly refused to do so, to the denying that
they'd ever had the conversation. He'd grown sullen, I izing that there
was nothing he could say or do that would to open the subject again, and
his sullenness had become chief defining feature. In any family
photograph he was the the smile; the glowering adolescent whom everybody
treated for fear he snap like an ill-tempered dog. He didn't much like
the or the response it elicited, but he couldn't compete with effortless
charm. If he was patient, he knew, the time he'd have the power to seek
these secrets out for himself. he'd work, and play the loving grandson,
watching for any might inadvertently fall from Cadmus's lips; about
where he the journal, and what it contained.

But Cadmus had let nothing slip. Though he'd encouraged son in his rise
to power, and countless times made it clear how trusted Garrison's
judgment, that trust had never extended

about the Barbarossas. Nor had Garrison been able to draw Loretta into
his confidence. She'd made her suspicion of him, mingled with a mild
distaste, plain from the outset, and nothing he'd said or done had made
her warm to him More irksome still was the knowledge that she, though
new to the Gear), dynast?/, had access to information that he was
denied. More than information, of course. She, like Kitty and Margie and
Mitchell's wife, had taken herself off to Kaua'i more than once, to be
with one of the Barbarossa clan. Why this ritual was sanctioned Garrison
had never understood; he only knew that it was a tradition that went
back a long way. He'd raised some objections to it when he'd first heard
it mooted, but Cadmus had made it unequivocally clear that the matter
was not up for debate. There were some things, he'd said to Garrison,
that had to be accepted without challenge, however unpalatable. They
were part of the way the world worked.

"Not my world," Garrison had said, working himself up into a fine fury.
"I'm not allowing my wife to go off to some island and play around with
a total stranger."

"Just be quiet," Cadmus had said. Then, in hushed, even tones he'd
explained that Garrison would do exactly as he was told on this matter,
or suffer the consequences. "If you can't behave as I wish you to
behave, then you have no place in this family," he'd said.

"You wouldn't throw me out," Garrison had replied. "Not now." "You watch
me," his grandfather had said. "If you argue with me about this, you go.
It's as simple as that: It's not as though you're devoted to your wife,
after all. You cheat on her, don't you?" Garrison had sulked. "Well
don't you?"

"So let her cheat on you, if it helps the family."

"I don't see how--"

"It doesn't matter whether you see or not."

That had been the end of the conversation, and Garrison had left with
not the slightest doubt as to his grandfather's sincerity. Cadmus was
not a man to make idle threats. Duly warned, Garrison had kept his
objections to himself thereafter. And what little faith he'd had in his
grandfather's love for him died.

Now, a the first light of dawn crept into the sky, he thought of the old
man, sick to death but unwilling to die, and wondered if he should have
one more try at getting the truth out of him. No doubt, as Mitchell had
said, taking Cadmus's pills off him for half a day would be a torment;

but it might make him talk. And even if it didn't, there'd be some
faction to he had from making the bastard beg for his painkillers.
turing the scene, Cadmus yellow-white with agony, sobbing to have
opiates back, brought a smile to Garrison's face. But first he would how
well Mitchell did getting the truth out of Cadmus. If his failed, then
he'd have no choice but to play the torturer, and be that ful for the
chance.

XII

I nk and water; water and ink.

Last night, I dreamt about Galilee. It wasn't one of the dreams--the
visions, if you will--in which I witness the matter of pages. It was a
dream that came to me while I was asleep, but which forcibly impressed
itself upon my mind that This is what I dreamed. I was hovering like a
bird above a eh ing sea, and adrift in that sea, bound to a wretched
raft, and naked. Galilee. He was covered in wounds, and his blood was
running the water. I couldn't see any sharks, but that's not to say the)
around him. The sea was black, however, like the ink in my pen; it
eealed its inhabitants.

	As I watched, wave after dark wave struck the raft, and one

its pieces were disengaged and swept away, so that soon was draped over
the three or four planks that remained, his lower limbs submerged in the
water. Now, for the first time, to realize that he was about to die, and
began to struggle to work knots flee. His body glistened with sweat, and
sometimes, as the grew more frenzied, I couldn't decide what I was
seeing. Was

I 	i| shining form broken on the planks still my brother, or was it

		ing wave that had swept him away?

			I wanted to wake now; the whole scene distressed me. I

	; desire to watch my brother drown. I told myself to wake up. You

		have to endure this, I said, just open your eyes.

	I started to feel the dream receding from me. But even as it

my brother's writhings became more desperate--the wounds.on

body gaping as he thrashed--and he pulled a hand free of the ropes. He
hauled his head up out of the waves. When he did so the water seemed to
cling around his skull, as though it had knitted a spumy crown there;
his eyes were wild, his mouth was letting out a soundless scream. He
tore at the binding around his other wrist, and then, sitting up on what
was left of the raft, reached down into the water to free his legs.

He wasn't quick enough. The planks beneath him were sundered, and swept
away. He fell backward into the water, his wounds pouring blood as he
did so, and the waterlogged boards to which his feet were still tied
dragged him down, down beneath waves.

And now came the most curious event in the sequence. As his dark body
sank from sight, the waters into which he was disappearing forsook their
negritude, as though in reverence to the flesh they'd claimed. It was
not that they became translucent, like any common sea. Rather their
concealing darkness become a revelatory light, which blazed so brightly
it outshone the sky.

I could see my brother's body, sinking into the bright depths. I could
see every living form that swam in the sea around him, all silhouetted
against the brightness of the water. Shoals of tiny fish, moving as a
single entity; vast squid--vaster than any such creature I'd seen
before--watching Galilee descend toward their realm; and of course
innumerable sharks, circling him as he sank, describing protective
spirals around his body.

And then, as they say in books of cowardly fancy, I woke, and it was all
a dream.

I don't discount the possibility that though the images I saw were not
real, as I believe my visions are, they were true. That Galilee, if not
already drowned, is about to be drowned.

What does that do to the story" I thought I was telling? Well, to put it
crudely, it pinches it off before it was fully shit out. (I'm sorry,
that's not the prettiest of metaphors, but I'm not in the prettiest of
moods; and it expresses indecently well how I feel today about what I'm
doing. That this whole wretched business has simply been one long,
problematic excretion. One day I'm constipated, the next it runs out of
me like foul Water.)

But now I revolt you. I'll stop.

Back to Rachel for a while. I'll let the dream sit, and revisit it in a
few hours. Maybe it'll make a different kind of sense later.

The last we heard of Rachel she was in a cab returning to the

on Central Park. In her hands, the journal which G

many hours in his youth wondering about; imagining its size, and weight;
puzzling over what it might contain. And there in its discovered a
mystery: that there had been a man called Galilee Charleston, in the
spring of 1864. Now Nickelberry was taking meet him, promising that the
encounter would help the captain the pain he'd endured here.

I had not witnessed such excess I was about to see, the captain wrote,
since the early days of the war, when I had occasion to come into a
bordello where one of my men had been murdered in a brawl. To be '
truthful luxury, especially in excess, has never pleased me; only in

nature do I find an overabundance delightful; evidence of creation's
limitless cup. It was my darling Adina who was the one who liked to have
fine things in the house--vases and silks and pretty pictures. For me,
as I think for most of my sex, fineries are acceptable in moderation,
but can quickly come to seem smothering.

So then, imagine this: two houses in the East Battery, facing the water,
and so damaged by enemy fire as to seem from the outside little more
than the husks of dwellings, but which, upon entering, are revealed to
contain the gleanings from fifty of Charleston's finest houses, every
article chosen because it speaks precociously to the senses.

This was the place into which Nickelberry took me; the place he'd been
brought by his guide and advocate Olivia, who was but one of a dozen or
so people who occupied this unlikely palace.

It seems Nub had accepted the bounty of the place without questioning it
(such is a cook's nature, perhaps; especially during times of scarcity).
I, on the other hand, began to interrogate Olivia

immediately. How had all this sickly magnificence been accrued, I
demanded to know. The woman was black, and ill-educated (she'd been a
slave, though she was now dressed in a gown, and draped in jewelry, that
would have been the envy of any fine woman on Meeting Street): she could
not answer me coherently. I became frustrated with her, but before my
agitation grew too great a white woman, much older than Olivia, appeared
at my side. She introduced herself as the widow of General Walter
Harris, a man under whose command I had fought in Virginia. She seemed
quite happy

to answer my questions. None of the luxuries in the midst of which we
stood had been pirated or looted, she explained, but given freely to the
man who lived here, the aforementioned Galilee. I expressed surprise at
this, for besides the great treasure-house of valuables here there was
also food and drink in an abundance I think no Charlestonian has seen
since the beginning of the siege. I was invited by the ladies to sit and
eat, and after so many months in which the best fare available was fried
biscuits in bacon fat could not restrain myself. I was not alone at the
table. There was a Negro boy, no more than twelve, and a young man from
Alabama by the name of Maybank and a fourth woman, very pale and
elegant, whom this fellow Maybank fed with his fingers, as though he
were enslaved to her. I ate gingerly at first, overwhelmed by what was
before me, but my appetite grew rather than diminishing, and I ate
enough for ten men; was then sick to my stomach; and, having vomited,
came back to the table quite refreshed, and partook again. Sweetbreads
with sherry, thick slices of a baked calfls head, oysters and mushrooms,
a fine she-crab soup and a brown oyster stew with benne seeds. There was
a wine souffld for dessert, and huckleberry pie and conserved
peaches--what we used to call peach leather when I was young--and fruit
candy such as we would have for Christmas. Nickelberry, Olivia and the
general's widow ate with me, while the younger woman, one Katherine
Morrow, made herself very drunk with brandy, and at last took herself
off in search of our host, then promptly passed out on the floor next
door. The young man Maybank, declared suddenly that he wished to have
congress with the woman while she was in this state, and called for the
Negro boy Thaddeus to help him undress the woman.

I protested, but Nickelberry advised me to hold my tongue. They had a
perfect right to pleasure themselves with the drunken Miss Morrow if
they so chose, he said; such was the law of this place. Olivia confirmed
the fact. If I was to intervene, she warned me, and Galilee chanced to
hear of it, he would kill me...

Rachel had not noticed the journey back to the apartment; nor the trip
in the elevator. Now she was sitting at the window, with the glory of
New York before her, and she didn't see it. M1 she saw was the house in
the East Battery, its rooms a catalog of excesses; and the captain,
sitting at the table, gorging himself--

I asked what manner of man this Galilee was, and Olivia smiled at me.
You'll see, she said. And you'll understand, when he starts to speak to
you, what kind of king he is.

King? I said, of what country? Of every country, Olivia

replied; of every city, of every stone.

He's black, the widow Harris said, but he was never a slave. I

asked her how she knew this, and she answered, simply, that there . was
not a man on earth who could put Galilee in chains.

All, needless to say, strange talk; and while it was going on the sounds
from the adjacent room growing louder, as Maybank and the boy violated
Miss Morrow.

Nickelberry left the table, and went to watch. He called me presently to
join him, and to my shame I picked up the bottle of wine I had all but
emptied and went to see.

Miss Morrow was no longer incapacitated, but responding to her
violations with vigor. The boy was naked by now, and straddled her,
rubbing his little rod between her breasts, while Maybank took the route
between her legs, which he had made available by tearing her fine silk
dress apart.

The scene was entirely bestial, but I will not lie: I was aroused.
Fiery, in fact.

After years of sickness and corpses, I was glad to see healthy flesh
sweating healthy sweat. The din of their mutual pleasuring filled the
room, echoing back and forth between the bare walls so that it was as
though there were not three but ten lovers before me. I began to feel
giddy, my head pounding, and I turned away to find that Nickelberry was
back at the table with Olivia, who had bared herself for his perusal. He
looked like a greedy child, his hands plunged into plates of creamy
dessert, which he then smeared upon the woman's handsome bosom. She
seemed quite happy at this, and pressed his face against her, so he
might lick the cream off her body.

The widow Harris now came to me, and offered her own flesh . for my
pleasure. I declined. She promptly told me I could not. iF i was capable
of giving her the pleasure of love, then I was obliged to do so. This
too was the law.

I told her that I was a married man, at which she laughed, saying that
in this place it mattered not at all what a man or woman had been before
they entered; that all histories were forgotten here, and a person
became what suited them.

Then I do not belong here, I told her. Are you so proud of what

you were out there? she said to me, her face all flushed. You fled your
duty; you lost your family and your house. You're less than me, out
there. Imagine that! You who were so fine, less than an ugly old widow.

She angered me, and I struck her, drank as I was, I struck her hard
across her painted face. She fell back against the wall, shrieking at me
now--obscenities I would not have believed she knew, except that she was
spitting them at me in a vile stream. I threw down the bottle I'd been
drinking from, and for a moment, thinking perhaps I meant to do her more
serious harm, she ceased to shriek. But then I turned from her, and she
began again, following me like a fury, berating me.

In my drunken desire to get away from the woman I became lost. The route
I had supposed would take me out into the street brought me instead to a
darkened flight of stairs. I ascended them stumbling, and crouched in
the gloom halfway up. The widow had not seen me ascend; she passed
below, cursing me.

I waited there in the darkness, shuddering. Not from fear of the widow,
but from grief at what she'd said. The woman was right, I knew. I'm
nothing now. Less than nothing.

And then, as if my sorrow had been spoken, a man appeared

at the top of the stairs and looked down at me. No, not at me; into me.
I never felt such a gaze as this. I was in fear of it at first. I felt
he might kill me with it, as readily as a man who reached into another's
body and took hold of his heart.

But then he came down the stairs a little way, and sat there, and
quietly said: "A man who is nothing has nothing to lose. I am Galilee.
Welcome," and I felt as though [ had a reason to live.

XIII

I A

reason to live.

Rchel put the journal down and stared out across the drkened park. It
was impossible that this Galilee be the same man as she'd met, but it
was so easy to imagine him there on the stairs, imagine him speaking
those words of welcome, imagine him being the man who'd the captain
reason to live.

Hadn't he done that for her, in a way? Hadn't he reawakened sense of her
own significance, her own power?

She set the journal down on the table, glancing at the opening the next
paragraph.

How shall I say what happened to me then?

She looked away from it. She couldn't bear to read any more, tonight.
Her head was too filled up, sickened almost the way the had been
sickened, by the sheer excess of what she'd read. There change in the
prose too, which was not lost on her. The earlier entrie: been nicely
written, but their eloquence had been that of a man for some distance
from the horrors in which he was immersed. But he had begun to write
like a storyteller, creating the scene and his in it with terrible
immediacy. The visions his words had put in Rack head still swarmed
before her: the house, the food, the sexual

The last time she'd felt so consumed by a story, Galilee

the man telling it--

She looked at the journal again, without touching it; at the words were
neatly laid on the page. Too neatly perhaps. Was this diary of a man who
was living out these experiences, and hours ting them down? Or had this
all been constructed after the fact, man who'd been tutored in the art
of telling a tale? Tutored by a who loved stories; who told them as
seductions.

"No..." she said to herself. No, this was not the same man; and for all,
there were two Galilees: one in the journal, the other memory. She
looked at the teasing words again:

How shall I say what happened to me then?

It was a clever bluff, that sentence. The writer knew exactly

was going to say what happened to him; he had the words ready. made
those words seem more true, didn't it, if they appeared to from a man
uncertain of his own skills? She felt a spasm the story, and for her own
complicity in its deceits. She'd gorged hadn't she? Lapped up every
decadent detail, as though this other could give her clues to her own.

So far, it had shown her nothing of any real value. Yes, it had lated
her with its Gothic nonsenses; its tales of ghost children unearthed
limbs, but these scenes in the house had gone too fa. didn't believe it
any longer. It might pass itself off as history, but it fabrication; its
excesses made it absurd.

She was still angry with herself when she went to bed, and she couldn't
sleep. After an hour and a half lying in an unease doze she got up,
popped a sleeping pill, and went back to bed to try again. The pill
turned out to be a bad idea. Something in her simply didn't want to
rest, and her body fought the soporific. When she finally succeeded in
falling asleep for a few minutes her head was filled with a chaotic rush
of fragments, from which she woke in an aching sweat, with such a dread
upon her, such a profound, wrenching dread, that she had to get up
again, turn on the light and talk herself back into a semblance of calm.

She padded down to the kitchen, made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea and
returned to the iournal. What was the use of trying to resist it, she
thought as she sat down in the circle of lamplight and turned her eyes
to the page. Nonsense or not, it had her in its grip, and she couldn't
be free of it until it had finished with her.

ii

Halfway across town, lying awake in his bed, Cadmus Geary thought of his
beloved Louise, and of those days of dalliance that sometimes seemed so
far off they'd happened in another life and at others, as tonight,
seemed to have taken place just a few days ago, the memory was so clear.
What a beauty she had been! Entirely deserving of his devotion. Of
course she was playing hard to get tonight, but that was one of the
prerogatives of beauty; all he could do was stay close to her, and hope
she saw his sincerity.

"Louise ..." he murmured.

A man's voice answered. "There's nobody called Louise here," it said
quietly.

His faint condescension irritated Cadmus. "I know that," he snapped. He
reached for his spectacles which were on the bedside table.

"You want some water?" the man said.

"No, I want to see who the hell I'm talking to."

"It's Mitchell."

"Mitchell?" His fumbling fingers had found his spectacles, and he put
them on, peering at his grandson through the thumbed glass. "What time
is it?"

"It' the middle of the night." "So what are you doing here?" "We've been
talking, on and off." "Have I been making any sense?"

"Of course," Mitchell reassured him. This was not strictly Though the
old man had been more coherent than Garrison reported, he was still in a
semidelirious state much of the time. been sleeping, on and off."

"Talking in my sleep?"

"Yes," Mitchell said. "Nothing scandalous. You've just been for this
woman Louise."

Cadmus sank back into the pillow. "My lovely Louise," he "She was the
best thing that ever happened to me." He closed his "What are you
waiting for?" he said. "You've got to have

ter to be doing than sitting here. I'm not planning to die just yet." "I
didn't think you were."

"So go have a party. Get drunk. Fuck your wife, if she'll let "She
won't."

"Then fuck somebody else's wife." He opened his eyes laughed, the sound
like the hiss of escaping air. "That's more fun way."

"I'd prefer to be here with you."

"Would you really?" the old man said incredulously. "Either more
interesting than I thought or you're even duller." He head an inch or so
and peered at his grandson. "You got the looks you, Mitch? I mean, you
really are a handsome fellow. But... not as bright as your mother and
you're not as honest as your father,

that's a pity, because I had some hopes for you." "Help me then." "Help
you?"

"Tell me how you want me to be, and I'll work at it." "You can't work at
it," Cadmus said, his tone close to "Just get on with what you've got.
Nobody blames you. It's the the draw." He settled his head back on his
pillow, delicately, as his skull was cracked. "Are you here alone?" he
said.

There s a nurse...

"No. I mean your brother."

"Garrison's not here."

"Good. I don't want him here." He closed his eyes. "We've all things we
regret, but.., but.., oh Lord, oh Lord ..." He little.

"Should I get another blanket for you?"

"It doesn't help. I'm just cold and there's nothing to 1:

it. What I want is my Louise . ." He made a puckish little smile.

warm me up."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"Your wife.., resembles my Louise... did you know that7" "Really?"

"We have that much in common, at least. A taste in beauty." "Where is
she now?" Mitchell said.

'`your wife?" Cadmus said. "You don't know where your wife is?"

He made another laugh. "That was a joke, Mitchell."

"Oh."

"I don't remember you being so humorless."

"Things have changed. I've changed."

"Well, don't lose your sense of humor. In the end it may be all you've
got. Christ knows, it's all I've got." Mitchell started to protest, but
the old man hushed him. "Don't tell me how deeply loved I am because I
know better. I'm an inconvenience. I'm standing between you and your
inheritance."

"We just want to do our best for the family," Mitchell said. "We
meaning... ?" "Garrison and mysel"

"Since when was murder a smart thing to do?" Cadmus said, with agonizing
sloth. "All your brother has brought this family is shame. Shame. I'm
ashamed of my own grandchildren."

"Wait--" Mitchell protested. "That was all Garrison. I had nothing

to do with what happened to Margie."

"No?"

"Absolutely not. I loved Margie." "She was like a sister to you." "She
was."

"You don't understand how it could have happened. It's a tragedy. Poor
Margie, poor drunken Margie. What did she ever do to deserve it?" He
bared his brown teeth. "You want to know what she did? I'll tell you
what she did. She gave birth to a nigger, and your big brother never
forgave her that."

"What?"

"You didn't know? She had Galilee's kid. At least, that's what Garrison
thought, How could it be his? I mean, he's a Geary. So how could

it be his, a little black luck of a thing?"

"I don't understand."

"t think that's the first honest thing you've said tonight. No, I'm sure
you don't understand. I'm sure it's all completely beyond you." He shook
his head. "What did you really come here for?" he said.

"Wait. Back up. I want to know about Margie."

"You've heard all you're going to hear from me. l want to kn what you
came here for."

"I just wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"Anything you wanted to talk about. We used to be so close and"Stop.
Stop," Cadmus said. "I'm squirming, listening to this I'll ask you one
more time: what did you come here for? You answer truthfully or get the
hell out of here and don't ever come back." leaned up out of the pillow.
"And when I say that, I mean it. Don't, come back."

Mitchell nodded. "Okay," he said quietly. "So... it's simple. want to
find the Barbarossas."

"Now we get to it," Cadmus said. For the first time in the

sation he looked genuinely pleased. "Go on." "Garrison says there's a
book-" "Does he indeed?"

"--some kind of journal, which your first wife told him about." . "Kitty
didn't know how to keep her mouth shut." "So this book exists?" "Oh yes.
It exists."

"I came here to get it."

"I don't have it, son."

Mitchell leaned closer to his grandfather. "Where is it?" he again.
"Come on. Tell me. I've been honest with you."

"And I'm returning the compliment. I don't have it. And even did, I
wouldn't give it to you."

"Why the hell not? What do you care what we do to those "By we you mean
this family?" He narrowed his watery eyes. you planning a war, Mitch?
Because if you are, don't. You don't what you're taking on."

"I know the Barbarossas have got some kind of hold over us." "They have
more than a hold," Cadmus said, his voice less. "They own us. And let me
tell you, we're lucky, we are very to have been left alone all these
years. Because if they took it into

heads to come after us, we wouldn't stand a chance."

"Are they Mafia?"

"Oh Lord, wouldn't that be nice? If they were just men with

"So who are they?" :

"I don't know," the old man replied. "But I'm afraid I'm going. find
out, the moment my heart stops beating."

"Don't say that."

"Does it make you nervous?" Cadmus said. "It should." His eyes were
shiny with tears. "There's more to this than you'll ever get your head
round, son, so for your own sake, let it go. Don't let Garrison pull you
into this mess. He's got no other option, you see. He was born into it.
But you.., you can walk away if you want to. Save yourself. God knows
it's too late for me. And for your brother. And of course your wife --"

"She hasn't a clue about any of this."

"She's theirs," Cadmus said flatly. "All the women are. I sometimes
think that's what's saved us from being wiped out. Galilee likes the
Geary women. The Geay women like Galilee." He pressed his fingers to his
pale lips, and wiped away some spittle. "I lost Kitty to him. Long
before the cancer got her, she was gone from me. Then I lost Loretta.
That's hard to take. I loved them both, but it wasn't enough."

Mitchell put his head in his hands. "Garrison said they weren't like
us," he murmured.

"He's right and he's wrong. I think they're more like us than not. But
they're also more than we could ever be." The tears began to tumble down
his cheeks. "I suppose I should be comforted by that. I didn't stand a
chance against the likes of him. Nothing I could have done for my wives
would ever have been enough. He had them the moment he laid eyes on
them."

"Don't cry, Pops," Mitchell said. "Please."

"I cry all the time, take no notice."

Mitchell moved closer to the bed. "Let me be a part of this," he said,
his voice soft and full. "Please. I know you think I'm a fuckup...
but.., it's just because nothing's ever been dear to me. Nobody ever
took the time to explain. So I just looked the other way. I pretended I
didn't care. But I do. Pops, I do. I want to know who these people are;
I want to make them suffer the way you've suffered."

"Why not?"

"Because you're my grandson and I won't be responsible for sending you
to your death."

"Why are you so afraid of them?"

"Because I'm almost dead, son. And if I've got an eternal soul, it's in
a lot of trouble. I don't want you on my conscience. It's already heavy
enough.''

Mitchell drew a deep breath. "All right," he said, rising from the
chair. "I don't know what else to say. You've got your agenda, I've got
mine."

"Christ, son, listen to yourself," Cadmus said softly. "This isn't
business deal that's going sour. This is our lives."

"You made us that way, Pops," Mitchell said. "You taught Dad,

Dad taught us: business before pleasure. Business before anything."

"I was wrong," Cadmus said. "You won't hear me admit that

again, but I was wrong." Mitchell stood at the door for a moment,

stared at the stick figure in the bed. "Goodnight, Pops." "Wait," the
old man said.

"Do this for me," Cadmus said. "Wait until I'm in the ground. Y won't
have to wait long, believe me. Just... wait until I'm

"If I agree to that--"

"More business?"

"iF i agree to that, you have to tell me where the journal is." Cadmus
closed his eyes again, and for several seconds was marooned at the door,
not knowing whether to leave or stay. the old man drew a creaking
breath, and said:

"All right. Have it your way. I gave the journal to Margie."

"That's what Garrison thought. But he couldn't find it."

"Then ask Loretta. Or your wife. Maybe Margie passed it on. B

just you remember... I told you to walk away. I warned you, and

didn't want to hear."

"I'm sure that's got you a place in heaven, Pops," Mitchell

The stick man didn't answer. He was weeping again,

Mitchell didn't offer any further words of consolation. As his

father had said, old men weep; there was nothing to be done

XIV

O

the by one, all the secrets are coming out, like stars at twilight, Just
for the record, Cadmus's claim about Garrison's wife borne him a black
child is at least partially true. She indeed pregnant, but the child
didn't live. She miscarried in the fifth

and the few people who knew that the infant brought dead from her body
was black were paid off handsomely for their silence. Garrison, as
Gadmus said, assumed it was Galilee's child. That was perhaps the pro
roundest error he ever made; one which goes to the heart of all that he
is; and more pertinently, all he must in time become.

As for Margie, I can't tell you with any certainty what information she
was given when she recovered; though I think it's more than likely that
she was never told that her womb had produced such a heresy. Gadmus
certainly didn't want any disruptions in the equilibrium of the family;
he surely kept the knowledge to the smallest possible circle of people.
And Garrison had no reason to tell a single soul: all the sight of that
dead child did-yes, he saw the corpse; he made a point of going to the
morgue and looking at it, all wrapped in its tiny shroud-all that sight
did was deepen the divide between himself and his wife. The first stone
on the road that led to Margie's death was laid that day.

There's more to tell of this matter, of course; but some stars take
longer to show themselves than others. The paradox is this: that the
darker it gets, the more of these secrets we can see. Eventually,
they're arrayed in all their glory; and it's the very things we hid from
sight, the things we're most ashamed of, that we use to steer our
course.

			ii

	Three, four, five days went by, and Galilee let The Samarkand go where

	the tides took it. For thirty-six hours the boat scarcely moved at all,

	becalmed in silken water. He sat on deck most of the time, sucking his

	cigar, looking down into the cool depths. A great white shark came by

	for a while, and circled the vessel several times, but most of the time
the

	sky and sea were deserted, and the only sound came from some part of

	The Samarkand, a board creaking, a knot grinding, as though the boat,

	like its owner, was starting to doubt its own existence, and was making
a

	noise to remind itself that it was still real.

		It might have been forgiven its doubts, when there was so much

	that was illusory walking its deck. The emptier Galilee's belly became,

	the more his delirium grew, and the more his delirium grew, the more

	visions he saw. He saw his family, in various groupings. I appeared to

	him more than once, I'm sure, and at one point we entered into a long

	and convoluted exchange inspired by a quote from Heraclitus which

	had lodged in his mind--something about rubble making the fairest of

	worlds. He had an even longer conversation with a vision of Luman,

	and for a time sat in the company of Marietta and Zabrina singing a

	filthy sailors' ballad, tears pouring down his cheeks.

"Why didn't you come home?" the hallucination of Zabrina

him.

	"I couldn't. Not after what happened. Everybody hated me."

	"We got over it," Zabrina said. "At least I did."

	Marietta said nothing. She was rather less solid than Zabrina

for some reason Galilee felt faintly guilty around her.

"It seems to me," Zabrina said, rather formally, "that you've just about
eveg role in the repertoire except the Prodigal. You've

a lover. You've been a fool. You've been a murderer."

	'Tour point?" he said.

"You could still go home if you wanted to. MI you have to do command of
the boat again."

"I have no compass. I have no maps."

	"You could steer by the stars," Zabrina said.

Galilee smiled at his own delusion. "I've played this role said. "The
Tempter. I've played it over an dover again. I know works. Don't waste
your breath."

"That's a pity," Zabrina purred. "I would have liked to have you, one
last time. We could have gone to the stables to hello to father."

"Do you think it's just a coincidence?" Galilee said. "Christ in a
stable. Dad dying in one."

	"Pure accident," Marietta said. "Christ and father have

nothing in common. For one thing, father was quite the co "I've never
heard that before," Zabrina said. "About Dad?"

	"No, the phrase. Cockrneister. I never heard it before."

So the hallucinatory conversations went on, seldom elevated this chatty
level, and when they were, only fleetingly so. Others family members
came and went. Margie lingered for a little night, her voice slurred
with drink as she told him how much she him. Kitty, the exquisite Kitty,
drifted in a little later, but would speak: she only stared at him for a
while, with a look her face, as though she couldn't believe his
stupidity. She'd berated him for his self-pity, and this last time was
no simply chose to do it in silence.

There were many others who didn't make it as far as the haunting
presences whom he glimpsed beneath the water, at him as they drifted by.
Victims of his, mostly; men and women lives he'd taken, always as
quickly as he could; but what violent was ever quick enough? Oh, some
pitiable creatures there.

could not lay name to, thankfully; a few whose accusing looks made him
want to hide his head. He didn't succumb to his cowardice; but met their
gazes as best his tears would allow, until at length they drifted out of
sight.

There was one further class of visitation, which did not make itself
known until the afternoon of the fifth day. The becalming had long since
passed; The Samarkand, now in the grip of a powerful current, was moving
through a mounting swell, her bows on occasion dipping so deep into the
spumy water it seemed she would not rise again; but each time emerging.
Galilee had lashed himself to the mainmast so as not to be swept
overboard. Lack of nourishment had made him weak; his legs would
scarcely bear him up, and his arms would not have had the strength to
prevent a wave from taking him. There he sat, the very image of a
beleaguered mariner, while the boat rocked and pitched, and his teeth
chattered with the cold, and his eyes rolled in their sockets.

But then, it seemed to him he glimpsed-down a valley between the steep
steel waves--a stand of golden trees. For a grim instant he thought the
currents had played some wretched trick, and carried him back to Kaua'i,
but when the sight came again he saw this was not an island. It was
instead the most beautiful and torturous vision of them all. It was
home.

There down an alley of oaks swathed in Spanish moss he saw the house
that Jefferson had built; his mother's house; the place from which he
had fled and fled, and never escaped. Gesaria was there, behind one of
those windows. She saw him, in his exile. Perhaps she'd always seen him,
always had him in the corner of her eye, as a mother will; never let him
go entirely, despite all that he'd done to be free of her.

He watched as the scene came and went--eclipsed by the mounting waves,
then revealed again--thinking he might glimpse her there. But the vision
contained nothing that breathed: not so much as a squirrel in the grass.
Or at least nothing that cared to show itself to him.

And after a time, this too passed away. Another darkness fell and he
remained where he was, tied to the mast, while the sky swung back and
forth above him.

rachel had returned into Holt's journal with the utmost determined that
this time it would not catch her up in its lations. But she failed.
After just a few paragraphs she was back world the words conjured: the
house in the East Battery, filled smells of food and sex. And Galilee on
the stairs, welcoming his world. Whether this was a true account or not,
she couldn't turning the pages.

The passages that followed were filled with descriptions of Holt and
Nickelberry lived for the next week or so: an listing of how their
palates and their groins were titillated. Holt seemed to have little
trouble confessing his own excesses. fact that he had once been a
devoted family man, he was almost ful of them, recounting without
embarrassment his liaisons of the women of the house. It made this
salacious detail was set down in a journal which he'd been his own wife
(and whose dedication--/love you more than life, and show my love a
thousand ways when you are here again--was there I the opening page).
Poor Adina; she'd been forgotten, at least Her husband had entered a
world whose laws did not allow for mental attachments. They were all
living too desperately, too to care what they'd been before they'd
stepped into the reserve, all shame, all common decencies had evaporate
the journal they ate, drank and coupled morning, noon inspired to this
behavior by three things. One, the fact that the house was engaged in
the same headlong pursuit of spurring one another to new experiments.
Two, a steady stimulants from Galilee, most of which Holt (and Rachel)
heard of. And thirdly, the presence of the lawmaker himself. nobody in
the house, male or female, young or old, who had bedded by Galilee. That
fact emerged first in a conversation reportedly had with Nickelberry; a
man who'd seemed until assuredly heterosexual. Not so. He had, in Holt's
words, to our host, and told me without a blush that he had seldom felt
so as when he had lain in Galilee's embrace.

Rachel was surprised that she could still be shocked after the
exhaustive sexual litany that the preceding pages had contained, but
shocked she was. Though she believed it preposterous to think that this
Galilee was the same man she'd known, her mind's eye conjured him
whenever the name appeared on the page. Then it was her Galilee, in all
his beauty, she saw holding Nickelberry in his arms; kissing him,
seducing him, making a wife of him.

She should have anticipated what would come next, but she didn't. While
she was still struggling with her repugnance at what Holt had described,
he began a confession much closer to his heart, and no doubt the hardest
thing he had written in the book.

I went to Galilee last night, he wrote, as Nickelberry had. I don't know
why I went particularly; I felt no desire to be with him. At least not
the same kind of desire that I feel when I go with a woman. Nor did he
ask me for my company; though once I was with him he confessed that he'd
wanted my arms about him, and my lips on his. I should not be ashamed,
he said, to take pleasure this way. It was a wasted hope in most men;
only the travest rose to the challenge.

I told him I did not feel brave. I was afraid of the act before us, I
said; afraid of its consequences for my soul; and most of all, afraid of
him.

He didn't laugh off this confession. Instead he wrapped me up tenderly,
as though he held something more precious than flesh and borne. He told
me to listen to him, and would tell me a story to calm my fears

A story? What was this? Another Galilee who told stories?

--I felt like a child there in his embrace, and part of me wanted to be
free of it. But his presence was so calming to my troubled spirit, that
this child in me, which had not spoken in so many years, said: lie
still. I want to hear the story. And I lay still, obedient to this
child, and presently all the horrors I had seen, every one, all the
death, all the pain, became a kind of dream I'd had from which I was
waking into this embrace.

The story he told began like a nursery tale, but by degrees it grew
stranger, calling forth all manner of feelings in me, It was a tale of
two princes who lived, he said, in a country far from here, where the
rich were kind--

--And the poor had God. Rachel knew that country. The bride ]erusha had
lived there. It was Galilee's invented land.

She sat absolutely still the whine of her blood loud in her while her
eyes passed stupidly over the line, as if by study they change it.

	It was a tale of two princes...

But no; the words remained the same, however many times read them. She
could not avoid the truth, though it was hard--oh than hard; nearly
impossible-to contemplate. But she had no besides willful
self-deception. The sum of evidence was now too suasive.

This Galilee, here on the page before her--this man who'd hundred and
forty years ago, and more; this man was the same Gali she loved. Not his
father or his grandfather: him. The same flesh blood and bone; the same
spirit in that flesh and blood and bone; same soul.

	She accepted it, though it made chaos of all she'd

about the world. She wouldn't squirm around any longer, hoping something
easier to believe was true if she could only find it. She only
tormenting herself if she did that; putting off the moment she accepted
the facts and tried to make sense of them.

It wasn't as though he'd lied to her. Quite the reverse intimated
several times that he was not quite the same order of being she was.
He'd talked of being a man without grandparents, for But she hadn't
wanted to know. She'd been too deeply him to want to countenance
anything that might spoil the

So much for denial. It was time to accept the truth, in all its hess.
Two human lifetimes ago he'd been up to the same he'd worked on her,
with Captain Holt as the object of his

The image of the two men entwined was lodged in her mind's eye: like a
child in his lover's arms, lulled into a state of

Galilee was telling. 'I

	In a country far from here, there lived two princes...

	She didn't care what happened next, neither to the princes

the men they represented. Her hunger for the journal had

passed; her eyes were no longer drawn to the page. It had told

that she needed to know. More, in fact.

	She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her

got up from the table, flipping the journal closed. She felt li

and hot, as though she was catching the flu. She went through

kitchen, got herself a glass of water, sipped it for a moment,

decided she'd go back to bed. Maybe she'd feel better after a few more
hours of sleep. And now, with the journal's hold on her finally broken,
she'd have a better chance of getting the rest she needed.

Glass in hand, she padded back to the bedroom. It was a little after
five o'clock. She set the glass down, and lay down thinking that if she
reeded to take half of another sleeping pill she would. But as she was
in the process of shaping the thought, exhaustion overtook her.

ii

I settled down to sleep a couple of hours ago believing I'd brought Part
Six to an adequate conclusion. But here I am, appending these
paragraphs, and effectively spoiling the neatness of my conclusion by so
doing. Ah well; this was never fated to be a book distinguished by its
tidiness. I'm sure it's going to get a damn sight less orderly before we
get to the final pages.

What was so urgent that I had to get up out of bed and write about it?
Only another dream. I offer it here not because I think it's prophetic,
like my dream of Galilee on the raft, but because it moved me so
strangely.

It was a dream about Luman's children.

That's odd in itself, because I hadn't given any conscious thought to
the conversation I'd had about his bastards for several weeks. My
unconscious mind was apparently turning the subject over however, and
its investigations produced this bizarrity: I dreamed I was a piece of
paper; a sheet of tattered paper. And the wind had me. It was blowing me
across an immense landscape, flipping me over an dover. As so often
happens in dreams, I saw more than I could possibly describe, all con
eentrated into a few seconds of dream time. Sometimes I was lifted high
into the air, and I was looking down at towns that were so far below' me
their inhabitants were tiny dots; sometimes I was skimming a dusty road
with all the other windborne trash. I saw canyons and cities; I dung to
picket fences and telegraph poles; I was becalmed in the heat of a
Louisiana summer, and forked up with the leaves in Vermont; I was frozen
to a fence in Nebraska, while the wire whined in the wind; I was in the
meltwaters when the spring warmed the rivers of Wisconsin. By degrees a
sense of imminence crept upon me. The landscapes continued to roll
on--the peaks of the High Country, a palmy beach, a field of poppies and
wild violets--but I knew my journey was moving toward resolution.

My destination was an unpromising place. A grimy neighborhood in a minor
city somewhere in Idaho; a wasteland of gutted buildings and

rubble and gray grass. But there a man sat in the remnants of a down
truck, and when I came to his feet he reached down and me up. It was a
strange sensation, to be held in those tobacco fingers, but I knew,
looking at the man's face, that he was one of man's children. There was
something of my half-brother's satiric there, and something of his
piercing curiosity, though both had dulled by hardship.

He seemed to sense that he had found more than a piece

in me, because he tossed his cigarette away, and getting up from his in
the crippled vehicle he shouted:

"Hey! Hey! Lookee what I got here!"

He didn't wait for those he'd summoned to come to him,

with a quickening step to the remains of a garage, its pumps like
sentinels guarding a half-demolished building. A black woman in middle
age-her bones marking her indisputably as Cesaria's child-appeared.

"What is it, Tru?" she asked him.

He handed his prize over to her, and the woman studied me. "That's a
sign," Tru drawled. "Could be," the woman said. "I told you, Jessamine."

The woman called over her shoulder, back into the garage. Kenny. Look
what Tru's found. Where'd you find it?"

"It just blew my way. And you was saying I was crazy."

"I didn't say you was crazy," Jessamine replied.

"No, I did," said a third voice, and a man who was in age and somewhere
between his companions came and snatched me out of] samine's hands. His
skull was as bald as an egg, but the rest was covered with a thick
growth of beard. Again, there was his ancestry. He didn't even look at
what he had in his hand.

"Ain't nothing but a piece of trash," Kenny said, and before other two
could protest he'd turned his back on them and was away.

They didn't follow him. At a guess, he intimidated them.

his back was turned on them, I saw him east a forlorn look at

held. His eyes were wet with tears.

':!'Don't want to hope no more," he murmured to himself. Then he turned
my face to the flames of a small fire among the bricks. There was a
moment of sheer panic, as the caught hold of me. I felt my body curl up
in the flames, and

blacken until I was the color of Galilee. Then I woke, bathed in enough
sweat that had I indeed been burning I would have surely extinguished
myself.

There; that's the dream, as best I remember it. One of the stranger
night visions I've had, I must say. I don't know what to make of it. But
now that I've written it down, I withdraw what I said earlier, about it
not being prophetic. Perhaps it is. Perhaps somewhere out in the middle
of the country three of Luman's bastards are waiting for an omen, even
now; knowing that they're more than the world has let them be, but not
knowing what. Waiting for someone to come and tell them who they are.
Waiting for me.

PART seven

The Wheel of

the Stars

to day I made my peace with Luman. It wasn't an easy thing to do, but I
knew that I was going to have to do it sooner or later. Just a few hours
ago, sitting back from my desk to muse on something, I realized suddenly
how sad I'd be if events were somehow to quicken, and L'Enfant fell, and
I was to have reconciled with Luman. So I got up, fetched my umbrella (a
pleasant drizzle has been falling for most of the day; perhaps it will
clear the air a little) and took myself off to the Smoke House.

Luman was waiting for me, sitting on the threshold, picking his

nose and staring down the path along which I approached. "You took your
time," was his first remark to me. "I did what?"

"You heard me. Taking all this time to come an' tell me you're sorry."

"What makes you think I'm going to do that?" I replied.

"You loo/ sorry," Luman replied, flicking something he'd mined

from his nostrils into the vegetation.

"Do I indeed?"

"Yes, Mr.-High-and-Mighty-I'm-a-Writer-Maddox, you look very sorry
indeed." He grabbed the rotted doorjamb and pulled himself to his feet.
"In fact I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't his' throw that sorry
carcass down on the ground an' beg me to forgive you." He grinned. "But
you don't have to do that, brother o' mine. I forgive you your
trespasses."

"That's generous of you. And what about yours?"

"I don't have none."

"Luman, you virtually accused me of killing my own wife."

"I was just telling the simple truth," he said. Then added: "As I saw
it. You didn't have to believe me." His goaty face became sly. "Though

Somethin' tells me you do." He regarded me in silence for a time. "Tell
rne I'm wrong."

What I really wanted to do was beat that smug smile off his face, but I
resisted the temptation. I'd come here to make peace, and peace I

was going to make. Besides, as I've admitted in these pages, the
Chiyojo's death does in some measure lie with me. I'd confessed it
paper; now it was time to do the same thing staring my accuser in face.
That shouldn't be so difficult, should it? I knew the words; why it so
much more difficult to speak them than to write them?

I put my umbrella down and turned my face up to the rain. It warm but it
still refreshed me. I stood there for perhaps a minute, the raindrops
broke against my face, and my hair became flattened my scalp. At last,
without looking back at Luman, I said:

"You were right. I'm responsible for what happened to

let Nicodemus have her, just as you said. I wanted..." I began to tears
rising up in me. They thickened my voice; but I went on confession. "I
wanted to have his favor. To have him love me." I hand up to my face,
and wiped the rainwater off. Then, finally, back at Luman. "The thing
is, I never really felt as though I was Not the way you were. Or
Galilee. I was always the half-breed. scampered around the world trying
to please him. But it didn't work. H just took me for granted. I didn't
know what else to give him. I'd givei myself and that wasn't enough ..."
Somewhere in the midst of sayir{I all this I'd started to tremble; my
hands, my legs, my heart. B,u,t nothirl short of death would have now
stopped me finishing what I d begu,

When he set eyes on Chlyolo I felt angry at first. I was going to
leavei! should have left. I should have taken her--just the way you
said-takd her away from L'Enfant so we could have had a life of our own.
An nary life, maybe--a human life. But that wouldn't have been so would
it?"

"Compared to this?" Luman said softly. "It would have been adise."

"But I was afraid to go. I was afraid that after a while I'd re

but that there'd be no way back."

"Like Galilee?"

"Yes... like poor Galilee. So I ignored my instincts. And

came after Chiyojo I looked the other way. I suppose, deep

hoped she'd love me enough to say no to him."

"Don't blame her," Luman said. "The Virgin Mary would given up her pussy
for Nicodemus."

"I don't blame her. I never blamed her. But I still hoped."

"You poor idiot," Luman said, not without tenderness. "You have been a
mess."

"The worst, Luman. I was torn in half. Part of me wanted reject him. To
come running to me and tell me he'd tried to violate

And part of me wanted him to take her from me. Make her his mistress

if that made him pay more attention to me."

"How was that going to happen?"

"I don't know. He was going to feel guilty so he was going to be kinder
to me. Or we'd simply have shared her. Him at one end and me at the
other."

"You'd have done that?"

"I think so."

"Wait. Let me be certain I understand this. You would have had a mdnage
trois with your wife and your own father?" I didn't answer, but I
suppose my silence was reply enough. Luman slapped his hand over his
eyes with comic gusto. "I thought I was twisted," he said. Then he
grinned.

For myself I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This was more than I'd
confessed with pen and paper; this was the dirtiest truth; the most
wretched, sickening truth.

"Anyway, it never happened," I said.

"Well that's something," Luman replied. 'You're still a pervert, mind."

"He took her and fucked her and gave her feelings I guess I never gave
her."

"He could do that," Luman said. "He had the gift."

"Was it... physical?" I asked him, voicing a question that had haunted
me for years. Luman looked at me blankly. "His gift," I said. "Oh come
on, Luman, you know what I'm talking about. Was that how he made women
love him?" I glanced down between my legs. "With that?"

"Are you asking me how big his dick was?" Luman said. I nodded. "Well,
iudging by my own attributes, sizeable. But I think that's only half the
story. If you don't know how to wield it..." He sighed. "I never have,
you see. That's always been my problem. Plenty of substance, but no
style. I'm hung like a stallion but I luck like a one-legged mule."
Finally, I laughed, which plainly pleased Luman no end, because he
beamed. "Well we certainly know more about one another than we knew five
minutes ago," he said. Then, more quietly:

"Pervert."

We talked a little longer before I returned here to the study, with him
standing in the shelter of his door, and me out in the rain. Only a
couple of significant things were said. Luman suggested that in the near

future the two of us go down to the stables and visit Nicodemus's I
agreed that we should do so, adding that I didn't think we should,
going, in case events overtook us and we were denied the Luman's
response to this was interesting.

"Are we at war then7" he said. "Should we expect an invasio' day?"

I told him I didn't know, but that the House of Geary had unstable of
late, which was certainly reason for nervousness.

"If you're nervous then I'm nervous," Luman said. "I'm going to out my
knives tonight. Start polishing. Have you got yourself a

"No."

He ducked back inside the house and reemerged a few

later with an antiquated pistol. "Take it," he said.

"Where did you get it?" I asked him.

"It belonged to Nub Nickelberry," he said. "He gave it to me' he left.
In fact Galilee made him give it to me. He told

wouldn't have any use for it. He had all the protection he'd ever
"Meaning himself?"

"I guess so." He proffered the weapon again. "Go on, Eddie it. Even if
you don't think you'll ever use it. I'll feel better you've got
something to wave around 'sides your pen, which no damn good when things
get nasty."

I took the weapon from his hand. It was a Griswold and revolver, my
researches later discovered; plain and heavy.

"It's fully loaded," Luman said. "But that's all the bullets I got so
you're going to have to choose your targets. Hey! Point it

me. How long is it since you handled a revolver?"

"A long time," I admitted. "It feels strange."

"Well don't be afraid of it. Accidents happen when people

around a gun. You're in charge of it, not the other way about.

"I got it. Thanks, Luman."

"My pleasure. I'll see what else I can dig up. I've got a nice there
somewhere, made in Nashville. They had a factory there

war, turned plowshares into swords."

"How very Biblical."

"You know what else I got?" He was smiling from ear to

got a Confederate snare drum."

"From Nickelberry?"

"No... Marietta brought it back, just after the war ende& found it out
there in a ditch somewhere. Along with the wasn't going to be beating it
no more so she pried it out of his

brought it back for me. I'm going to have to learn to beat it again.
Nice and loud. Sound the alarm..." His smile had gone again; he was
staring at the revolver in my hand. "Strange," he said. "After all these
years,

things you never thought you'd need again."

"Maybe we won't."

"Who are you kidding?" he said. "It's just a matter of time."

	II

I I returned to my study thoroughly soaked, but curiously revivified by
my conversation with Luman. While I was stripping out of my sodden
clothes I looked around the room, and realized that it had deteriorated
into chaos: piles of notes everywhere, books and newspapers heaped on
every side. It was time to clear the mess away, I thought; time to put
things in better order; to gird myself for whatever battles lay ahead. I
began right there and then, without even putting on a dry pair of socks.
Naked as a babe I set to work, sorting through the stuff I'd accrued
over the months I'd been writing. The books were easily collected up and
returned to the shelves, the newspapers and magazines I bundled up and
set outside the study door for Dwight to collect. The real challenge was
my notes, of which there were many hundreds of pages. Some were midnight
inspirations, jotted down in darkness when I woke from a dream; some
were doodlings I made to break my own silence on a day when the pen
refused to move. Some read like the jottings of a dyslexic poet, some
like a paranoid's stab at metaphysics; the worst are beyond
comprehension.

I've been afraid to throw any of them out, in case there was something
here that I was going'to need. Even in the foulest of this shit I
thought there might be something that illuminated a murky corner of my
intentions; offering a glimpse of grandeur where my text was squalid.

Enough of that, I told myself. It all had to go. I need to proceed from
here less encumbered than I've been. I need to travel lightly to keep up
with events. Things are getting desperate for everyone, and I need to be
right there at their shoulders as they make love, at their lips as they
whisper their dying words, in their heads as their sanity curdles. So it
all goes. My potted history of the warlord Timur-i-leng, for instance,

whose bones lie in Samarkand: I'll never make use of it. Outit

notes on the genital configurations of the hyena; all very

			they go. My pages on n

wholly

	irrelevant.

		Out

				of meditations

						the

my endeavor--pretentious stuff most of it, written while I was

they have to go too. There's no room for that kind of stuff now;

we're preparing for war.

It took me about seven hours to finish all this tidying, thorough
scouring of the drawers of my desk. By the time I had it was dark, and I
was exhausted. It was a pleasant exhaustion, I'd achieved something: I
could see the. rug again. And my clear, except for my single copy of the
book, which I'd set in the left corner; a pile of paper, along with my
pen and ink, set in dle, and the revolver Luman had given me, which was
set on where I could quickly snatch it up if occasion demanded.

There remained only one thing to do. The redundant n letted up needed to
be destroyed. I didn't want anyone sifting them at some later date,
finding my sentimental ramblings or spelling mistakes; nor did I want to
be tempted back to them some moment of weakness. I gathered them all up
in m3 them out onto the lawn. I was still stark naked, but what the
Nobody was going to waste their time spying on my nakedness; gularly
unedifying sight. So out I went, and dumped the papers grass. Then I
struck a match, and set fire to them. There was no blow the burning
sheets around; they simply blackened and where they lay, one after the
other. I sat down on the grass, still damp from the rain, and toasted
the disappearing of gin. Every now and again I'd catch a phrase as it
was burned and once--watching something I rather liked eaten up eyes-a
wave of regret broke over me. I tried to comforting that if these
thoughts had flown through my head once then always be there to be
recaptured, but I don't entirely believe pose the mind that's making
this book is steadily winding down heat-death of its creator reported on
its pages in a hundred subtle Then there's no recovering what I've
burned; none of the anyway. The facts, yes; the facts I can find again.
But the down? They've gone, and they've gone forever.

Oh Lord! A few minutes ago I was in a fine old mood

did, and now I'm sickened. What's wrong with me? This blood that's
what's wrong. It's wearing me out. I'm tired of listening bloody voices
in my head. I'm tired of feeling as though to them. My father wouldn't
have wasted a day of his life, long

it was, writing about Galilee and the Gearys. And the idea that anyone,

	let alone his son, could sit down day upon day to report the voices
that

	chatter in his head would have struck him as ludicrous.

	My only defense would have been to convince him that my book

	keeps at bay a creeping madness that I owe entirely to him. Though

	even as I say that I can well imagine what his response would be. "I
was never mad."

	How would I reply? "But Poppa," I'd say. "There were months on

	end when you wouldn't speak to anybody. You let your beard grow to

	your navel, and you wouldn't wash. You'd go out into the swamp and eat

	rotted aIIigator carcasses. Do you remember doing that?"

	"Your point?"

	"That's the act of a madman."

	"By your definition."

	"By anybody's definition, father."

	"I was not mad. I knew exactly why I was doing what I was doing."

	"Tell me, then. Help me understand why half the time you were a

	loving father, and the rest of the time you were covered in lice and

	excrement--" "I made a pair of boots out of excrement. Do you remember
those?"

	"Yes, I remember."

"And one time I brought back a skull I'd found in the swamp--a human
skull-and I told my bitch-wife that I'd been away in Virginia and I'd
dug up you know who."

	"You told her you had Jefferson's skull?"

"Oh yes." He gives me a sly smile here, remembering with pleasure the
pain he caused. "And I reminded her how his narrow lips had looked, and
put my fingers in his sockets where his watery eyes had been. I said to

her: did you kiss his eyes? Because this is where they lay..."

	"Why did you do something so cruel?"

"She did a lot worse to me. Anyway it was good to see her weep and wail
once in a while. It reminded me she still had a heart, because sometimes
I doubted it. And oh Lord, how she carried on! Screaming at me to give
her the skull. It wasn't dignified, she said. Dignified! Ha! As if she
ever gave a damn about being dignified! She cou[d behave like the
filthiest gutter whore when she was in heat. But she came after me,
telling me about dignity!" He shook his head, laughing now. "The
hypocritical slut," I remembered this now. The walls of UEnfant
literally shaking as husband and wife raged at one another. I hadn't
known what was at issue at the time; but in hindsight it's little wonder
Cesaria was so distressed.

"Eventuallyshesnatchedthethingfromme--ortriedto--and how in the mIde it
dropped to the ground and smashed. Pieces every direction and she let
out such a shriek and went down on her to gather these pieces up so
fucking tenderly you'd have thou still in there somewhere..."

"So did you tell her it wasn't Jefferson's skull?"

"Not right then. I watched her for a while, sobbing and moat never been
completely certain of what went on between them

minute. I mean I'd had my suspicions-"

"He built L'Enfant for her."

"Ah, that proved nothing. She could make men do anything, put her mind
to it. The question wasn't: what did he feel for her? tion was: what did
she feel for him? And now [ had my answer. her picking the pieces of
what she thought was his bones, I saw oh how--she loved him." He paused
and regarded me with bl

turquoise eyes. "How did we get to this?"

"You being mad."

"Oh yes..." He smiled. "My madness.., my wonderful r hess., ." He drew a
deep breath; a vast breath. "I was never said again. "Because the mad
don't know what they're doing or why.

I always knew. Always." He exhaled. "Whereas you,, ." he

"Me? ....

"Yes, my son. You. Sitting there day after day, night after tening to
voices which may or may not be real. That's not the a sane man. Look at
you. You're even writing this down. lust moment and think about how
preposterous that is: setting

thing as if it were the truth, though you know you're inventing it." "I
don't know that for certain."

"But I've been dead and gone a hundred and forty years, dusty as
Jefferson."

I fumbled for an answer to this. The thing is, he was rl strange--no, it
is strange-to be exchanging words with a dead way I am now, not knowing
how much of what I'm writing is and how much of it invention; not
knowing if my father me through my genes, through my pen, through my
whether this dialogue is just evidence of some profound Sometimes I hope
it's the latter. For if it's the former--if the man in me now--then that
prospect he said I feared so much is time when he comes back from his
journey into death, leaving through which he passed open wide.

"Father?"

Writing the word on the page is a kind of summons, sometimes. "Where are
you?"

He was here moments ago, filling my head with his voice. (That story of
the skull he showed to Cesaria; I'd never heard it before. When I see
her next I'm going to ask her if it's true. If it is, then I'm not
inventing his voice, am I? He's here with me.) Or at least he was.

"Father?"

Now he doesn't answer.

"We didn't finish our conversation about madness."

Still silence. Ah well; another time perhaps.

ii

I began this passage talking about clearing my desk, and I end up with a
visitation from my deceased father. That's how it's been from the
beginning: the strange, the grotesque, even the apocalyptic, has
constantly intersected with the domestic, the familial, the
inconsequential. While I sat sipping tea I dreamed I was on the Silk
Road to Samarkand. While I.listened to the crickets I saw Garrison Geary
playing the horny mortician. While I was plucking the hairs from my ears
one evening I saw Rachel looking back at me from the mirror in my
bathroom, and I knew she had fallen in love.

It's perhaps not surprising that I choose the Silk Road as an example of
the strange and Garrison's cold coupling as an image of the grotesque.
But why do I think of Rachel and Galilee when I picture the apocalyptic?

I don't exactly know, to be honest. I have some uneasy suspicions, but
I'm afraid to voice them in case doing so turns a possibility into a
likelihood.

I can only say this with any certainty: that as the visions continue to
come, it's Rachel I feel closest to. So close in fact that sometimes
when I get up from a period of writing about her-especially if I've been
recording something that happened to her in private (just the two of us,
in other words)-I feel as though I am her. My body's heavy and hers is
light, my skin is Italianate, hers is pale, I move like a man who has
only just regained his mobility (I'm lumpen; I stumble), she moves as
though she were a silk sail. And yet, I feel I am her.

Many, many pages ago--having somewhat awkwardly described the first
liaison between Rachel and Galilee--I remember writing that I was
faintly sickened by the pall of incestuous feeling that attended such
description. I can honestly say now that all such concerns have
disappeared, and for that I must thank the presence of my Rachel. She's
made me shameless. Taking this journey with her, listening to her

weep, listening to her rage, listening to her express her longings
Galilee, I have become braver.

Had I to tell that scene again, I wouldn't be so puritanical. if I doubt
me, wait a while. If they meet again I'll prove the boast. will have
vanished from the equation: I will be Rachel, lyin of her beloved.

	III

R achel opened her eyes, just a slit, and looked at the clock.

	a little after six; only an hour since she'd given up on the

and retired to bed. Her head was throbbing, and her mouth tasted

She contemplated getting up to take some aspirin, but she didn'tI

the will to move.

	As her eyes fluttered closed, however, she heard a noise on thef

below. Her heart jumped. There was somebody in the apartment.;

held her breath, raising her head from the pillow half an inch so.:a

hear better. There was another sound now; not a footfall this time

a voice, a man's voice. Was it Mitchell? If so, what the hell

letting himself into her apartment at this hour of the morning; and'

the hell was he talking to? She strained to hear the words. She

nized the cadence of voice, though she could make no sense

was saying. It was indeed Mitchell; the bastard! Walking in as

he still had the right to come and go.

	There was a short pause, then he began to speak again. He

the telephone to somebody, she realized, and to judge by

his speech, he was excited. :?

	She was almost as curious as she was enraged: what had

into such a state? She got up, quickly slipped on her

sweatshirt, and went to the door.

	Once she got there she could hear him more clearly.

ing to Garrison. Even if she hadn't heard him saw his

which she did, she would have known from the tone of his

mingling of respect and familiarity which he reserved for

alone.

	"I'm coming over right now 	Mitchell was .saying,

grab some coffee and--"

	She opened the door and went out onto the landing.

of sight, but he obviously heard her coming because he truncated his
conversation. "I'll see you in an hour," he said, and put the phone
down.

She was at the top of the stairs now, and she could hear him getting

up from the table and crossing the room, though she still couldn't see
him. "Mitchell?"

Finally he stepped into view, a sunny smile already fixed on his face,
though his pallor was gray and his eyes bloodshot.

"I thought I heard you up there. I didn't want to wake you, so-" "What
the hell are you doing here?

"Just dropped by to say hi," he replied, the smile still in place. "You
look like you had a rough night. Are you okay?"

Rachel started down the stairs. "It's six in the morning, Mitchell."
"There's a lot of flu going around, you know. Maybe you should

see--"

"Are you listening?"

"Don't be mad, baby," he said, the smile finally making its exit. "You
don't have to yell and scream every time we see one another."

"I'm not screaming," Rachel said calmly. "I'm just telling you I don't
want you in my apartment."

She was three steps from the bottom of the flight. He stepped back,
hands raised in surrender. "I'm going," he said, and turning on his heel
walked back toward the table. "I should have known she'd pass it on to
you," he said as he went. He was talking about the journal. It was there
on the table where Rachel had left it. "Garrison said you were all
bitches, and I didn't want to believe it. Not my Rachel. Not my sweet,

innocent Rachel." He reached for the journal.

"Don't touch that," she said.

"I'll do what the fuck I like," Mitchell said. He picked up the journal,
and turned back to look at her. "I gave you a chance--" he said, waving
his prize in front of him as he spoke. "I warned you at the gala: don't
mess with things you don't understand because you'll end up having
nobody to protect you. Didn't I Say that?"

"It's not yours, Mitch," Rachel said, doing her best to preserve her
equilibrium. "Put it down and leave."

"Or what?" Mitchell said. "Huh? What can you do? You're on your Own."
His manner softened abruptly, as though he was genuinely distressed at
her vulnerability. "Why didn't you just come to me and tell me she'd
given you this?"

"She didn't give it to me. I found it."

'Tou found it?" The softness was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
"You went digging around in Garrison's place?"

"Yes."

	He shook his head in disbelief. "You are a piece of wor

"Do you have any idea what you're playing around with?" :.'(

	"I'm beginning to." ::,

	"And you thought your lover-boy Galilee was going to

save you if you got in too deep?" .

"No," she said, slowly walking toward him. "I know that's not" happens.
I have to look after myself. I'm not afraid of you. I your mind works."

"Not any longer you don't," he said. The look in his bloodsh gave
credence to the claim; there was something she hadn't se before;
something unstable. "You know what you should do, should go back to
Dansky and be thankful you got out alive. mean that, baby. Go and don't
look back..." :i

At the gala his threatening talk had seemed fainfl.

it carried weight. He frightened her. She was weak with sadn,

confusion and lack of sleep; if he chose to harm her now, she

be able to put up much of a defense.

"You know you may be right," she said, doing her best to her unease. "I
should go home."

He was clearly pleased that he'd made some impression

"Now you're being smart," he said. "I hadn't realized..." "No, how could
you?"

"... things are more serious..." : "Than you thought. I did try and warn
you."

"Yes. You did. And I wasn't ready to listen." '. "But now you see..." '

She nodded; he seemed to have bought her performance. see. I was wrong
and you were right."

Oh, he liked that; that made him smile from ear to ear. "You t

you are so sweet you want to be," he said. Without

	when

approached her, his free hand reaching out and catching hold'..

chin. She smelled sour sweat and stale cologne. "If I had

he said, that volatile gleam clearer still now he was a foot from

take you upstairs and remind you what you're missing."

She wanted to tell him to go fuek himself, but there was

to be gained from escalating things again when she'd just

turn down the heat. Instead she kept her silence, and let him

dry kiss on her lips, in that proprietorial manner that had once feel
like a princess. He hadn't finished with her, however.

dropped from her chin and lightly touched her breast. "Say something,"
he murmured.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Ybu know," he said.

"You want me to ask you to come upstairs.

He gave her a crooked-eye grin. "It might be nice," he said.

She swore to herself she'd make him suffer for this one day; she'd

have her foot on his neck. But until then: "Well, will you?" "Will I
what?" he said. "Take me upstairs--" "And?"

"-- fuck me."

"Oh, baby, I thought you'd never ask." His hand made one final descent,
from her breast to her groin. He slipped his fingers beneath the
waistband of her panties. "You're not wet, baby," he said. He pushed in
a little. "Feels like a fucking grave." He pulled his hand out, as
though he'd been stung. "Sorry, baby. Gotta go."

He turned away from her and started in the direction of the door. It was
all she could do not to go after him, telling him what a worthless piece
of shit he was. But she resisted the temptation. He was leaving, and
that was all that mattered right now.

"One thing-" he said when he reached the door.

its.

"Do you want me to put this place back on the market for you? You're not
going to stay here are you?"

"You can do what the hell you want with it."

"Whatever I get for it, I'll put in your account." He glanced over his
shoulder, though not far enough to lay eyes on her. "Of course, if you
don't trust me..."

"Sell it, Mitch. I'll be ont of here in two weeks."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet. I've got plenty of friends. Maybe back to Boston.
I'll keep Cecil informed."

"Yeah. Do that, will you?"

That was his departure line: a remote echo of a man who'd once eared for
her, and whom she'd been ready to call her husband to the end of her
days.

What had happened to him? What was happening to them all? It Was as
though everybody was shedding their skin, and revealing some

b ,

ody new--or perhaps somebody they d always been--to the world.

The question that lay before Rachel was simple: who was she? She was

no longer Mitchell's wife, that much was certain. But then nor Galilee's
lover. Was she doomed to be one of the melancholy she saw around town
noted only for the brevity of their failed marriage to a public man, or
a taste of celebrity, then Growing old as gracefully as they knew how:
preserving their the table with minor good works though half the time
people quite remember who they were.

She'd go back to Dansky before she'd live a life like that. pose to Neil
Wilkens and if he'd take her, settle down to a life anonymity. Anything,
rather than be pointed out as the woman! loved and lost Mitchell Geary.

But she was getting ahead of herself. Her first concern was serve her
life and sanity in the midst of a situation that was far She could still
see the subtle gleam of lunacy in Mitchell's eyes,

curl of his lips as he took his fingers out of her. . Feels like a
fucking grave...

She shuddered, thinking of what he'd said. Not just of its elty--though
that was horrible enough--but the fact that taint her with death. Was
that what Mitch really believed? at her and see a woman who was already
halfway to joining the Golden Floor? It would be nice and convenient for
him wouldn't it? He could play the grieving soulmate for a little then
move on to find himself a more accommodating wife-one pop out little
Gearys on a regular basis and who wouldn't be too of her husband's lack
of passion.

This was probably all paranoia, she told herself, but make her any less
fretful. And to add to her sum of anxieties, the fact that Mitchell now
had the journal. It was plainly him; and to Margie too apparently, or
else why had she gone trouble to hide it? What was the significance of
its Mitchell had been so happy to have it in his hands?

Well, there was no use sitting and stewing over it all; what was done.
The best thing to do, she decided, was to get the the apartment and
walk.

She quickly got dressed, and headed down to the street.

fine and bright, and she knew as soon as she started walking made a
smart decision. Her spirits lifted, especially once she crowds on Fifth
Avenue. There was a pleasant sense she was just one of thousands
striding the sidewalks, en

The subject of Mitch and his vile talk didn't come back head, but
thoughts of Galilee did. The mysteries that atte

trouble her as they had previously. In the open air, with the bustle of
people all around her, they seemed simply intriguing: inexplicable, even
magical, elements in her personal landscape. What was he, this man who
spoke of shark gods as though they were his bosom buddies? Who had lived
several lifetimes, wandering the oceans of the world? Who was so lonely,
and yet took no comfort in the presence of other living beings?

She wished she'd quizzed him more closely when they'd been together,
particularly about his family. Assuming that he'd been telling the truth
when he'd said he had no grandparents, what did that imply about his
mother and father? That they were somehow original souls, the Adam and
Eve of their species? If so, then what did that make Galilee? Cain or
Abel? The first murderer? The first victim?

Biblical parallels wouldn't have seemed so pertinent but for the fact of
the man's name. He was called Galilee, after all; somebody in his family
knew their Gospels.

Well, whatever he was, whatever the nature of his mystery, she didn't
expect to be solving it any time soon. The journal's contents had only
served to confirm the suspicion that his path and hers went in very
different directions. She would not be sitting down to talk about his
name or his childhood anytime soon. He was gone from her life, perhaps
forever; and she had no way back to him. No means of tracing him except
through the coils of Geary family history, where she was now effectively
forbidden to go. She was an exile, like him. He on the water, she on
Fifth Avenue; he alone, she surrounded by people: but still, in the end,
outcasts.

Walking gave her a hunger, so she dropped into Alfredo's--a little
Italian place she'd gone more than once with Mitchell--for lunch. She
arrived thinking she'd have a salad, but when she scanned the menu her
appetite sharpened, and she ended up with a plate of spaghetti followed
by profiteroles. What now? she wondered as she ate. She couldn't walk
the streets of New York forever; sooner or later she was going to have
to decide where her best hope of safely lay.

Her espresso was not brought by her waiter but by the owner of the
establishment, Alfredo himself." a round, pink, cherubic man who had
never lost his thick Italian accent. Indeed he probably nurtured it, as
part of his charm.

"Mrs. Geary..." he said, with great gravity, "... we are all so very,
Very sad when we hear about your sister-in-law. She came in once, with
the older Mrs. Geary--Loretta--and we all just fell in love with her."

Loretta and Margie, sharing a bottle of wine and reminisce was hard to
picture.

"Does Loretta come in here often?"

"Now and again," Alfredo said.

"And what do you make of her? Does everybody love Loretta

The plainness of the question defeated Alfredo's considerable

ers of diplomacy. He opened his mouth, but no answer came. "No instant
love for Loretta, huh?"

"She is very powerful lady," Alfredo finally replied. "Back h, Italy we
have such women. Very strong, in their hearts. They are power in the
family: All the men, they make the noise, they violence sometimes, but
the women just go on in their way, you being strong."

That certainly described Loretta: hard to love, but

ignore. Perhaps it was time Rachel paid her a visit; followed up
conversation they'd had just after Margie's death, when Loretta had very
clearly laid out her vision of the way things would be, and asked Rachel
to side with her. Was it too late to say yes? She didn" ticularly like
the prospect of asking for Loretta's help; but the had known whereof she
spoke that night. We need each other, for self-protection. Whatever your
dense husband thinks, he's not be running the Geary empire.

Why not? Rachel had asked her.

And the answer? Oh, Rachel remembered it well, and with th sage of time
it began to look like an astonishing prophecy.

"... he's inheriting a lot more than he'll be able to Loretta had said.
"He'll crack. He's already cracking..."

She thanked Alfredo for a delightful lunch, and went out busy street.
The espresso had given her a fair buzz, but it wasn't fee that quickened
her step as she headed north; it was the ization that she had, after
all, a place of refuge, if it wasn't too request it.

IV

G

iven how little warmth there is in my relationship with think my last
reported exchange with her was in the kitchen, she iuggled the devouring
of pies) you can imagine how sur

when she appeared in my room yesterday evening. She had tears pouring
down her face, and all the usual ruddiness had gone out of her skin.
"You have to come with me!" she said.

I asked her why, but she insisted that she had no time for explanations.
I was simply to come; right now.

"At least tell me where we're going," I said.

"It's Mama," she said, her sobs coming on with new vigor. "Something's
happened to Mama! I think maybe she's dying."

This was enough to make me get up out of my chair and follow Zabrina,
though as we went I was quite certain she'd made a mistake. Nothing was
ever going to happen to Cesaria: she was an eternal force. A creature
born out of the primal fire of the world does not pass away quietly in
her bed.

And yet the closer we got to Cesaria's chambers the more I began to
suspect there might be real reason for Zabrina's panic. There had always
been a subtle agitation in the passageways close to Cesaria's rooms, as
though her presence excited motion at a molecular level. To be there was
to feel, in some unaccountable way, more alive. The light seemed
clearer, the colors brighter; when you inhaled you seemed to feel the
shape of your lungs as they expanded. But not today; today the
passageways were like mausoleums. I began to feel a prickling dread
creep over me. What if she was dead? Cesaria Yaos, the mother of
mothers, dead? What would that mean for us who were left behind? The
Gearys were about to mount an assault against us, I had no doubt of
that. Holt's journal, containing a detailed description of how to get to
this very house, was in the hands of Garrison Geay himself. And Mama
Cesaria was dead? Oh God.

Zabrina had halted a few yards from the door of Cesaria's chambers. "I
can't go in again..." she said, a new flood of tears coming. "Where is
she?" "In her bedroom."

"I've never been in her bedroom."

"Just... go straight in, make the see0nd right, and it's at the end of
the passageway."

I was more than a little nervous now. "Gome with me," I said to Zabrina.

"I can't," she said. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so seared.

I left her to her trembling, and entered, my dread growing with every
step I took. No doubt Cesaria had intended that anyone coming into these
chambers should feel they were entering the temple of her body;

certainly that was how I felt. The walls and ceiling were painted plish
red, the bare boards underfoot were darkly stained. There furniture in
the passageways; the rooms that lay to right and left, gloomy for me to
see into very dearly, but they also appeared to be

I made the second right as Zabrina had instructed. For time since my
healing at Gesaria's hands I felt a stab of the old my legs, and had a
paranoid vision of my muscles atrophying dead air.

"Stop it," I murmured to myself.

I might have uttered the words in a vacuum. Though I

my palate shape the syllables, and my breath expel them, the refused to
hear them uttered. They were snatched away and

I didn't say anything more; I didn't dare. I simply walked on door of
Gesaria's bedroom, and stepped inside.

It was as gloomy as all the other rooms, the heavy drapes against the
sky, against the world. I waited for a few moments to eyes accommodate
themselves to the murk, and by degrees they just that.

There was a massive bed in the room. That was all, a massive upon which
my father's wife lay like a body on a catafalque. her splendor was
removed by her supine position. Even in indeed she was dead--the
physical fact of her demanded There was an uncanny precision about her;
she seemed perfect, this state: like a great funereal work sculpted by
her own genius.

I approached the bed, glad now that Zabrina hadn'

I didn't want to share this moment with anybody. Though I was it was a
glorious fear, a fear that surely you could only feel in the ence of a
dead or dying goddess: a fear mingled with great itude that I was
allowed this sight.

Her face! Oh her face. The great black mane of her

from her wide brow, her dark skin gleaming, her mouth open, her'

open a little way too, but showing only the whites of her eyes. Finally,
I found the courage to speak. I said her name. This time, the air
consented to bear my word; it went lightly. But there was no response
from Cesaria Yaos. Not expected there to be. I was increasingly certain
that Zabrina was Mama was dead.

What now, I thought. Did I dare approach the bed and touch the body?
Look for vital signs as if the woman before me were a common cadaver? I
couldn't face that possibility. Better to go to window, I thought, and
open the drape a little way, so that I could

the body more clearly. That way I could make an assessment of her
condition from a respectful distance.

Moving with due reverence I crossed the room to the window, thinking as
I went what a life of sad confinement Cesaria had lived since my
father's passing. What had she done to fill the years, I wondered? Had
the memories been enough to give her a taste of happiness? Or had she
stewed in her sorrow up here, cursing her longevity, and the children
who'd failed to give her joy?

I caught hold of one of the drapes, and started to pull it open. But as
I did so, I felt something brush the back of my neck--just a feather
touch, but it was enough to make me freeze. I glanced back over my
shoulder, my hand still gripping the fabric. Had some subtle change come
over Cesaria's face? Were her eyes open a fraction wider? Her head was
turned a little in my direction? I stared at her for fully a minute,
studying her face for some evidence of life. But I was imagining it:
there was nothing.

Mastering my courage, I once again began to draw back the drape, and had
opened it perhaps an inch when whatever had brushed my neck a little
while before came against my face, not lightly this time, but like a
blow. I heard a cracking sound in my head, and the next moment blood
began to run from my nose. Needless to say, I let go of the drape
instantly. If I hadn't had to pass the bed to get to the door I might
have run for it there and then, but I decided passivity was the wisest
response. Whatever was here in the room with me, I didn't doubt it could
do me some serious damage if it set its mind to the task. I wanted to
prove that I was no threat to it; or, perhaps more pertinently, to the
sanctity of the body on the bed.

I didn't even tend to my bleeding nose while I waited. I just let it
run, and after a while the flow slowed and stopped. As for my attacker,
wherever he was, he seemed satisfied of my innocence, because he made no
further assault upon me.

And then, the strangest thing. Without moving her lips, Cesaria spoke.

Maddox, she said, what are you doing here?

The question wasn't presented as a challenge. There was a gentle
musicality in her voice. She almost sounded dreamy, in fact; as though
She were speaking in her sleep.

"I thought--that is, Zabrina thought--something had happened to you," I
said.

It has, Cesaria replied.

"Are you sick? We thought perhaps you were dying?"

I'm not dying. I'm just traveling.

"Traveling? Where?"

There's somebody I need to see, before he passes out of this "Cadmus
Geary," I said.

She murmured her assent. Of course you've been telling his she said.

"Some of it."

He lived a troubled life, Cesaria said, and he's going to

bled death. I'm going to make certain of that. She spoke without mence,
but the observation made me glad I was nowhere near the man. If Cesaria
wanted to give him grief, then grief she would

let anyone in his vicinity beware. You're hurt, she said. "No, just--"

You're bleeding. Was that Zelim's doing?

"I don't know who it was. I was trying to open the drape, to better look
at you."

--and you were struck.

It was Zelim, Cesaria said. He knows I don't like the light. was being
overzealous. Zelim? Where are you?

There was a sound off in the far corner of the room like

bees, and it seemed to my somewhat befuddled eyes that the knotted
itself up, and something that resembled a human appeared in front of me.
It was only rudimentary; a slim, creature with large dark eyes.

Make your peace, Cesaria said. I assumed the instruction

and I proceeded to apologize but she broke in: Not you, Maddox.

The servant bowed his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "The error mine. I
should have spoken to you before I struck you."

Now both of you can leave me, Cesaria said. Zelim, take into Mr.
Jefferson's study and make him a little more t looks like a schoolboy
who's just been in a brawl.

"Come with me," said Zelim, who by now had reached level of corporeality
that his nakedness was somewhat disc me, despite the haire form of his
genitals.

I followed him to the door, and was just about to step out heard Cesaria
call my name again. I looked back. Nothing! changed. She lay as she had,
completely inert. But from the her body there came--how can I describe
this without stooping to. timentality--there came a wave of love (there,
I've stooped)

broke invisibly but touched me more profoundly than any visible force

could have done. Tears of pleasure ran from my eyes.

"Thank you, Mama," I murmured.

You're very welcome child, she said, now go and be tended to.

Where's Zabrina by the way?

"She's outside."

Tell her not to be a ninny. If I were truly dead I'd have every creature
in the county weeping and wailing.

I smiled at this. "I think you would," I said.

And tell her to be patient. !'ll be home soon.

	V

M

r. Jefferson's study, as Cesaria had referred to it, was one of the
small rooms I had passed by on my way to the bedroom. I was ushered into
it by Zelim, whose newfound politeness did nothing to sooth my unease at
his presence. His voice, like his appearance, was wholly nondescript. It
was as though he were holding on to the last vestiges of his humanity (I
say holding on, but perhaps it was the other way about; perhaps I was
simply witness to the final and happy sloughing off of the man he'd once
been). Whichever it was, the sight of him, and the sound of a voice that
barely sounded human, distressed me. I didn't want to spend any time in
his company. I told him there was nothing he need do for me; I'd quite
happily mend myself once I got back downstairs. But he ignored my
protestations. His mistress had told him to make good the damage he'd
done, and he plainly intended to do so, whether I considered myself an
injured party or not.

"Can I get you a glass of brandy?" he said. "I understand you're not a
great imbiber of brandy-"

"How do you know that?"

"I listen," he said. So the rumors were true, I thought. The house was
indeed a listening machine, delivering news from its various chambers up
to Cesaria's suite. "But this is a bottle we seldom touch. It's potent.
And it will take away the sting."

"Then thank you," I said. "I will have a little."

He inclined his head to me, as though I'd done him great service by
accepting the offer, and retired to the next room, allowing me the
freedom to get up and wander around the study. There was plenty to

see. Unlike the rest of the rooms, which were empty, it was filled
furniture. Two chairs and a small table, a writing desk set in front of
window, with its own comfortable leather chair tucked in beneath
bookcase, weighed down with sober tomes. On the walls were a of
decorations. On one hung a crude map, painted on the dried some unlucky
animal: the territory it charted unfamiliar to another a modestly framed
drawing, in a very reclining on a chaise longue. She was dressed
prettily, in a hiI gown much decorated with small bows. An unfamiliar
Cesaria; at to me. Was this the way she'd looked when she'd been the
glory society? I assumed so. The rest of the pictures were small,
guished landscapes, and I passed over them quickly, saving the focus of
my attention for the strange object which sat on desk. It looked like a
large, carpentered spider. .

"It's a copying machine," Zelim explained when he came ba "Jefferson
invented it." He pulled out the chair. "Sit please." I

"By all means try it," he said. There was paper on the desk, and the
already fired into the device. Now that I knew its purpose to fathom how
it worked. I raised and dipped my pen--which, of a system of struts,
automatically raised and dipped the second and proceeded to scratch out
my name on a second sheet.

over to my right I found my signature replicated almost perfectly.
"Clever," I remarked. "Did he ever use it.?"

"There's one at Monticello he used all the time," Zelim "This device he
used only once or twice."

"But he definitely used it?" I said. "I mean... Jeffersor

gets around this very pen?"

"Indeed he did. I saw him with my own eyes. He wrote a John Adams, as I
remember."

I couldn't prevent a little shudder of delight, which you think strange
given the divine company I've kept. After all, J only human. But that
was perhaps the reason I felt the frisson. mortal stuff, reaching for a
vision that was grander than most of us contemplate.

Zelim handed me my glass of brandy. "Again, I apologize for

violence. May I wash the blood off your face?" "No need," I said. "It's
no trouble."

"I'm fine," I told him. "If you want to make amends--"

"Yes?" . "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"About what it's been like for you, over the centuries."

"You're Zelim the fisherman, aren't you?"

The pale face before me, despite its lack ofspecificities, seemed to
grow troubled. "I don't ever think of that any longer," he said. "It
doesn't seem to be my life."

"More like a story?" I ventured.

"More like a dream. A very distant dream. Why do you ask?"

"I want to be able to describe everything in my book. Only everything,
that was my promise to myself. And you're a unique individual. I'd like
to be sure I tell it all truthfully."

"There's nothing much to tell," Zelim said. "I was a fisherman, and

I was called into service. That's an old story."

"But look what you became."

"Oh this..." he said, glancing down at his body. "Does my nakedness
trouble you?" ;

"No."

"The longer I live with her the more I tend to androgyny, and the less
important clothing comes to seem. I can't remember how I looked any
longer, when I was a man."

"I've got a picture of you in my head," I said. "On the shore with
Cesaria and Nicodemus and the baby. Dark hair, dark eyes."

"My teeth were good, I do know that," he said. "The widow Passak

used to love to watch me tear at my bread."

"So you remember her?"

"Better than most things," Zelim replied. "Better than my philosophies,
certainly." He gazed toward the window, and in the wash of light I saw
that he was virtually translucent, his eyes iridescent. I wondered to
myself if he had bones in his body, and supposed that he must, given the
blow he'd delivered. Yet he seemed so very delicate now; like a flail
invertebrate visitor from some deep-sea trench.

"I forgot her for a while..." he said, his voice gossamer.

"You mean the widow Passak?"

"Yes," he murmured. "I moved on through my life, and the love I felt for
her..." The sentence trailed away; his face fluttered. I didn't prompt
him--though I badly wanted to hear what more he had to say on the
subject. He was in a deeply emotional state, for all the colorlessness
of his voice. I didn't want to disturb his equilibrium. So I waited. At
last, he picked up the thread of his ruminations: "... the love I felt
Seemed to pass away from me. I thought it had gone forever. But I was

wrong.., the feelings I had toward her come back to me though I was
feeling them for the first time. The way she looked when the wind came
off the desert. The sweet mischief in her

"Things come around," I said. "Didn't you teach that to dents?"

"I did. I used the stars as a metaphor, I believe."

"The Wheel of the Stars," I prompted.

Zelim made the faintest of smiles, remembering this. "The

of the Stars," he murmured. "It was a pretty idea."

"More than an idea," I said. "It's the truth."

"I wouldn't make that claim for it," Zelim said.

"But the proof of it's right here. You said yourself that your for
Passak have come back."

"I think it may be for the last time," Zelim replied. "I've

course, and I won't be rising again after this."

"What do you mean?"

"When L'Enfant falls--as it will, as it must--and

out into the world, I'm going to ask Cesaria to put an end to

lived as a man, and I've lived as a spirit, and now I want an end to "No
more resurrections?"

"Not for me. I think it's what comes naturally, after androgyny.

of sexlessness into selflessness. I'm looking forward to it." "Looking
forward to oblivion?"

"It's not the end of the world," he said with a little laugh. "It's one
man's light going out. And if it's no great loss to me than anybody else
be upset?"

"I'm not upset, I'm just a little confused," I said.

"By what?"

| thought about the question for a moment before I replied.

pose living here I've got used to the idea of things going on." "Or
rising again, like your father." "I beg your pardon?"

Zelim's features fluttered again, as they had when he'd

to talk. His Socratic calm disappeared; he was suddenly anxious. sorry,"
he said. "I shouldn't have--"

"Don't apologize," I told him. "Just explain." "I can't. I'm sorry. It
was inappropriate." "Zelim. Explain."

He glanced back toward Cesaria's chambers. Was he fearful she'd come to
punish him for his indiscretion? If so, his glance sured him that he was
not being overheard. When he looked

me, his agitation had almost gone. Apparently Cesaria was off on her way
to meet with Cadmus Geary.

"I'm not sure I could explain anything where your father's concerned,"
he said. "Explanations and gods are mutually exclusive, aren't

they? All I can do is tell you what I feel."

"And what's that?"

He took a deep breath. His body seemed to grow a little more substantial
with the inhalation. "Cesaria's life is empty here. Completely empty. I
know because I've shared it with her, day after day after day for the
last God knows how many years. It's an empty life. She simply sits at
the window, or feeds the porcupines. The only time she steps outside is
when one of the animals dies and we have to go out to bury it."

"I have something of that life myself," I said. "I know how wretched it
is."

"At least you had your books. She doesn't like to read any longer. And
she can't abide television or even recorded music. Remember this is a
woman who has been the toast of every great city in the world at some
point in her life. I saw her in her glory days, and they were beyond
anything you could imagine. She was the very essence of sophistication;
the most courted, the most adored, the most emulated woman in the world.
When she left a room, they used to say, it was like a kind of death..."

"I don't see what this has got to do with Nieodemus."

"Don't you think it's strange that she stays?" Zelim replied. "Why
hasn't she pulled this house down? She could do that. She could raise a

storm and trash it in a heartbeat. You know she raises storms."

"I've never seen her do it, but--"

"Yes you have. It was one of her storms that came in the night your
father mated Dumuzzi."

"That I didn't know."

"She was angry because Nicodemus was showing more interest in his horses
than he was in her, so she conjured a storm that laid waste to half the
county. I think she was hoping the animals would be struck dead. Anyway,
my point is this: if she wanted to bring this house down she could. But
she won't. She just stays. She watches. She waits."

"Maybe she's preserving the house for Jefferson's sake," I suggested.
"It's his masterpiece."

Zelim shook his head. "She's waiting for your father. That's what I
believe. She thinks he's coming back."

"Well he'd better be quick about it," I said. "Because if the Gearys get
here there'll be no more miracles--"

"I realize that. And I think so does she. After all these idling,
suddenly things are urgent. This business with Cadmus for instance. She
would never have stooped to meddle with one Geary family before this."

"What's she going to do to him?"

Zelim shrugged. "I don't know." His gaze left me; he toward the window
again. "But she can be very unforgiving."

If he had more to say on the subject of her lack of

didn't get a chance to say it. There was light rapping on the and
Zabrina appeared. She'd sought out, and found, some her anxieties about
Cesaria. She carried not one but two slices of between the fingers of
her right hand, and like a cardshar

aces at a poker table, delivered first one then the other to her "All's
well," I told her. "So I gathered," she said.

"I'm sorry. I should have come to tell you earlier." "I'm used to being
ignored," she replied, and made pausing only to maneuver the last
remaining pieces of pie mouth.

a

SeI headed back downstairs I found myself in a mingled xhaustion and
agitation. What I needed was a little ment. A conversation with Marietta
would have been the [ but she was off making wedding plans with her
beloved Mice, decided to smoke a little hashish and let my mind wander
over the tents of my conversation with Zelim--the talk of his love for
the Passak, his hopes for oblivion, his reflections on the

Gesaria's life, and what her patience really meant--and

that nonchalant, noncommittal way you wonder when you're good hashish,
if I shouldn't have spent less time with the Gearys book, and more time
here at home. Had I trivialized what been a mightier work by following
the story of Rachel Pallenbc closely; been seduced by that most populist
of idioms, the ra story, when the real meat of what I should have told
lay in the body of the Barbarossa clan?

Back in my study I picked up the manuscript and flicked through it,
deliberately letting my eye go where it would, to see how the thing
sounded when sampled arbitrarily. There were plenty of stylistic
infelicities which I promised myself I'd fix later; but the matter
seemed to walk the line I'd intended it walk, between this world and
that other, out there beyond the perimeters of L'Enfant. Perhaps I could
have been less gossipy in my accounts of the daily business of this
house, but there's honesty in that gossip. Whatever the mythic roots of
this family may be, we've dwindled into pettiness and domesticity. We're
not the first gods to have done so, of course. The occupants of Olympus
bickered and bed-hopped; we're no better nor worse. But they were
inventions, we're not. (I suspect, by the way, that in the creation of
divinities we see the most revealing work of the human imagination. And
of course in the life of that imagination, the most compelling evidence
of the divine in man. Each is the other's most illuminating labor.)

Where does that leave me? I, who sit in the middle of a house of
divinities talking about invented gods. It leaves me in confusion, as
always; set against myself, as though my heart were divided, and each
half beat to a different drummer.

The hashish put an appetite on me, and after a couple of hours of
skipping through my text I went to the kitchen and made myselfa sandwich
of rare roast beef on black bread, which I ate sitting on the back door
step, feeding the crumbs to the peacocks.

Then I slept for a while, thinking I would get up in the middle of the
evening and continue to tinker with the text. Those few blissful hours
of sleep were, I suspect, the last easy slumbers I will enjoy; for when
I woke (or rather, was woken) it was not only with visions of the Geary
house in New York filling my head, and my right hand twitching as if it
were warming up for the challenge of setting down all I was about to
see, but also with the uncanny sense that any last vestige of calm had
gone from the places I was witnessing.

The final sequence of cataclysms was about to begin. I drew breath and
ink; waited, watched, and then began to write.

ii

I When Rachel got to the mansion to see Cadmus she was told by one of
the staff, a pleasant woman called Joeelyn, that she couldn't see
Loretta tonight. The old man had been very sick since noon, and

Loretta had sent the nurse away, saying she wanted to look afh mus
herself, Which she was doing. Her instructions were that t[ not to be
disturbed.

Rachel was insistent: this wasn't business that could be tomorrow. If
Jocelyn wouldn't go up and get Loretta, Rachel said..:t she'd be obliged
to do so herself. Reluctantly, Jocelyn went up; ten minutes or so
Loretta came downstairs. It was the first time had ever seen her look
less than perfect. She looked like a had been slightly smeared; her
hair, which was usually little out of place, one of her drawn brows a
little smudged.

She instructed Jocelyn to make some tea, and took Rachel dining room.

"This is a bad time, Rachel," she said.

"Yes, I know."

"Cadmus is very weak, and I may need to go up to him, so say whatever
you have to say."

"We had a conversation in this room, just after Margie's death. "I
remember it, of course."

"Well, you were right. Miteh was at my apartment a little

ago, and I don't think he's entirely sane."

"What did he do?"

"You want the short version and I'm not sure there is one," explained.
"Margie had a book-- I don't know the full story, but kind of
journal--and it came into my hands. It doesn't matter how. point is, it
did; and contains information about the Barbarossas."

Loretta showed no sign of response to any of this, until she

When she did, her voice betrayed her. It trembled. "You have Holt's
journal?" she said. "No. Mitchell does."

"Oh Jesus," she said quietly. "Why didn't you come to me

"I didn't know it was so important."

"Why do you think I've been sitting upstairs with Gadmus,

ing to him ramble for hours on end?"

"You wanted the journal?"

"Of course. I knew he had it because he'd told me, years

Never let me see it--."

"Why not?"

"I guess he didn't want me to know anything more about Galil than I
already knew."

"It's not very flattering. What Holt says about him."

"So you've read it?"

"Not all of it. But a lot. And the way Holt describes him.., oh

Lord, how's it even possible?"

"How's what possible?"

"How could Galilee have been alive in 18657"

"You're asking the wrong person," Loretta said. "Because I'm just as
much in the dark as you about how and why. And I gave up asking a long
time ago."

"If you gave up asking, why do you want the journal so badlyT" "Don't
come here looking for my help and then start needling me, girl," Loretta
replied. She looked away from Rachel for a moment, expelling a long,
soft sigh. "Would you fetch me a cigaretteT" she said finally. "They're
on the sideboard over there."

Rachel got up and brought the silver cigarette case, along with the
lighter, back to the table. While Loretta was lighting up Jocelyn came
in with the tea. "Just set it down," Loretta said. "We'll serve
ourselves.

Oh, and Jocelyn? Would you go upstairs and check on Mr. GearyT" "I just
did," Jocelyn said. "He's sleeping." "Keep looking in on him will you?"
"Of course."

"She's been a godsend," Loretta observed when ]ocelyn had gone.

"Never a complaint. What were we talking about?"

"Galilee."

"Forget about Galilee."

"You once told me that he was at the heart of everything."

"Did I now?" Loretta said. She drew deeply on her cigarette. "Well I was
probably feeling sorry for myself." She exhaled the blue-gray smoke.
Then she said: "You're not the only one who's been in love with him, you
know. If you really want to understand what's happening to us you have
to stop thinking from a selfish point of view. Everybody's had their
disappointments, Rachel. Everybody's had their lost loves and

their broken hearts. Even the old man."

"Louise Brooks."

"Yes. The exquisite Louise. That was in Kitty's time, of course. I
didn't have to endure his mooning over the woman. Though she was lovely.
I will say that. She was lovely." She poured herselfa cup of tea as

she spoke. "Do you want some tea?"

"No. Thank you."

"He's going to die in the next twenty-four hours," Loretta went on,
matter-of-factly. "And when he's gone, I intend to take charge of this
family and its assets. That's what's in his will."

"You've seen the will7"

"No. But he's promised me. If the will says what he swears then I'll be
in a position to make some kind of deal with Gar Mitchell."

"And if it doesn't?"

"If it doesn't?" Loretta sipped her tea before replying. maybe we'll
need Galilee after all," she said quietly. "Both of us."

	VII

I n his bedroom on the floor above, Cadmus woke. He was there was an
emptiness at the pit of his stomach which

He turned his face toward the dimmed lamp on the bedside table;

ing its light would drive from his head the shadowy forms

accompanied him from sleep. He didn't want them with him in the

world. They'd have him soon enough.

The door opened. He raised his head from the pillow.

'

Loretta?

	"No, sir. It's ]ocelyn."

	"Where's Loretta? She said she was going to stay with me."

	"She's just downstairs, sir. Mitchell's wife came by to see

you want something to eat, sir? Maybe some soupT"

	"Send Rachel up." ,'

	Sir?

	"You heard me. Send Rachel up. And have her bring me a

of brandy. Go on, woman." :':

	Jocelyn went on her way, and Cadmus let his head

the pillow. Lord, he was so, so cold! But the thought that

downstairs, and that he'd be laying eyes on her in a few

made him a little happier with his lot. She was a sweet girl;

always liked her. No doubt some of her innocence had been sulli

Mitchell; she'd lost some of her faith in the goodness of thin

she was a strong creature; she'd survive. He reached out,

drawer of the bedside cabinet, and reached around for a roll

permints. He could no longer chew gum--his jaws didn't

power--and his mouth was so filled with cankers that

teeth was an ordeal, but he wanted to be sure his breath was

ably sweet when Rachel came to sit with him. With palsied

fumbled a peppermint on to his dry tongue, and began, as best.he could,
to suck.

Somebody was shouting in the street outside, and he longed to be there;
out from this cold bed, where he could see the sky. Just once more; was
that too much to ask?

In finer times he'd liked to walk. He didn't care if it was fair weather
or foul; he'd just get out of his limo wherever and whenever the urge
struck him and walk. Arctic winter mornings, he remembered, and
blistering August afternoons; days in spring when he'd felt like a happy
truant, meandering his way home; evenings in midsummer, with half a
dozen martinis in him, high as a king, singing as he went.

Never again. Never the street, never the sky, never a song. Only silence
soon; and judgment. Much as he'd tried to ready himself, he was prepared
for neither.

The window ratiled. There was quite a wind getting up. The rattling came
again, and this time the heavy drapes shook. No wonder he was cold! That
silly bitch of a nurse had left one of the windows open. Another gust,
and the drapes filled like sails. This time he felt the wind across the
room; it was strong enough to shake the lampshade.

He felt a fluttering in his empty belly, and pushed himself up against
the headboard to get a better look at the billowing drapes. What the
hell was going on?

He needed his spectacles; but as he reached to pluck them up from amid
the bottles of pills he heard somebody say his name.

A woman. There was a woman in the room with him.

"Loretta?"

The woman's voice plunged into a deeper register, and this time there
were no words, just a sound, like a kind of roar, that shook the bed.

He fumbled to get his spectacles on, but before he could do so the lamp
was thrown off the cabinet, and smashed, leaving him and the trespasser
together in the darkness.

"What in God's name was that?" Loretta said. She got up from the table,
yelling for Jocelyn, but Rachel was ahead of her, out into the hallway.

There was a shout now: a shrill shout. Ignoring Loretta's instructions
to wait, girl, wait! Rachel headed for the stairs. She had a momentary
flash of dOja vu: ascending the flight two or three steps at a time,
hearing the din of panic above, and the howling of wind. This was a

scene she'd played out before, and for some reason she had memory in her
soul.

At the landing, she glanced hack down the flight. Loretta

ing after her, clinging to the banister for support, Jocelyn at the' of
the stairs, asking to know what the noise was.

"It's Cadmus, you damn fool!" Loretta yelled back at thought I told you
to look in on him!"

"I did!" Jocelyn said. "He asked for brandy. And for Rach, Loretta
didn't respond to this. It was Rachel she called "Stay away from that
door!" "Why?" Rachel demanded.

"It's not your business! Just go back downstairs."

The door was rattling, violently, and there was no small Rachel that
wanted to do exactly as Loretta had instructed. all this wasn't her
business-it was Geary lunacy, Geary grief. could she ignore the sobs of
panic that were coming from Somebody was terrorizing the old man, and it
had to be now. She turned the handle of the door--which rattled in her
and pushed. There. was a force pressing on the door from the oth. she
had to lay her whole body against the door to get it to it did, it flew
wide, and she pitched forward, so that a enough she didn't step but
stumbled into the midst of the tra ing for her on the other side.

VIII

C

admus's room was chaos. The enormous bed was empty, the thrown off, the
pillows scattered around. All but one of the li gone out, the exception
being his bedside lamp, which lay on flickering nervously. The cabinet
it had stood upon had been as had the chairs and the small dressing
table. All the the sickroom--the pill bottles and their contents, the me
measuring spoons, the IV stand, the vomit bowl and the machine-were
littered about, smashed, pounded, rendered

Rachel looked for Cadmus, but she couldn't see him. Nor she see any sign
of whoever had caused this mess. She the room a little way. The drapes
fluttered. The window, she

open wide. Oh Lord! Had he tried to escape and fallen? Or been

thrown out?

As she started across the room, pills and glass crunching under her

feet, she heard a soft sobbing. She looked in the direction of the
sound, and there, crouched in the deep shadows in the corner of the
room, she saw Cadmus. He was naked, his hands cupping his genitals, his
face like that of a terrified monkey: lips curled back from his teeth,
brow deeply furrowed. His eyes were upon her, but he made no sign of
recognition. He simply stared, and shook.

"You're going to be all right," she said to him.

He said nothing, lust kept staring at her as she approached. The

closer she got to him, the more she saw the harm that had been visited
upon him. There were raised welts on his shoulders and chest, fiercely
red against his sallow skin; and there was blood coming between his
fingers, and pooling between his legs. She was appalled. Who would come
into a dying man's room and cause such suffering? It was inhuman.

He had begun to sob loudly now. She hushed him gently, as a

mother might hush a frightened child, but his eyes grew more panicky

the closer to him she came.

"Don't..." he said, "Don't touch me..."

"I have to get you out of here," she told him.

He shook his head, drawing his limbs still closer to his body. The

motion caused him pain, she saw; he closed his eyes for a moment, and

a little cry escaped him.

From the landing now, the sound of Loretta yelling at ]ocelyn,

telling her to go back downstairs. Rachel glanced up at the door. She
had time to catch a glimpse of Loretta, then the door slammed hard,
locking Loretta out. The noise started Cadmus wailing, the frail knot of
his body shaking violently.

She didn't attempt to soothe him. He was too traumatized to be
comforted; she'd be wasting her breath. Besides, she had another con
eern. Whatever force had slammed the door in Loretta's face, and was
holding it closed, it was here in the room with her. She could feel its
power, grazing the back of her neck.

Very slowly, she turned round. She wanted to be face to face with

it if it decided to move against her: to see it plainly, if it was the
last thing

She did.

She scanned the room again. Her eyes had grown accustomed to

the light from the flickering lamp, but they were still unable to find
the

Cause of the maelstrom. She decided to simply call it forth.

"Where are you?" she said. Behind her, the old man's w, abruptly died
away. He seemed to hold his breath, as if anticipating worst. "My name's
Rachel," she went on, "and he--" she pointed b toward Cadmus "-is my
father-in-law. I'd like you to let me take h out of this room and get
him some help. He's bleeding."

There was a silence. Then, a voice, across the room: a between the
windows which her gaze had twice passed over and fou empty. Now she saw
her error. There was somebody siring there, f really, like a statue,
every drape of her dress, every hair on her hel immaculate.

I didn't touch him, the woman said.

Even now, though Rachel's eyes had found her, the woman was hi to keep
in focus. Her black, silken skin seemed to deflect Rachel's But she
persevered. When her eyes slid left or right, she returned them the
woman, back and back and back again, refusing to be put off.

He tried to unman himself, the woman was explaining, thinking I placate
me.

Rachel didn't know whether to believe what she was being told not. The
idea that Cadmus had done the damage between his legs himself was
grotesque.

"May I take him then. Rachel said.

No you may not, the woman replied. I came here to watch him d and that's
what I'm going to do.

Rachel glanced back over her shoulders. Cadmus was watching tormentor,
the terror on his face replaced with a blank look, as thor he was too
used up by what he'd endured to even weep.

You may stay with him if you wish, the woman went on. You w{

have to wait very long. He 'S only got a few more breaths left in him.
"I don't want to watch him die," Rachel protested.

Where's your sense of history? the woman replied. She rose as spoke, and
dropped the last defenses she'd put up against Rachel's g; She was
perhaps the most beautiful woman Rachel had ever seen; glorious face had
about it the same nakedness that Rachel had seer Galilee's face, that
first night. Skin and nerve and muscle and bone extolling one another.

Now she understood what the woman meant when she ta] about a sense of
history. She was a Barbarossa, attending the death Geary.

"Are you his sister. Rachel said.

Sister?

"Galilee's sister?" .

The woman made a tiny smile. No. I'm his mother: Cesaria Yaos

Barbarossa. And you.., who were you before you were a Geary? "My name
was Pallenberg." Rachel Pallenberg. "Right."

Tell me... do you regret it? Marrying into this wretched family? Rachel
contemplated the question before replying. Perhaps it would be politic
to tell the woman that she regretted it heart and soul, but she couldn't
bring herself to do so. It wasn't true. There were losses and gains, as
in everything.

"I thought I loved my husband, and I thought he loved me," Rachel said.
"But I was in love with a lie."

And what was that?

"That I'd be happy once I had everything-" --even though you lost
yourself? "Almost," Rachel said. "Almost lost."

Tell me: is your husband here in the house?

"No."

Just the women out there? Cesaria said, glancing toward the door. "Don't
hurt them," Rachel said. "They're good people."

I told you, I didn't come here to hurt anybody. I came to bear witness.
Rachel glanced at the destruction on all sides. "So why do this?" He
annoyed me, Cesaria said, trying to bargain with me. "Leave me alone and
I'll give you whatever I've got." Her eyes flickered in Cadmus's
direction. You've got nothing I want, old man, she said. Besides, this
house needs to be cleansed from top to bottom. He knows why. He
understands. It's time to strip away all the pretense. All the
comforting things he collected to make him feel like a king, It all has
to go, She began to walk back in Cadmus's direction. In the end, it'll
be easier for him to move on, when there's nothing to keep him here.

"If you want to wreck the house," Rachel said, "that's one thing. But
he's just a sick old man, and sitting here watching him bleed to death
is cruel." Cesaria stared at her. "You don't think it's cruel?"

I didn't ask myself, Cesaria said. But yes, probably. And let me tell

you, he deserves a lot worse, for the things he's done.

"To you?"

No, to my son. To Atva. Or as he prefers it: Galilee.

"What did Cadmus ever do to Galilee?"

Tell her, Cesaria said. Go on. Tell her. You'll never have another
chance, so say it! Rachel looked back at. Cadmus, but there was no
answer forthcoming. He'd hung his head, whether out of exhaustion or

shame Rachel didn't know. Did you think you were so secret that I saw?
Cesaria went on. I saw. When you made my child murder your l flesh and
blood. I saw. There was a barely audible sob out of Ca

Tell her it's true, Cesaria said. Don't be such a coward.

"It's true..." Cadmus murmured.

Does your wife know, by the way? Cesaria said.

Very slowly, Cadmus raised his head. If he'd looked sick befo looked a
dozen times sicker now. There was no blood left in his lips were bluish,
his eyes and teeth yellow. "No," he said.

Let her in, Cesaria told Rachel. I want her to know what he hid her. And
tell the servant to leave. This is family business.

Though Rachel didn't much like being treated like a servant self, she
didn't argue with the instruction. She dutifully went to door, which
opened without effort. Both Loretta and Jocel ing there, ]ocelyn sobbing
uncontrollably.

"Why did you lock the door?" Loretta demanded.

"I didn't," Rachel told her. "Cesaria Barbarossa's in there with mus.
She wants you to come in. And she wants locelyn out of the

"Cesaria... ?" Loretta said, her strident tone dropping to a mur. "How
did she get in?

"I don't know," Rachel said, moving aside to allow glimpse into the
sickroom. "She says she's come to watch Cadmus

"Well she's not going to have the pleasure," Loretta said, anding past
Rachel stepped through the door.

"What should I do?" Jocelyn wanted to know.

"lust leave."

"Shall I call Garrison?"

"No. Just get out of the house. You've done what you can." It was clear
from the fearful expression on Jocelyn's face wanted to go; but
deep-seated loyalty was preventing her from

"If you don't go now," Rachel warned, "you may not get chance. You've
got your own family to think of. Go."

A look of relief crossed Jocelyn's face; here were the words

her go with a clear conscience. "Thank you," she said, and slipped

Rachel closed the door after her, and turned back to face the

of the room. Loretta had already decided on her method

Cesaria: head-on attack.

"You don't have any business being here," she was saying. trespassing in
my house and I want you out."

This isn't your house, Cesaria said, her eyes fixed not o

on the man still squatting against the wall. And it isn't his either.

started to protest but Cesaria waved her words away. My son built this
house, as he-she pointed at Cadmus-well knows. He built it with the
blood he spilled to make you your fortune. And the seed he spilled.

"What are you talking about?" Loretta said. Her tone, though still
assertive, was tinged with unease, as though she knew there was truth in
what she was hearing.

Tell her, Cesaria said to Cadmus. The figure crouched in the shadows
shook its heavy head. Cesaria took a step toward Cadmus. Old man,

she said. Get yourself up off the floor.

"He can't--" Loretta said.

Shut up, Cesaria snapped. You heard me, old man. I want you up. As the
instruction left her lips Cadmus's head rolled backward, so that now he
was looking straight up at Cesaria. Then, inch by quivering inch, he
started to rise, his back pressed against the wall; but not of his own
volition. His legs were too wasted to bear him up this way. This was
Cesaria's doing. She was raising him by sheer force of will.

It seemed he was not entirely unhappy to be puppeteered this way. A
tight-lipped smile had crept onto his face, as though in some perverse
way he was taking pleasure in being handled this way; in feeling the
woman's power upon him.

As fascinated as she was appalled, Rachel crossed the room and went to
stand at Loretta's side. "Please, don't do this," she said to Cesaria.
"Let him die in peace."

He doesn't want to die in peace, Cesaria replied. Then, to Cadmus: Do
you? It's better to suffer now, because that way you think you will have

faid your debts. Isn't that what you hope?

Cadmus made the tiniest of nods.

You may be right, by the way, Cesaria said. I don't have any better idea
of what waits for you than you do. Maybe your soul's free after this.
Maybe it's the ones you leave behind who'll pay the real price. She took
another step toward him. Your children. Your grandchildren. Your wife.

She was so close to him now she could have touched him. But she - didn't
need to make physical contact; she had a profound hold on him:

that of her will and her words.

His eyes were filled with tears. His mouth opened a little way, and

he started to speak. It was the ghost of a whisper. "Can't we... make
peace?" he murmured. Peace?

"Your family.., and mine." It's too late for that. "No..."

You had your own flesh and blood murdered by my son, Cesaria You drove
Atva to madness for your ambition. You sowed terrible when you did that.
Terrible, terrible seeds.

The tears were pouring down Cadmus's face now. The

smile had gone; he looked like a mask of tragedy: his mouth down, his
cheeks gouged, his brow furrowed.

"Don't punish them for what I did," he sobbed. "You can this.., war..,
if you want to."

I'm too tired, Cesaria said, and too old. And my children are as ful as
yours are. There's nothing I can do. If you'd come to me fifty ago, and
repented, maybe I could have done something. But now it's

late, for all of us.

,

She drew a little breath, and it seemed that as she did so the Cadmus's
life went from him. His body ceased to shake, his face, tragic mask, was
abruptly wiped clean. There was a long absolute stillness. Then Cesaria
turned to Loretta and said: He's yours, and turned her back on wife and
corpse. The moment she drew her patronage, Cadmus slid back down the
wall like a bones. Loretta let out a tiny cry and went down on her knees
beside

Cesaria wasn't interested in the drama, now that Cadmus

stage. She didn't turn to look back at Loretta keening over the body;

simply strode to the door and out onto the landing. Rachel went after
"Wait!" she called.

She could feel the air in Cesaria's wake becoming agitated. aura rose
off her, like heat off a stove. The air shook and melted. Rachel wasn't
about to let the woman go without at least attempting

question her. Too much had been said that needed explanation. "Help me
understand," she said.

There's nothing you need concern yourself with. It's over now. "No, it's
not! I need to know what happened to Galilee." Why? Cesaria said, still
descending. The emanations were ning to cause some major disturbances
now. The ceiling was peculiar grinding sound, as though the beams were
shaking

plaster; the banister was rocking, as if buffeted by gusts of wind.

"I love him," Rachel said.

Of course you do, Cesaria replied. I'd expect nothing less. "So I want
to help him," Rachel said. She'd hesitated at the the stairs, but
now-realizing that nothing she could was halt Cesaria--she went down
after her. A wave of sickly smelling of camphor and dirt. She plunged
through it, though her eyes until they watered.

Do you know how many men and women have wanted to heal my Atva over the
years? Cesaria said. None of them succeeded. None of them could.

She was at the bottom of the stairs now, and there hesitated for a
moment, as if making up her mind where she would start her blitzkrieg.
If Rachel had entertained any doubt that Cesaria intended to take up the
offer made in Cadmus's room, and wreck the mansion, she had it silenced
now, as the great Venetian mirror hanging in the hallway shook iself
loose and came crashing down, followed in quick succession by every item
on the walls, even to the smallest picture.

Rachel halted, shaken by the sudden violence. Cesaria, meanwhile, moved
off down the passageway toward Cadmus's sitting room. "You should go,"
said a voice above.

Rachel looked up. Loretta had come out onto the landing, and was now
standing at the top of the stairs.

"She won't hurt us," Rehel said; brave talk, though she wasn't entirely
certain it was true. The noise of vandalism had erupted again; dearly
Cesaria was demolishing the sitting room. The woman might not intend to
do any harm, but when such chaotic forces as these were loosed, was
anybody safe?

"Are you leaving?" Rachel said to Loretta.

"Then neither am I."

"Don't go near her, Rachel. What's going on here is beyond you.

It's beyond us both. We're just little people."

"So what? We just give up?"

"We never had a prayer," Loretta said, the expression on her face
bereft. "] see that now. We never had a prayer."

Rachel had watched events transform a lot of people of late: Mitchell,
Cadmus, Galilee. But none of those changes distressed her quite as much
as the one before her now. She'd looked to Loretta as a place of
solidity in a shifting terrain. She'd seemed so certain of her path, and
what measures she had to take to clear the way ahead. Now, suddenly, all
that certainty had drained out of her. Though she'd known Cadmus was not
long for this world, and though she'd certainly known the Barbarossas
were something other than human stock, the proof of those facts had
undone her.

I'm more alone than ever, Rachel thought. I don't even have Loretta now.

The din from the sitting room had died away during this exchange, and
had now ceased entirely. What now? Had Cesaria tired of her furies

already, and decided to leave? Or was she just catching her between
assaults?

"Don't worry about me," Rachel said to Loretta. "I know what doing."

And with that hopeful boast she headed on down the stairs and ir the
passage that led to the sitting room.

A

bizarre sight awaited her. The room which Cadmus Geary had as his
sanctum had been as comprehensively trashed as the room and the lobby,
but two items had been left untouched by assault: the landscape painting
on the wall and a large leather armcha Cesaria sat in the latter looking
at the former, surrounded by a brittle of shards and splinters.
Bierstadt's masterpiece seemed to have entranced. But she was not so
focused upon the canvas that shemis the fact of Rachel's presence.
Without turning to look at her visitor, started to speak.

I went out west.., she said.., many, many years ago.

"Oh?"

I wanted to find somewhere to settle. Somewhere to build my

"And did you?"

No. Most of it was too barren.

"How far west did you go?"

All the way to California, Cesaria replied. I liked California.

couldn't persuade ]efferson to join me.

"Who was Jefferson?"

My architect. A better architect than he was a president, I

Or indeed a lover.

The conversation was rapidly straying into the surreal, but

did her best to keep her amazement to herself. "Thomas Jefferson

your lover?"

For a short while.

"Is he Galilee's father?"

No, I never had a child by him. But I got my house..

"Where did you end up building it?"

Cesaria didn't reply. Instead she got up from the armchair and

wandered over to the painting, apparently indifferent to the shards of

ceramic and glass beneath her bare feet.

Do you like this picture? she asked Rachel. "Not particularly." What's
wrong with it? "I just don't like it."

Cesaria glanced back over her shoulder. You can do better than

that, she said.

"It tries too hard," Rachel said. "It wants to be really impressive and

it ends up inst. being.., big."

You're right, Cesaria said, looking back at the Bierstadt. It does try

too hard. But I like that about it. It moves me. It's very male.

"Too male," Rachel said.

There's no such thing, Cesaria replied. A man can't be too much a

man. And a woman can't be too much a woman.

"You don't seem to try very hard," Rachel replied.

Cesaria turned to face Rachel again, a look of almost comical surprise
on her exquisite features. Are you doubting my femininity? she said.

Challenged, Rachel lost a little of her confidence. She faltered

before beginning to say: "Upstairs--"

You think womanhood should be all sighs and compassion? The

expression on Cesaria's face had lost its comic excess; her eyes were
heavy and hooded. You think I should have sat by that bastard's bed and
comforted him? That's not womanhood. It's trained servitude. If you
wanted to be a bedtender you should have stayed with the Gearys. There's

going to be plenty of deathbeds to tend there.

"Does it have to end this way?"

Yes. I'm afraid it does. I meant what I said to the old man: I'm too old

and I'm too weary to stop war breaking out. She returned her gaze to the
canvas, and studied it for a little time. We finally built the house in
North Carolina, she went on. Thomas would go back and forth to
Monticello, which he was building for himself. Forty years that house of
his took to build, and I don't think he was ever satisfied. But he liked
L'Enfant because he knew how much pleasure it gave me. I wanted to make
it a glorious place. I wanted to fill it with fine things, fine dreams
... Hearing this, Rachel couldn't help but wonder if Cadmus and Kitty,
and later Loretta, hadn't felt something of the same ambition for this
house, which Cesaria had just waged her own war against. Now of course
the Gearys are going to come, and walk into that house of mine and see
some

of those dreams for themselves. And it's going to be very interesting to
which of them is the stronger.

"You seem quite fatalistic about it."

That's because I've known it was coming for a very long time. since
Galilee left, I suppose, somewhere in my heart I've known

come a time when the human world would come looking for us.

"Do you know where Galilee is?"

Where he always is: out at sea. She looked back at Rachel. Is he

you care about? Answer me honestly.

"Yes. He's all I care about."

You know that he can't protect you? He's never been good at

"I don't need protecting."

We all need protecting sometimes, Cesaria said, with a hint of fulness.

"Then let me help him," Rachel said. Cesaria looked at her with'.
strange gentility. "Let me be with him," Rachel went on, "And take, of
him. Let me love him."

The way I should have done, you mean, Cesaria said. Rachel had
opportunity to deny the accusation. Cesaria was up and out of the coming
at her. There aren't many people I've met who'd talk to me

way you talk. Not after having seen all that's gone on here tonight.
"I'm not afraid of you," Rachel said.

I see that. But don't imagine being a woman's any protection. wanted to
harm you

"But you don't. If you hurt me then you hurt Galilee

last thing you want."

You don't know what that child did to me, Cesaria said. You know the
hurt he caused. I'd still have a husband if he'd not the world... She
trailed off, despairing.

"I'm sore/he gave you so much pain," Rachel said. "But I he's never
forgiven himself."

Cesaria's stare was like light in ice. He told you that? she said. "Yes
he did."

Then why didn't he come back home and tell me? Cesaria said. didn't he
just come home and say he was sorry?

:' "Because he was certain you wouldn't forgive him."

I'd have forgiven him. All he had to do was ask and I'd have

him. The light and ice were melting, and running down her Damn you,
woman, she said. Making me weep after all these years. sniffed hard. So
what is it you're asking me to do? she said.

"Find him for me," Rachel replied. "I'll do the rest. I'll bring him
home to you. I swear I will. If I have to drag him myself, H1 bring him
home to you."

Cesaria's tears kept coming, but she didn't bother to wipe them away.
She just stood there, while they fell, her face as naked as Galilee's
had been that first night on the island; all capacity for deception
scoured from it. Her unhappiness was there, plain to see; and the rage
she'd nurtured against him all these years. But so too was her love for
him; her tender love, planted among these griefs.

You should go back to the Garden Island, she said. And wait for him.
Rachel scarcely dared believe what she was hearing. "You'll find

him for me?" she said.

IF: he'll let me, Cesaria said. But you make sure he comes home to me,

woman, you understand? That's our bargain.

"I understand."

Bring him back to L'Enfant, where he belongs. Somebody's going to

have to bury me, when all this is over. And I want it to be him.

ii

"Are we at war then?"

That was the question Luman had asked me, the day I went down

to the Smoke House to make my peace with him. I didn't have an answer
for him at the time. Now I do. Yes, we're at war with the Gearys, though
I would still be hard-pressed to tell him when that war actually began.

Perhaps, in reflection, that's true of all wars. The war between the

states for instance, from the furnace of which the Gearys rose to such
wealth and power--when did that begin? Was it the moment that the first
shot was fired at Fort Sumter? That's certainly a convenient choice for
historians: they can pinpoint the day, the date and even the man--a
trigger-happy civilian called Edmund Ruffin--who did the firing. But of
course by the time this even takes place the grinding work of war had
been under way for many years. The enmities which fueled that work in
fact go back generations, nurtured and mythologized in the hearts of the
people who will bankrupt their economies and sacrifice their sons for
that enmity.

So it is with the war between the Gearys and the Barbarossas: though

its first casualty, Margie, may only just be in the ground and the
knives have only lately been sharpened, the plots and counterplots that
have brought us to this moment go back a long, long way. Back to
Charleston,

in the early spring of 1865: Charles Holt and Nub Nickelberry into
Galilee's strange boudoir in the ruins of the East Battery, and
themselves over to pleasure. Had they known what they were would they
have done otherwise? I suspect not. They were living in= moment of their
hunger and their despair; if they'd been told, as soled themselves with
cake and meat and the comfort of kisses, consequences of their
sensuality would be very terrible, a hundred some years hence, they
would have said: so what? And who would blamed them? I would have done
the same, in their boots. You can't through life worrying about what the
echoes of the echoes of the of your deeds will be; you have to do what
you can with the moment, : let others take care of their moment when it
comes.

So I lay no blame with Charles and Nub. They lived their and moved on
into the hereafter. Now we have our lives to live, they will be marked
by a period of war that may undo us all. It will suspect, a subtle war,
at least at the beginning, its significance lated not in the number of
coffins it fills, but in the scale of the stru tures it finally brings
to ruin. I don't simply speak of physical (though those too will
inevitably come down); I speak of the edifices of influence and power
and ambition that both our have constructed over the years. When this
war is over, I doubt any, them will still be standing. There will be no
victor: that's my The two clans will simply cancel one another out.

No great loss, you may say, knowing what you now know There's a certain
pettiness in the best of us, and such malice in worst that their passing
will probably be something to be celebrated.

My only hope as we move into these darker times is

will uncover some quality in one or other of us (I dare not hope all)
will disprove my pessimism. I don't wish to say that war is you
understand; I don't believe that for a moment. But I do may strip us of
some of the pretensions that are the dubious peace-the airs and graces
that we've all put on--and return us truer selves. To our humanity or
our divinity; or both.

So, I'm ready. The pistol lies on one side of my desk, and my pen beside
it. I intend to sit here and go on writing until the very can no longer
promiseyou that I'll finish this story before I have to my pen aside and
arm myself. That only everything of mine now like the remotest of
dreams: one of those pretensions of peace talking about a few paragraphs
back.

I will promise you this: that in the chapters to come I won't toy with
your affections, as though we had a lifetime together. I'll be as plain
as I know how, doing what I can to furnish you with the means to finish
this history in your own head should I be stopped by a bullet.

And--while I'm thinking of that--maybe this isn't an inappropriate place
to beg mercy from those I've neglected or misrepresented here. You've
been reading the work of a man learning his craft word by word, sentence
by sentence; I've often stumbled, I've often failed.

Forgive me my frailties. And if I am deserving of that forgiveness, let
it be because I am not my father's son, but only human. And let the
future be such a time as this is reason enough to be loved.

PART EIGHT

House of Women

I was in a fine, maudlin mood when I wrote the last portion of the
preceding chapter; with hindsight it seems somewhat premature. The
barbarians aren't here yet, after all. Not even a whiff of their
cologne. Perhaps I'll never need the gun Luman gave me. Wouldn't that be
a fine old ending to my epic? After hundreds of pages of expectation,
nothing. The Gearys decide they've had enough; Galilee stays out at sea;
Rachel waits on the beach but never sees him again. The din of war drums
dwindles, and they finally fall silent.

Clearly Luman doesn't believe there's much likelihood of this happening.
A little while ago he brought me two more weapons; one of them a fine
cavalry saber, which he'd polished up until it gleamed, the other a
short stabbing sword which was owned, and presumably used, by a
Gonfederate artilleryman. He'd worked to polish this also, he told me,
but it hadn't been a very rewarding labor: the metal refused to gleam.
That said, the weapon possesses a brutal simplicity. Unlike the sword,
which has a patrician elegance, this is a gutting weapon; you can feel
its purpose in its heft. It fairly begs to be used.

He stayed an hour or two, chatting about things, and by the time I got
back to writing it was dark. I was making notes toward the scene in
which Garrison Geary visits the room where Gadmus died--and was
thoroughly immersed in the details--when there was a knock on the door
and Zabrina presented herself. She had a summons for me, from Cesaria.

"So Mama's home?" I said.

"Are you being sarcastic?" she said.

"No," I protested. "It was a simple observation. Mama's home. That's
good. You should be happy."

"I am," she said, still suspicious that I was mocking her earlier
dramas.

"Well I'm happy that you're happy. There. Happy?" "Not really," she
said. "Why the hell not?"

She's not the woman she was

"Maybe that's all to the good," I said. Zabrina didn't remark she just
tightened her lips. "Anyway, why are you so surprised. course she's
different. She's ]ost one of her enemies." Zabrina lo me blankly. "She
didn't tell you?"

"She ki]]ed Cadmus Geary. Or at least she was there when he, It's hard
to know which is true."

	"So what does that mean for us?" Zabrina said.

	"I've been trying to figure that out myself."

She eyed the three weapons on my desk. "You're ready worst," she said.

	"They were a gift from Luman. Do you want one?"

"No thank you," she said. "I've got my own ways of dealing these people
if they come here. Is it going to be Garrison Geary, good-looking
brother?"

"I didn't realize you were following all this," I said. "It could b

"I hope it's the good-looking one," Zabrina said. "I could put| to good
use."

"Doing what?"

"You know very well," she said. I was astonished that she was so
forthright, but then why shouldn't she be? Everybody else was ing their
true colors. Why not Zabrina?

"I could happily have that man in my bed," she went on.

a wonderful head of hair."

"Unlike your Dwight."

"Dwight and I still enjoy one another when the mood takes she said.

"So it's true," I said, "you did seduce him when he first

"Of course I seduced him, Maddox," she said. "You think him in my room
all that time because I was teaching him the al Marietta's not the only
one in the family with a sex drive, you She crossed to the desk and
picked up the saber. "Are you really to use this?"

"If I have to."

"When was the last time you killed a man?"

"I never have."

"Really?" she said. "Not even when you were out

Papa?"

"Never."

"Oh it's fun," she said, with a gleam in her eye. This was turning into
a most revelatory conversation, I thought.

"When did you ever kill anyone?" I asked her.

"I don't know if I want to tell you," she said.

"Zabrina, don't be so silly. I'm not going to write about it." I watched
her expression as I said this, and saw a flicker of disappointment
there. "Unless you want me to," I added.

A tiny smile appeared on her lips. The woman who'd once told me--in no
uncertain terms--that she despised the notion of appearing in this book
had been overtaken by somebody who found the idea tantalizing. "I
suppose if I don't tell you and you don't write it down nobody's ever
going to know..."

"Know what?" She frowned, nibbling at her lip. I wished I'd had a box of
bonbons to offer her, or a slice of pecan pie. But the only seduction I
had to hand was my pen. "I'll tell it exactly as you tell it to me," I
said to her. "Vghatever it is. I swear."

Still she stood there, biting her lip. "Now you're just playing with
me," I told her. "If you don't want to tell me then don't."

"No, no, no," she said hurriedly. "I want to tell you. It's just
strange, after all these years..."

"If you knew the number of times I've thought that very thing, while I
was writing. This book's going to be full of things that have never been
told but should be. And you're right. It's a strange feeling, admitting
to things."

"Have you admitted to things?"

"Ohhhh yes," I said, sitting back in my chair. "Hard things sometimes.
Things that make me look pretty bad."

"Well this doesn't make me look bad, exactly..." I waited, hoping my
silence would encourage her to spit it out. The trick worked. "About a
year after Dwight came to live with me," she said, "I went out to
Sampson County to find his family. He'd told me what they'd done to him,
and it was.., so horrible. The cruelty of these people. I knew he wasn't
lying about it because he had the scars. He had cigarette burns all over
his back and on his butt. His older brother used to torture him. And
from his father, different kinds of scars." She seemed genuinely moved
at her recollections of the harm he'd been done. Her tiny eyes
glistened. "So I thought I'd pay them a visit. Which I did. I made
friends with his mother, which wasn't very difficult. She obviously
didn't have anyone to talk to. The family were pariahs. Nobody wanted
anything to do with them. Anyway, she invited me over one night. I
offered to bring

over some steak for the menfolk. She said they'd like that. There five
brothers and the father, so I brought six steaks and I fried 'em while
they all sat in the backyard and drank.

"The mother knew what I was doing, I swear. She could sense She kept
looking at me while I cooked up the steaks. I was adding a the of this,
a little of that. It was a special recipe for the men in her I told her.
And she looked at me dead in the eye and she said: They deserve it. So
she knew what I was going to do.

"She even helped me serve them. We put the steaks out on plates--big
steaks they were, and I'd cooked them so rare and tei swimming in blood
and grease the way she'd said her boys liked then we put them on the
plates and she said: I had another boy, but away. And I told her: I
know. And she said: I know you know.

"Then we gave them their steaks. The poison didn't take They were dead
after half a dozen bites. Terrible waste of good but it did the job.
There they were, sitting in the backyard with the coming out, their
faces black, and their lips curled back from teeth. It was quite a
night..."

She fell silent. The possibility of tears had passed.

"What happened to the mother?"

"She packed up and left there and then."

"And the bodies?"

"I left them in the yard. I didn't want to bring them back Godless sons
of bitches. I hope they rotted where they sat, though doubt they did.
Somebody probably smelled them the next day, the sun got up."

A hundred thousand words ago, I thought, I'd wondered in pages if the
family of Dwight Huddie ever wondered about their son. Now I had the
answer.

"Did you tell Dwight what you did?"

"No," Zabrina said. "I never did. I never told anybody until "And did
you really enjoy it?" I asked her.

She thought on this a moment. Finally, she said: "Yes I did. I pose I
got that from Mama. But I remember distinctly looking at bastards dead,
and thinking: I have a talent for this. And you there's nothing in the
world more fun than doing something good at." She seemed to realize that
she wasn't going to be able to

on this as a departure line, because she gave me a crooked little

and without another word, she headed for the door, and was gone.

a

tonishment upon astonishment. I would never have believed Zarina would
be capable of such a thing. And the way it just came out like that, in
the most matter-of-fact way; amazing. The truth is, it gives me hope. It
makes me think I've maybe underestimated our ability as a family to
oppose the powers that are going to come our way. At the very least
we'll take a few of the bastards with us when we go. Zabrina can get
Mitchell Geary into bed, and when she's had her wicked way, poison him.

Anyway, I went to see Cesaria.

It wasn't as oppressive up there as it had been the last time I'd
entered her chambers, nor was Cesaria lying inert on her bed. She was
sitting in the Jefferson room, which Zabrina told me was an extremely
rare thing for her to do. It was a little before dawn; there were
candles lit around the room, which flattered it considerably. Their
light mellowed Cesaria too. She sat at the table, sipping hot tea and
looking resplendent. There was no trace of the vengeful creature I'd
seen unleashed in the Geary house. She invited me to sit down, and
offered me some tea, which Zelim brought and set before me. Zabrina had
already gone. There was just the two of us; and I will admit I was a
little nervous. Not that I feared she was going to fly into an
uncontrollable fury and tear the house apart. It simply made me anxious
to be in the company of someone who contained such power, but who was
displaying not a mote of it. It was like taking tea with a man-eating
tiger; I couldn't help but wonder when she was going to show her claws.

"I'm leaving again, very soon," she explained. "And this time- just so
you know--I may not come back. If I don't return, then the control of
this house falls to you." I asked her where she was off to. "To find

Galilee," she said.

"I see."

"And if I can, to save him from himself." 'Tou know he's out at sea?" I
said. "Yes, I know.",

"I wish I could tell you where. But you probably already know." "No. I
don't. That's one of the reasons why I'm putting you notice that I may
not return. There was a time when I'd have visions him almost every day,
but I put them out of my head-- I didn't want: deal with him--and now
he's invisible to me. I'm sure he worked make it so."

"So why do you want to find him now?" .. "To persuade him that he's
loved." "So you want him to come home?"

Cesaria shook her head. "It's not me who loves him..." she sa "It's
Rachel."

"Yes. It's Rachel." Cesaria set down her teacup and took out one her
little Egyptian cigarettes. She passed the packet over to me. I one, and
lit up. It was the foulest tasting thing I've ever smoked.

"I never thought I'd hear myself say this but what that woman

for Galilee may be the saving of us all. Do you not like the ci

"No, it's fine."

"I think they taste like camel dung personally, but they have

mental associations."

"Yes?"

'Tour father and I spent some blissful weeks in Cairo

before he met your mother..."

"So when you smoke them you remember him?"

"No, when I smoke them I remember an Egyptian boy Muhammed, who fucked
me among the crocodiles on the banks Nile."

I coughed so hard tears came to my eyes, which

"Oh poor Maddox," she said when I'd recovered myse

"you've never really known what to make of me, have you?" "Frankly, no."

"I suppose I've kept you a distance because you're not mine. I

at you and you remind me of what a philanderer your father was. hurts.
After all these years, that still hurts. You know, you look very your
mother. Around the mouth, especially."

"How can you say that it hurts you to be reminded that he philanderer
when you were just telling me about fucking with Egyptian?"

"I did it to spite your father. My heart was never really in it. No take
that back. There were occasions when I was in love. Jefferson course. I
was completely besotted with Jefferson. But doing the among the
crocodiles? That was for spite. I did a lot of thin

"And he did the same?"

"Of course. Spite begets spite. He used to have women morning, noon and
night."

"And he loved none of them?"

"Are you asking me whether he truly loved your mother?"

I drew a bitter lungful of the cigarette. Of course that was what I
wanted to know. But now it came time to ask the question, I was tongue
tied, even a little emotional. And even as I felt the tears pricking my
eyes another part of me--the part that's dispassionately setting this
account on the page--was thinking: what's all the drama about? Why the
hell should it matter, after all these years, what your father felt for
your mother the day they conceived you? Would you really feel better
about yourself if you knew they'd been in love?

"Listen carefully," Cesaria said. "I'm going to tell you something that
may make you a little happier. Or at least, let you understand better
how it was between your parents.

"Your mother was illiterate when Nicodemus met her. She was really a
sweet woman, I have to say, a very sweet woman, but she couldn't even
write her name. I think your father rather liked her that way, frankly,
but she was ambitious for herself, and who can blame her? They were hard
times for men and women, but for a woman like her, her beauty was her
only advantage, and she knew that wasn't going to last forever.

"She wanted to be able to read and write-more than anything in the
world--and she begged your father to teach her. Over an dover she

begged him. It was like an obsession with her--"

"So you knew her?"

"I met her a few times only. At the beginning, when he was showing her
off to me, and at the very end, H1 come to that in a moment.

"Anyway, she tormented your father night and day about teaching her to
read--teach me, teach me, teach me--until eventually he consented. Of
course he didn't have the patience to do it the way ordinary folks would
do it. He didn't want to waste his precious time with A B Cs. He just
put his will into her and the knowledge flowed. She learned to read and
write overnight. Not just English. Greek, Hebrew, Italian,

French, Sanskrit--" "What a gift." "So she believed.

"You were about three weeks old when this happened. Such a quiet little
baby; with that same frown you have on your face right now. One day you
had a mother who couldn't read a word, and the next day

the woman could have made intelligent conversation with Socrates me tell
you, it was quite a transformation. And of course she wanted use what
she'd learned. She started to read, anything your father bring her.
She'd be sitting there with you suckling, and a dozen open on the table,
going from one to the other, holding all these in her head at the same
time. She kept demanding books and he bringing them. Plutarch, St.
Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Ptolemy, gil, Herodotus--there was no end to
her appetite.

"Nicodemu.s was proud as a peacock. 'Look at my genius

She talks dirty in Greek!' He didn't know what he'd done. He have the
first clue. Her poor brain, it was cooking in her skull. And the while
she was suckling you..."

It was quite an image. My mother, surrounded by books, with pressed
against her breast, and her head so filled with words and her brain was
frying in its pan.

"That's horrible ..." I murmured.

"It gets worse, so prepare yourself. Word started to spread, and in
couple of weeks she'd become a celebrity. Do you have any recollect of
this? Of the crowds?" I shook my head. "People started to

all over England, eventually all over Europe, to see your mother." "And
what did father do?"

"Oh he got tired of the hoopla very quickly. I'm sure he

what he'd done, because he asked me if maybe he should take what he'd
given. I told him I didn't care what he did. She was his lem, not mine.
I regret that now. I should have said something. I

have saved her life. And when I think back, I knew..."

"You knew what--?"

"--what it was doing to her. I could see it in her eyes. It was than her
poor, human brain could take.

"Then, one night, she apparently asked your father to bring pen and
paper. He refused her. He said he wasn't going to let her time writing
while she should be tending to you. Your mother fit, and she just took
herself off, leaving you behind.

"Of course, your father had no idea how to deal with a tiny

so he handed you over to me." "You looked after me?" "For a little
while."

"And he went to find my mother?"

"That's right. It took him a few days, but he found her. She'd

to the house of a man in Blackheath, and exchanged her sexual

for an endless supply of what Nicodemus had refused her: pen and paper.

"What did she write.

"I don't know. Your father never showed it to me. He said it was
incomprehensible. Whatever it was, it must have been very important to
your mother, because she'd worked night and day on it, scarcely stopping
to eat or sleep. When he brought her back to the house she was a shadow
of herself: thin as a stick, her hands and face all stained with ink.
She didn't make any sense when she talked. It was a crazy mixture of all
the languages she knew, and all the things she'd read. Listening to her
was enough to make you crazy yourself: the way she spewed out all these
bits and pieces that had nothing to do with one another, all the time
looking at you as if to say: please understand me, please, please--

"I thought maybe she'd feel better if she had you back in her arms, so I
brought her to the crib, and I gently told her you needed to be fed. She
seemed to know what I was saying to her. She picked you up and rocked
you for a little while, then she went to sit down by the fire where she
always fed you. And she'd no sooner sat down than she gave a little
sigh, and died."

"Oh my God..."

"You rolled out of her arms and fell to the floor. And you began to cry.
For the first time, you began to cry, and from then on--having been the
quietest, most gentle little baby--from then on you were a monster. You
wept and you screamed and I don't think I saw you smile again, oh for
years."

"What did my father do?" "About you or her7" "Her."

"He took her body and he buried her somewhere in Kent. Dug the grave
himself, and stayed with her, mourning her for weeks on end.

Leaving me to take care of you, I may add, which I didn't thank him
for." "But you didn't stay with me," I said. "Gisela..."

"Yes, Gisela came to take care of you. She looked after you for the next
six or seven years. So now you know," Cesaria said. "I don't know what
good it does. It's all so long ago..."

A long silence hung between us; each of us, I suppose, in our own
thoughts. I was remembering Gisela, or at least the Gisela I imagine in
my dreams. First I hear her voice--she had a thin, reedy voice--singing
some lilting song. Then I see the sky; small white clouds passing over.
And finally her face comes into view, smiling as she sings, and I
realize

again. But the last four days had seen such a vertiginous descent
frailty that he had no reserves of energy left. Even if he'd wanted to
himself and his vessel now, it was too late. He'd let go of his desire
live, and his body--which had survived so many excesses-- into a state
of decay. He wasn't even visited by deliriums now, he was still drinking
two bottles of brandy a day. His mind was exhausted to hallucinate; just
as his limbs were too weary to bear up. He lay on the pitching deck,
staring up at the sky, and waited.

Toward dusk, he thought the moment had come; the moment of death that
is. He'd been watching the sun drop into the ocean, clouds it burned
through as molten as the water below, when Samarkand suddenly fell
absolutely silent around him. The boards up their complaints, the
tattered canvas was stilled.

He raised his head off the deck a few inches. The sun was falling, but
its descent had slowed. So had his pulse, as body--knowing it was close
to the end--had become covetous of. sensation, and was turning down its
flame so that it could burn the longer. Just until the sun disappeared;
until the sky lost the color; until he could see the Southern Cross,
bright above.

What a mess his life had been, what an ungainly

There was scarcely a part of it he didn't have reason to regret. he have
any excuses for what he'd done. He'd come into the world all the
blessings of divinity, and he was leaving it empty-handed, gift he'd
been given wasted. Worse than wasted: turned to cruel poses. He'd hurt
so many people (few of them true innocents, but that was no comfort
now); he'd allowed himself to be reduced common assassin, in service of
mere ambition. Human Geary ambition; the hunger to own stockyards and
railroads and and forests, to govern people and states; to be little
kings.

They'd almost all of them passed away, of course, and many he'd been
there to witness their last moments: their tears, their prayers, their
desperate hope for redemption. Why hadn't he the lessons of those
departures? Why hadn't he changed his life, what death was like? Defied
his masters, and dared go home to forgiveness?

Why, in the end; was he alone, and frightened, when he'd born into
certainties the faiths of the world would have given all dogmas and
their holy books to taste?

There was only one face he could bring to mind without agony; only one
soul he hadn't betrayed. He said her name as the disc of the

sun touched the sea, and the last phase of its descent, and his, began.
"Rachel," he murmured. "Wherever you are... I love you..." Then he
closed his eyes.

GIV

G

arrison Geary stood in his grandfather's bedroom and surveyed the scene
before him with a tic of exhilaration in his belly. It was hard to
suppress his happiness, but he was doing his best. He'd made a brief,
somber statement to the press, explaining that nobody yet knew the
precise circumstances of Cadmus Geary's passing, but that it hadn't come
as any great surprise to anyone. He'd then gone on to spend a
frustrating hour with Loretta, in which he'd attempted to get her to
tell him what had taken place in the house. There were plenty of rumors
flying, he told her; the din of destruction had been audible a block
away. Wouldn't it be better if she told him the truth, so that he could
present the facts to the authorities and the press in a suitably
doctored form, rather than their being reduced to speculation like
everyone else? She couldn't help him, she said; she simply didn't
remember. Whatever the nature of the cataclysm, it had driven all
recollection out of her head. Maybe it would all come back, given time.
But right now, he and the police and the press would have to invent
their own answers to whatever questions they had.

All this was fabrication, of course; she didn't even attempt to make it
sound particularly plausible. She just mouthed the words, and defied him
to contradict her. He chose not to challenge her, at least for now. He
could afford to wait. Lord knows, he'd learned patience, playing the
supplicant grandchild while Gadmus held on to his life and his power.
Now the old bastard was gone, and Loretta was almost out of cards to
play. The only thing she had left in her hand was the truth; and being
the cool player she was she'd hold on to it for as long as she could. It
would avail her nothing. Events would move quickly now, and before she
knew it the card she held would be valueless. He'd pluck it out of her
fingers, for

euriosity's sake, when she was out of the game completely.

Mitchell came to join him in the bedroom.

"I had a few words with Jocelyn," he said. "She always liked me."

"So?"

"So I got her to tell me what happened." Mitchell wandered

to the old man's bed, milking the moment for all it was worth. "For
thing, Rachel was here."

"So what?" Garrison said, with a shrug. "She's an irrel, Mitchell. For
God's sake start treating her like one."

"Don't you think it's suspicious that she was here?"

"Suspicious how?"

"Maybe she's working with whoever did this. Maybe she let tt in. Then
helped them get away."

Garrison stared at his brother with that waxwork look of his.

ever did this," he said slowly, "does not need help from your

wife, Mitchell. Do you understand me?"

"Don't talk to me that way," Mitchell said, jabbing his finger in
brother's direction. "I'm not an imbecile and neither's Rachel. She:

hold of the journal, remember that."

Garrison ignored the remark.

"What else did Jocelyn tell you?" he said.

"Nothing."

"That's all you got out of her?"

"That's more than you got out of Loretta."

"Fuck Loretta."

"Has it ever occurred to you that we might be unde

these people--" "Let it go."

"No, you listen to me. They could be conspiring behind backs."

"Let 'em. What the fuck can a couple of women do?"

"You don't know Rachel."

"Yes I do," Garrison said wearily. "I've seen her type over and She's
nobody. Anything she has, you gave her, this family gave She's not worth
one minute of our time." With this he turned his on his brother, and
walked away. He was almost at the door when quietly Mitchell said:

"I can't get her out of my mind. I want to. I know what you right. But I
can't stop thinking about her."

Garrison stopped and, after a moment, pivoted on his heel Mitchell
again. "Oh," he said, very slowly. He regarded his brother a new
sympathy. "What do you want to hear?" he said. "Do you me to tell you
it's okay to get her back? If that's what you really get her."

"I don't know how," Mitchell said. His anger had drained away
completely; suddenly he was Garrison's little brother, desperate for
guidance. "I don't even know why I want her. I mean, you're right: She's
a

nobody. She's nothing. But when I think of her with that.., animal..."
Garrison smiled, comforted. "Oh I see. It's Galilee."

"I don't want her near him. I don't even want her thinking about him."

"You can't stop her thinking." He paused for a moment, the smile still
on his lips. "Well... you can, but you probably don't want to go that
far."

"I've thought about it," Mitchell said. "Believe me. I've thought about
it."

"That's how it starts," Garrison said. "You think about it and you think
about it and one day the opportunity presents itself. And you do it."
Mitchell stared at the littered carpet. Garrison stared at Mitchell.
There

was a long silence. Finally Garrison said: "Is that what you want?" "I
don't know."

"So think about it some more." "Yes ." "Good."

"No. I mean: yes, that's what I want." He was shaking. Still staring at
the ground, and shaking. "I want to know nobody is ever going to have
her but me. I married her; I made her into something." He looked up now,
his eyes wet. "Didn't I7 Didn't I make her into something?"

"You don't have to convince me, Mitch," Garrison said, oh-sogendy. "It's
like I said: just a question of the right opportunity."

"I made her into something and she turned her fucking back on me as
though I was nothing."

"You want to punish her for that. Of course. It's natural."

"What do I do?"

"Well for one thing, you find out where she is. Make nice to her." "What
the hell forT"

"So she doesn't suspect anything."

"Okay."

"And then we'll sit down after the old man's buried and we'll work

out how to get this sorted out for you."

"I'd like that."

Garrison opened his arms. "Come here," he said. Mitchell went to him.
Garrison hugged him tight. "I'm glad you told me," he said, his mouth
against his brother's cheek. "I didn't realize how much you were
hurting."

"She just treated me like shit."

Garrison patted his back. "It's okay," he said. "I understand

okay. We've got a long way to go, you and me. And I want you

"I know you do."

"So whatever it takes to make it better, that's what we'll do. got my
word on that, okay? Whatever it takes."

V

ater, Garrison went to see a lady whose company he hadn't several weeks:
his lovely and ever-accommodating Melodic. thoroughly relaxing to keep
such quiet company after the stresses day. He watched her lying there
for fully half an hour, touching chilly feet now and again; her thighs,
her belly; slipping his fingers her pussy. Lord, she was good at her
job. Not once did she flinch, when he rolled her over and roughly fucked
her ass.

When he'd shot his load into her he didn't leave, as he would mally have
done. He went into the narrow lime-green bathroom washed his dick and
his reddened neck, then returned to sit and her for a while longer. In
rolling her over he'd crushed the round her body, and their perfume
seemed to quicken all his Her skin looked almost luminous to him, the
brandy he sipped rained nuances of flavor he could not remember tasting
before; the glass was silky against his fingertips.

What was happening to him? It was as though there was

of transformation about to take place; as though the Garrison been--the
dogged, nose-to-the-grindstone Garrison whose had never truly inspired
anybody, least of all himself--was about to sloughed offlike a dead
skin, and something else show itse brighter, stronger, stranger.

It was surely no coincidence that this other self was only

out of hiding now that Cadmus was dead. The old regime was

Its rules, its hypocrisies, its limitations were a thing of the past. It
time for something new to make itself known; to impress its upon the
world. And that something was moving in himdeep, in him--tantalizing his
senses with the bliss that would come made itself known.

Yes, of course a corner of him was afraid of the prospect. Any
transfiguration was a kind of death; a passing away of what had been in
order to make room for what was to come. But he wouldn't be losing
anything he'd much cared for. The man known as Garrison Geary had been a
construct; he'd learned by example-much of it Cadmus's--how to present a
bland, civil face to people so as to distract their attention from his
real motives. Naively enough, he'd assumed those motives were identical
to those of his mentor: the advancement of the family, the accrual of
wealth and power and influence.

Now he knew better; and what more perfect place to come to that
realization than here, where 'he'd showed a truer face than he'd ever
shown his family? Shown it, but been unseen, because its only witness
had never opened her eyes.

Perhaps it was time. He set down his brandy glass, got up off the chair,
and went over to the bed. The woman remained as still as stone. He
reached across her body, hooked his hands beneath her, and rolled her
over onto her back. She rolled most convincingly. He went down on

his haunches, and lay his hand, palm down, on her stomach.

"The game's over..." he said.

She didn't move. He lifted his hand off her belly and laid it against
her breast.

"I can feel your heart," he said. "You're good at what you do, but I can
always feel your heart." He leaned close to her. "Open your eyes."

He eaked her nipple. "No rnore playing dead. I'm resurrecting you." A
tiny frown nicked her brow.

"You've been wonderful," he went on, "really. Very convincing.

But I don't want to play any more."

She opened her eyes.

"Brown," he said. "Your eyes are brown. I always thought they'd be
blue."

"You're done with me?" the woman said. Her voice was slightly slurred.
Perhaps she played the corpse so well because she was in a drugged
state.

"I'll be done with you when I tell you I'm done with you," Garrison
said, "not before."

"You said you didn't want to play any more." "Not that game," he said.
"Another." "What?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm not letting you mess with me--"

Garrison laughed, so hard and loud the whore gaped. Then reached out and
took hold of her breast. "I can do what the luck I to you. I'm paying
for your company. And you're very expensive."

She visibly brightened at the mention of her commercial "What do you
want?" she said, looking down at his hand, the

which were digging deep into her breast. "Look at me." "What?"

"Just look at me. At my eyes. Look into my eyes."

She let out a halfhearted giggle, like a little girl playing a game. The
incongruity of it made Garrison smile. "What's your he said. "Your real
name."

"Melodie's my real name," she replied. "My mother says

because I was singing to myself even before I was baptized."

"Your mother's still alive?"

"Oh sure. She moved to Kentucky. I'm going to move there too soon as I
get enough money. I want to get out of New York. I hate it.'

With his newly sharpened sight Garrison seemed to be able right into her
as she spoke. She was bruised to the marrow,

whatever hopes she'd ever had for herself gone to hell.

"What would you do in Kentucky?" he said.

"Oh ... I'd like to have a little hairdressing place. I'm good

ing people's hair."

"Really?"

"But... I don't..." The words slid away.

"Listen to me," Garrison said, his hand going up to her face. "If, want
something you have to have faith. And patience. Things when you least
expect them."

"That's what I used to think. But it's not true. It's a waste of hoping
for things."

Garrison suddenly stood up, his motion so abrupt flinched. He gave her
reason: a blow across the face so hard she back onto the bed. A sob
escaped her, but she didn't try to move outl his range.

"I shoulda known," she said. She raised her head off the bed.

of shock ran from the corners of her eyes, but she didn't other
concerned. She'd been struck before, many times. It had its price,
everything. "You leave marks, and it'll cost you," she said. She sat
again, presenting her face to him. "It'll cost you big time," she said.

"Then I'd better make sure I get my money's worth, hadn't I?" said, and
struck her again so hard spatters of blood hit the wall.

He got her to beg him to stop eventually, but it took time. She let him
strike her over an dover--mainly her face, but on occasion her breasts
and thighs. Only when she was so sick from his assault that she fell,
and found that she was too weak to get up again, did she tell him she'd
had enough. He didn't listen, of course. The more he hurt her, the more
he felt that bright, strange self rising up in himi and the more it rose
the more he wanted to hurt her.

Only once did he pause, catching his reflection in the mirror, his face
shiny with sweat and exhilaration. He'd never been a narcissist, unlike
Mitchell; never enjoyed the sight of himself. But now he liked the way
he looked, more than a little. There was a magnificence about him, no
question. He began to beat the woman with renewed vigor, deaf to her
protests, her sobs, her pathetic attempts at negotiation. She would do
this, she would do that, if only he would leave her alone. He ignored
her, and beat on, blow after blow after blow, driving her into that
corner where she attempted to rise, and finding that she couldn't, began
to panic.

She was afraid for her life, he saw; afraid that in his new state he
would casually dispatch her. As soon as he saw that look, he stopped
striking her, and without another word returned to the bathroom to piss
and wash his hands. There had been nothing faintly arousing about what
he'd just done. He suspected he was beyond arousal now (it was too
human: a thing of the past). With his hands clean and his bladder
emptied he went back into the bedroom.

"I need your full name," he said to the woman, who had made an attempt
to crawl to the door (which he had locked anyway, pocketing the key).

The woman mumbled something he didn't comprehend. He pulled the chair
out from the table, and sat down.

"Try again," he said. "It's very important." He reached into his jacket
and pulled out his wallet and his checkbook. "I'm going to give you some
money," he said. "Enough money for you to go to join your mother in
Kentucky and buy yourself a little business, and start over."

Even in her confused and semiconscious state Melodic understood what she
was being told. "This is a filthy, perverted city," Garrison went on,
"and I want you to promise me that if I give you this money--" he was
writing the check now "--let's say a million dollars--that you will
never come back. Never. Your full name."

The woman had begun to sob quietly. "Melodic Lara Hubbard," she said.

"I'm not paying you this for what I just did to you," Garrison sai,

he wrote, "I did that because I wanted to, not because you were offe me
a service. And I'm not paying you to stop you going to some su market
gossip rag. I couldn't give a luck who you tell. Do you stand? I
couldn't care less. I'm giving you this because I want you have some
faith." He signed the check, then took a card from his and scrawled a
short sentence on the back of it. "You take this to lawyer, Gecil Gurry,
tomorrow, and he'll make sure the funds get ferred." He got up from the
table and put the check and the card on bed, among the crushed flowers.
Melodic squinted at the row noughts Garrison had set down. Yes, there
were six, preceded by a lar sign and a one.

	"I'll leave you to clean up then," Garrison said, fishing the he

his pocket. "Be clever with what you've been given. People like don't
come along very often." He inserted the key, turned it, opened the door.
"In fact, they never come along twice. So you yourself lucky." He smiled
at her. "And you name one of your kids me, huh? The one you love the
most."

VI

G

arrison didn't sleep for most of the rest of the night. He went to the
apartment in the Trump Tower, and took a long shower, which left him
feeling pleasantly tender. Then he sat in armchair where he'd sat
talking with Mitchell about Margie's He'd felt inviolate that night, but
the feeling was nothing beside sense of power that suffused him now.

He sat through the rest of the night, thinking what his next should be.
Plainly he had first to make good on his promise to which prospect
pleased him. The Pallenberg woman posed no threat t him whatsoever, but
if she was such a thorn in his brother's side, then was better for all
concerned that she be summarily dealt with, as had been dealt with. Once
that was done he'd have Mitche tion, and they could begin their real
work. He didn't doubt that ever the nature of the other self he'd
discovered rising in him, in Mitchell. Dormant, but there to be awoken,
and called out glory. What a revelation they'd make together!

At dawn, with a pleasant weariness finally coming over him, he retired
to bed. He slept for no more than two hours, and dreamed a species of
dream his head had never before entertained.

He dreamed he was floating through a great forest. The canopy was thick
overhead, but not so thick that sunlight didn't pierce it, falling warm
on his upturned face. Somebody was taking to him-a woman, her voice
light and happy. He couldn't understand anything that she was saying,
but he knew there was love in the words, and that the love was for him.

He wanted to see her face; he wanted to know what kind of beauty he had
accompanying him. But though he tried to make his dream gaze obey his
will, and shift in the direction of her voice, he was not sufficiently
master of himself. All he could do was float, and listen, and feel the
sweetness in the woman's voice bathing him, caressing him.

Finally, his motion slowed, and then stopped. For a moment he hovered
there, and then he was slowly lowered to the ground. Only now, when he
was laid in grass that was tall enough to partially obscure his view,
did he realize that he had not been traveling independently, as he'd
thought, but been carried: that in this dream he was a babe in arms. And
now, majestically, the woman who'd carried him walked into view. Her
back was turned to him, her focus fixed upon a house, a magnificent
house, which was situated some distance from them.

He started to cry. He wanted the woman to come and pick him up again.
But she just kept looking at the house, and though he couldn't see her
face something about the way she stood, her arms hanging at

had deserted her, and that now she was consumed with yearning. She
wanted to be there, in that splendid, white-pillared place, but she was
forbidden.

And still he bawled, doing his best to get her to attend to him, his

sobs echoing around the glade of moss-draped trees with such violence
birds rose in panic from the branches and fled away. Finally, she gave

up watching the house, and looked back at him.

It was his mother.

Why was he so astonished by that? Why did the sight of her face so

startle him that the dream-scene fluttered and threatened to be
extinguished? It was his mother; mothers were supposed to carry their
babies in their arms, weren't they?

And yet he was shocked to see her; distressed even. It wasn't the fact

that her face was tear-streaked and pale (that was his preferred state
for

a woman's face) it was the fact of her very presence here, sensed the
uncanny. She belonged to a more mundane whose minor enchantments could
be bought and sold like any commodity; not here, not here.

	She went down on her knees beside him, as if she intended to

him up. Tears fell from her eyes, and splashed on him. Then she

the only word in the entire dream he understood. She said:

"Goodbye." I Those syllables said--and without kissing him, without much
as a finger upon him--she stood up again, and walked ing him there in
the grass.

	He started to cry again, his voice shrill and pathetic. But

lips could form words-- : "Don't leave rae!" he sobbed. "Mama! Mama!
Don't leave He woke to the din of his own voice, crying out in his
sleep. up in bed, his heart beating furiously. He waited for the retreat
of the images that his mind had conjured up, but they didn't gl/ Even
with his eyes wide open, feeding on a hundred concrete detailsii, his
bedroom, the sights he'd just seen and the feelings he'd felt insiS upon
him. .

		this was part of his transfiguration: his mind revisiting

	Perhaps

anxieties so that they could be dealt with and sloughed off. It wasni
particularly pleasant experience, but any change-especially one :i
powerful as that which had seized him--brought with it some of
discomfort.

	He got out of bed, and went to the window to open the drapes,

he did so-as his hand caught hold of the heavy fabric--he was denly
seized by a sickening suspicion. He put on his robe, and across the
landing to his study, where he'd left Holt's journal. begun reading it
as soon as his brother had brought it to him, had overtaken his
analysis, and he'd not returned to it. Now he bega search through its
dog-eared pages, scanning the text. He passed the passages about
Bentonville, and the section dealing with return to his house; on
through the portions dealing with the the East Battery, on through Holt
and Nickelberry's departure Charleston. The deserters were moving north,
in Galilee's heading back to the Barbarossas' territory. There were four
or five devoted to the precise methodology of entrance: several small
that almost looked like brands, and paragraphs speaking of the ies of
L'Enfant, which if unsolved would prove fatal to any attempted to gain
access to the Barbarossa residence. He lingered

enough on this passage to confirm that the solutions had indeed all been
set down on the page, then he moved on to look for a description of the
house itself.

And there, just a few pages from the end of the journal, he found

the passage he was afraid he'd find.

I have never see such a house as was presented before us as we came
between the trees, Holt wrote, nor felt so strongly the sense that we
were walking in the presence of things unseen, forces that would have
done us calamitous harm had we not been Samaritans carrying a prodigal
back onto his native soil. That's two Biblical stories in one, but
that's probably appropriate, for I believe that here, gathered in this
place, were enough mysteries to be the subject of a dozen Testaments.

So the house. It was painted white, with a classical fafade, such as you
might see in many great plantation houses; but there rose above these
familiar forms a dome of such beauty and magnitude, shining white in the
sunlight--

Garrison put the book down. He'd read all that he needed to read. The
house in his dream was the same which Holt had written about: the
Barbarossas' great mansion. He'd be going there soon enough. But did the
dream mean that he'd already been there? If not, how had he imagined the
house so well?

Mystery upon mystery. First the death of the old man, and all the
destruction that had accompanied it. Then his transfiguration: the force
he'd seen in the mirror, blazing back at him. Now this enigma: dreaming
of his mother abandoning him on the grounds of the Barbarossa home.

He'd always been a man who trusted his intellect: in matters of money
and in the management of human beings it didn't do to be too emotional.
But a wise intellect knew its limitations. It didn't go where analytical
power had no jurisdiction. It fell silent, and left the mind find other
ways to comprehend whatever troubled it.

Here was such a border, where intellect retreated. To go on, into the
place of sloughings and furies and abandonments that lay ahead, he would
need to look to his instincts, and hope they were sharp enough to
protect him.

Others had taken similar journeys and lived to tell the tale. One such
traveler had written the very journal that sat there on Garrison's desk:
the captain whose life and seed lay fatally close to the root of the
Geary family tree.

Perhaps that same prospect lay ahead for him; perhaps he this journey so
as to found a dynasty of his own. The idea had occurred to him before,
but why would it? He'd been sweating vice of the Gearys all his life; a
sterile preoccupation at best. Now was free both of his servitude and
his skin. It was time to think thi over from the beginning. To find
wombs; to make children. And to them--in his own arms if need be--and
lay them down in the where he'd been lain, where they might see the
pillars and the the palace that the Barbarossas had dreamed into being,
but would steal from them, by and by, to house his own sons and

	VII

T

his time, Rachel didn't come to the island as the pampered Mitchell
Geary. The deferential Jimmy Hornbeck wasn't there meet her, eager to
cater to her every whim. She rented a car at the port, loaded in her
bags, and with the help of a map she'd been the rental office drove to
Anahola. The sky was overcast, the heavy, bearing clouds that had
previously masked the heights of Waialeale now lowering over the entire
island. It was still hot, humid, in fact. She decided against sealing
the car windows and up the air-conditioning. She wanted to smell the
air: the flagrance flowers, the sharpness of the sea. She wanted to be
reminded had felt like to be here before, not knowing what lay in wait
for her.

It was impossible, of course, to return to a state of innocence, cially
when its loss had brought with it such far-reaching

But as she turned off the main road and wound her way down the ted track
that led to the house, she was surprised to discover she could make
believe the agonies of the recent past belonged to body else, and that
she was coming here unburdened.

The trees and shrubs had swelled and thickened since

and had largely gone untrimmed. The vines had grown up over the and were
creeping across the roof; large rotted blossoms littered the veranda,
and the geckos that scurried there seemed less alarmed presence than
previously, as though they had assumed possession place, and were not
about to be intimidated by her trespass.

The front door was locked, which didn't surprise her. She around the
back, remembering that the lock on the sliding door

been faulty, and hoping (not unreasonably given the general neglect)
that it had not been mended.

She was right. The door slid open, and she stepped into the house. It
smelled musty, though not unpleasantly so. And it was nicely cool after
the oppressive heat of the air outside. She closed the door behind her,
and went straight to the kitchen, where she filled a glass with cold
water, and drank. Glass in hand she made a quick tour of the rooms to
reacquaint herself with the place. She hadn't anticipated how much
pleasure she'd take in simply being back here; that pleasure sharpened
by the illicitness of her presence.

The big bed had been stripped after her departure and not remade. She
went to the linen closet, found some fresh sheets and pillowcases and
made it up again. She was sorely tempted just to lie down and sleep, but
she resisted. Instead she had a shower, made herself some sweet, hot tea
and went outside to smoke a cigarette and watch the last of the day's
light. She had no sooner brushed the leaves off the antiquated furniture
and sat down than the gloomy heavens unleashed a torrent. Geckos
zigzagged for cover, a panicked hen was blown across the lawn like a
feathered balloon. For some reason, the rain's percussion made her want
to laugh; so laugh she did. Sat there on the veranda laughing like some
crazy woman who'd lost her mind waiting for her lover, laughing,
laughing while the rain beat down and obscured from sight the ocean that
had failed to give him up.

	VIII

G

alilee had not expected to ever wake again--at least not into this
world--but wake he did.

His eyes, which were encrusted, opened painfully, and he raised his head
to look at the water.

Somebody had called his name. It wasn't the first time he'd heard
somebody speak to him in his solitude, of course; there'd been plenty of
talkative delusions. But this was something different; this was a voice
that made his heart shake itself like a wet animal, and roused him with

its motion. He looked up. The sky was the color of heated iron.

Sit up, child.

Child? Who called him child? Only one woman in all the world. Sit up and
attend to me.

He opened his mouth to speak. The sound that emerged was ful. But she
understood.

Yes you can, she told him.

Again, he complained. He was too weak, too close to death. I'm just as
tired as you are, child, his mother said, and just as to die. Believe
me. Perfectly ready. But if I take the trouble to come search for you,
the least you can do it sit up and look at me.

There was no doubting the authenticity of this voice. Someh

was here. The woman who'd warmed him in the oven of her who'd fed him
off her body, and shaped his soul; the woman against him for his folly,
and told him--in what was surely the moment of his youth-that he was
flawed beyond fixing; a thing would only ever bring harm and hurt--that
woman had found him he had no place to hide, except to throw himself
into the sea. And was to say she wouldn't follow him there, elemental
that she was?

had no fear of death, whatever she might claim about her readiness. I
don't come here on my own account, she went on. "Why are you here then?"

Because I met your woman. Your Rachel.

Now, finally, he raised his head. His mother, or rather her tion, stood
at the stern of The Samarkand. Despite all her demands he look at her,
now that he had done so he found her own gaze She was looking at the
setting sun; at that molten sky. A day he vaguely thought, since he'd
counted off the last moments of his against the decaying light. He and
the boat had survived twenty-four hours.

"Where did you see her? She didn't come to-" L'Enfant? No, no. I saw her
in New York. "You went to New York. Why?"

To see Old Man Geary. He was dying, and I

there when his last moments were upon him.

"You went to kill him?"

Gesaria shook her head. No. I simply went to bear witness to passing of
an enemy. Of course once I got there it was difficult not cause a little
trouble.

"What did you do?"

Cesaria shook her head. Nothing of consequence.

"But he's dead?"

Yes, he's dead. She looked up, directly above her head. The stars were
appearing. But I didn't come here to talk about him. I came Rachel's
sake.

Galilee laughed; or did his best, given how dry his throat was. What is
so funny. Cesana demanded.

Galilee reached for his brandy bottle, which had rolled into the

gunnel, and drank from it. "The thought of you doing anything for any

body's sake but your own," he replied.

Cesaria ignored the barb. This is shameful behavior, she said. Turning

your back on a woman who feels something for you, the way Rachel does.
"Since when have you given a damn what a human being felt?" Maybe I'm
getting sentimental in my old age. You've found an extraordinary woman.
And what do you do? You try to kill yourself. I despair of you. Her
voice dropped as she spoke these last words, and the boards of The
Samarkand trembled at their timbre. I truly despair of you.

"So despair," Galilee replied. "I don't give a shit. Leave me alone

and let me die." He waved her away as he spoke, his head sinking down so
that his face was pressed to the boards of the deck. He was no longer
looking at her, but he knew of course that she hadn't departed. He felt
the emanations of her power coming against him, subtle and rhythmical.
Though she was just a vision here, she'd carried with her a measure of
her physical authority.

"What are you waiting for?" he said to her, without raising his head.

I don't exactly know, she replied. I suppose I keep hoping you'll

remember who you are.

"I know who I am..." he growled.

THEN RAISE YOUR HEAD. The boat shook from bow to stern

when she uttered these words; fish in the deeps below convulsed. But
Galilee was unimpressed; at least, he didn't obey the instruction. He
stayed put, face down.

You're a wretch, she told him. "No doubt," he murmured. A selfish,
willful--

"No doubt," he said again. "I'm the worst piece of shit that ever

floated on the ocean. So now will you please leave me the luck alone?"

The boat shook again when he spoke, though not as violently.

There was a few moments of silence between them. Finally he glanced
sideways at her. "You've got plenty of other children," Galilee said.
"Why don't you torment them?"

They don't mean what you mean to me, Cesaria said. You know that.

Maddox is a half-breed, Luman's crazy, and the women... She shook

her head. Well, they're not what I had in mind when I raised them.

Galilee lifted his head a little. "Poor mother. What a disappointment we
are. You wanted perfection and look what you got." He raised

himself up now, into a kneeling position. "Of course none of it's

fault is it? You're never to blame for anything."

I I were guiltless I wouldn't be here, she said. I made my

especially with you. You were the first, so I spoiled you. I indulged
loved you too much.

"You loved me too much?"

Yes! Too much! I couldn't see what a monster you were.

"Now I'm a monster?"

I know what you've done all these years--

"You don't know the half. I've got more innocent blood on hands-"

I don't care about that! It's the squandering that appalls me. time
you've wasted.

"And what should I have been doing instead? Raising horses?" Don't bring
your father into this. This has nothing to do"It has everything to do
with him." He reached out and hold of the toppled mast, hauling himself
to his feet. "He's the on really disappointed you. We're just getting
the aftermath."

Now it was Cesaria who averted her eyes, staring off across water.

"Did I touch a nerve?" Galilee said. Cesaria didn't reply. didn't I?"

Whatever happened between your father and me is over and

with. Lord knows I loved him. And I worked to make him happy. "Well you
failed."

She narrowed her eyes. He was certain another be assault was on its way,
but no: when she replied she did so softly, sound of her voice almost
drowned out by the slop of the waves a the hull.

Yes I failed.., she said .... and I've paid for my failure with
loneliness. Years when I might have expected my firstborn to be fort to
me.

"You drove me out, mother. You told me if I set foot in

ever again you'd kill me."

I never said that.

"Oh yes you did. You ask Marietta."

I don't trust her opinion on anything. She's as willful as

have torn you both out of my womb with my own hands.

"Oh Christ, mother, not the womb speech! I've heard it all

You regret having me and I regret being born. So where does that

US?"

Where it always leaves us, Cesaria said after a moment, at each other's
throats. She sighed, and the sea shuddered. I can see this is a waste of
time. You're never going to understand. And maybe it's better this way.
You're done enough damage for a hundred men

"I thought you didn't care about the blood I'd spilled?"

It's not spilled blood I'm talking about. It's the broken hearts. She
paused, touching her fingers to her lips, stroking them. She deserves
someone who'll care for her. Stay with her. Right to the end. You don't
have what it takes to do that. You're all talk. Just like your father.

Galilee had no reply to this. Just as his earlier remark about "the
aftermath" had struck a nerve, this little stab found its place. She saw
what she'd done too; and made it her cue to depart.

I'll leave you to your martyrdom, she said, turning from him. Her image,
which had appeared quite solid until now seemed to shake like

a torn sail. In a few gusts it would be carried away.

"Wait," Calilee said.

Cesaria's image continued to fluter, but her eyes fixed upon her son
like driven nails. The moment she looked away, he knew, she'd be

gone. Only her scrutiny was keeping her here.

What now? she said.

"Even if I wanted to go back to her..."

Yes?

"... I don't have the means. I destroyed everything on board." You
didn't leave yourself so much as a raft? "I didn't plan to change my
mind."

Cesaria raised her chin two or three inches, regarding him imperiously
down her nose. But now you have?

Calilee couldn't stand the piercing stare any longer. He looked down at
the deck. "I suppose.., if I could..." he said quietly, "I'd like to see
Rachel again..."

She's waiting for you, not six hundred miles from here. "Six hundred?"
On the island.

"What's she doing there?"

I sent her there. I told her I'd do my best to send you to her.

"And how do you intend to do that?"

I'm not certain I can. But I can try. If I fail, you'll drown. But you
were ready for that anyway. Galilee gave her a troubled glance. You're
not so ready now, are you?

"No," he confessed. "I'm not so ready."

You'd like to live.

"Yes... I suppose I would..."

But, Atva--

This was the first time in the exchange she'd used the

been baptized with; it made what followed ring like an edict. If I do
this and you grow bored with her and desert her-- "I won't."

I'm saying: if you do, Atva, and I hear about it, I swear I'll and I'll
drag you back to the shore where we baptized you and I will it my
business to drown you. Do you understand me? She said

this with great drama; it was simply a statement of fact.

"I understand you," he replied.

I won't do this because I bear Rachel any great affection, I don't a
damn fool for feeling what she feels for you. But I will not have
another soul dying for love of you. I know how it feels, and I'd
slaughter my Own child than have him visit that hurt on one

Galilee opened his arms, palms up, like a saint

"What do I need to do?" he said. Prepare yourself... Gesaria replied.
"For what?"

I'm calling up a storm, she said, which will drive what's left c

the boat of yours back toward the islands.

"It won't survive a storm," Galilee warned her. Do you have a better
idea? "No," he replied.

Then shut up and be thankful you're getting another chance.

"You don't know your own strength when you do these Mama."

Well it's too late to stop it now, Cesaria said. Even as Galilee felt
the wind come with fresh power against his face. ing, south-southeast.

He looked up. The clouds above The Samarkand were motion, as though they
were being stirred up by an invisible newly shown stars were abruptly
eclipsed.

He felt a distinct quickening in his own veins; plainly force of divine
will Gesaria was using to stir the elements had casual government over
his blood.

The Samarkand bucked, broadsided by a wave; he felt its shudder beneath
his feet. The short, wiry hairs at the nape prickled; his stomach began
to churn. He knew what feeling though it was many, many years since he'd
last experienced it. afraid.

The irony of this was not lost on him. Half an hour ago he'd been

resigned to his demise. Not simply resigned; happy at its imminence. But
Gesaria had changed all that. She'd given him hope, damn her. Despite
her bullying and her threats (or perhaps in some part because of them)
he wanted a chance to be back with his Rachel, and the prospect of
death, which had seemed so comforting just minutes before, now made him
afraid.

Gesaria was not indifferent to his unease. She beckoned to him.

Come here, she said. Partake of me.

"What?"

You'll need all the strength you can get in the next few hours. Take

some of mine.

She made quite a sight there at the bow, her arm extended to him,

her body--lit by the flickering lamps--gleaming against the murderous
sky.

Make it quick, Atvat. she said, her voice raised now against the

wind, which was whipping up spume off the waves. I can't stay here

much longer.

He didn't need another invitation. He stumbled towards her along

the pitching deck, reaching out to catch hold of her hand.

She'd promised him strength, and strength he got, but in a fashion

that made him wonder if his mother had not changed her mind and decided
instead upon infanticide. His marrow seemed to catch fire--a profound
and agonizing heat that rose from the core of his limbs and spread out,
through sinew and nerve, to his skin. He didn't simply feel it, he saw
it; at least his eyes reported a brightness in his flesh, blue and
yellow, which spread out through his body from his stomach; coursing
through his wasted limbs, and revivifying them with its passage. This
was not the only sight he saw, however. The blaze climbed into his head,
running around his skull like wine swilled in a cup, and as it
brightened there he saw his mother in a different place: in her room in
the house Jefferson had built for her, lying on her temple-door bed with
her eyes closed. Zelim was at the foot of the bed--loyal Zelim, who'd
hated Galilee with a fine, fierce hate--his shaved head bared as if in
prayer or meditation. The windows were open, and moths had fluttered in.
Not a few: thousands, tens of thousands. They were on the walls and on
the bed, on Cesaria's clothes and hands and face. They were even on
Zelim's pate, crawling around.

This domestic vision was short, supplanted in a couple of heartbeats by
something entirely stranger. The moths grew more agitated,

and the flickering darkness of their wings unsealed the scene from
ceiling to floor. The only form that remained was that of Cesaria, who
instead of lying on the bed, hung suspended in a limitless

Galilee experienced a sudden, piercing loneliness: whatever

this was-real or invented--he had no wish to be there. "Mother..." he
murmured.

The vision remained, his gaze hovering uncertainly Cesaria's body as
though at any moment it, and he, might lose powers of suspension and
fall away into the darkness.

He called to his mother again, this time by name. As he call her, the
form before him shimmered and the third and final appeared. The darkness
didn't alter, but Cesaria did. The robes which she was wrapped darkened,
rotted, and fell away. She wa naked beneath; or at least his eyes had no
chance to witness her in'. state. She was molten, laval; her humanity,
or the guise of that h ity, flowing out of her into the void, trailing
brightness as it He glimpsed her face as it melted into light; of bliss;
saw her burning heart fall like a star, brightening the it went.

The insufferable loneliness was burned away in the same moment. The fear
he'd felt hanging in this nowhere seemed sudd laughable. How could he
ever be alone in a place shared with so ulous a soul? Look, she was
light! And the darkness was her foil, other, her immaculate companion;
they were lovers, she and it, in a marriage of absolutes.

And with that revelation, the vision went out of him, and he back on the
deck of The Samarkand.

Cesaria had gone. Whether in the process of tending him strength had
exhausted her, and she'd withdrawn her spirit to a place rest-the
bedroom where he'd seen her lying, perhaps--or she'd made her departure
because she was done with him and had more to say (which was perfectly
in keeping with her nature) he know. Nor did he have time to ponder the
question. The storm stirred up was upon him, in all its ferocity. The
waves high enough to match the mast, if he'd had a mast, and the enough
to taller his sails, if he'd had sails. As it was--and by his
choosing-he had nothing, lust his limbs, no longer wasted by and his
wits, and the creaking hull of his boat.

It would be enough. He threw back his bead, filled with a exhilaration,
and yelled up at the roiling clouds.

"RACHEL! WAIT FOR ME!"

Then he fell down on his knees and prayed to his father in heaven to
deliver him safely from the storm his mother had made.

IX

T

here was a grea, t commotion, in the house a few hours ago; laughter,
for once. L Enfant hash t heard a lot of laughter in the last few
decades. I got up from my desk and went to see what the cause was, and
encountered Marietta--holding the hand of a woman in jeans and a
Tshirt-ambling down the hallway toward my study. The laughter I'd heard
were still on their faces.

"Eddie!" she said brightly. "We were just coming to say hello." "This
must be Mice," I said.

"Yes," she replied, beaming with pride.

She had reason. The girl, for all her simple garb, was slim and pretty;
small-boned and small-breasted. Unlike Marietta, who enjoys painting
herself up with kohl and lip gloss, Alice wore not a scrap of makeup.
Her eyelashes were blonde, like her hair, and her face, which was milky
white, dusted with pale, pale freckles. The impression such coloring
sometimes lends is insipid, but such was not the case with this woman.
There was a ferocity in her gray eyes, which made her, I suspected, a
perfect foil for Marietta. This was not a woman who was going to take
orders from anybody. She might look like buttermilk, but she most likely
had an iron soul. When she took my hand to shake it, I had further
proof. Her grip was viselike.

"Eddie's the writer in the family," Marietta said proudly.

"I like the sound of that," I said, extricating the hand that did the

writing before my fingers were crushed.

"What do you write?" Alice asked.

"I'm writing a history of the Barbarossa family." "And now you'll be in
it," Marietta said. "I will?"

"Of course," Marietta said. Then to me: "She'll be in the book, won't
she?"

"I guess so," I responded. "If you really intend to bring her into the
family."

"Oh we're going to marry," Alice said, laying her head for Marietta's
shoulders. "I ain't lettin' this one out of my sight. Not

"I'm going to take her upstairs," Marietta said. "I

her to Mama."

"I don't think that's a good idea right now," I told her. "She's
traveling a lot, and she's exhausted."

"It don't matter, honey," Alice said to Marietta. "I'm going' to here
all the time soon enough."

"So you two are going to live here at UEnfant?"

"Sure are," Marietta said, her hand going up to her beloved's She
stroked Alice's smooth cheek with the outer edge of her forefir Alice
was in bliss. She closed her eyes languidly, snuggling her deeper into
the curve of Marietta's neck. "I told you, Eddie," said. "I'm in this
for keeps. She's the one.., no question."

I couldn't help hearing an echo of Galilee's conversation Gesaria on the
deck of The Samarkand; how he'd promised would be the idol of his heart
hereafter; that there would be no Was it just a coincidence, or was
there some pattern in this? Just as war begins, and the future of our
family is in doubt, two of its

(both notably promiscuous in their time) put their wild ways behi them
and declare that they have found their soulmates.

Anyway, the conversation with Marietta and Alice

for a little while, pleasantly enough, before Marietta announced she was
taking Alice outside to look at the stables. Did I want to she asked me.
I declined. I was tempted to ask if Marietta to the stables was wise,
but I kept my opinion to myself. If Alice indeed going to be a resident
here, then she was going to have to about the history of the house--and
the souls who've lived and here-sooner or later. A visit to the stables
would be bound to questions: why was the place so magnificent and yet
deserted? Why there a tomb in their midst? But perhaps that was
Marietta's

She might reasonably judge by Alice's response to the atmosphere I
palpable dread which clings about the stables how ready her is for the
darkest of our secrets. If she seems untroubled by the which well she
might, then perhaps Marietta would sit her couple of days and tell her
everything. If on the other hand seemed fearful, Marietta might decide
to dole the information out easy portions, so as not to drive her away.
We'll see. The point is they departed to go walk about, and I went back
to study to begin the chapter which will follow this, dealing with
arrangements for the funeral of Gadmus Geary, but the words

flow. Something was distracting me from the business at hand. I set down
the pen, sat back in my chair and tried to work out what the problem
was. I didn't have to puzzle over it for very long. I was fretting about
Marietta and Alice. I looked at the clock. It was by now almost an hour
since they'd left the house to visit the stables. Should they not be
back by now? Perhaps they were, and I hadn't heard them. I decided to go
and find out; plainly I wasn't going to get a stroke of work done until
I laid my unease to rest.

ii

It was by now the middle oi: the evening, and I found Dwight in the
kitchen, sitting watching the little black-and-white television. Had he
seen Marietta lately? I asked him. He told me no; then--obviously seeing
my anxiety--asked if there was a problem. I explained that she had a
guest and that the two of them had gone to visit the stables. He's a
smart man; he didn't need any further information. He rose, picked up
his jacket and said:

"You want me to go and see that everhing's okay?"

"They may have come back already," I said. He went to check. Two minutes
later he was back, having picked up a flashlight, reporting that there
was no sign of Marietta about the house. She and Alice were presumably
still outside.

We set off; and we needed the flashlight. The night was dismal; the air
cold and clammy.

"This is probably a complete waste of time," I said to Dwight as we made
our way toward the dense screen of magnolia trees and azalea bushes
which conceals the stables from the house. I very much hoped this was
the case, but nothing about the journey so far had given me any reason
for optimism. The unease which had got me up from my desk in the first
place had escalated. My breathing was quick and iittery; I was ready for
the worst, though I couldn't imagine what the worst could be.

"Are you armed?" I asked Dwight.

"I always carry a gun," he replied. "What about you?"

I brought out the Griswold and Gunnison revolver. He trained the
flashlight upon it.

"Lordie," he said. "That's an antique. Is it safe to use?"

"Luman told me it was fine."

"I hope to God he knows what he's talking about."

I could see the expression on Dwight's face from the light splashing up
from our pale hands, and it was plain he was just as unnerved by

the atmosphere as I was. I felt more than a little guilty. I'd

adventure, after all.

"Why don't you give me the flashlight?" I said. "I'll lead on."

He made no objection to this. I took the flashlight off him,

it on the bushes ahead, and we began our trek afresh.

We didn't have much farther to go. Ten yards on and we ch

the shrubbery: the stables were fifty yards from us, their pale stone
ble even in the murk. As I've pointed out before, the place is rer able;
an elegant building of some two thousand square feet, might be mistaken
for a classical temple, with its modest portico (which is decorated,
though we couldn't see it in the with a frieze of riders and wild
horses). In its glory days it was an sunlit place, filled with the happy
din of animals. Now, as we cam its shadow, it seemed like one immense
tomb.

We halted in front of it. I splashed the flashlight beam over enormous
doors, which were open. The light barely penetrated the threshold. =

"Marietta?" I said. (I wanted to shout, but I was a little afraid.: what
forces I might disturb if I did so.)

There was no answer at first; I called again, thinking if she answer on
the third summons we could reasonably assume she there, and retreat. But
I got my answer. There was the sound body moving inside the temple,
followed by a bleary who is it? assured by the sound of Marietta's
voice, I stepped over the

Even after all these years, the stables still smelled of their

dous occupants: the ripe scent of horse sweat and horseflesh and dung.
There had been such life here; such energies stamping vessels of muscle
and mane.

I could see Marietta now. She was coming toward me,

up her vest as she approached. There was no doubting what she Alice had
been up to here. Her face was flushed; her mouth

swelled with kissing. "Where's Alice?" I asked her.

"Asleep," she said. "She's exhausted, poor baby. What are doing here?"

I was a little embarrassed now; I'm certain Marietta knew indulged my
voyeuristic instincts where she was concerned, and bly suspected I was
here doing the same thing. I didn't protest my" cence; I simply said:
'Tou're both okay?"

"Fine," Marietta said, plainly puzzled. "Who's out therewith "Dwight,"
came the reply from the darkness behind me.

"Hey, what's up?" Marietta called back to him.

"Nothin' much," Dwight said.

"I'm sorry we disturbed you," I said.

"No problem," Marietta replied. "It's time we were going back to the
house anyhow..."

As she spoke, my gaze moved past her into the darkness. Despite the ease
of the exchanges going on, there was still something troubling me;
drawing my eye into the murk.

"What is it, Eddie?" Marietta said.

I shook my head. "I don't know. Maybe just memories."

"Go on in if you want to," she said, stepping aside. "Alice is quite
decent--" I stepped past her "--you'll be disappointed to hear." I threw
back an irritated glance, then ventured into the stables, leaving
Marietta and Dwight behind me. My sense that there was a presence here
was growing apace. I let the beam of the flashlight rove back and forth:
over the marble-floor, with its gullies and drains; across the stalls,
with their intricately inlaid doors; up to the shallow vaults of the
ceiling. Nothing moved. I couldn't even find Alice. I advanced
cautious/y, resisting the urge to glance back at Marietta and Dwight for
the comfort of it.

The place where we'd laid the body of Nicodemus, along with all the
belongings he'd wanted buried with him (his jade phalli; the white gold
mask and codpiece he'd worn in his ecstasies; the mandolin he'd played
like an angel)--was in the center of the stables, perhaps twenty yards
from where I now stood. The marble floor had been lifted there, and not
replaced after the burial. Mushrooms had grown from that dirt, in
supernatural profusion. I could see their pale heads in the gloom;
hundreds of them. More phalli, of course. His last joke.

A motion off to my right; I halted, and looked round. It was Marietta's
lady love, rising from the spot where she'd been sleeping. "What's going
on?" she said. "Why's it so cold, honey?"

I hadn't noticed until now, but she was right: my breath was visible
before me.

"It's not Marietta, it's Maddox," I told her.

"What are you doin' here?"

"It's okay," I said. "I just came to--"

I didn't finish the sentence. What halted me was a sound from the

darkness beyond my father's grave. A clattering on the marble floor. "Oh
my Lord..." Alice said.

Emerging from the shadow, its hooves making a din this place had not
heard for almost a century and a half, was a horse. Nor was it any
horse. It was Dumuzzi. Even at this distance, even in this gloom, I knew

him. There had never been an animal so splendid, nor so certain of
splendor. The way he pranced as he came, striking sparks off the ble,
which flashes lit his gleaming anatomy, and made his eyes Whatever
wounds had been visited upon the animal by Cesaria-- though I wasn't
conscious to witness her slaughter, I'm certain sh, reserved her
greatest cruelties for Dumuzzi, the ringleader--all had been healed. He
was perfection again. :

Somehow, he had been revivified, lifted up out of the pit which his body
had been dispatched, and returned to glorious life.

I had no doubt who had performed this handiwork, lust as it been the
hand of Gesaria Yam which had slaughtered Dumuzzi so had been the hand
of her husband, my father, who had resurrected again. Nothing was more
certain.

Never in my life was I seized with such a boundless suptrary feelings as
at that moment. Dumuzzi's living presence me-indisputable,
irresistible-was proof of a greater presence in thi melancholy place.
Nicodemus was here: at least some portion of him, piercing the veil
between this world and the kingdom to come. was I to feel about that?
Fear? Yes, in some measure; the I the living inevitably feel when the
spirits of the dead return. Absolutely; I'd never had more certain proof
of my father's divinity

I did at that moment. Gratitude? Yes, that too. For all the trembling
nay belly, and in my legs, I was thankful that my instincts had brou me
here: that I was able to witness this omen of Nicodemus's return.

I glanced back toward Alice, intending to tell her to retreat, Marietta
had come to join her, and wrapped her arms around her. was looking at
Dumuzzi, but Marietta was looking at me. There tears in her eyes.

Dumuzzi, meanwhile, had pranced to the edge of my

grave, and now, suddenly, advanced upon it, hooves high, and ceeded to
stamp on the earth which covered Nieodemus's corpse. mushrooms were
pounded to pulp, pieces flying off in all directions. ::i

After perhaps halfa minute, he grew calmer, at last simpl

in the mess of earth and pulped mushrooms, his head a little turned

that he could watch us. :i "Dumuzzi?" I said.

At the sound of his name he snorted. ,I. "You know this animal?"
Marietta said. "He was father's favorite."

"Where the hell did he come from?"

"Back from the dead."

"He's so beautiful," Mice murmured, her voice filled with wonder. It
seemed she hadn't heard the exchange between Marietta and myself, she

was so engrossed in the sight before us. Marietta took hold of her arm.
"Alice," she said firmly. "We have to go. Now."

She started to pull Alice back toward the door. But as she did so,
Dumuzzi rose up again higher than he had before, and loosing a sound
that struck the eardrums so hard we all gasped, charged in our
direction. The sight of his sudden approach--mane flying, hooves
high--glued me to the spot. This was the last sight I'd seen before I'd
fallen beneath him and his comrades all those years ago: the memory made
my limbs stupid. If it hadn't been for Dwight catching hold of me and
dragging me out of the way history might well have repeated itself. I
don't believe Dumuzzi meant any harm this time--as he most assuredly had
on the first occasion--he was simply making for the door by the most
direct route. But nor do I doubt that he would have knocked me down and
broken my bones if I'd remained in his path.

I didn't see him leave the building; I was too busy being hauled out of
his path. By the time I'd picked myself up again, he was gone. I heard
the sound of his hooves as he pounded away; then silence, broken only by
the breathing of four exhilarated people.

"I think we should get back to the house," Marietta said. "That's about
as much excitement as I can take for one night."

How things have changed! Didn't I write once that the prospect of being
around if Nicodemus were to show himself was so terrifying I'd rather be
dead? Now, with the evidence for his presence indisputable, I'm
perversely excited. This family has been riven for too long; it's time
we were together again. There are wounds to be healed, peace to be made,
questions to be answered.

I want to know, for instance, what Ghiyojo said to my father just before
she died. Something passed between them, I know. The last sight I saw
before I lost consciousness was Nicodernus--horribly wounded himself, of
course-leaning close to my wife, listening to her final words. What did
she tell him? That she loved him? That she would wait for him? I've
wondered about that so many times over the years. Now, perhaps, I might
be able to get an answer from the only man who knows the truth.

And the other question I want to ask? Well, it's perhaps less easily
answered. I want Nicodemus to tell me what he had in mind when he
created me. Was I an accident? A casual by-product of his lust? Or did
he knowingly create a half-breed -- a union of divine father and mortal

mother--because there was some function that such an unha

ture was uniquely equipped to serve?

If I could have an answer to that question would I not be the piest man
alive? That's what makes the prospect of Nicodemus's more inspiring than
fearful. The chance to stand before the man caused my soul to be made
and ask that most ancient of Father, father, what was I born for?

X

L

oretta had begun an informal list of guests for Cadmus's funeral. year
before, jotting down names in the back of her diar) occurred to her.
There was a certain morbidity to this, she realized she'd always been a
practical creature. The list would be useful, or later, and there was no
harm in being prepared for the event when.! came, even if he lived to be
a hundred and five.

Of course the events of the night he'd died had shocked her. she'd
always known in her heart that the truth about the she ever discovered
it, would astonish her; and so it had. Not that imagined she'd learned
everything that there was to know that ni she'd witnessed was a tiny
piece of a puzzle which she suspected would never entirely understand.
Perhaps it was better that way. same New England pragmatism which
allowed her to start a funeral before the death of her spouse, and to
plan for her own emt also made her brittle in matters that defied easy
cate of the spirit was one matter, and the life of the flesh another
When the two became muddied--when the invisible aspired to soli. and the
drama of the soul was played out before her eyes--she deeply
discomfited. It did not reassure her one jot that there were forces as
she'd witnessed at the mansion operating in the world. took no
metaphysical comfort from the fact. But a fact it was, and very same
pragmatism kept her from lying to herself. She'd seen she'd seen, and in
the fullness of time she'd have to deal with it. In meanwhile, she'd
make her list.

Mitchell came to see her in the late afternoon. He wanted to whether
she'd seen or heard from Rachel. .

"Not since she left the house after Cadmus passed away," Loretta

said.

	"She hasn't called you?"

	"No."

	"You're absolutely sure? Maybe Jocelyn took a message and forgot

to give it to you."

	"Do I gather from this that she's gone missing?"

	"Have you got any cigarettes?"

"No. Mitchell--will you stop pacing for a moment and answer the
question."

"Yes, she's gone missing. I need to talk to her. I haven't..,
finished.., with her." "Well. This may be hard to hear, but perhaps
she's finished with you. Forget about her. You've got other things to be
occupying your time right now. We've got a lot of press to deal with; a
lot of rumors--"

"To hell with that! I don't care what people think. I've spent all my
life trying to be Mr. Perfect. I'm over it. I just want my wife back!
Right now!" He came to Loretta suddenly, and it was hard to believe the
face he wore had ever smiled. "If you know where she is," he said,
"you'd be better off telling me."

	"Or what, Mitchell?"

	"Just tell me."

"No, Mitchell. Finish the thought. If I know where she is and I don't
tell you, what?" She stared hard at him as she spoke and he averted his
eyes. "Don't go the same way your brother's gone, Mitchell. It's not the
way to do things. You don't threaten people if they don't give you what
you want. You persuade them. You get them on your side."

"So suppose I wanted to do that..." Mitchell said, softening his tone.
"How would I get you on my side?"

"Well you could start by promising me you're going to go shower. Right
now. You smell rank. And you look terrible."

"I'll do that," Mitchell said. "Is that all? You're right, I've been
letting myself go. But right now it's hard for me to think about
anything but her."

"If you find her, what then?" Loretta said. "She isn't going to want to
start over, Mitch."

"I know that. I fucked up. It can't ever be the way it was. But... she's
still my wife. I still have feelings for her. I want to know

that she's okay. If she doesn't want to see me, I can deal with that."
"Are you sure?"

Mitchell put on a dazzling smile. "Sure I'm sure. I'm not saying it
won't be difficult, but I can deal with it."

"Here's what we should do. You go upstairs and take a shower. ]

me make a couple of telephone calls."

"Thank you."

"If you want to put on some clean clothes ask ]ocelyn to fetch of
Cadmus's shirts for you. Maybe she can find a pair of pants that'l| you
tOO."

"Thank you."

"Stop saying thank you, Mitch. It makes me suspicious."

She poured herself a brandy when he'd gone. Then she sat by the and
thought over what he'd said to her. She didn't believe for a the little
performance he'd put on for her at the end: all that brightness was
grotesque. But nor did she believe that he was a cause; that she
couldn't, with some manipulation, win him to her: She was going to lose
Rachel, if she hadn't already. The woman obsessed with Galilee
Barbarossa to be a reliable ally. If or when' found him, then they'd
efficiently form a faction of their own. And failed to find him, or was
rejected, she would be so crippled she'd more of a burden than a help.

She needed somebody to work with her, and maybe-despite doubts about his
intelligence-Mitchell was the likeliest candidate. truth, she didn't
have much choice. Gecil had always been loyal, course, but he'd change
his allegiance if it was fiscally him; and Garrison could make it so.
The other members ily--Riehard and the rest-were too remote from the
heart of things be able to step into the breach at short notice. And she
had no that time was of the essence here. Her only advantage at present
was knowledge of Cadmus's priate methodologies: how he'd and predicted,
right up until a month before his death, the flow fortunes; where he'd
planned to invest, and where he'd planned to secrets and predictions he
had kept from everyone, even Garrison, which toward the end he'd shared
with her. To that advantage she perhaps now add Mitchell: if, and only
if, she could deliver to him woman with whom he was still so very
plainly obsessed.

She felt only the tiniest twinge of guilt at this. Though warmed to
Rachel somewhat of late (there was certainl courage), the woman was no
sophisticate, nor ever would be. done well, for someone from such
unpromising roots, but she'd be the kind of presence Margie might have
been under other stances: it simply wasn't in her blood. And when all
the fine

about democracy had been voiced, that's what it always came down to: the
blood in the veins.

So she would sacrifice Rachel in a bid to gain Mitchell: it was a chance
worth taking. And she knew exactly where to begin 'with her
investigations. She called Jocelyn in, and told her to go and fetch her
address book. Jocelyn returned five minutes later, apologizing that it
had taken her so long. Though she was putting on a brave, loyal face,
she was in a deeply distressed state; her hands had a constant tremor,
and she looked as though she might burst into tears at the slightest
provocation.

"Will there be anything more?" she asked Loretta as she handed over the
book.

"Only Mitchell..." Loretta said.

"I've already found him a shirt," Jocelyn said, "and I was just going to
look for some trousers. Then I thought I might go for a little walk, if
you don't need me."

"No, no. Of course. Take your time."

Once she'd gone Loretta flipped through the book and found the number
she needed. Then she called it.

Niolopua was there to answer.

XI

R

achel woke with the dawn, the birds making fine music all around the
house. It was surprisingly chilly once she was out from under the
covers. She wrapped herself up in the faded quilt and walked,
bleary-eyed, into the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. Then she
went out onto the veranda to watch the unveiling of the day. Prospects
looked good. The rain clouds had moved off to the northeast, and the sky
was clear, at least for the present. There were signs of a storm on the
horizon, however, clouds that looked still darker than those that had
brought yesterday's rain, and quite a mass of them too. She went back
in, brewed her tea, sweetened it decadently, and returned to the
veranda, where she sat for twenty minutes or so while the scene before
her came to life. Several birds flew down onto the lawn, and pecked
around for worms coaxed up by the dew; a piebald dog wandered up from
the beach, and had advanced as far as the veranda steps before she
realized he was blind, or nearly so. She called to him softly, and he

came to her hand, staying to be muzzled for a little time then himself
about his dog's business, sniffing his way.

When she had finished her tea she went back inside again, ered and got
dressed. She would drive into Hanalei this morning, decided, and buy
herself some fresh food from the little market th, along with some
cigarettes.

It was an easy and picturesque journey, which took her at one across a
narrow bridge which spanned a valley of Edenic perfection:.. river
meandering through lush green shrubbery, from the bou which elegant
palms rose and erupted.

Hanalei was quiet. She took her time making her purchases, by the time
she arrived back at Anahola, laden with bags of supplies, found she had
a visitor. Niolopua was sitting on the step, drinking and smoking a
cigarette. He got up and relieved her of her cargo, followed her inside.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked him once the bags been set down
in the kitchen.

"I saw the lights on last night."

"Why didn't you come and say hello?"

"I wanted to get back and tell Mrs. Geary." "I don't understand." '`your
mother-in-law."

Loretta?

"Yes. The old one, right? Loretta. She called me to find

whether you were here or not." "When was this. "Last night."

"So, you came round to look for me?"

"Yes. And I saw the lights. So I called her back and I told her got here
safely." It was clear from the expression on Niolopua's face

he was aware there was something odd in all of this.

"What did she say to you?" Rachel asked him.

"Not much. She told me not to bother you. In fact, she said

even to tell you I'd seen you here."

"So why are you telling me?"

He looked profoundly uncomfortable. "I don't know. I wanted you to hear
what the other Mrs. Geary had said."

"I'm not Mrs. Geary anymore, Niolopua. Please, just call Rachel."

He made a nervous smile. "Right," he said. "Rachel."

"Thank you for being so honest."

"She didn't know you'd come, did she?"

"No, she didn't."

"Shit. I'm sorry. I should have talked to you first. I didn't think."
"You weren't to know," Rachel said. "You did what you thought was best."
He looked thoroughly irritated with himself, despite her words. "Do you
want to stay and have something to eat?"

"I'd like to, but should go do some work on my house before the storm."
He glanced out of the window toward the beach. "I've. only got a few
hours before that comes in." He pointed to the dark blisters of cloud
along the horizon. "It blew up out of nowhere." He kept staring out at
the clouds as he talked. "And it's coming this way."

"Well it's nice to know you're on my side, Niolopua. I don't have a lot
of friends right now."

He tore his gaze from the clouds and looked at her. "I'm sorry I screwed
up. If I'd known you wanted to be here on your own-"

"I'm not here to get a tan," Rachel said. "I'm here because..." now it
was she who glanced seaward "... because I have reason to think he may
be coming back."

"Who told you that?"

"It's a long story, and I'm not sure I know how to tell it right now. I

need to get some things sorted out in my head first." "What about
Loretta?" "What about her?"

"Does she know why you're here?"

"It wouldn't be hard for her to guess."

"You know if you want to you could move up into the hills with me for a
few days. Then if she sends someone looking for you--"

"I don't want to leave this house," Rachel said. "This is where Galilee
expects to find me. And this is where I'm going to be waiting."

XII

I A

ccording to the literature on the subject--which is sparse--the raising
of storms is at best an uncertain craft. These things have a life of
their own; they swell unpredictably, feeding off their own power,

like dictators. They veer, they devour, they transform. Though subject
to behavioral rules based on sound science, there are so variables in
the mix that any computation is at best tentative. The is a law unto
itself; nobody, not even a power of Gesaria's [ may control or predict
it once it's in motion.

All of which is to explain how it came about that the disturban she'd
created, stirring the air into life as she had, grew into the that it
did.

An hour after the departure from the deck of The Samarkand boat was in
dire trouble. The hull, which had resolutely endured of the worst seas
in the world--the Cape of Good Hope, the ic of the Arctic--finally
cracked, and the vessel began to take on Galilee hand-bailed as fast as
he was able, having incapacitated: pumps when he'd decided on suicide,
but quickly realized he was ing a losing battle. The question was not
whether The Samarkanc doomed or not, but rather which of the
death-sentences would fall Would it be smashed to pieces by the fury of
the seas, or spring so leaks that it sank?

And yet, even as the storm undid the vessel--board by board, by nail-it
carried him closer to the islands. Sometimes the ascended a steep wave
from the summit of which he thought glimpsed land. But in the tumult it
was impossible to be sure.

Then, quite suddenly, the winds dropped, and the rain they'd brought
mellowed to a drizzle. There was a brief respite--perhaps minutes--when
The Samarkand ceased to roll quite so violently, Galilee was able to
survey the extent of the damage to the vessel. news was not good. There
were three large cracks on the starboard and another two on the port;
the ruins of the mast, along with the of sails, had been washed
overboard but were still attached to the by a gnarled umbilical of rope
and tackle, which gave the vessel a manent list.

Nor, of course, had the storm blown itself out. Galilee had enced this
kind of hiatus before: a little window of calm, as though tempest was
gathering its strength for one final cataclysmic assault.

So it proved. After a short time the wind began to rise again, the ocean
to churn and spasm, pushing the boat up ever steeper of furious water
then dropping it into ever deeper chasms. The Samarkand had been, it
couldn't survive such treatment for began to shudder as though wracked
by death tremors, then all at came asunder. Galilee heard a terrible
splintering sound below,

boards capitulated to the pressure, and the cabin housing cracked and
split as great pillows of foamy white water erupted and summarily swept
it away.

The water didn't come to take Galilee until the very last. He didn't let
it. He clung to the side of the boat while it came undone around him,
watching with a kind of wonder the power of the element he'd sailed so
carelessly for so long. How it labored, coming back wave upon wave to
break what it had already broken, and break it again, the boards
becoming under, the under becoming splinters, and all finally sucked
away into the deep.

Only when there were no more such wonders to witness did he finally
abandon his vestigial portion of the vessel, and commend himself to the
water. He was instantly swept away from the spot where The Samarteand
had disappeared, his body no more significant to the waves than any
other piece of flotsam. He didn't attempt to resist the current: it was
a useless endeavor. The sea had him, and it would not give him up again
unless it chose to.

But as he went, his body remembered the first time he'd been carried
this way: an infant in the grip of the tides of the Caspian Sea, borne
away from the shore as he now hoped that he was being borne back to it.

ii

On the island, preparations for the storm were being made everywhere,
from the fanciest hotels to the shabbiest shack. The local
meteorologists weren't warning of any great danger to life or property.
This wasn't a hurricane, just some heavy weather their charts and
satellite photographs had failed to predict--but nor was its proximity
to be treated lightly. The islanders had been blindsided before; it was
never wise to underestimate the potential vehemence of such conditions.
Roofs could be taken off, houses demolished, trees stripped, roads
flooded. Along the northeastern coast, where the storm was predicted to
come ashore, preparations were made: livestock was herded under cover,
children brought home from school early; loose windows were nailed
closed, pieces of heavy timber hoisted up onto shack roofs to keep them
from being unseated.

As the storm approached the island estimations of its scale grew more
pessimistic. It was acting in a wholly uncharacteristic manner, the
pundits observed: instead of steadily dissipating, as they had
anticipated, the wind velocity continued to climb. Its first effects
could be felt on shore by the early afternoon. Trees began to sway;
there were speckles of

rain in the gusts. Out at sea, pleasure boats that dallied overlon
heading for safe harbor were given a battering, their captains outrun
the roiling seas. Three failed. One was lost, overturned crew of two and
seven passengers all presumed drowned; the other t returned within a
breath of disaster, the smaller of them so pounded it sank in the
harbor.

There was no question: this was turning into a very

piece of weather.

XIII

I M

itchell had not waited for a regular flight out of New York: as as
Loretta informed him of Rachel's whereabouts be hired a vate let. He
didn't call Garrison to tell him what he was doing until was on his way
to the airport, accurately sensing that his brother not be happy with
his decision.

"We said we'd deal with this little problem of yours,' " reminded him.

"I'm only going out there to get her to come back with Mitchell said.

"Wait until she comes back of her own volition. Wait until crawls."

"And what if she aoesn t.

"She will. She's got divorce proceedings to finish up, for one She knows
she's not going to get a cent out of us unless she plays book."

"She doesn't care about the money."

"Don't be so dumb, Mitch!" Garrison suddenly yelled phone. "Everybody
cares about the fucking money!" He took to let his irritation subside,
then he said: "Mitch, listen to me. There other ways to deal with this.
Nice, calm, calculated ways."

"I'm perfectly calm," Mitchell said. "And I'm not going to do

thing stupid. I just don't want her there. Not with him."

"You don't even know--"

"Give it up, Garrison. I'm on my way and that's all there is to it. call
you when I arrive."

Getting to his destination proved more irksome than Mitchell had
anticipated. His hired transport had no sooner taxied onto the runway in
preparation for takeoff than the radar system servicing the airport
ceased operation, grounding every flight and preventing all landings for
the next hour and a half. There was nothing to be done but endure the
delay. When the glitch in the system was finally fixed, there was of
course a large number of circling aircraft which needed to be landed
before anybody could take off, and even then progress was slow, with the
bigger commercial aircraft being given precedence. By the time the jet
was finally airborne, Mitchell had been sitting in his leather seat
sipping whiskey and breathing stale air for almost three and a half
hours, with a ten-hour flight ahead.

ii

Garrison had a meeting that evening to finalize plans for the funeral.
It was chaired by a fellow he'd never much liked, one Carl Linville, who
had organized the momentous events in the family's collective life for
thirty years, as his father had done before him. An effete man with a
suspicious taste in pastel silk ties, Linville always seemed to know
what the most tasteful choice would be under any given circumstance,
which skill had always faintly disgusted Garrison. Now more than ever:
the idea of what was tasteful and what was not-what flowers, what music,
what prayers--seemed profoundly irrelevant. The old man was being put in
the ground; that was all.

But he kept his views to himself, and let the ever voluble Linville
opine late into the night. He had a sizable audience. Loretta, of
course, but also locelyn and two of his own staff. There wasn't a detail
to be left to chance, Linville insisted; the eyes of the world would be
on the event and they all owed it to Cadmus that the funeral proceed
with dignity and professionalism. $o it went on, with Loretta chiming in
now and again to comment on something Linville had said. The only
surprising moment in the meeting (and the closest it came to drama)
occurred when, in the midst of a discussion about the guest list,
Loretta proffered a list of her own, informing Linville that there were
two or three dozen names upon it that he would not know, but that had
all to be invited.

"May I enquire as to who these people are?" Carl asked.

"If you must know," Loretta said, "several of them are mistresses of
Cadmus's?'

"I see," said Carl, looking as though he wished the question never
crossed his lips.

"He was a man who loved women," Loretta said with a liVde "Everybody
knows that. And I'm sure many of them loved him. have a right to say
goodbye."

"This is all very... European," Carl remarked .... "And you don't think
it's appropriate--" "Frankly, no."

"--and I don't care," Loretta replied. "Invite them."

"And these others?" he said, a distant chill in his voice now. "Some of
them are business associates from way back. Don't so nervous, Carl, none
of them are going to come dressed as the Bunny. They've all been to
funerals before."

There was a little uncomfortable laughter, and the meetin

on. But Garrison's attention remained with Loretta. She was tonight, he
thought. It wasn't just the black she was wearing, thou that did
accentuate the precision of her makeup. There was a glitter her eye; and
he didn't like it. What did she have to be so pleased It was only when
Linville, toward the close of the meeting, Mitch's function at the
funeral, and asked where he was, realized why Loretta was looking so
smug: she was the one who'd him to the island. She was up to her old
tricks again, mare Mirth, sweetening him, getting him on her side. No
wonder sounded so certain of himself on the phone, when a few hours he'd
been a sobbing idiot. She'd given him a pep talk; probably suaded him
that if he did as she instructed she might still get the girl back. And
of course he'd fallen for it. She'd always been able wrap him around her
finger.

As the meeting broke up, Linville promising that by tomorrow he'd have a
full itinerary for the funeral in everyone's Loretta came over to
Garrison and said:

"When the funeral's over, I'd like you to go down to the

ton house and see if there's anything you want to have for

before I put it up for auction."

"How kind of you," he replied.

"I know there's some pieces of furniture there that were

over from Vienna by your mother."

"I don't have any sentimental attaclments to that stuff," said.

"There's nothing wrong with a little sentiment now and again," Loretta
replied.

"I haven't noticed much of it from you."

"I do my grieving in private." "Well you'll have all the privacy you
want when he's buried," Garrison remarked. "I'm surprised you're selling
the Washington place. Where are you going to live?"

"I'm not planning to quietly fade away, if that's what you're hoping,"
Loretta replied. "I've got a lot of responsibilities."

"Don't worry about all that," Garrison said. "You deserve a rest." "I'm
not worried," Loretta said flatly. "In fact, I'm looking forward to
getting a better handle on things. I let a lot of details slip in the
last few months." Garrison gave her a tight little smile. "Goodnight,
Garrison." She pecked him on the cheek. "You should get some sleep, by
the way," she said as she departed. "You look worse than Mitchell did."

It was only when Garrison was back at the Tower, and sitting in the
chair where he now preferred to sleep (his bed made him feel uneasy, for
some reason) that he thought again of the Washington house, and of
Loretta's suggestion that he look for some keepsake there. As he'd said,
he'd had no great desire to have anything from the house, but if it and
its contents were indeed to be auctioned offthen he would have to find a
day in his schedule to go down and walk around. He'd had happy times
there, as a child: in the dog days of summer, playing under the
sycamores at the back of the house, where the shadows were cool and
blue; Christmases when the place had been warm and welcoming, and he'd
felt, if only for a few hours, part of the family. Such feelings of
belonging had never lasted very long; he'd always in the end felt
himself an outsider. He'd had years of analysis trying to untangle the
reasons, but he'd never come close to understanding why. What an utter
waste of time that had been: sitting hour after hour with those
stale-headed men examining his navel fluff, looking for some clue as to
why he felt like a stranger to himself. He knew now of course; now that
he could see himself clearly. He didn't belong in that nest because he
was another order of being.

It put him in a fine, dreamy mood reflecting on that; and he slipped
into sleep sitting in the chair, and did not move until the first sirens
of the new day woke him.

the storm lasted well into the night, veering at the last moment

coming ashore along the southeast coast of the island. The town to
suffer was Poi'pu, but a number of smaller communities in area were also
badly struck. There was some flooding, and a bridge side Kalaheo was
washed away; so were some small huts. By the time wind carried the storm
clouds off into the interior of the island--' they hung over the
mountains for the rest of the night, slowly dissi ing--there had been
three more fatalities to add to those lives lost at

Rachel didn't retire to bed until after one; she sat up listening to the
roar of the wind-filled trees around the house, the palms bending so low
that their fronds scraped the roof like long-nailed fingers. She loved
rainstorms as a child--they'd always seemed cleansing to and this storm
was no exception. She liked its din, its violence, its manship. Even
when the power failed, leaving her to sit by the light a couple of
candles, she was still quite happy. She had only one that she didn't
still have Holt's journal. What a perfect time and this would have been
to be reading the last section of the book. She would never see it
again, she assumed: now it was in Mitchell or son's hands, and the
chance of her reclaiming it were slim. No She'd find out from Galilee
what had happened to Holt. Maybe turn it into a story for her; hold her
in his arms and tell her how elberry and the captain and himself had
fared together. There be a happy conclusion, she guessed, but right now,
listening to downpour lashing against the windows, she didn't much care.
It a night for happy endings: it was a night for the dark to have its
Tomorrow, when the clouds had cleared and the sun was up, she'd pleased
to hear about miraculous rescues and prayers answered. right now, in the
roaring, pelting heart of the night, she wanted there to tell her how
death had come to Captain Holt, and how ghost of his child--yes! surely
the child came back--had stood at bottom of his deathbed and called him
away, just as he'd called horse. Beckoned to his father from beyond the
grave and escorted into the hereafter.

The candle flickered a little; and she shuddered. She'd actually
succeeded in spooking herself. She picked the candle up and carried it
through to the kitchen, setting it down beside the stove while she
refilled the kettle. There was a scuttling in the shadowy roof above her
head, and she looked up to see a large gecko-the largest she'd seen
either in or around the house--scuttling across the wooden slats of the
ceiling. It seemed to sense her gaze, because it froze in its tracks and
remained frozen until she looked away. Only then did she hear its
scrabblings resume. When she looked up again it had gone.

She went back to refilling the kettle, but in the time it had taken her
to look up and see the gecko her desire for tea had disappeared. She put
the kettle back on the stove, unfilled, and picking up the candle, she
went to bed. She started to undress, but only got as far as taking off
her sandals and jeans. Then she slipped under the covers, and fell
asleep to the accompaniment of the rain.

ii

She was woken by an impatient rapping on the bedroom door. Then a voice,
calling to her: "Rachel? Are you in there?"

She sat up, the dream she'd woken from--something about Boston, and
diamonds buried in the snow on Newbury Street--lingering for a moment.
"Who is it?"

"It's Niolopua. Nobody answered the front door so I came in."

"Is there a problem?" She looked out of the window. It was day; the sky
was a brilliant blue.

"You have to get up." Niolopua said, his voice urgent. "There's been a
wreck. And I think maybe it's his boat."

She got up out of bed, and wandered across the room, still not fully
comprehending what she was being told. There was Niolopua, spattered
with red-brown mud. "The Sarnarkand," he said to her. "Galilee's boat.
It's been washed up on the beach." She looked back toward the window.
"Not here," Niolopua went on. "Down at the other end of the

island. On the Napali coast."

"Are you sure it's his?"

Niolopua nodded. "As sure as I can be," he said. Her heart was suddenly
racing. "And him? What about him?"

"There's no sign of him," Niolopua said. "At least there wasn't an hour
ago, when I was down there."

"Let me just get some clothes on," she said. "And I'll be with you."

"Have you got any boots?" he said.

"No. Why?"

"Because it's hard to get to where we're going. You have to "I'll
climb," she said, "boots or no boots."

The effects of the storm were to be seen everywhere. The hi was still
awash with bright orange runoff water, the heavier which carried a
freight of debris: branches, boards, drowned even a few small trees.
Thankfully, there were very few other on the road at this early hour--it
was still only seven--and Ni negotiated both streams and debris with
confidence.

While he drove he offered Rachel a short explanation,

were going. The Napali coast was the most dangerous and tion of the
island, he explained. Here the cliffs rose out of the beaches and caves
at their feet hard to reach except from the se; was familiar with images
of the coast from a brochure she'd: the short flight from Honolulu: one
of the most popular a helicopter flight over the cliffs, and the narrow,
lush valleys the cliffs, which could only be reached by those down from
the summits. There were rewards for those who journeys--waterfalls of
spectacular scale, and dense, virgin the trip wasn't to be taken
lightly. According to local legend some valleys were so hard to reach
that until recent times small had existed there, completely isolated
from the rest of the island.

"The beach we're going to can be reached along the foot

cliffs," Niolopua told her. "It's maybe a mile from where

"How did you find out about the wreck?"

"I was there during the storm. I don't know why I went. I just I had to
be there." He glanced over at her. "I guess maybe ing for me."

Rachel put her hand up to her face; tears suddenly t

thought of Galilee out in the dark water--

"Do you still hear him?" she said softly.

Niolopua shook his head, and his own tears ran freely. doesn't mean
anything," he said without much real c

knows the sea. Nobody knows it better. After all these years... "But if
the boat sank--"

"Then we have to hope the tide brought him in."

Rachel remembered suddenly the tales of the shark lord, times guided
shipwrecked sailors back to land, and sometimes,

own unfathomable reasons, devoured them, and how Galilee had thrown
their dinner into the water that night, as an offering, which she'd
thought sweetly absurd at the time. Now she was grateful he'd done so.
The world she'd been raised in had no room for shark gods, nor the
efficacy of food thrown on water; but of late she'd come to understand
how narrow that vision was. There were forces out there, beyond the
limits of her wits or education, which could not be contained by simple
commandments. Things that lived their own, wild life, unwitnessed,
unbounded. Galilee knew them because he was in some measure of them.

That was both her present fear and her present hope. If he felt he
belonged to that other life too much, might he not have decided to give
himself over to it? To lose himself in that boundless place? If so, she
would never find him again. He was gone where she could never go. If, on
the other hand, his professions of love had been real--if he'd meant
what he said when he talked of all that wasted time, when he should have
been looking for her-perhaps the very powers that would claim him if he
chose were presently her allies, and the offering he'd made, and the
shark god for whom it was intended, had been part of the story thatwould
return him to her. in

The signs of storm damage got worse once they were the other side of
Poi'pu; the road was nearly impassable in several places, where the
force of the rainwater had washed down large rocks. And once they got
onto the beach road, which hugged the base of the cliffs, matters became
worse still. The road was little more than a winding, rutted track,
which was now largely reduced to red mud. Even driving cautiously,
Niolopua several times lost momentary control of the vehicle, as its
slickened wheels lost their grip.

Out to the left of the track, on the other side of a ragged band of
black rocks, was the shore: and here, more than any other place along
their route, was the most eloquent evidence of the storm's power. The
sand was strewn with debris from the margin of the rocks to the water's
edge, and the waves themselves dyed with the run-off mud. It was like a
Scene from a dream--the sky cerulean, the sea scarlet, the bright sand
littered with dark, sodden timbers. In other circumstances she might
have thought it beautiful. But all she saw now was debris and blood-red
Water: it enchanted her not at all.

"Here's where the climbing starts," Niolopua announced.

She took her eyes from the shore and looked ahead. The muddy track ended
a few yards from them, where the cliff face jutted out into

the sea; a spit of rock against which the ruddied waves rushed

broke.

"The beach we're headed for is on the other side." "I'm ready," Rachel
said, and got out of the car. The air, for all the din and motion of the
sea, to the cliff. Almost clammy, in fact. After just a minute or so she
sweating, and once they began to clamber over the rocks her head to
throb. Niolopua had left his sandals at the car, and was climbi foot,
making little concession to the fact that Rachel was a the this. Only
when the route became particularly dangerous did he back at her, and
once or twice offered a hand up when the rock steep or slick. In order
to avoid having to climb over boulders that a virtually unscalable he
led them out onto the spit of rock. Once from the cliff the air became
fresher and every now and then an tious wave reached higher and farther
than its fellows and broke them, throwing showers of icy water against
their faces. She was soaked to the skin, her breasts so cold that her
nipples hurt, her fing numb. But they had sight of their destination
now-a beach that woi.t have looked paradisiacal if it had not been so
littered: a long, wide cu] of sand bounded on its landward side not by
rocks but by a verdant valk

from the cliff. The storm had taken its toll here too: many ofth

scooped

	had been practically stripped by the wind, and the fronds were

trees

everywhere. But the vegetation was too lush and too impenetrable for

storm to have done more than superficial damage; behind the

palms were banks of glistening green, speckled with bright blossom.

There was nobody on the beach, which stretched perhaps

mile from the spit of rock before it was bounded by another spit, far

than the one they'd clambered over. At this distance the second

looked to be impassable: this beach was as far as anyone could

Niolopua was already down on the sand, and pointing out to

Rachel followed his gaze. No more than a few hundred yards

shore a whale was breaching, thrusting its almighty bulk skyward,

toppling like a vast black pillar, throwing fans of creamy water

it. She watched for the creature to rise again, but it was apparently

with its game. She saw only a glistening back, a dorsal fin; then

She looked back at the beach, suddenly heavy with sorrow. He

here; it was obvious he wasn't here. If the wreckage Niolopua had

was indeed that of The Samarkand then its captain was out there

deep waters of the bay, where only the whales could find him.

She crouched down on the rock for a moment and told

no uncertain terms to stop feeling sorry for herself, and finish what

come here to do. It was no use avoiding the truth, however painful it
was. If there was wreckage here she should see for herself. Then she'd
know, wouldn't she? Once and for all, she'd know.

She took a deep breath, and stood up. Then she clambered down over the
rocks and onto the sand.

	XV

M

itchell knew where the Kaua'i house was; Garrison and he had talked
about it many times over the years. But talking about the place and
being there were two very different things. He hadn't expected to feel
so much the trespasser. As soon as he got out of the taxi his heart
quickened and his palms became clammy. He waited outside the gate for a
few moments until he had government of his feelings, and only then did
he venture to the step, slide the wooden bolt aside, and push the gate
open.

There was nothing here that could do him any harm, he reminded himself.
Just a woman who needed to be saved from her own stupidity.

He called her name as he walked up the path to the front door. A couple
of startled doves rose from their perches on the roof, but otherwise
there was no sign of life. Once he got to the door he called again, but
she either hadn't heard him or she was trying to make her escape. He
opened the door and stepped into the house. It smelled of old bed linen
and stale food; not a bright place, as he'd expected, but murky, its
colors muted, all tending toward brown. So much for the feminine touch.
Several generations of Geary wives had occupied this house on and off
over a period of sixty or seventy years, but the place felt grimy and
charmless.

That fact didn't make his heart beat any the less violently. This was
the house of women; the secret place, where he'd been told as an ado
leseent no Geary male ever ventured. Of course he'd asked why, and his
father had told him: one of the qualities which distinguished the Gearys
from other families, he'd said, was a reverence for history. The past,
he'd said, was not always easy to understand; but it had to be
respected. Needless to say, this answer hadn't satisfied the young
Mitchell. He hadn't wanted vague talk of reverence; he'd wanted a
concrete reason for what seemed to him an absurdity. A house where only
women were allowed to go? Why? Why did women deserve to have such a
house

(and on such an island)? They weren't the moneymakers, they the power
brokers. All they did, to judge by the daily rituals of mother and her
friends, was to spend what the men had earned. He ply didn't understand
it.

And he still didn't. There had been times, of course, when he'd

seen the strength of the Geary women at work, and it could be an
impressive sight. But they were still parasites; their lush, easy
impossible without the labors of their husbands. If he'd been hoping
that entering and exploring this house would offer a clue to he was
disappointed. As he moved from room to room his diminished and finally
disappeared. There were no mysteries here; answers to mysteries. It was
just a house: a little shabby, a little stale; to be gutted and
refumished; or simply demolished.

He went upstairs. The bedrooms were as unremarkable as

	rooms below. Only once did he feel a return of the prickling

	he'd experienced outside, and that was when he walked into the
largesI::;

	of the bedrooms and saw the unmade bed Ths was where his wife had

	which' fact would have

	slept last night, no doubt; not moved him

	cially, had it not been for the way the bed was fashioned. There

	something about the crude elaboration of the carvings, and the way

	had dulled the brightness of the colors, that unsettled him It was

	some bizarre funeral casket. He couldn't imagine why anybody

		. ever want to sleep there, especially a neurotic bitch like Rachel.
He hn .... . gered in the room only long enough to go through the
contents

	suitcase and traveling bag. He found nothing

	done, he left the room, closing the door behind him, and turning

	key in the lock. It was only then, when he'd put the bedroom out

	sight, that he dared bring to mind its other function. It was

	bridal suite; the place where Galilee had come to visit his women.

	stood in the gloomy hallway outside the room physically sickened

	that thought, but unable to keep himself from imagining the

	woman, a Geary woman--Rachel, Deborah, Loretta, Kitty; all

	in one congealed form--lying naked on that morbid bed, while

	lover--his hands as dark as the body he was touching was pale

	and fingered what was not his to pleasure; not under any law in

	land: only here, in this godless, gloomy house, where a rule of

	sion held sway that Mitchell had no hope of comprehending. All

	mattered to him right now was to get his wife in his hands and

' her. That's what he pictured when he saw them together again:

|"|. hands clamped around her arms; shaking her until her teeth

	Maybe he could still frighten some sense into her: make her ask him

forgive her, beg him to forgive her, and take her back. And maybe he
would. It wasn't out of the question, if she was sincere, and made him
feel appreciated. That was the heart of the problem: she'd never been
thankful enough. After all, he'd changed her life out of all
recognition; snatched out of her trivial existence and given her a taste
of the high life. She owed him everything; everything. And what had she
given him in return? Ingratitude, disloyalty, infidelity.

But he knew how to be magnanimous. His father had always said that when
a man was blessed by circumstance, as Mitchell had been blessed, it was
particularly incumbent upon that man to be generous in his dealings. To
avoid envy and pettiness, which were the twin demons of those who had
been denied a grander perspective; to err on the side of the angels.

It wasn't easy. He fell short of those ideals every day of his life. But
here was a clear circumstance in which he could apply the principles
he'd been taught; in which he could resist the call of envy and
vengeance and prove to be better than his baser self.

All she had to do was let him shake her and shake her, until she begged
to take him back.

	XVI

r'hs s part of the hull of The Sarnarkand, Nlolopua sad, pointing

down at a length of battered timber in the san& "There's another piece
over there. And there's more in the surf."

Rachel walked down to the water's edge. There were indeed more lengths
of painted wood tumbling back and forth in the waves. And further out,
beyond the surf, one or two larger pieces bobbing about, including what
might have been a portion of the mast.

"What makes you so sure it's The Samarkand?" she asked Niolopua, who'd
come to join her at the water's edge.

He stared down at his feet, curling his toes into the stained sand.
"It's just a feeling," he said. "But I trust it."

"Isn't it possible the wreckage was washed up here, and he came ashore
somewhere else?"

"Of course," Niolopua said. "He could have swum along the coast. He's
certainly strong enough."

"But you don't think he did."

Niolopua shrugged. "Your instincts are as good as

concerned. Better probably. You've been closer to him than I

She nodded, looking past him along the littered expanse

shore. Perhaps her beloved was lying somewhere in the shall,

thought, too exhausted to make it the last few yards without help.

thought made her stomach turn. He could be so close, so very

and she not know it. Dying for want of a loving hand.

"I'm going to walk along the beach," she said to Niolopua.

there's any sign..."

"Would you like me to come with you?" , "No," she shivered. "No thanks."

Niolopua fished in the breast pocket of his shirt, and took hand-rolled
cigarette and an old-fashioned steel lighter. "Do you hit of Mary Jane
before you go." he said. "It's good stuff."

She nodded and watched as Niolopua lit a joint up, pulled

then passed it over to her. She drew a deep, flagrant lungful then

it bac,.k to Niolopua. , ,,,

'Take your time with your walk,' he told her. I m not going an

She slowly exhaled the smoke, already feeling a pleasant but
light-headedness, and headed off along the beach. Just a few yards she
found more wreckage-a piece of rope with the tackle attached; what
looked to be the wheelhouse window flame; the of an instrument panel,
its gauges still intact. She went down on haunches to examine this last
item more closely. Perhaps there some inscription on it: some sign that
would confirm Niolo eions. Or better still, prove him wrong.

She lifted up the panel; seawater ran out, and a blue-baeked secreted in
the moist sand beneath it, scuttled away. There on either side of the
panel; not even a maker's name on the face gauges. Frustrated, she
tossed it back onto the sand, and stood up As she did so, the drug in
her system played a strange, dislocating She suddenly became acutely
aware of how her ears were each ing radically different information. On
her left side, the sea: the

mic draw and crash of the On her audible only when

			right,

	waves.

sea was momentarily hushed, the sounds of the green. A little

had come since she and Niolopua had started their climb over

up

rocks, and it gently shook the canopy, moving leaf against leaf,

against blossom.

She glanced back toward Niolopua, who was sitting in the

staring out at the water. This time, she didn't follow his gaze.

interested in what the sea had to show her. Instead she turned her eyes
up the slope of the beach. A few yards from where she stood a small
stream emerged from between the trees, carving a zigzag path across the
sand on its way to the sea. She started to climb the beach to the place
from which it appeared, studying the wall of vegetation as she did so.
Another gust of wind moved the canopy, and stirred the colored blossoms
so that they seemed to nod at her as she approached.

She slipped off her sandals at the edge of the stream, and stepped into
it. The water was cold; far colder than the sea had been. She bent down
and let the water play against her fingers for a moment, then making a
shallow cup of her hands-scooped some of it up and splashed it against
her face, running her wetted fingers back through her hair. Icy water
trickled down the back of her neck, and round and down between her
breasts. She pressed her hand against her breastbone to stop the water
going any further. She could feel her heart thumping under her hand. Why
was it beating so fast? It wasn't just cold water and a hit of marijuana
that was making her feel so strange: there was something else. She put
her hand back into the stream, and this time she was certain she heard
the double thump of her heart quickening. She followed the path of the
water with her eyes, up into the green. Another gust of wind, and the
fat wide leaves rose all at once, showing their pale undersides, and the
deep shadows their brightness concealed. What was in those shadows?
Something was calling to her; its message was in the water, flowing
against her fingers and up through her nerves to her heart and head.

She stood up again and began to walk against the gentle flow of the
stream, until she reached the edge of the vegetation. It smelled strong;
the heavy fragrance of blossom mingled with the deeper, more solid smell
of all things verdant: shoot, stalk, frond, leaf. She paused to see if
there was an easier way in than wading through the stream, but she could
see none. The foliage was thick in every direction: the easiest option
was simply to keep to the flowing path.

The choice made, she stepped out of the sunlight and into the shadows.
After no more than six or seven steps she began to feel clammy-cold; a
prickly sweat broke out on her brow and upper lip. Her toes were already
starting to numb in the icy water.

She looked back over her shoulder. Though the ocean was only fifty yards
from where she stood, if that, it might have been another world. It was
so bright and blue out there; and in here, so dark, so green.

She looked away, and resumed her trek. The stream no longer ran over
sand now but over stones and rotted leaves. It was a slippery path,

made more treacherous still by the fact that the ground was steeper as
she progressed. She was soon obliged to climb, doin to strike out into
the undergrowth when the route became too using saplings and vines to
haul herself up, then returning to the tively unchoked stream once she'd
reached a plateau and could ceed without the need of handholds.

She could no longer see the beach, or hear the waves

She was surrounded on all sides by greenery and by the inhabitants that
greenery. Birds were noisy in the trees overhead; there were li running
everywhere. But more extraordinary than either, and numerous, were the
spiders: orange-and-black-backed creatures span of a baby's hand, they
had spun their ambitious webs and sat at the heart of their fiefdoms
awaiting their rewards. Rachel her best to avoid touching the webs, but
there were so many it impossible. More than once she walked straight
into one and had' brush its owner off her face or shoulder, or shake it
out of her hair.

The climb had by now begun to take its toll on her. Her hands weary with
their exertions, were beginning to lose their grip, and legs were
shaking with fatigue. The promising curiosity she d felt on th beach
below had faded. She might go on wandering like this for houe she
realized, and never find anything. As long as she followed th stream she
had no fear of getting lost, of course, but the steeper the became the
more she ran the risk of falling.

She found a flat rock, in midstream, to perch on, and from

made an assessment of her situation. She hadn't brought her watch

she estimated that she'd been climbing for perhaps

Long enough for Niolopua to be wondering where the hell she'd

She stood up on the rock and yelled his name. It was im

judge how far the call went. Not far, she suspected. She imagined snared
in the mesh of vines, in the hearts of blossoms, in sF snared and
silenced.

She regretted making the sound now. For some absurd

she'd become anxious. She looked around. Nothing had

was only green, above and below. And at her feet the burbling

"Time to go back," she told herself quietly, and gingerly took

first step down over the weed-slickened rocks. As she did so she spasm
of the same force she'd experienced on the beach through her from the
soles of her feet.

Instinctively she looked back up along the course of the

studying the water as it cascaded toward her, looking for some clue.

there was nothing out of the ordinary here; at least nothing

see. She looked again, narrowing her eyes the better to distinguish the
forms before her. So many misleading combinations of sun and leaf shadow

Wait, now; what was that, ten or twelve yards from her, lying in the
water? Something dark, sprawled in the stream.

She didn't dare hope too hard. She just started climbing again, though
there were several large boulders before her, one of which had fallen
like a great log, and could not be climbed around. She was obliged to
scale it like a cliff face, her fingers desperately seeking little
crevices to catch hold of, while a constant cascade of water rushed down
upon her. When she finally clambered to the top she was gasping with
cold, but the form she'd seen was more discernible now, and at the sight
of it she let out such a shout of joy that the birds in the canopy
overhead rose in clamorous panic.

It was him! No doubt of it. Her prayers were answered. He was here. She
called out to him, and climbed to where he lay, tearing at the vines
that blocked her way. His face was a terrible color, like weed ash, but
his eyes were open and they saw her, they knew her.

"Oh my baby," she said, falling on her knees beside him, and gathering
him to her. "My sweet, beautiful man." Though she was cold, he was far,
far colder; colder even than the water in which he'd lain, passing the
message of his presence down the stream.

knew you'd find me," he said softly, his head in her lap. "Cesaria...
said you would."

"We have to get you down to the beach," she told him. He made the
frailest of smiles, as though this were a sweet lunacy on her part. "Can
you stand up?"

"There were dead men coming aer me," he said, looking past her into the
vegetation, as though some of them might still be lurking.

"They followed me out of the sea. Men I'd killed-"

"You were delirious-"

"No, no," he insisted, shaking his head, "they were real. They were

trying to pull me back into the sea." "You swallowed seawater--" "They
were here!" he said.

"Okay," she said gently. "They were here. But they're gone now. Maybe I
frightened them off."

"Yes," he said, with that same frail smile. "Maybe you did." He was
looking at her with the gratitude of a child saved from a nightmare.

"I swear. They're not coming back. Whatever happened, sweetheart,
they've gone and they're not coming back. You're safe."

"I am?" ; She lifted his cold face up to hers and kissed him. "Oh yes,"
said, certain of this as she'd been certain of little else in her life.
"I'm going to let anything hurt you or take you away from me ever
again."

XVII

I H

'e was all but naked, his wasted body covered in wounds .bruises; but
when she finally managed to get him up onto feet--which took five
minutes of maneuvering, then another five of rubbing his legs to restore
his circulation--his old command of hi and the authority of his bearing,
started to return. She offered to go down ahead of him and bring
Niolopua up to help, but he wouldn't I ........ hear of it. They'd make
it, he said; it would just take a little time.

They began the descent, tentatively at first, but gathering speed

and confidence as they went.

Only once did they halt for any length of time, and it was

because the path became too steep or treacherous, it was

Galilee suddenly drew a sharp, frightened breath and said: "There!"

His eyes had darted off to their left, where the foliage was shaking,

as though an animal had just fled away.

"What is it?" Rachel said.

"They're still here," he murmured, "the ones that came after

He pointed to the swaying foliage. "That one was staring at me."

"I don't see him," she said.

"He's gone now.., but they're not going to let me alone."

"We'll see about that," she said. "If they've got business with you

then they've got business with me. And I'll make them take their asses
back where they came from." She spoke this more loudly than strictly
needed to, as though to inform any stalking spirits of her ligerence.
Galilee seemed reassured.

"I don't see them anymore," he said.

They began their descent afresh. It was easier now; Galilee

to have taken strength from the exchange theyYd had, but they both
exhausted by the time they reached the shore, and sat for a while to
gather their breath. There was no sign of Niolopua.

"I'm sure he wouldn't have driven away without me," Rachel said. "I hope
he didn't go up in there..." She looked back toward the wall of
vegetation. As the day crept on the green looked less and less
welcoming; she didn't like the idea of going back up the slope in search
of Niolopua.

Her fears were unfounded. They'd been siing catching their breath on the
beach perhaps five minutes when he appeared out of e trees further along
the beach. As soon as he saw Rachel and Galilee he let out a whoop of
happiness and relief, and began to run along the beach toward them, only
slowing down when Galilee got to his feet to greet him. Niolopua slowed
his approach, halting a few yards from them.

"Hello," he murmured. He bowed his head as he spoke; there was reverence
in his every muscle.

"I'm pleased to see you." Galilee replied, with an odd formality of his
own. "You thought you'd lost me, huh?"

Niolopua nodded. "We were afraid so," he said.

"I wouldn't leave you." Galilee replied, "Either of you." His gaze went
from Niolopua's face to Rachel's, then back to his son.

"We've got a lot to talk about," he said, offering his hand to Niolopua.

Rachel thought he intended it to be shaken, but they had an odder, and
in some ways more tender, ritual of greeting. Taking his father's hand
Niolopua turned it palm up and kissed it, leaving his face buried in the
lines and cushions of his father's immense hand until he had to lift it
again to draw breath.

ii

The hours stretched on, and Mitchell was alone in the house. He was far
from comfortable there. Though he was exhausted, nothing would have
persuaded him to lie down on any of the beds and sleep. He didn't want
to know what kind of dreams came to men who slept here. Nor did he want
to touch anything in the kitchen. He didn't like the idea of behaving
domestically here; of letting the house lull him into believing it was
innocent. It was not innocent. It was as guilty as the women who'd
fornicated here.

But as the day passed, he got wearier and hungrier and ranker and
fouler-tempered, and by two in the afternoon he was feeling so weak that
he realized he was in serious danger of compromising the business he'd
come here to do. He would go out and find something to eat, he decided;
maybe some cigarettes, and some strong coffee. If his bitch

wife came back while he was away, no matter. He knew the

house now; he could ambush her. And if she was still gone when

returned, then he'd be fortified, and ready to wait out the night

essary until she came back.

It was a little after two-thirty when he left the premises, on foot;

was a relief to be out in the open air after the confines of the house;

gloomy spirits rose. He knew where he was heading: he'd spotted

small general store not more than half a mile back along the

from the turnoff down to the house. Meanwhile, there were inc,

pleasures along the way:a radiant smile from a local girl hanging

washing to dry; the scent of some flower in the hedgerow; the drone

a jet overhead, and his looking up, squinting against the brightness

the sky, to see it making a white chalk line on the blue.

It was a good day to be in love, and for some strange reason

how he felt: like a man in love. Perhaps there was an end to his

sions in sight; perhaps, after all, when the shaking and the tears were

over, he could settle down w, ith Rachel and live the kind of lush life
he

knew he deserved. He wasn t a bad man; he hadn t done any harm

	All that had happened of late--the death, of Margie, the busi '

anybody.

ness with the journal, the chaos attending Cadmus s demise--none

had been his responsibility. All he wanted--all he'd ever wanted-w I to
be seen and accepted as the prince he was. Once he'd achieved thi

there'd be a golden time again; he was certain of it. Garri2:!

modest

aim

son would finally shrug off his depressions, and put his energies

where they belonged, organizing the family business. Old

would be realized and new futures made. The past, and all its

secrets, would be footnotes in a book of victories.

All these happy thoughts went through his head as he walked,

by the time he reached the store the profound unease that had

him in the house had been eclipsed. He went about the store whistlin

picked up some soda, some doughnuts and two packs of ci

Then he sat outside on the wall of the red-dirt parking lot and

ate and smoked and enjoyed the warmth of the sun. After an

while it occurred to him that perhaps he should return to the house

pared to defend himself. So he went back into the store, and

around until he found a kitchen knife that was pretty much to his

pose. He bought it, and went back out to sit on the wall again and

ish his little meal. The doughnuts and soda had given him a

sugar buzz; there was quite a spring in his step when he finall

on back to the house.

Galilee's reserves of strength were all used up by the time Rachel and
Niolopua got him to the car. He'd become a dead weight, barely able to
lift his head for more than a few moments before it sank down again. On
the journey back to Anahola he was clearly fighting hard to stay
conscious. His eyes would flicker open for a time and he'd speak, then
he'd lapse into long periods when he seemed nearly comatose. Even during
the periods of consciousness he was barely lucid. Most of what he said
was muttered fragments. Was he reliving the destruction of The
Samarkand? It seemed perhaps he was, the way he'd suddenly shout, his
face a grimace. At one point he began to make choking sounds, and for
several agonizing seconds his body stiffened in Rachel's arms, every
muscle hard as stone, as he desperately tried to draw breath. Then, just
as suddenly as it had begun, the attack ceased and he relaxed in her
embrace, his breathing quite regular.

After that, they got to the house without further incident. It was
almost night by the time they arrived, and the house was in darkness.
But Galilee seemed to know where they were, despite his delirium,
because as they escorted him up the path, his weight borne almost
entirely by Niolopua, he raised his head a few inches, and looked at the
house from beneath his heavy lids.

"Are... they.., there?" he said.

"Who?"

"The women," he replied.

"No, baby," Rachel said. "I's jus us."

He made the finies of smiles, his eyes still fixed on he murky house.
"Let me sleep," he said. "They'll come."

She didn't argue with him. If the though of the Geary women returning
here comforted him, then that was fine and dandy. And the prospect
seemed o motivate him for those few yards. He made an agonizing effort
to enter the house under his own seam, as though there was some point of
honor here: hat he, who had raised this house, did not want o be seen
returning into it with his strength,so reduced he could no step over the
threshold without help. Once the at*empt at autonomy had been made,
however, and he was inside, he had no

choice but to relinquish himself to Rachel and Niolopua's

head drooped again, his eyes closed.

Niolopua suggested they lay him down on the couch,

had no doubt where he would recover most quickly: upstairs, in carved,
painted bed. It was hard work getting him up the flight but Niolopua put
his back to the task, and after five minutes ofun struggle they got up
to the top. From there it was easy landing, through the door, and onto
the bed.

Rachel tucked a pillow under Galilee's head, and pulled the

out from under his body to cover him. He was cold again, as he'd when
she'd first found him, but at least he didn't have the same. pallor. His
lips were dry and cracked, so she fetched some balm, applied it thickly.
Then she tore away the remains of his vest, and ined the contusions on
his torso. None of them were bleeding, so fetched a washcloth and bathed
them, one by one, just to be sure wasn't any dirt in the wounds.
Niolopua helped her roll Galilee over that Rachel could bathe the cuts
on his back. Then she unbuckled belt and together they removed his
pants. Now he lay completely on the white sheet, his massive languorous
form sprawled on the bed though he'd fallen there, out of heaven.

"Can I go now?" Niolopua said. He was plainly uncomfortable being in the
room with his father while he lay there in this state. just be
downstairs. Call me if you need me," and off he went.

Rachel went back to the bathroom and washed out the cloths she'd; used
to clean the wounds. When she came back into the room sh couldn't help
but stop for a moment and drink in the sight before Oh, he was
beautiful. Even in this profound repose, with the great of his muscle
diminished by deprivation, there was still power those immense arms,
which had so effortlessly wrapped her up; in thick trunk of his neck; in
that aristocratic head of his, with its hi bones; his mouth, shiny with
balm, his brow, deeply etched, his black-and-salt beard. And down past
the raked muscle of his belly, other power here, presently dormant.
Lying against his groin in ing state, hooded and huge. She would have a
child out of him, thought, looking at him like this; whatever the risks
to her own body, would have something of him inside her, as proof of
their union.

She set to washing the wounds on his thighs and shins;

tenderly. There was something about his utter passivity that was ably
erotic. She was wet thinking of what it would be like to him; to run his
flesh in the groove of her sex until it hardened, then him up inside
her. She tried to put the thought away, and cc

on the business of tending to him, but her mind, and her gaze, returned
again and again to his groin. Though he showed no sign of stirring from
his sleep, she had the uncanny sense that his sex was aware of her.
Wishful thinking, of course; and yet the suspicion persisted. Galilee
was lost in dreams, but his cock was awake. Though she was working at
his feet now, it stirred and thickened. The hood drew back a little as
its head swelled with blood.

She put down the washcloth, and reached between her legs. It knew what
she was up to. It saw with the glistening slit of its eye; it luxuriated
in the heat off her blushing face. She touched herself, running her
fingers over her labia then sliding them up into her body. Then she took
the wetness and ran it, oh-so-lightly, up and down the length of his
cock. It responded like a stroked animal, rising to press its black
spine against her caress, luxuriating in her touch.

She watched his face, half-thinking this was all some subtle seduction
he'd engineered, and that he would open his eyes at any moment and smile
at her, invite her to climb onto him and be pleasured. But there was no
sign of motion, other than that at his groin. His eyes didn't flicker,
his mouth didn't twitch. He lay there, as he had from the beginning, in
a state of complete quiescence. There was no sign of the man who'd made
such intricate love to her on The Samarkand, nor of the thug who'd
fucked her against the bathroom wall. Only this fat ticking stick, its
length as knotted as a vine, its head all but naked now.

There was no resisting it. She undressed, and climbed up onto the bed,
still glancing up at his face now and then to see if he stirred. But his
breathing was even, slow and soft. He was deep in slumber.

Her own body ached with fatigue, and her hips complained at the effort
of climbing astride him. But the pleasure of his body more than
compensated for the discomfort. As for any dregs of doubt that she was
somehow exploiting his passivity--taking this pleasure when it wasn't
freely offered--they drained away the moment he was housed inside her.
The chill in his body had gone; his hips, his groin, his cock, were
feverishly hot, and knew their duty without prompting. She felt him
shift beneath her; then he began to press his length up into her until
he won a sob, and another, and another.

She was barely aware of the sounds she was making until they came back
to her off the wall, gasps and cries, echoing around the little room.
The bed creaked as the rolling motion of his hips escalated; she fell
forward, her hands dropping against his chest, which was as burning hot
as his groin. She reached down once to feel the place where their bodies
met; it was awash with her moisture. The smell of her rose

between their bodies. Not fragrant, not perfumed; nothing so

A ripe smell, the smell of her ache and her loneliness pouring out and
anointing its cure. She felt, as she had never felt in her life the
primal nature of this act. No words of love, no promises of d were
necessary: this was the act unadorned by sentiment; a a possession, her
flesh embracing his, demanding its due. If sore had asked her what her
name was at that moment she wouldn't remembered it; nor his. She-who'd
fought so hard not to lose self-had found her way through the labyrinth
in order to come to place of forgetfulness, where all the Raehels she'd
been-the wildli and the sophisticate, the shop girl and the society
wife--were ecli

As she moved on him, she seemed to feel the room around

trembling. The glass in the windows rattled; her sighs and sobs car back
from the wall, manifold, as though her noise had woken oth voices, their
vibrations captive until now. It was not, she realized, ply her
appetite, for him that had made her so shameless; there was profounder
summons here. " .......

She opened her eyes again, and through a fluttering veil

pleasure looked down at her lover's face. There was no change in
expression, but his eyes had opened, just a crack, and he was looking at
her.

Then he spoke.

"We're not alone..." he said.

XlX

D

own on the beach, the surfers had come for a last

Their shouts of exhilaration drifted up across the lawn to veranda,
where Niolopua sat smoking the last of his joint. The his father, laid
out naked on the bed, had unnerved him. Thou known Galilee a human
lifetime, he had never seen him so x

And though he believed Raehel's intentions to his father were good, her
feelings sincere, there was part of him that wanted to take away from
her, away from this wretched house, so full of sad brances; take him off
to the hills where neither Rachel nor any Geary woman could ever lay
claim to him again. Love not in this world. Love ended in betrayal or
the grave, sooner or later; was only a question of time.

But the pot put a little perspective on this dour thought. He should not
be so pessimistic he told himself, lust because he'd never tasted joy
didn't mean it wasn't there to he had. It was just so very difficult, to
face the changes ahead. He'd lived a hard life--hidden away in his shack
most of the time so that the islanders didn't notice that the years
failed to take their toll on him the way they did on others. What little
purpose he'd had for himself had been a function of his father's
continuing visits to the island. He'd been the go-between, down through
the decades; the one who'd sent the message out to his father to tell
him that his services were required; the one who'd facilitated each
liaison, and more than once stayed to comfort the woman upon his
father's departure. He'd never questioned his function, nor his ability
to fulfill it. There was a resilient bond between father and son; a bond
of minds. It meant that all Niolopua had needed to do was sit in the
quiet of his shack and speak his father's true name--Aa, Atva--and
Galilee would hear him, wherever he was. No other instruction was
needed. Niolopua had only ever called that name when a female member of
the Geary had instructed him to do so. And at the summons, Galilee had
always come, his skills as a mariner so flawless, and his knowledge of
wind and current so profound, that he was sometimes there before the
woman whom he'd been called to pleasure had even arrived. It was a
dispiriting business, to Niolopua's eye; his glorious father, the great
wanderer, brought to heel like a dog. But it was not his place to
challenge the ritual. On the one occasion he'd begun to do so, Galilee
had told him in no uncertain terms that the subject was not open for
discussion. Niolopua had never dared raise the subject again. He wasn't
fearful of his father's anger; Galilee had never shown him anything but
love. It was the glimpse of his father's pain that had silenced him. He
had resigned himself to never knowing why Galilee played the lover to
these lonely women. It was simply a part of both their lives,

Would that change now? Did the fact that Galilee's wretchedness had
finally come close to devouring him (how else was he to interpret the
wretched condition they'd found his father in? Men like Galilee didn't
come to such pitiful states by accident. It was self-willed); did that
fact mark a radical change in the way their lives would be led
henceforth? Was this Geary the last of the women he'd service? If so,
what function would be left to Niolopua? None, presumably.

He drew the last draught from the joint, and tossed the remains down
onto the lawn. Then he got up and looked back into the house. By now,
the last of the day had gone, and the interior was gloomy. He watched
for some sign of life, but could see none. Rachel was probably

still upstairs, tending his father. Perhaps he should leave, he they had
no use for him now. He could come back tomorrow and his good-byes. He
lingered on the veranda for a few seconds then turned about and started
down the steps to the lawn.

He didn't see the man coming at him until the very last;

no time to speak, nor even cry out. The knife was in him too thrust into
his body with such force that all the breath was him. He tried to draw
another as he pulled away from his assailant, only one of his lungs
would perform the service; the other had punctured, and was already
filling with blood. Before he could raise t hand to ward off a second
wound the man was closing on the knife into his stomach. He doubled up
from the agony of it, man caught hold of his face, the heel of his hand
beneath his chin, pushed him off. He stumbled backward, his hands
returning to in the desperate hope that he might staunch his wounds get
help. He didn't have the strength to call out; all he could do wa make
for the house, though every step he took was an agony. From corner of
his eye he could see the knife-wielder three or four yards from him,
just watching now. Stumbling, Niolopua reached veranda, and started up
the steps. He threw himself forward when reached the top, and for a
heartbeat he dared hope that the noise made would bring somebody down
from above, and his attacker turn tail and run. But even as he formed
the thought the man came at .... him again, his form blurry to
Niolopua's eye, like a smeared photograph,.! .......

Only at the last, when the man was upon him, and the knife buried

in his body for the third and last time did he see the face of his
closely. He knew the man. Not from personal contact, but from the ers of
magazines. It was one of the sons of the house of Geary. was no
expression on his handsome features; he looked, in the two three seconds
that Niolopua saw him plainly, like a man in a eyes glazed, mouth
slightly open, face slack.

With a little grunt he pulled out the knife, and Niolopua fell

ward onto the veranda, his outstretched hand a few inches shy of door.
The Geary didn't attempt to hurt him again; he had no need. done his
work. He simply waited on the steps, staring down at Niolopua had fallen
face down, the blood that ran out of his nose soaking into the boards of
the veranda. In the final seconds life he did not feel his spirit
soaring up to some hurtless place, which he could watch the scene below,
but stayed there in his looking down at the grain of the wood on which
he lay, as they soaked the blood issuing from his nose and mouth. His
body tried for I:

last, agonizing time, but it didn't have the strength. He shuddered, and
made a little moan as the life went out of him; then he was gone.

Mitchell stood looking down at the body, mildly astonished at his own
vehemence. He hadn't anticipated the flow of rage he'd feel when he had
sight-or thought he had sight--of Galilee Barbarossa. He'd almost felt
led by the hand which clasped the knife; but oh, the satisfaction he'd
felt as the blade had sunk into the man's flesh; the sheer pleasure of
the deed. Moments later, of course, he'd realized his error. But those
few seconds when he thought he'd killed Galilee were so sweet, so
blissful, that he was eager to have the bliss again, this time with the
right man.

He went back down the stairs onto the lawn, and crouched down, running
his knife into the earth to clean it. A minute ago it had been a cheap
little kitchen knife, plucked off a shelf in a general store. But it was
on its way to becoming something altogether extraordinary. Initiated
now, it was ready for its legendary work. He stood up, and turned to
face the house. It was completely quiet, but he had no doubt that the
felons were inside; he'd heard his wife earlier, Rachel, sobbing like a
whore.

Thinking of the sound she'd been making, he climbed the stairs, stepped
over the body of whoever it was his knife had killed, and sliding the
door aside, went into the house.

	XX

G

alilee's period of lucidity hadn't lasted, long. He'd come to the
surface of his comatose state to say: we re not alone, and then he'd
sunk back into it again, his eyes flickering closed. But what he'd said
had been enough to make Rachel feel uneasy. Who was here? And why hadn't
he been distressed at the fact of some other presence in the house?
Reluctantly, she slipped him out of her, and climbed off the bed. The
moment she was no longer touching him she felt cold; the room seemed
almost icy, in fact. She went down on her knees to dig through her bag
for something warm to wear. Shivering violently, she pulled out a
sweater and put it on. As she did so the door creaked, and she looked up
to see a shadow of a shadow, nothing more, flit across the room. It was
so subtle a sight she wasn't even certain she'd seen it; and when she
studied the place where it had gone, she could see nothing.

this realization, he didn't see it. His gaze was still directed to the
tope

the stairs.

	"I want you to stay here," he told her.

	"Why don't we just leave, she suggested. "The two of us."

	"In a minute." "If this is such a bad place--"

	"I told you: in a minute. Just let me go upstairs first."

	"Don't, Mitch."

	His eyes flickered in her direction. "Don't what?" he said. She

her breath, aware that his hand was tightening around the knife. hurt
him? Is that what you were going to say?" He moved toward She flinched.
"You don't want me to hurt lover-boy, is that it?"

	"Mitch. I was there when his mother came to the mansion. I

what she was capable of doing."

	"I'm not frightened of any fucking Barbarossa." He cocked

head. "You see, that's the problem--"

	As he spoke he jabbed the knife in Rachel's direction, prickinI

air between them to make his point.

	"--nobody's ever stood up to these people." He was suddenly

reason. "We just gave up our fucking women to that nigger up like he
owned them. Well he doesn't own my wife. You understand baby? I'm not
going to let him take you away from me."

His empty hand reached out toward her, and he stroked her face ......
"Poor baby," he said. "I'm not blaming you. He fucked with your head,
You didn't have any choice. But it's going to be okay now. going to deal
with it. That's what husbands are supposed to do. The supposed to
protect their wives. I haven't been very good at that. haven't been a
very good husband. I know that now, and I'm Honey, I'm sorry."

	He leaned toward her, and like a nervous schoolboy gave

peck of a kiss.

		o'- " "I'm

	"It's going to be kay, he said again, going to do what I

to do, and then we're going to walk out of here. And we're over." His
fingers continued to graze her cheek. "Because honey, I you. I always
have and I always will. And I can't bear to be se from you." His voice
was small; almost pitiful. "I can't bear it, baby. makes me crazy, not
to have you. You understand me?"

	She nodded. Somewhere at the back of her mind, behind the feal

she felt--for Galilee, for herself--there was a little place in her
where she'd kept enshrined the last remnants of what she'd once felt for
husband. Perhaps it hadn't been love; but it had been a

dream, nonetheless. And hearing him speak now, even in this crazed
state, she remembered it fondly. How he'd made her feel, in the first
months of their knowing one another; his sweetness, his gentility. Gone
now, of course, every scrap. There was only the curdled remains of the
man he'd been.

Oh Lord, it made her sad. And it seemed he saw the sadness in her,
because when he spoke again, all the rage had gone from his voice. And
with it, the certainty.

"I didn't want it to be this way," he said. "I swear I didn't."

"I know."

"I don't know.., how I got here..."

"It doesn't need to be this way," she said, softly, softly. "You don't

have to hurt anybody to prove you love me."

"I do... love you."

"Then put the knife down, Mitch." His hand, which had continued to graze
her cheek, stopped in midstroke. "Please, Mitch," she said. "Put it
down."

He drew his hand away from her face, and his expression, which had
mellowed as she spoke to him, grew severe.

"Oh no.. 7 he murmured "I know what you're doing..." "Mitch--"

"You think you can sweet-talk me out of going up there." He shook his
head. "No, baby. It's not happening. Sorry."

So saying, he stepped back from her and turned toward the stairs. There
was a moment of almost hallucinatory precision, when Rachel seemed to
see everything in play before her: the man with the knife-- her husband,
her sometime prince--moving away from her, stinking of sweat and hatred;
her lover, lying in the bed above, lost in dreams; and in between, on
the darkened stairs, on the landing, those spectral presences, whatever
they were, which she could not name.

Mitch had reached the bottom of the stairs, and now, without another
word to her, he began to ascend. He left her no choice. She went up
after him, and before he could stop her slipped past him to block his
passage. The air was busy up here. She could feel its agitation against,
her face. If Mitch was aware of anything out of the ordinary, his
determination to get to Galilee blinded him to the fact. His face was
fixed; like a mask, beaten to the form of his features; pallid and
implacable. She didn't waste her breath on persuasion; he was beyond
listening to anything she said. She simply stood in his way. If he
wanted to harm Galilee he'd have to get past her to do so. He looked at
her; his eyes the only living things in that dead face.

"Out of my way," he said.

She reached out to the left and right of her and caught hold of
banisters. She was horribly aware of how vulnerable she was, how her
belly and her breasts were open to him, if he wanted to her. But she had
no other choice, and she had to believe that des madness that had seized
him he wouldn't harm her.

He stopped, one stair below her, and for a moment she dared

she could still make him see reason. But then his hand was up face, at
her hair, and with one jerk he pulled her back down the She lost her
grip on the banisters and fell forward, reaching out secure another
hold, but failing, toppling. He held onto her hair, ever, and her head
jerked backward. She reached up to catch hold' his arm, a cry of pain
escaping her. The world pivoted; she didn't kr up from down. He pulled
on her again, drawing her close to him, throwing her backward against
the banister. This time she secured hold, and stopped herself from
falling any further, but before she draw breath he struck her hard
across the face, an open-palmed bl .......... but brutal for all that.
Her legs gave way beneath her; she slipped ways. He caught her a second
blow, with sickening force, and third, which sent her into free fall
down the stairs. She felt every and crack as her limbs, her shoulder,
her head, connected with and banister. Then she hit the floor at the
bottom of the flight, it so hard that she momentarily lost
consciousness. In the buzzing .:,blackness in her head she struggled to
put her thoughts in order task was beyond her. It was all she could do
to instruct her eyes to open: When she did she found herself looking at
the stairs, from a position. Mitch was staring down at her, grotesquely
foreshortened, head vestigial. He studied her for several seconds, just
to be certain he'd incapacitated her. Then, sure that she could not come
him and his intentions again, he turned his back on her and c to ascend
the stairs.

XXI

A

I she could do was watch; her body refused to move an inch. ould only
lie there and watch while Mitch went to Galilee in his bed. She couldn't
even call to him; her throat refused work, her tongue refused to work.
Even if she'd been able to make

sound, Galilee wouldn't have heard her. He was in his own private world;
healing himself in the deepest of slumbers. She would not be able to
rouse him.

Mirth was three or four steps from the top of the flight; in a few more
seconds he would be out of sight. Oh God, she wanted to weep, in rage,
in frustration. After all the grand endeavors of the recent past, would
it all come down to this? Her lying at the bottom of a flight of stairs,
unable to move, and he at the top, just as powerless, while a man with a
little knife and a little soul cut the bond between them?

She heard Mirth speak; and tried to focus on him. But it was difficult
to see him up there at the top of the stairs; the shadows were dense and
they seemed almost to be concealing him from her. She tried to move her
arm; to raise herself up a little way, and get a better look at

him. As she did so he spoke again.

"Who are you?" he said.

There was distress in his voice; a little panic even. She saw him jab
his knife at the darkness, as though to keep it at bay. But it wouldn't
be driven off. It seemed to come at him, alive and eager. He stabbed
again, and again. Then he took a backward step, loosing a panicked cry
as he did so.

"Jesus!" he yelled. "What the luck is this?"

With one last, agonizing effort of will Rachel pressed her aching arms
into service, and lifted her upper body off the floor. Her head spun,
and a wave of nausea rose up in her, but she forgot both in the next
moment, as her eyes made sense of what was happening at the top of the
stairs. There were three, perhaps four, human forms up there with
Mitchell; they moved with gentility, but they pressed against him
nevertheless, backing him against the wall. He still continued to jab at
them, in the desperate hope of keeping them away from him, but it was
clear that they weren't susceptible to harm. They were spirits of some
kind; their sinuous forms expressed from the simple convenience of light
and dark. One of them, as it closed on Mitchell, looked down the stairs,
and Rachel caught a glimpse of its face. Not it; she. It was a
woman--they were all women--her expression faintly amused by the
business she was about. Her features were not perfect by any means; she
was like a portrait that the painter had only sketched, leaving the
rendering of detail until later. But Rachel knew the face, nevertheless.
Knew it not because they'd met, but because this woman had lent the
essentials of her features to the generations that had followed her. The
sweep of the brow, the curve of the cheekbones, the strength of the jaw,
all of these were echoed in the Geary line, as was her penetrating
stare.

And if she was, as Rachel guessed, one of the women who'd been Galilee
in this house, then so too were the others. All Geary who'd passed
sweet, loving times beneath this roof, and who in had returned here, to
leave some part of their spirits where they'd most happy.

The spinning in Rachel's head retreated somewhat, and as it did

she was able to make better sense of the other forms that moved aro
Mitchell. Her suspicions were confirmed. One of this number was mus's
first wife Kitty, whose picture had hung in the dining room mansion. A
resplendent woman, with the bearing of an undi matriarch, she was here
unleashed from her corsets and her formal her body sensual despite the
simple stuff with which it was though she'd come back here in the form
of the hedonist she'd under this roof. A woman of pleasure for a few,
blissful days, Galilee's arms; loved, even.

That was what these women had come here to find--what Rachel, had come
here to find, though she hadn't known it at th time-love. Something more
than wifely duty; something more compromise and concealment. A taste of
an emotion that struck into their being; and offered them a glimpse of
what their souls to stay bright. No wonder they'd found their way back
here; and wonder they now made themselves visible. They wanted to keep
man who'd offered them that glimpse from harm.

How much of this did Mitchell understand? Very little, Rachel pected,
but there were signs that he was being told. She could whisperings
coming from the top of the flight--gentle, sounds--and the women were
pressing themselves upon him as spoke, their faces inches from his. He'd
given up attempting to them at bay with his knife; instead he raised his
hands to his face tried to blot them out.

"Leave me alone!" Rachel heard him sobbing. "Leave me the

alone!"

But they had no intention of letting him go. They continued

press their attentions upon him, while he cowered in their midst though
he'd walked into a swarm of bees and having no way to it could only
stand there and be stung and stung and stung--

Rachel, meanwhile, had reached for the curve of the banister

the bottom of the stairs, and was doing her best to haul herself to
feet. She was by no means certain she trusted her legs to bear her but
she knew that while Mitchell's gaze was averted she had a to arm
herself. She might not get another. But as she was about to

she caught sight of another figure up there on the landing. It was
Galilee. He'd risen, naked, from his dreams, and was making his pained
way to the top of the stairs.

Mitchell had also seen him. He dropped his knife hand from his

face and flailed at the spirits around him, loosing as he did so a
venomous yell. Then he raised the knife again and pushed up through the
veil of his tormentors to get to his enemy.

From her position at the bottom of the stairs Rachel could not

clearly see what happened next. Mitchell's body blocked Galilee from
view, and an instant later the women in their turn covered Mitchell,
closing around him like a cloud. There was a still moment, when the
darkness at the top of the flight showed her nothing. Then Mitchell
appeared out of the murk, pitched backward with such force that his feet
were off the ground. He missed the top stair, but struck the second,
twisting as he did so. Rachel heard a shout escape him, then a series of
smaller cries as he somersaulted down the flight. At the last moment she
pulled herself out of his path, and he landed face down on the very spot
where she'd been lying seconds before. Almost instantly he raised
himself up off the floor, as though he were doing a push-up, and she
drew away from him, certain he was going to renew his assault. But as he
lifted his body she saw that blood was pouring out of him, slapping on
the ground. The knife--that little knife of his--was sticking out of his
chest. Her eyes went up to his face. The mask of his features had
cracked; he was no longer implacable. Tears of pain sprang from his
eyes, his mouth was drawn down to make a pitiful shape. He looked toward
her, his wet eyes wide.

"Oh, baby..." he said. "I'm hurting."

It was the last thing he said. His trembling arms gave way beneath

him and he sank down, driving the knife all the way into his flesh;
burying it. His gaze was still turned up toward her as the life went out
of him.

She stared at him, dry-eyed. There would be tears later, but not

now; now there was only relief that this was ended; that they were
finally

done with one another.

She looked up to the top of the stairs. Galilee was standing there,

holding onto the banister for support. He was looking down at Mitch's
body with such a forlorn expression on his face--such a look of loss--
that it might have been the corpse of someone he'd loved lying there at
the bottom of the stairs.

"I didn't..." he began to say. But he didn't have the will to finish

the thought.

"It doesn't matter," she said.

I'm not a good man," Galilee said. "I've done terrible things in my

llife. So many.., very terrible things. But I never wanted this. Please
believe me."

They were on the beach, and he was setting a light to the heap of
driftwood he'd made, in the same spot where he'd lit that first,
flagrant fire: the fire that had summoned Rachel out of the house. As
the flames caught, she saw his face. That curious beauty of
his--Gesaria's beauty, in the form of a man--was almost too much to see;
the exquisite nakedness of him. Twice on the way out here she'd thought
he'd lose control of himself. Once when he came down the stairs, and in
stepping over Mitchell's body, set his bare foot in a rivulet of blood.
And again when they found Niolopua on the veranda. Great heaving sobs
had escaped him then, like the sobbing of a child almost, terrible to
hear.

His grief made Rachel strong. She took him by the hand and led him down
onto the lawn. Then she went back into the house to fetch a bottle of
whiskey and some cigarettes. She'd expected to see the women there, but
they'd gone about other business, it seemed, for which fact she was
grateful. She didn't want to think about what happened to the dead right
now; didn't want to imagine Mitchell's spirit, driven out of the body
he'd been so proud of, lost in limbo.

By the time she got back to Galilee, she'd already planned what to tell
him. Why don't we go down onto the sand, she'd said to him, taking his
hand. We can build a fire. I'm cold.

Like a child, he'd obeyed. Silently gone to collect pieces of driftwood,
and arranged them. Then she'd passed the matches over to him, and he'd
kindled the fire. The wood was still damp from the storm; it took a
little time for the larger pieces of wood to catch. They spat and
sizzled as they dried out, but at last the flames swelled around them,
and they burned. Only then did he start talking. Beginning with that
simple, blanket confession. I'm not a good man.

"I'm not afraid of anything you've got to tell me," Rachel told "You
won't leave me?" he said. "Why would I ever do that?" "Because of the
things I've done."

"Nothing's that bad," she said. He shook his head, as though knew
better. "I know you killed George Geary," she went on.

know Cadmus ordered you to do it."

"How did you find that out?"

"It was one of his deathbed confessions."

"My mother made him tell you."

"She made him tell Loretta. I was just a bystander." alilee sta into the
fire. "You have to help me understand, Rachel said. Thats

I want: just to understand how this ever happened."

"How I came to kill George Geary?"

"Not just that. Why you came here to be with the Geary wome,J Why you
left your family in the first place."

"Oh..." he said softly. "You want the whole story." "Yes," she said,
"that's what I want. Please." "May I ask you why?"

"Because I'm a part of it now. I guess I became a part of it the
Mitchell walked into the store in Boston. And I want to know how

"I'm not sure I can help you with that," Galilee said. "I'm not

tain I know where I fit."

"You just tell me the whole story," Rachel said. "I'll work out

rest for myself."

He nodded, and took a deep breath. The fire had grown more fident in the
last few minutes, cooking away the last of the the wood. The smoke had
cleared. Now the flames were white; the fierce heat making the air
between Rachel and Galilee

"I think I should start with Cesaria," Galilee said; and began.

ii

Nobody knows the whole story, of course; nobody can. Perhaps no thing
entire; only that rubble that Heraclitus celebrates. At beginning of
this book I boasted that I'd tell everything, and I Now Galilee promises
to do the same thing, and he's fated to fail same way. But I've come to
see that as nothing can be made that flawed, the challenge is twofold:
first, not to berate oneself for after all, inevitable; and second, to
see in our failed perfection a ent thing; a truer thing, perhaps,
because itcontains both c and the spoiling of that ambition; the
exhaustion of order, and the

covery--in the midst of despair-that the beast dogging the heels of
beauty has a beauty all of its own.

So Galilee began to tell his story, and though Rachel had asked him for
everything, and though he intended to tell her everything, he could give
her only the parts that he could remember on that certain day at that
certain hour. Not everything. Not remotely everything. Just slivers and
fragments; that best universe which is rubble.

	Galilee began his account, as he said he would, with Cesaria.

		"You met my mother already," he said to Rachel, "so you've seen a

	little of what she is. I think that's all anybody's ever seen: a
little. Except

	for my father Nicodemus--"

		"And Jefferson?"

		"Oh she told you about him?"

		"Not in detail. She just said he'd built a house for her."

		"He did. And it's one of the most beautiful houses in the world."

		"Will you take me there?"

		"I wouldn't be welcome."

		"Maybe you would now," Rachel suggested.

		He looked at her through the flames. "Is that what you want to do?

	Go home and meet the family?"

		"Yes. I'd like that very much."

' 		"They're all crazy," he warned.

		"They can't be any worse than the Gearys."

		He shrugged, conceding the point. "Then we'll go back, if that's

	what you want to do," he told her.

		Rachel smiled. "Well that was easy."

		"You thought I'd say no?"

		"I thought you'd put up a fight."

		Galilee shook his head. "No," he said, "it's time I made my peace.

	Or at least tried to. None of us are going to be around forever. Not
even

	Cesaria."

		"She said at Cadmus's house she was feeling old and weary."

		"I think there's a part of her that's always been old and weary. And

	another part that's born new every day." Rachel looked confounded,

	and Galilee said: "I can't explain it any better than that. She's as
much

	a mystery to me as to anybody. Including herself. She's a mass of
contradictions." "You told me once, when we were out on the boat, that
she doesn't

	have parents."

"To my knowledge, she doesn't. Nor did my father." "How's that possible?
Where did they come from?" "Out of the earth. Out of the stars." He
shrugged, the ext his face suggesting that the question was so
unanswerable that he did: think it worth contemplating.

"But she's very old." Rachel said. "You know that much."

"She was being worshipped before Christ was born, before

was founded."

"So she's some kind of goddess?"

"That doesn't mean very much anymore does it? Hollywood

duees goddesses these days. It's easy."

"But you said she was worshipped."

"And presumably still is, in some places. She had a

in Africa, I know. The missionaries destroyed some of her cults, those
things never die out completely. I did see a statue of her once,
Madagascar. That was strange, to see my own mother's image, and ple
bowing down before it I wanted to say to them: don't waste your prayers.
I know for a fact she s not hstemng. She s never hstened to any-i.

ao where s the

"Where he came from presumably In the earth. In the stars."

drew a deep breath. "This is hard for you, I know. I wish I could it
easier. But I'm not a great expert on what we are as a family. We it for
granted, the way you take your humanity for granted. And day day, we're
not that different. We eat, we sleep, we get sick if we much. At least,
I do."

"But you're able to do things the rest of us can't," Rachel

"Not much," Galilee said lightly.

He lifted his hand, and the flames of the fire seemed to leap like

eager dog. "Of course we have more power together-you and

either of us had apart. But maybe that's always true of lovers."

Rachel said nothing; she just watched Galilee's face through the "What
else can I tell you?" he went on. "Well... my mother raise storms. She
raised the storm that brought me back here. And can send her image
wherever she wants to. I guess she could go sit the moon if she was in
the mood. She can take life like that--" snapped his fingers "--and I
think she can probably give it, that's not her nature. She's been a very
violent woman in her time. finds killing easy."

"You don't."

"No, I don't. I'll do it, if I have to, if I've agreed to, but no I
don't like it. My father was the same. He liked sex. That was his grand
obsession. Not even love. Sex. Fucking. I saw a few of his temples in my
time, and let me tell you they were quite a sight. Statues of my father,
displaying himself. Sometimes not even him, just a carving of his dick."
"So you got that from him," Rachel said. "The dick?" "The love of sex."

Galilee shook his head. "I'm not a great lover," he said. "Not like him.
I could go for months out at sea, not thinking about it." He smiled. "Of
course, when I'm with someone, it's a different story."

"No," Rachel said, with a smile of her own. "It's the same story." He
frowned, not understanding. "You always tell the same story," she said,

"about your invented country..."

"How do you know?"

"Because I recognized it when I heard it again."

"Who from? Loretta?"

"Who, then?"

"One of your older conquests," Rachel said. "Captain Holt." "Oh..."
Galilee said softly. "Where did you find out about Charles?" "From his
journal."

"It still exists, after all these years?"

"Yes. Mitchell took it from me. I think his brother's got it now."
"That's a pity." "Why?"

"Because I think it probably contains the way into L'Enfant. I told it
all to Charles when we were going in there together, and he wrote it
down."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I was sick and afraid I'd lose consciousness before we got
there. They would have been killed trying to find their way in without
my help."

"So now Garrison knows how to get to your mother's house?" Rachel said.

Galilee nodded. "Ah, well. Nothing to be done about it now. Did

you read all the journalT"

"Most, not all."

"But you know how we met? How Nub brought Charles to see me?" "Yes. I
know all that." A flurry of snatched pictures passed through

her mind's eye: the battlefield at Bentonville, the phantom child Holt's
horse, the ruins of Charleston and the grisly sights in the of the house
on Tradd Street. She'd seen so much through Holt's "He wrote well," she
said.

"He'd wanted to be a poet in his youth," Galilee said. "He

the way he wrote, believe it or not. The way sentences fell from his li

it was beautiful to hear."

"Did you love him?"

Galilee looked surprised at the question. But then he said: "I

pose I did, in a way. He was a noble fellow. Or at least' he had been.

the time I met him he was so very sad. He'd lost everything."

"But he found you."

"I wasn't adequate compensation," Galilee said, smiling ruefull

his own formality. "I couldn't be his wife and children and all t.he

things he'd had before the war. Though... maybe I imagined I

I think that's always been my big mistake. I want to give gifts. I want

make,, people h.a, ppy. But it never ends well."

Why not?'

because I can t give anybody what they really want. I can t give, them
life. Sooner or later they die, and dying's never very good. Nobod I'
dies a good death. People chng on. Even when they re in agony they,..,,

want a few more minutes, a few more seconds-" i:i "What happened to
Holt?" ......

"He died at L'Enfant. He's buried there." He sighed. "I should' never
have let them take me back. It was asking for trouble. I'd been away
such a long time. But I was wounded. All used up. I needed where I could
heal myself."

"How did you come to be wounded?"

"I was careless. I thought I was untouchable.., and I wasn't." Hi hand
went up to his face, his fingers instinctively seeking out the scars of
his brow and scalp, touching them delicately as though he were something
there: the braille of past suffering. "There was a called Katherine
Morrow," he said. "She was one of my... what's word? Concubines? She'd
been quite the Southern virgin until came to be with me. Then she showed
her real feelings. This was woman who had no shame. None. She would do
whatever came her head. But she had two brothers, who had survived the
war they returned home to Charleston came looking for her. I was drunk
night. I was drunk most nights, but that night I was so drunk I don't I
knew what was happening to me until I was out on the street,

rounded by a dozen men--the brothers and their friends--all beating me.
It wasn't just that I'd seduced the girl. I was a nigger, and they were
so full of hatred, because that spring all the niggers in America were
free men and women, and they didn't like that. It was the end of their
world. So they beat me and beat me, and I was too stupid with drink and
my own despair to stop them."

"So how was it they didn't kill you?"

"Nickelberry shot the brothers dead. He walked up with two pis tols--I
can still see him now, just parting the crowd around me, and blowing
holes in their heads. Bang! Bang! Then Gharles was there, threatening to
do the same to the next man who tried to land a blow. That made them
scatter. And Charles and Nub picked me up and took me away."

"Off to UEnfant."

"Eventually."

"What happened to the people who'd been with you in your..." "Pleasure
palace? I don't know. I went back to Gharleston a few years later, to
look for them. But they'd all gone their separate ways. I heard Miss
Morrow went to Europe. But the rest... ?" He shrugged. "So many peop!e
have come and gone, over the years. So many faces. But I don't forget
them. I never forget them. I see them all still. I dream about them, as
though I could open my eyes and they'd be there." His voice dropped to a
murmur. "And maybe they would..." he said.

He halted for a moment, then he got to his feet. "The fire's too
bright," he said. "Walk with me, will you?"

in

They walked together, down the beach. Not hand in hand, as they'd walked
that bright day when he'd taken her to see The Samarkand, but a little
way from one another. He was so raw, right now; she was afraid that
she'd hurt him, if she so much as touched him.

He continued to talk, but in the darkness he lost the thread of what
he'd been telling her, and now he offered only fragments; disconnected
observations about how his life had been in those distant days.
Something about how his homecoming had unleashed a string of
catastrophes; about horses killing his father; about his sister Marietta
protecting him from his mother's rage; about his other sister's skills
with the poultices and pills, which had helped heal him. Rachel didn't
press him with questions about any of this. She just let his mind wander
and his lips report.

Though Galilee made no defense of his actions, I feel that for the of
veracity I must offer some observations of my own. Though he the blame
upon himself as though every sin committed at L'Enfant those few grim
days were his fault and his alone, this was simply not He wasn't
responsible for my giving Chiyojo over to Nico( wasn't responsible for
Cesaria's unrepentant rage; he wasn't res for the death of his friend
Charles Holt, who died by his own hand.

He was, however, responsible for something he didn't mention .!

his account. When he, Holt and Nickelberry entered L'Enfant, were
followed. Their pursuers weren't common marauders; the small group of
men led by Benjamin Morrow, the father of KatheriJ who had lately lost
both his sons to Nub's pistol. He was an old mar the standards of that
age, well into his sixties, and perhaps his year: made him more cautious
and clever than a younger man might been. Though he and his posse of
five God-fearing Charlestonians had; several times come close to their
quarry as they'd chased them north, Morrow had refrained from attack. He
wanted to get to the heart of the : li . unholy power that had so
besotted hs beloved Kathenne that she d lost

	drop of propriety, and gone to be a whore for ths nagger Gahlee;:

every

His caution and his curiosity had saved both his life and the lives of M
men. By following n the footsteps of their quarry they d unknowmgiy
negotmted the traps that would have claimed them had they come n
L'Enfant on their own. Once Cesaria realized she had trespassers, of
course she descended on them like a fury.

I saw them in their graves, and I will never forget the expressions

their faces. They would have been better served by fate if they'd mis II
stepped somewhere along the way, and perished in one of the trapS
Instead they'd looked as though they'd been mauled by a cageful hungry
tigers. But given that they'd been killed by Cesaria, I'm even that
would have been a kindness. '

Anyway, now you know. And I have to say that in some corner

my being I believe the horrors that were visited upon us all soon the
dispatch of the Charleston Six would not have been so disastrous--' I
indeed might not have happened at all--had they been forgiven their:
error and allowed to leave. Blood begets blood; cruelty begets

Once the Six were dead, it was all storms, horses and horrors. Galilee.
wasn't the cause of all that. She was; the goddess herself. Though been
the one from whom the glories of UEnfant had come, she also, in her
madness, the architect of its darkest hour.

Rachel and Galilee didn't return to the fire. They went instead to sit
on the rocks at the end of the beach. The sea was calm, and perhaps its
soothing rhythm made it easier for him to confess what he still had to
tell.

"It was Nub got me out of the house," he began, "just as he'd got

me in. I think he probably believed Cesaria was going to kill me--" "She
wouldn't have harmed you. Would she?"

"In one of her furies, anything was possible. She'd made me, after all;
I'm sure she believed she was quite within her rights as a mother to
unmake me again. But she didn't get the chance. Marietta distracted her,
and Nickelberry spirited me away. I was delirious most of the time but I
remember that night-oh.my God, how I remember it--stumbling through the
swamp, thinking every sound we heard behind us was her coming after us."

"What about Nickelberry--the things he'd seen. How did he deal with
that?"

"Oh Nub was a cool one. It was all too much for Charles, but Nub... I
don't know, he just took everything in his stride. And he saw power.
That was the crux of it. He saw power the like of which he'd never seen
before, and he knew that if he had me, he had a piece of that power. He
wasn't helping me out of Ghristian charity. He'd lived the life of an
underdog. He'd been brought up with nothing. He'd come out of the war
with nothing. But now he had me. My life was in his hands, and he wasn't
going to let it slip away."

"Did you talk about what he'd seen?"

"Later. But not for many weeks. I was too sick. He'd brought out
medicines that my sister Zabrina had given him, and he promised me

that he'd stay with me and make me well."

"What did he want in exchange?"

"At the time, nothing. We made our way out to the shore, and we lived
there in the dunes for a few weeks. Nobody came there; we were quite
safe from discovery. He made a shelter for us, and I lay in it,
listening to the sea, slowly getting well. He was my nurse, he was my
comforter; he fed me, he bathed me, he listened to me rave in my fevers.
He went out and brought back food. God knows where he got it. What he

did to get it. His only concern was to make me well. I know it may

perverse, but when I look back on that time, I think of it more fondly

than any of my time in Charleston. I felt this great weight off me. Like

I'd been cured of some sickness. I'd had every excess known to man. I'd

made love to so many bodies, had so much beauty in my hands. I'd been

so high I thought I'd never come down. And now it was all over. I was

living out under the stars with nothing to call my own, just the sea,
and

time to think. That's when I first began to dream of building myself a

boat and sailing away...

	"Then one day Nub started talking about his own dreams. And I

realized it wasn't going to be so easy. He had a friend in me; that's
what

he believed at least. We were going to work together, when I was well.

	" 'This is the perfect time to start over,' he said to me. 'If we work'

together we could make a fortune out there.'"

	"What did you say to him?"

	"I told him I didn't want to have anything more to do with people.

I'd had my fill of them. I told him about my dream of building a boat
and s,,a, iling away. ,

I expected him to laugh. But he didn t. In fact he said he thought

it was a very good idea. But then he said: 'You can't just sail away and
forget what we've been through together. You owe me something.'

"And of course he was right. He'd risked his life for me in Charleston,
shooting the Morrow brothers. He'd risked his life getting me out of
L'Enfant. Lord knows, he'd seen things that would have driven lesser men
mad, because of me. And then, when we'd reached the shore he'd tended to
me night and day. Without him and Zabrina's poultices I would have been
disfigured; maybe died. Of course I owed him. There was no question
about it.

	"So I asked him what he wanted from me. And he had a very simple
answer: he wanted me to help make him rich. The way he sawit; there were
opportunities to make fortunes out there. Reconstruction was underway.
There were roads to lay, cities to rebuild, bellies to feed. And the men
who were at the heart of all that--with the wit and the skill to make
themselves indispensable-those men were going to be

richer than any men in the history of America."

	"Was he right about all this?"

	"More or less. There were a few oil tycoons and railroad magnates

who were already so rich nobody was going to catch up with them. he'd
given the whole business some careful thinking, and he was not a stupid
man; not by any means. He knew that as a team--with his pragmatism and
my vision, his understanding of what people wanted and

my capacity to get the opposition out of the way--we could become very
powerful in a very short time. And he was impatient. He'd lived in the
gutter for long enough. He wanted a better life. And he didn't care how
he got it, as long as he got it." He paused, and stared out to sea.
could still get myself my boat, he said to me, I could still sail away.
That was fine and dandy. He'd even help me find a boat; only the best.
But he needed me to help him in return. He wanted to have a wife and
kids, and he wanted them to live the good life. It seemed like such a
small thing when I was agreeing to it. Anyway, how could I refuse, after
he'd done all he'd done for me?"

"We made a kind of pact, right there on the shore. I swore I would never
cheat him, or any of his family. I swore on my life that I'd be his
friend, and his family's friend, for as long as I lived."

Rachel had a sickening sense of where this was going. "I think you begin
to understand," Galilee said. "He didn't keep the same name..."

"No, he didn't. A couple of days later he came back to the shore in a
fine old mood. He'd found a body in a ditch-or what was left of it. A
Yankee, who'd died many, many miles from home. In his satchel were all
his papers: everything Nickelberry needed to become another man, which
in those days was not very much. After that day, he was never "Nub"
Nickelberry again. He became a man called Geary."

This was not remotely what Rachel had expected, but as she contemplated
the information she saw how the pieces fitted. The roots of the family
into which she'd married were deep in blood and filth; was it any wonder
the dynasty that sprung from this beginning was in every way shameful
and hollow?

"I didn't know what I'd agreed to," Galilee went on. "I didn't realize
until a lot later the scale of Nub's ambition, or what he was prepared

to have us do to make it a reality."

"If you had known... ?"

"Would I have agreed? Yes, I would have agreed. I wouldn't have

liked it, but I would have agreed."

"Why?"

"Because how was I ever going to be free of him otherwise?" "You could
have just walked away."

"I owed him too much. If I'd cheated him, history would have just
repeated itself. I would have been pulled into something else--some
other piece of human folly--and had to endure that instead. I would have
had to pay the price eventually. The only way to be free--at least this
was the way I thought of it--was to work with Nub, and help make

his dreams come true. Then I'd have earned a dream of my own. I could
have my boat, and.., off I'd go." Galilee sighed deeply. "It was messy,
working for him; very messy. But he was right when he talked about the
opportunities. They were everywhere. Of course, to get ahead of the
crowd you needed something extra. He had me. I was the one he sent in if
he had trouble with somebody, to make sure he never had trouble again.
And I was good at it. Once I was in the rhythm I realized

I had quite a skill for terrorizing people."

"You get it from Cesaria."

"No doubt. And believe me I was in the right mood to do violence.

I was an exile now; I felt free to do whatever crossed my mind, however
inhumane. I hated the world, and I hated the people in it. So it made

me happy to be the spoiler, to be the bloodletter." " "And Nub--"

"Geary, now. Mr. Geary."

"Geary. He never got his hands dirty? You did all the intimidation,

he did all the business?"

"No, he'd get involved when he felt like it. He was a cook. He liked
knives and carcasses. Sometimes he'd astonish me. I'd see him do
something, so cold, so indifferent to the suffering he was causing, and
I'd

be... I'd be in awe of him."

"In awe?"

"Yes. Because I'd always felt things too much. I'd agonized over things
I did. My head had always been filled with voices telling me not to do
this, not to do that; or to look out for the consequences. That was why
I liked to get drunk, and high; it hushed those voices. But when I was
with Geary: no voices at all. Nothing. Silence. It was nice.

"And as the months went by, and I got completely well, and strong again,
I began to get a reputation as somebody to be afraid of, and that was
nice too. The more of that reputation I got the more I made sure I
deserved it. When I needed to make an example of somebody, I was
vicious. There was this part of me that was cruel, venomous, and when
people saw that in my eyes or heard it in my voice ... it made them
compliant. Often--especially later--I didn't need to lay a finger on
them. They'd just see me coming, and they'd be asking what they could

do for us, how they could help us."

"And the men who didn't?"

"Died. At my hands. Usually quickly. Sometimes not. Sometimes,

if Geary thought an example had to be made of a guy, I'd do something so
bad--" He stopped. She couldn't see his face. But she heard the soft
sobs that escaped him; and could see his silhouette shake as he was

wracked. He took a moment to recover himself and then continued, his
voice muted.

"We started to expand our territories, state by state. We went north
into Virginia, we went into Tennessee and Missouri, we worked our way
through as far as Oklahoma, then down into Texas. Wherever we went,
Ceary bought up land, most of the time with money he didn't have, but by
now he had a name and a reputation; he was this new gW out of Charleston
who had a vision and a fast tongue and a way of getting what he wanted,
and anyone who said no to him regreed it, so fewer and fewer people did.
Fewer and fewer wanted to. They wanted to be in business with him: he
was the face of the future, and he always acted as though he had so much
money that you'd get rich just by shaking hands with him." His voice was
gathering strength again. "The thing was, a lot of people did get rich
off him. He was a natural; he had a nose for wealth. I think he even
surprised himself.

"In a little over three years he was a millionaire, and he decided it
was time to start a family. He married a rich woman out of Georgia,
who'd taken all her money up north before the war. Her name was Bedelia
Townsend, and she seemed to be the perfect match for him. She was
beautiful, she was ambitious, and she wanted the world right there, in
the palm of her hand. There was only one problem. He didn't take care of
her in the bedroom as she would have liked. So I kept her company."

"Did she have children by you?"

"No. They were all his. I was very careful about that. Pleasuring

her was one thing, giving her a Barbarossa was another."

"Weren't you tempted?"

"To make a half-breed with her? Oh yes, I was tempted. But I was afraid
that would spoil what was between us. I loved being with her. Nothing
made me happier."

"And what did Geary think about all this?"

"He didn't care. He was out empire-building. As long as Bedelia produced
children, and I was there to play the bully-boy if somebody crossed him,
he didn't concern himself with what we did together. It was a busy time
for a cook who wanted to be a king. And to be fair to him, he worked,
night and day. The seeds of everything the Geary family became were sown
in that decade after the end of the war."

"So there must have come a time when you'd paid your debt to him." "Oh
there did. But if I'd walked away from him, where would I have gone? I
couldn't go back to L'Enfant. I had no other life besides the Gearys."

"You could have gone away to sea."

"That's what happened, eventually." He paused, thinking on moment. "But
I didn't go alone.' ....

"You took Bedelia?" Rachel said softly.

"Yes. I took Bedelia. She was the first woman to step on Samarkand, and
you were the second. We sailed off, without tellil Geary we were going.
She left a letter, I think, explaining her telling him she wanted more
than he'd given her."

"How could she do that? How could she leave her children?"

He leaned a little closer to her. "You wouldn't have done that

me?" he said.

"Yes," she murmured, "of course I would." "That's your answer then."
"Did she ever see them again?"

"Oh yes. Later. But she also had another child..." "You had your
half-breed?" "Yes." "Niolopua... ?"

Yes. My Nlolopua. I made sure he understood from the beglnmng that he
had Barbarossian blood. That way he could escape at least of the claims
of time. My father had told me that some This bastards-. the ones who
lived in ignorance of who they were--lived ordinary, ,! human lives.
Seventy years and they were gone.It was only the ch!!dre who knew their
real nature who could outlive their Biblical span.

"I don't understand," Rachel said. "If you've got Barbarossian blood
what does it matter whether you know it or not?"

"It's not a matter of blood. It's a matter of knowing who you are. It's

knowledge, not chemistry that makes us Barbarossas." "And if you'd never
told him?" "He'd be a long time dead by now."

"So you and Bedelia go out to sea on The Samarkand, and eventually you
find your way here?"

"Yes. We came here by chance; the winds brought us here and it seemed
like paradise. There was nobody at this end of the island back then. It
was like the beginning of the world. We weren't the first visitors of
course. There was a mission in Poi'pu. That's where she hadl Niolopua.
And while she was recovering, I finished work on the house." He looked
past her, along the beach. "It hasn't changed much," he said. "The air
still smells as sweet as when I was here with her."

She thought of Niolopua as he spoke: of the many times she'd seen
unreadable expressions cross his face, and wondered what mysteries lay

buried in him. Now she knew. He'd been the dutiful son, watching over
the house built for his mother all those long years ago, watching the
horizon and waiting for a sail, the sail of his father's boat, to come
into view. She wanted to weep, for the loss of him. Not that she'd known
him well; but he had been a connection to the past, and to the woman
whose love had made so much of what had happened to Rachel possible.
Without Bedelia, there would have been no house here in Eden. "Have you
heard enough?" Galilee said to her.

In a sense, she'd heard more than enough. It would take her days to comb
through what he'd told her, and put the pieces together with what she
already knew: the tales she'd read in Charles Holt's journal, the
oblique exchanges she'd had with Niolopua and with Loretta; that last,
bitter confrontation between Cesaria and Cadmus. All of it was
illuminated by what she now knew; and yet paradoxically was all the
darker for that. The pain and the grief, the allegiances and the
betrayals, they were so much deeper than she'd imagined. M1 of which
would have been extraordinary enough had it simply been some story she'd
heard. But it was so much more than that. It was the life of the man she
loved. And she was a part of it; she was living it, even now.

"Can I ask you one last question?" she said. "Then we'll leave it for
another time."

He reached out and caught hold of her hand. "So, then, it's not over?"
"What do you mean?" "Between us."

"Oh God, my sweet..." she said, reaching up to touch his face. He was
burning hot; as though in the grip of a fever. "Of course it's not over.
I love you. I said I wasn't afraid of what you had to tell me, and I
meant it. Nothing would make me let go of you now." He was trying to
smile, but his eyes were full of tears.

She stroked his brow. "What you've told me helps me make sense of
everything," She said. "And that's all I've wanted, since the beginning.
I've wanted to understand."

"You're extraordinary. Did I ever tell you that? You're an amazing
woman. I only wish I'd found you earlier."

"I wouldn't have been ready for you," Rachel said. "I would have

run away. It would all have been too much..."

"You had another question," Galilee said.

"Yes. What happened to Bedelia? Did she stay here on the island?"

"No, she missed the social life of the big city, so she went back after
three and a half years. Picked up where she'd left off."

"And Niolopua?"

"He went with me for a few years. Out to see the world. But

didn't like the sea very much. So I brought him back when he was twelve,
and left him here, where he wanted to be."

One question answered, and another demanded to be asked. "Did you ever
see Bedelia again?"

"Not until the very end of her life. Some instinct--I don't know what it
was--made me sail back to New York, and when I got to the mansion she
was on her deathbed. I knew when I saw her she'd been holding on,
waiting for me to come back. She was dying of pneumonia; and Lord, to
see her there.., so weak. It broke my heart. But she told me she wasn't
ready to die until she'd seen Geary and me make peace. God knows why
that was so important to her, but it was. She ordered him to come up to
the bedroom--"

"The big room overlooking the street?" Rachel said.

"That's where Gadmus died."

"A lot of Gearys have been born and died in that room."

"What did she say to you?"

"First she made us shake hands. Then she told us she had one last wish.
She wanted me always to be there for the Geary women, to comfort them
the way she'd been comforted. To love them the way she'd been loved. And
that would be the only service I'd do for the Gearys after her death. No
more murder. No more torture. Just this promise of comfort and love."

"What did you say to that?" "What could I say? I had loved this woman
with all my heart. I couldn't deny her this; it was the last thing she
was ever going to ask for. So Geary and I agreed. We made a solemn oath,
right there at the bottom of her bed. He agreed to protect the house in
Kaua'i from any of the male members of his family: to dedicate it to the
Geary women. And I agreed to go there when the women wanted me, to keep
them company. Bedelia didn't die for another two days. She clung on,
while we waited and watched--Geary on one side of her, me on the other.
But she never said another word after that; I swear she made us wait so
that we'd think about what we.'d promised. When she died we grieved
together, and it was almost like the old times; like it had been at the
beginning, before everything went wrong between us. I didn't go to see
her buried. I wouldn't have been welcome in the elevated company which
Nub now kept--the Astors, the Rothschilds, the Came gies. And he didn't
want me standing beside his wife's grave, with everyone asking
questions. So I sailed away. The day Bedelia was put

in the ground I caught the morning tide. I never saw Nub again. But

	we wrote to one another, making formal arrangements for what we'd

	agreed to do. It was strange, how it all ended up. I'd been the King of

	Charleston when he met me; he'd been a wanderer. Our roles were

	reversed."

	"Did you care? That you had nothing, I mean." I.

	Galilee shook his head. "I didn't want anything that he had. Except

	Bedelia. I would have liked to have taken her with me. Buried her here,

	on the island. She didn't belong in some fancy mausoleum. She

	belonged where she could hear the sea..."

	Rachel thought of the church that she'd visited when she'd first

	come to the island, and of the small ring of graves around it.

	"But her spirit's here, sometimes."

	"So she was one of the women in the house?"

	Galilee nodded. "Yes she was. Though I don't know if I dreamt

	them or not."

	"I saw them clearly."

	"That doesn't mean I didn't dream them," Galilee said.

	"So she wasn't her ghost?" (

	"Ghost. Memory. Echo. I don't know. It was some part of who she

was. But the better part of her soul has gone, hasn't it? She's out in
the stars somewhere. All you saw was something I kept, for company. A
dream of a memory of Bedelia. And Kitty. And Margie." He sighed. "I was
their comfort when they were alive. And now they're dead, a little piece
of them is mine. You see how things always come around?" He put his
hands to his face. "I'm all talked out," he said. "And we should make
our plans to leave. Somebody's going to come looking for your husband
sooner or later."

"One last thing," Rachel said. !i

Ies.

"Is that how I'm going to be one day? Like the women in the

house? I'll die, and you'll just dream me up when you're lonely?" "No.
It's going to be different for us." "How?"

"I'm going to bring you into the Barbarossa family, Rachel. I'm

going to make you one of us, so death won't take you from me. I don't
know how I'm going to do that yet--I don't even know that I can but
that's my intention. And if I can't..." he reached for her, took her
hands in his, "if I can't live with you, as a Barbarossa, then I'll die
with you." He kissed her. "That's my promise. From now on, we're
together, whether it's to the grave or the end of time."

I stayed up through the night writing Galilee's confession. It was in
some ways the happiest of labors: I was finally able to unburden myself
of portions of this story I've waited a long time to set down; and it
was pleasing to interleave my voice with Galilee's in the telling. But
it was also the first of many acts of closure that the next few days
will bring, and toward the end of the night a distinct sense of
melancholy crept upon me. You might think this strange, given how
painful many of the demands of this book have been, but for all my
complaints, I have been moved and changed by the journey I've taken, and
I don't look forward to its being over, as I thought I would. In truth,
I'm a little afraid of being finished. Afraid that when I get to the
end, and set my pen down, I will have spilled so much of myself onto the
page that what remains inside me, to fill the vessel of my being, will
be inadequate. That I'll be empty, or nearly so.

My mood lightened somewhat when the dawn chorus started up; and by the
time I crawled into bed I was feeling a little happier with my lot. At
least I had something to show for my labors, I thought to myself: if I
were to die in my sleep, there would be something left behind, besides
the hairs in the sink, and the spit stains on my pillow. Something which
had come from my hand and head; evidence, if you will, of my desire to
make order of chaos.

Speaking of chaos, I realized as I fell asleep that I'd missed
Marietta's wedding celebrations. Not that I would have ventured out to
attend them; even if the book had not been demanding my attention I
would have made some excuse not to go. When I finally travel beyond the
perimeters of UEnfant it won't be to go on a drunken rampage with a bar
full of Marietta's lesbian buddies. On the other hand I couldn't help
but think that her wedding-assuming it took place-was yet further
evidence of how things were changing; and how I, who'd witnessed all
these changes, and been their loyal transcriber, was now left behind. A
self-pitying thought, no doubt; but sometimes self-pity works better
than any lullaby. Bathing in a stew of martyrdom, I fell asleep.

I dreamed again; and this time I didn't dream of the sea, or of the gray
wastes of a city, but of a bright burnished sky, and a wilderness of

desert. A little way off from me, there was a caravan of men and camels,
its passage raising clouds of ocher dust. I could hear the camel drivers
yelling to their animals, and the sharp snap of their sticks against the
creatnres' flanks. I could smell them too, even though they were a
quarter of a mile from me: the pungent aroma of dirt and hide. I had no
great desire to join their company, but when I looked around I saw that
the landscape was otherwise empty in every direction.

I'm inside myself, I thought; dust and emptiness in every direction;
that's what I'm left with, now I've finished writing.

The caravan was steadily moving away from me. I knew if I lingered too
long it would disappear from sight. Then what would I do? Die of
loneliness or desiccation; one or the other. Unhappy though I was, I
wasn't ready for that. I started toward the caravau, my walk quickening
into a trot, and the trot into a run, as my fear of losing it grew.

Then, suddenly, I was there among the travelers; in the midst of their
diu and their stench. I felt the rhythmical motion of a camel beneath
me, and looked down to see that I was indeed perched high on the back of
one of the animals. The landscape-that aching void of baked earth--was
now concealed from me by the dust cloud raised by the travelers in whose
midst 1 rode. I could see the backside of the animal in front, and the
head of the animal behind; the rest was out of sight.

Somebody in the caravan now began to sing, raising a voice more
confident than it was melodic above the general din. It was, I suppose
yon'd say, a dream song, wholly incoherent yet oddly familiar. What was
it? I listened more carefully, trying to make sense of the syllables,
certain that if I coucentrated hard enough I'd discover what I was
hearing. Still the song resisted; though at times the sense of it was
tantalizingly close.

Frustrated, I was about to give up on the endeavor, when some thiug
about the rhythm of the song gave me a clue. I listened again, and the
words, which had seemed nonsensical just moments before, came

It wasn't a traveler's song I was listening to; it wasn't some exotic

paean raised to the desert sky: it was a ditty from my childhood. The

song I'd sung in the plum tree, all those many, mauy years ago.

It seems I am,

It seems I was,

It seems I will Be born, because It seems I am--

Hearing it now, I let my voice join in the rendition, and as soon

I did so, other voices were raised around me, all singing the same songl
Round and round the words went, like the wheel of the stars; born and
being and being born again.

I felt a surge of remembered contentment. I was not empty, despite

the tears I'd taken to bed with me. The memories were still there in me,
sweet and pungenL like the plums on the branches of that tree. There to
be plucked when I needed sustenance. Yes, there were stones at thei
heart-hard, bitter stones--but the meat around those stones and
nourishing. I wouldn't go empty after all.

The singing continued, but the voices of my unseen

were becoming more remote. I looked back. The camel behind me
disappeared; so had the beast I was following. My fellow travelers,
seemed, had fallen by the wayside. Now I was traveling alone, singing
alone, matching the pace of my song to the steady tread of my mount.

	It seems I am,

I sang.

	It seems I was

The dust was clearing, now that there were no animals other than

my own to stir it up. Something was glittering ahead of me.

It seems I will

Be born, because--

A river; I was coming to a broad river, the waters of which had brought
forth lush swards of flower-speckled grass and stands of heavy headed
trees. And beyond this verdant place, the walls of a city, warmed:): by
the setting sun.

Now I knew what river this was; it was the Zarafsham. And the city.;'

I knew that too. I had come, by way of a plum tree and a song, to the
city

of Samarkand.

That was all. I didn't get any closer to the city than that first
glimpse. But that was enough. I woke immediately, but with such a.
strong sense of what I'd seen that the melancholy whic,h, had accompa
nied me to bed had disappeared, healed away by what I d experienced.
Such is the wisdom of dreams.

It was by now the middle of the afternoon, and I took myself off to the
kitchen to find something to eat. I did so without attending to myself
whatsoever--thinking that I'd be able to find myself some food and slip
back to my study unnoticed. But the kitchen had two occupants: Zabrina
and Dwight. They both greeted the sight of me with some alarm.

"You need a shave, my friend," Dwight remarked.

"And some new clothes," Zabrina remarked. "You look as though

you've been sleeping in those."

"I have," I said.

"You can take a look through my wardrobe if you like," Dwight

said. "You're welcome to whatever I'm leaving behind."

Only now did I notice two things. One, the suitcase beside the

table at which Zabrina and Dwight sat; two, the fact that Zabrina's eyes
were red-rimmed and wet. It seems I'd interrupted a tearful farewell; at
least tearful on her side.

"This is your fault," she said to me. "He's going because of you."

Dwight pulled a face. "That's not true," he protested.

"You told me if you hadn't seen that damn horse-" Zabrina

began.

"That wasn't his doing," Dwight said. "I volunteered to go out to

the stables with him. Anyway, if it hadn't been the horse it would have

something else." been"I gather from all this that you're leaving?" I
said.

Dwight looked rueful. "I have to, he said. "I think if I don't go

now "

"You don't have to go at all," Zabrina said. "There's nothing out

there worth going for." She reached across the table and caught hold of

Dwight's hand. "If you've got too much work--"

"It's not that," Dwight said. "It's just that I'm not getting any

younger." "And if I don't go soon, I won't go at all." He gently
extricated

his hand from Zabrina's hold.

"That damn horse," she growled.

"What's the horse got to do with all this?" I asked.

"Nothing.. 7 Dwight replied. "I just said to Zsa-Zsa--" (ZsaZsa?

I thought. Lord, they'd been closer than I imagined.) "--that seeing the

horse--"

"Dumuzzi."

"--seeing Dumuzzi made me realize that I missed seeing things,

ordinary things, out there in the world. Except on that, of course." He

nodded toward the little television which I knew he'd spent corn hours
watching. Had he been yearning to leave L'Enfant all the he'd been
watching that flickering image? So it seemed. But he known, apparently,
how much he yearned, until Dumuzzi had appeared;

"Well," he said with a little sigh, "I should be going." He got up from
the table.

"Wait until tomorrow at least," Zabrina said. "It's getting late.

be better setting off first thing in the morning."

W"

"I'm afraid you'll slip something in my supper," he said to her ttl ,...

a small, sad smile. "And I won't remember why I packed."

Zabrina gave him a small, forbidding smile. "You know I'd never I

do a thing like that," she replied. Then, sniffing hard, she said: "If
don't want to stay, then don't. Nobody's twisting your arm." She looked
down at her hands. "But you'll miss me," she said softly. "You see if
don't."

"I'll miss you so much I'll probably be back in a week," he said.
Zabrina started to shake with sorrow. Tears splashed on the table,

big as silver dollars.

"Don't..." Dwight said, his own voice cracking. "I hate it when. you
cry." ......

"Well then you shouldn't make me cry," Zabrina replied, somewhat
petulantly. She looked up at him, her eyes streaming. "I know you have
to go," she said. "I understand. I really do. And I know you won't come
back in a week, whatever you say. You'll get out there, and you'll
forget I ever existed."

"Oh darling'--" Dwight said, leaning down to gather her against, him. It
was an ungainly embrace, to say the least, Dwight unable to quite get
his arms around Zabrina at that angle, Zabrina so desperate to be
comforted she grabbed hold of him as though she were about from a great
height, and he was her only hope of life. The sobs came loud and long
now, though Zabrina's face was pressed against Dwight's belly. With
great tenderness he stroked her hair, looking at me as he did so. There
was sadness or<his face, no question; but there was also a hint of
impatience. He'd decided to go, and there would be no changing her

mind. Zabrina's clinging and sobbing only delayed the inevitable.

Plainly he wanted me to intervene.

"Come on, Zabrina," I said brightly, "enough's enough. He's not

dying. He's just going to go see what's out there in the big, bad
world."

"It's the same thing," she said.

"Now you're being silly," I said gently, walking over to her chair and
laying my hands on her shoulders. She was momentarily distracted

by my touch, which allowed Dwight to pull away from her. She made no
attempt to catch hold of him again. She was obviously resigned to his
departure.

"You take care of yourself," Dwight said to her. "And you, Maddox.

I'm going to miss you too." He picked up his suitcase. "Say goodbye to

Miss Marietta for me, will you? Tell her I wish her well with her lady."

He took a couple of backward steps towards the door, but they were

so tentative I almost thought he was going to change his mind. And
perhaps he would have done so if Zabrina hadn't looked up at him; and

with a fierceness that I truly didn't expect from her at that moment,
said:

"Are you still here?"

At which cue he turned on his heel, and departed.

	IV

I spent a few minutes attempting to console Zabrina after Dwight left,
but I knew nothing I could say was going to comfort her as much as food.
So I suggested a sandwich. She didn't brighten up immediately, but the
sight of my labors on her behalf slowly dulled her unhappiness. Her sobs
faded, her tears dried up. By the time I presented her with my
handiwork, which was a minor work of art I may say (freshly sliced ham,
cold sliced asparagus, pickles, a little mustard, a little mayonnaise)
she had quite brightened up.

Once she began to eat the sandwich I laid out a selection of desserts,
and then left her to it. She was so thoroughly engrossed in her edible
comforts that I doubt she even realized I'd left the kitchen.

I had made myself a more modest version of the sandwich I'd constructed
for Zabrina, and I ate it while I washed, shaved and changed into
something more presentable than my sleep-rumpled garb. By the time I was
ready for the day, the day was almost over. Dusk was drawing on, so I
poured myself a glass of gin and walked out onto the veranda to enjoy
the last of the light. It was a sublime evening: a clear sky, not a hint
of a breeze. The birds were making a tuneful noise in the magnolias,
there were squirrels in the grass going about their last labors of the
day. I sipped my gin, and watched, and listened, and thought: so much of
what makes L'Enfant beautiful will go on, long after this house has

fallen. The birds will still sing, the squirrels will still caper, the
night will still descend, and show its stars. Nothing important will
pass away.'

As I drained the last of my gin I heard laughter drifting across the
lawn; distant at first, but getting closer. I couldn't yet see anybody,
but it wasn't hard to make a good guess as to its source. This was
women's laughter, though it was raucous and raw, and it came, I thought,
from at least half a dozen throats. Marietta had brought her wedding
party--or some portion of that party--back to the house.

I stepped off the veranda and onto the grass. The milky breast of the
moon was rising round and full. Its light wasn't cold silver. It was
butter-yellow; and it sweetened everything it lit.

I could hear Marietta's voice now, rising above the laughter.

"Cet your asses movin'!" she was yelling. "I don't want anybody getting'
lost."

I watched the dark place under the trees from which her voice had come,
and moments later she stepped into view, hand in hand with her Alice. A
few steps behind came three more women, one of whom was glancing back
over her shoulder, suggesting there were still others following on.

A few months ago I would have been appalled at the idea of Marietta
bringing so many strangers onto the grounds of this sacred home. I would
have thought it a violation. But what did it matter now? The more people
who saw and enjoyed Jefferson's masterpiece before its destruction the
better, and it was plain even at a distance that the women, now they had
sight of the house, were suitably impressed. The laughter died away;
they stopped in their tracks, exchanging looks of astonishment.

"This is where you lucky bitches live?" said one of the women in

the party of three.

"This is where we live," Marietta said.

"It's beautiful..." said the woman who'd been glancing back over

her shoulder. Now she'd forgotten her companions. She walked toward

the house with a look of astonishment on her face.

There was more laughter out of the trees, and what I took to be the

last of the celebrants came out into the moonlight. One of them was
barely dressed, her blouse unbuttoned, her lower half naked. Her
companion, an older woman with unkempt gray hair, was dressed more
formally, but the front of heI dress had been opened up to release her
ample bosom. Both women staggered slightly as they walked; and the
younger of the two sank down into the grass almost as she saw the house,
her laughter fading. I heard her say:

"Oh shit, Lucy... she wasn't kidding."

The older woman (Lucy, I assumed) came up behind her, and the

younger let her head loll against her thighs.

"How come I never knew this place was here?" Lucy called after

Marietta.

"It was our little secret," Marietta replied.

"But it ain't a secret no more," said one of the women in the trio,

coming to Marietta's side. "We're going to party all the time, now we

know it's here."

"Suits me," Marietta said. She turned back to Alice, and kissed her

on the lips. "We can do--" another kiss "--whatever the hell--"

another kiss "--we want."

With that, she and Alice made their way across the lawn to the

house. I decided it was time to make my presence known. Stepping out
into the moonlight I started toward the women, calling to Marietta as I
went.

"Eddie!" she said, opening her arms to me. "There you are! Look at

us! We're married! We're married!" I went into her embrace. "Did you

bring the minister too?"-I said.

"We didn't need no minister," Alice said. "We just said our vows in

front of our friends, and God."

"Then we all got drunk," Marietta said. "And we've stayed that

way." She leaned close to me. "I love you, Eddie," she said to me. "I

know I don't always show it--"

I hugged her again, tighter than before. "You're quite a lady," I told

her. "I'm proud of you."

Marietta turned round to face the women. "Listen up, everyone!

I'd like y'all to meet my brother Eddie. He's the only man on the planet
worth a damn." She grabbed hold of my hand and squeezed it. "Eddie, say
hello to everyone. This is Terri-Lynn--" The blonder of the pair who'd
followed on Marietta and Alice's heels said hi, with a lavish smile.
"And the big o1' gal there, that's Louise, 'cept don't call her that
'cause she'll kick your ass. She prefers Louie. So you've been warned."

Louie, who had the physique of a weight lifter who'd gone to seed,

flicked her hair out of her eyes and said hello. The woman at her side,
her features as limpid as Louie's were severe, introduced herself
without Marietta's prompting.

"I'm Rolanda," she said.

"And I'm pleased to meet you," I replied. She had a bottle of

whiskey in her hand, and passed it over to me. "Want a drink?"

I took the bottle, and drank from it.

"And that's Ava and Lucy at the back there," Marietta told me. She took
the whiskey bottle out of my hand as she spoke and drinking from it,
passed a mouthful of the booze onto Alice.

"I think Ava needs to lie down for a while," Lucy said, "she's kinda out
of it."

"Alice'll take you into the house," Marietta said. "I want to have a
quick word with my little brother. Go on, honey!" she said to Alice,
turning her bride around and patting her on her butt. "Take them in,
won't be long."

"Where do you want us to go?" Alice said.

"Anywhere you like," Marietta said with an expansive gesture.

"Not upstairs," I cautioned.

"Oh, Eddie. She's not going to hurt anyone."

"Who are you talking about?" Rolanda wanted to know.

"My mother."

"Louie'll sort her out. She likes a good fight."

"Cesaria isn't a fist fighting lady," I said. '`you just stay downstairs
and things'll be fine and dandy."

"Can I have my whiskey back?" Rolanda said to Marietta.

"No you can't," Marietta replied. Rolanda frowned. "You're drunk
enough."

"Oh, and you're not?" Rolanda said. She turned to me. "I know

what you're thinking," she said, with a sly smile.

"Oh and what's that?"

"If only I were a woman, I'd get myself laid tonight. And you know what?
You would. Big time." She reached down and without a word of warning
cupped my genitals. "Pity you got this o1' thing weighing you down." She
grinned. I don't think I even attempted an answer. If I did,

I stumbled over it, and she was on her way, following the other five.

"So this is your crowd.." I said to Marietta.

"Aren't they a riot? They're not always like this, by the way. It's just

a special night."

"What did you tell them?"

"About what?"

"About the house. About us. About Mama."

"Eddie, will you stop fretting? They couldn't find their way back here
if their lives depended on it. Anyway, I trust them. They're my friends.
I want to make them welcome here."

"Well why don't we just have an open house for the county?" I said.
"Invite everyone in."

"You know that's not such a bad idea," she said, poking me in the middle
of the chest. "We've got to start somewhere." She glanced back

at the house. All the women had disappeared inside.

"What did you want to talk about?" I said.

"I just wanted to drink a toast," she said, raising the bottle between
us. "To anything in particular?"

"You. Me. Alice. Love." She smiled at me. "It is a pity you've got a
dick, Eddie. I could find you a nice girlfriend--" She laughed
uproariously at this. "Oh Eddie, I wish I had a camera. You're
blushing."

"I am not blushing."

"Baby, take it from me. You're blushing." She kissed my cheek,

which was probably somewhat flushed, I'll admit.

"I need to live a little," I said.

"That's our toast, right there," Marietta said, "to being alive and
living a little."

"I'll drink to that."

"It's been too fucking long." She put the bottle to her lips and drank,
then passed it over to me. I took another swallow, vaguely thinking that
I was going to be as drunk as the rest of them if I went on like this.
I'd only eaten a sandwich all day, and this was my third shot of liquor,
including my gin, in the space of half an hour. But what the hell? It
wasn't often a man got to play among wild women like this.

"Let's go inside," Marietta said, slipping her arm through mine. As we
ambled to the house she leaned against me.

"I am so happy," she said as we got to the door.

"That's not just the whiskey talking?" I said.

"No, it's not the whiskey. I'm happy. I'm deep-down happy. What a
beautiful night." She glanced back over her shoulder. "Oh my Lord," she
said. "Look at that."

I turned to see what had drawn her attention. There in the middle of the
lawn was a quartet of hyenas, their eyes upon us. There was nothing
predatory in their stare, I didn't think, but their presence so close to
the house was indeed surprising. Their natural nervousness seemed to
have vanished. They were suddenly brave. Three of them halted when we
stared back at them, but the largest of the four continued to approach,
undaunted, and didn't stop until it was perhaps four or five yards from
where we stood.

"I think she wants to come in," Marietta said.

"How do you know it's a she?" I said. "I thought you couldn't tell male
from female."

"I know a bitch when I see one," Marietta remarked. "Hey,

she called to the animal, "you want to come join the party?"

The hyena sniffed the air, then glanced back at her companions who were
watching the whole scene intently, but hadn't come any I closer.
Deciding perhaps that she needed to study this situation more closely
before she took the final plunge and entered the house, the animal lay
down in the grass and put her head on her paws.

We left her to her scrutiny. It would only be a matter of time, I
thought, and the creature would be over the threshold. Then what? With
the wedding party and the hyenas in residence, how long before the foxes
came, and the birds? L'Enfant, in its old age, would soon be as busy on
the inside as it was out. Perhaps after all my doomy predictions the
house would not die a violent death, but be gently brought to ruin by
animals that had flourished in its vicinity. Hadn't I even predicted the
possibility, many months ago? The thought that my prediction might prove
correct was surprisingly sweet.

I left the front door open when we went inside, just to be sure the
hyena knew she was welcome.

V

I W

hY is it so much harder to describe happy times than sad? I've had
little trouble conjuring scenes of grief and devastationfor the last God
knows how many pages, but now-when I come to the simple business of
telling you how I passed three or four blissful hours in the company of
my darling Marietta and her tribe--words fail me. I was simply content
with these women, whose repartee tended toward the ribald, and whose
voices--when raised in argument-were deafening. What were the bones of
contention between them? I can't remember, to tell

	t

you the truth. I know I contributed little or nothing to the debate. I
sa

and watched and listened to that charmed circle and I swear there was

no seduction on earth that would have persuaded me to leave it.

At last, however, the drink and the hour took its toll on even the
hardiest of the celebrants, and sometime after midnight the group broke
up, and we all went on our way. I'd found a moment to tell Marietta
about Dwight's departure, so she invited Rolanda and Terri-Lynn to take
his bed for the night. Ava had been tucked up on the sofa since the

beginning of the evening, and Lucy went to join her there. Louie stayed
where she was, at the dining room table, her head sunk on her hands. The
newlyweds, of course, traipsed away to Marietta's bedroom, hand in hand.

As I wandered through the house, heading back to my study, I thought
about what was left for me to write. I would have to make an account of
how Galilee and Rachel left the island: strictly for neatness' sake; it
was an uneventful departure. And then there was the matter of the bodies
in the house. I'd have to dedicate a couple of paragraphs to how they
were discovered. It was certainly a more interesting anecdote than the
details of the lovers' departure, touched as it was by an element of the
grotesque. The same blind dog that had wandered up from the beach to be
petted by Rachel when she'd first come to the house had been the one to
raise the alarm. He had done so not by sitting on the veranda and
howling, but by turning up on his owner's porch with a portion of a
human foot, chewed off at the ankle, in his mouth. It didn't take long
for the police to find the two corpses. Though the body of Mitchell
Geary was inside the house, it was his body that was missing the foot.
For some reason the animal had stepped over the corpse on the veranda to
make dinner of the man at the bottom of the stairs.

The coroner determined that both men had been dead for forty eight
hours. Though the police began a search of the island immediately, it
was assumed that the murderer was already long gone; probably back to
the mainland. There was plenty of evidence pointing to Rachel, of
course: her bags were up in the bedroom, her fingerprints on the
banisters, dose to the place where Mitchell Geary lay. Later, however,
there would be good forensic reasons to doubt her culpability: the
general store owner would identify Mitchell as the man who'd purchased
the murder weapon; and there would be only one set of prints--
Mitchell's prints-found on the knife. But just because she hadn't
actually delivered the lethal wound didn't exonerate her. The newspapers
were soon full of theories as to what had happened at the house, the
most popular being the belief that Mitchell had come to the island to
get his wife back, but had suspected that she had some plot laid against
his life. He'd armed himself as best he could, killed the man she'd
hired to murder him, and then-in some kind of struggle with Rachel--had
fallen downstairs and perished in what was essentially a freak accident.

There was no'lack of commentary attending this theorizing--a few of the
more perceptive journalists commenting on how dysfunctional the
relationships between the Geary men and their wives seemed to be. A few
even claimed that they'd seen the tragedy coming; that it had

been in essence inevitable. This was a mismatch made in hell, one
bitchier society watchers wrote, and I'm only surprised it's taken so lo
for it to come to an end. That it has ended so tragically can come as
surprise to the surviving members of the Geary family, in whose ranks
th, course of love and marriage have seldom run smooth. A cursory
glance: over the history of the dynasty provides ample evidence that the
men have' all too often treated their wives as little more than
investments with wombs, providing a return in children rather than
dollars. Is it any great' shock that Rachel Geary apparently resisted
this life?

The family itself made no public pronouncements on the matter, I except
for a short statement, cautiously worded by Cecil, that put full

confidence in the police investigations. :

Behind closed doors, there was no gathering of family members

discuss how things went on from here, no stirring speech from Loretta
about how this adversity would allow the Gearys to demonstrate their
cohesiveness. This was the third death in the family in a matter of
months, and it drove everyone into their own private places, to grieve
or

meditate. Cadmus's funeral was delayed by several days so that

Mitchell's body could be flown back from Hawaii, and arrangements'

could be made to inter Mitchell and his grandfather together. Loretta

did not oversee the preparations: she left it all to Carl Linville.
Instead

she flew down to the house in Washington with ]ocelyn, where she

locked herself away, taking no calls or visitors, refusing to speak to
any one but Cecil. She had lost her last ally, now that the prince was
gone:

Whether her appetite for control of the family had been permanentiy

spoiled only time would tell; for now she seemed content to let the

world proceed on its weary way without her.

Only Garrison seemed untouched by all of this. No, not untouched,'
untroubled. When he flew to Hawaii to accompany his brother's body home
he strode through the hordes of photographers at the airport like a man
who'd been given a new lease on life. It wasn't that he smiled-r nothing
so crass--but to anyone who knew him, knew the brittle language of his
body, and his reticence about being in the public was plainly a change
in him. It was as though Garrison had taken some of the qualities of his
dead brother; inherited at the moment of Mitchell's decease all the
confidence that had been the prince's birthright. He parted the
journalists like a sea, saying nothing, but dispensing nods to right and
left, as though to say: I am come into power.

When he got to the island his first d.u was to go to the morgue in Lihue
and confirm identification of Mitchell. This done, he was driven to
Anahola to visit the house, which he was allowed to walk around alone.
He wanted some time, he said, to pay his respects to the past. The
police captain who was escorting him put up no obiection to Garrison's
request, but when, after half an hour, Garrison had not emerged from the
house, he went in to see that all was well, The house was deserted.
Garrison had finished with his meditations long since, and was now
standitg on the beach. He cut a peculiar figure, with his black suit and
his slicked hair and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. The sun was
blazing; the water turquoise arid will0e. Garrison was staring out to
sea, and he stayed there, staring and stating, for perhaps fifteen
minutes. When he came back in, he was smilitag,

"It's all going to be fine," he said,

ii

There are no neat conclusions to any of this, of course. All these lives
go on, past the end of this book; there's always more to tell. But I
have to draw the line somewhere, and I'm choosing to draw it here, give
or take a few observations. Tempting though it is to pick at the threads
of things I've mentioned in these pages, but left unsewn, I don't dare
touch them. Each is a garment unto itself.

So. Let me tell what happened when, having wandered about the house for
a while, thinking the thoughts I've just set down, I came to the
hallway.

I glanced up the stairs, and there, close to the top of the flight, I
glimpsed a motion in the shadows.

I thought perhaps it was Zabrina, who'd been conspicuous by her absence
throughout the evening (though she n'mst certainly have heard the noise
of the wedding party). I called out to her, but even as I did so I
realized my error. The shape on the stairs was small, and even
accounting for the fact that it was wrapped in shadow, somehow vague.
"Zelim?" I ventured.

The form rose up from its crouching position, and came a little way down
the stairs, its gait hesitant. My second guess had been correct. It was
indeed Zelim, or what was left of him. His presence stood to his earlier
self as that self had stood to the fisherman from Atva. He was the
phantom of a phantom, his substance negligible. Like smoke, I want to
say; like a soul of smoke, who only held his form because there was no
wind to disperse him. I held my breath. He looked so tenuous that he'd
be banished by the mildest exhalation.

But he had sufficient strength to speak: a dwindling voice,

sure, disappearing with every syllable, yet strangely eloquent. I the
happiness in him from the first, and knew before he told me that': wish
had been granted.

"She let me go " he said.

I dared that breath now. "I'm happy for you," I said.

"Thank... you..." His eyes, in the last phase of his existence, had
become huge, like the eyes of a child.

"When did this happen?" I asked him.

"Just a ... few.., minutes ago ..." the infant said. His voice wag

so quiet I had to strain to hear what he was telling me. "As soon...
soon.., as she knew..." :

I didn't catch the last of what he said, but I was afraid to waste a
moment asking, for fear of losing him completely in that moment. So I
kept my silence, and listened. He was almost gone. Not just his voice,
but his physical presence, fading by the heartbeat. I felt no sorrow for
him--how could I, when he'd so plainly stated his desire to be gone out
of this world?--but it was still a strangely melancholy sight, to see a
living soul erased before your eyes.

"I remember..." he murmured "... how he came for me..."

What was this? I didn't understand what I was being told.

"... in Samarkand..." Zelim went on, the syllables of the city like
gossamer. Oh now I understood. I'd written about the event he was
remembering, I'd pictured it here on these pages. Zelim, the aged
philosopher, sitting among his students, telling a story about how God's
hands worked; then looking up and seeing a stranger at the back of the
room, and dying. His death had been a kind of summons; out of his self:
willed existence into the service of Cesaria Yaos. Now that service was
ended, and he was remembering-fondly, I thought, to judge by the tender
gaze in his eyes--how he'd been called; and by whom. By Galilee, of
course.

Did Zelim realize that I was still a little puzzled by what he was
telling me, or did he at the last want to simply state how things had

come full circle? Which ever it was, he said:

"He's here."

And with those two words gave up his life after death, and went

away, smoke and soul.

He's here.

That was quite a pair of words. If they were true, then I was amazed.
Galilee, here? Lord in heaven, Galilee here! I didn't know whether

to start yelling at the top of my voice, or to go hide my head. I looked
up

to the top of the stairs, half-expecting to see Cesaria there, demanding
I go fetch him, bring him to her. But the landing was deserted, the
house as still as it had been in the moment before Zelim had spoken his
last. Did she not know he was here? Impossible. Of course she knew. This
house was hers, from dome to foundations; the moment he'd stepped into
it she'd been listening to his breath and to his heartbeat; to the din
of his digestion.

She knew that he'd have to come to her sooner or later, and she was
simply waiting for him to do so. She could afford to be patient, after
all these long, lonely years.

I didn't linger in the hallway, now that Zelim was gone. I headed for my
study, and was a few yards from my study door when I caught the alluring
whiffofa burning havana. I pushed open the door, and there, sitting in
the chair behind my desk, was the great voyager himself, leafing through
my book, while he puffed on one of my cigars.

He looked up when I entered, and gave me an apologetic smile. "Sorry,"
he said. "I couldn't help myself." "The cigar or the book?" I replied.

"Oh the book," he said. "It's quite a story. Is any of it true?"

in

I didn't ask him how much he'd read; or what he thought of my stylish
eccentricities. Nor did I reply to his perverse question, about the
veracity of what I'd written. Nobody knew the truth of it better than
he.

We embraced, he offered me one of my own cigars, which I declined, and
then he asked me why there were so many women in the house.

"We went from room to room," he explained, "looking for somewhere to lay
our heads, and-"

"Who's we?"

He smiled. "Oh, come on, brother..."

"Rachel?" I replied. He nodded. "She's here?"

"Of course she's here. You think I'd ever let that woman out of my

sight again after what we've been through?"

"Where is she?"

His eyes went to the door of my bedroom. "She's sleeping," he explained.

"In my bed?"

"You don't mind?"

I couldn't keep the grin off my face. "No, of course I don't mind."

	"Well I'm glad I've pleased somebody in this damn house," Galilee

said.

	"Can I... take a peek at her?"

	'%What the hell for?"

	"Because I've been writing about her for the last nine months. I

	want to see-" What did I want to see? Her face? Her hair? The curve

	of her back? I suddenly felt a kind of desire for her, I suppose. Some

	thing I'd probably been feeling all along, I just hdn't realized it. "I
lust

	want to see her," I said.

		I didn't wait for him to give me permission. I got up and went to the

	bedroom door. A wash of moonlight lit the bed, and there, spra'led on

	the antiquated quilt, was the woman of my waking dreams. I couldn't

	quite believe it. There she was: Rachel PallenbeGearyBarbarossa,

	her liquid hair spread on the same pillow where I'd laid my own

	buzzing head so many nights, and thought about how to shape the story

	of her life. Rachel in Boston, Rachel in New York, Rachel convalescing

	in Caleb's Creek, and walking the beach at Anahola. Rachel in despair,

	Rachel in extremis. Rachel in love-- be'

		"Rachel in Love," I murmured.

		"What's that?"

		I glanced back at Galilee. "I should have called the book Rachel in

	Love." a

		"Is that what it's really about?" he said. his

		"I don't know what the hell it's about," I replied, quite truthfully.
"I it

	thought I knew, about halfway through, but.. 7 1 returned my gaze to

	the sleeping woman "... maybe I can't know until it's finished."

		"You're not done?"

		"Not now you're here," I replied.

		"I hope you're not expecting some big drama," Galilee said,

	"because that's not what I had in mind."

	"It'll be what it'll be," I said. "I'm strictly an observer."

		no you're not," he said, getting up from behind the desk. "I to

need your help." I looked at him blankly. "With her." He cast his eyes

up toward the ceiling.

	"She's your mother not mine."

	"But you know her better than I do. You've been here with her all

these years, while i've been away."

	"And you think I've been sitting with her drinking mint juleps? me

Talking about the magnolias? I've barely seen her. She's stayed up there

brooding."

"A hundred and fory years of brooding?"

	"She's had a lot to brood about. You. Nieodemus. Jefferson."

	"Jefferson? She doesn't still think about that loser."

	"Oh yes she does. She told me, at great length-"

	"See? You do talk to her. Don't try and squirm out of it. You talk to

her."

	"All right, I talk to her. Once in a while. But I'm not going to be

your apologist."

Galilee contemplated this for a moment; then he shrugged. "Then you
won't have an ending to your book, will you?" he said. "It's as simple
as that. You'll be siring down here wondering what the hell's going

on up there, and you'll never know. You'll have to make it up." "Jesus
..." I muttered. "I've got a point, right?"

He read me well. What was worse than the prospect of going up with
Galilee in tow to face Cesaria? Why, the prospect of staying here below,
and not knowing what passed between them. Whatever happened between
mother and son when they came face to face, I had to be there to witness
it. If I failed to do so then I failed in my duty as a

writer. I couldn't bear to do that. I've failed at too much else.

	"All right," I said. "I'm persuaded."

"Good man," he said, and embraced me, pressing my body hard against his.
It made me feel meager, to be sure. I realized as he wrapped his arms
around me that I'd hardly expressed with a quarter the passion it
deserved what the Geary women must have felt in his embrace. I envied
them.

"I'm going to wake Rachel," he said, breaking his hold on me and going
to the door of my bedroom. I followed him, as far as the door, and
watched him crouch beside the bed and reach out to gently shake her out
of sleep.

She was obviously deep in dreams, because it took her a little time to
surface. But when her eyes finally opened, and she saw Galilee, a
luminous smile came onto her face. Oh, there was such love in it! Such

unalloyed pleasure that he was there, at her side.

"It's time to get up, honey," Galilee said.

Her eyes came in my direction. "Hi," she said. "Who are you?"

It felt odd, let me tell, to have this woman--whose life I had so
carefully chronicled, and with whom I now felt quite familiar--look at
me and not know me.

"I'm Maddox," I said.

"And you're sleeping in his bed," Galilee said.

She sat up. The sheet fell away from her body, and she plucked it

up to cover her nakedness. "Galilee told me a lot about you," she said
to

me, though I suspect this was to cover a moment of embarrassment. "But
I'm not what you imagined?" "Not exactly."

"You look trimmer than you did when I saw you at the swamp," Galilee
said, patting my belly.

"I've been working hard. Not eating."

"Working on your book," Rachel said.

I nodded, hoping that would be the end of the subject. It had never
occurred to me until now that she might want to read what I'd written
about her. The thought made my palms clammy. I turned to Galilee, "You
know I think if we're going to go up to see Cesaria," I said, "we should
go soon. She knows you're here--"

"The longer we wait, the more she'll think I'm afraid to come?" Galilee
said. I nodded.

"I'd like to at least wash my face before we go," Rachel said.

"The bathroom's through there," I said, pointing the way. Then I
withdrew from the room, to allow her some privacy.

"She's so beautiful," I whispered to Galilee when he'd followed me

out. '`you're a very lucky man."

Galilee didn't reply. He had his eyes cast toward the ceiling, as

though he were preparing himself for what lay above.

"What do you want from her?" I asked him.

"To be forgiven, I suppose. No. More than that." He looked at me.

"I want to come home, Eddie. I want to bring the love of my life back to
L'Enfant, and live here happily ever after." Now it was me who didn't

reply. "You don't believe in happily ever after?" he said.

"For us?"

"For anybody."

"But we're not anybody, are we? We're the Barbarossas. The rules

are different for us.

"Are they?" he said, his gaze opaque. "I'm not so sure. It seems to

me we're driven by the same stupid things' that drive everyone else.
We're no better than the Gearys. We should be, but we're not. We're just
as petty, we're just as confused. It's time we started to think about
the future."

"This is strange, coming from you."

"I want to have children with Rachel."

"I wouldn't do that," I said. "Half-breeds are no use to anybody."

He laid his hand on my shoulder. "That's what I used to believe. Anyway
what kind of father would I make? That's what I said to myself. But it's
time, Eddie." He smiled, beautifully. "I want to fill this old house
with kids. And I want them to learn about all the miraculous shit we
take for granted." "I don't think there's much that's miraculous left in
this place." I said. "If there ever was."

"It's still here," he said. "It's everywhere around us. It's in our
blood.

It's in the ground. And it's up there, with her."

"Maybe."

He caught hold of my chin, and shook it. "Look at you. Be happy. I'm
home."

	VI

S

o, up we went, the three of us. Through the dark, quiet house, up the
stairs, to Gesaria's chambers. She wasn't there, however. As I went from
room to room, knocking lightly, then pushing the doors open, the
realization slowly grew that of course she wasn't there. She'd gone up
one more flight, to the skyroom. The circle was closing, quickly now.
The place where all this had begun--where I'd been granted the first
visions--was demanding our attendance.

As we turned from the empty bedroom, I heard the click of claws on the
floorboard, and saw Cesaria's favorite quill-pig, Tansy, scuttling out
from under the bed. I went down on my haunches and cautiously picked the
creature up. She was quite happy to be in my arms--and for some reason I
found her presence there reassuring.

"Where are we going now?" Galilee said as I passed he and Rachel

on my way out of the bedroom.

"Up to the dome," I said.

He looked at me anxiously. "What's she doing up there?"'

"I guess we're going to find out," I replied, and led the way, along the
passage and up the narrow stairs. Tansy grew more agitated as we went; a
sure sign that my instincts were correct, and that Cesaria was indeed
awaiting us in the room above.

I paused at the door, and turned back to the lovers.

"Have you ever been in here?" I asked Galilee.

"No..." m

	"Well, if we get separated--" I said.

	"Wait. What are you talking about: separated? It's not that big a

room." gaze

	"It's not a room, Galilee," I said. "It may be that from the outside,

but once you get in there, it's another world. It's her world." All

	He looked decidedly uncomfortable.

	"So what should we expect?" Rachel said.

	"I'm afraid whatever I tell you, it's probably' going to be something

different. Just go with the flow. Let it happen. And don't be afraid of
it."

	"She's uot afraid of much," Galilee said, offering Rachel a little
smile.

	"And as I said, if we get separated-"

	"We'll go on without you," Galilee said. "Agreed?"

With the quill-pig still nestling in the crook of my arm, I turned to

the door, and reaching down--somewhat tentatively, I will admit-for the
handle, I opened it. There was a sliver of me dared imagine being here
onld work auother miracle upon me. If the first visit had healed my
broken body, what might a second do? It was all very well for Galilee to
extol the virtue of half-breeds, but I'd found no special glory in that
condition; quite the contrary. Was it possible that stepping back into
the heart of Cesaria's world I might be cured of my hybrid state? Might
be made wholly dMne?

That tantalizing possibilib made me braver than I might otherwise

have been. With just one backward glance, to be sure that I still had
Rachel and Galilee in tow, I strode on into the room. At first glance it
seemed to be quite empty, bnt I knew how misleading such impressions
could be. Cesaria was here, I was certain of it. And if she was here,
then so was the court of visions and transformations that attended upon
her.

It was just a questiou of waiting for them to appear.

"Nice room," I heard Galilee say behind me.

There was an ironic edge to the remark, no doubt; .he obviously

thought I'd overestimated the miraculous nature of the place. I didn't
offer am' kind of defense. I just held my breath. A few seconds passed.
The quill-pig had quieted in my arms. Curious, I thought. I let the held

breath go, albeit slowly. Still nothing. "Are you sure--" Galilee began.
"Hush."

It was not me who silenced him, it was Rachel. I heard her footsteps
behind me, and from the corner of my eye saw her walking on past

me into the room. She'd left Galilee's side. In other circumstances I
might have glanced back over my shoulder and called him a coward, but
the moment was too fraught for me to risk the distraction. I kept my
gaze fixed on Rachel as she wandered toward the center of the oom. That
hush of hers had come because she'd heard something; but what? All I
could hear was the sound of our breathing, and the padding of Rachel's
soles on the bare boards. Still, she was cleady attending to some sound
or other. She cocked her head slightly, as if she wasta't quite sure
whether she was really heating this sound or not. And flow, as she
listened, I caught what she was straining to hear. It was the softest of
sounds: a sibilant murmuring, so quiet I might have asstimed it was the
hum of my blood, had it not also been audible to Rachel.

She looked down at let feet. I followed her gaze, and saw that a sub He
change had overtaken the boards. The cracks were being erased, and the
details of each board, the grain and the knotholes, were shifting.
Rachel could obviously feel the effect of this shift against the tips of
her toes: the flow of the motion was ward her, out of the hea of the
room.

Now I put the sound I was hearing together with the shifting of the
boards: the wood was becoming sand; sand blown by a gentle but insistent
breeze.

Rachel glanced back toward me. To judge by her expression she wasn't so
much alarmed by what was happening as entertained.

"Look," she said. Then, to Galilee, "It's okay, honey." She reached out
toward him, and he came to join her. sliding an anxious glance in my
direction as he did so. The wind was getting stronger; the boards had
now disappeared completely, There was only sand beneath our feet now,
its grains glittering as fhey rolled on their way.

I watched him reach out to take hold of her hand, wondering what place
this was, creeping up upon us. The walls across the room had melted away
into a gray-blue haze; and I cast my eyes heavenward to see that the
dome had also faded from view. There were stars up there. where there'd
been a solid vault of timber and plaster. The dark between them was
deepening, and their pinpricks growing brighter. even as I watched. For
a few giddying heartbeats it seemed I was falling toward them. I
returned my gaze to Rachel and Galilee before the illusion caught hold
of me; and as I did so the lovers' fingers intertwined.

I felt a subtle shock pass through me, and Tansy jumped out of my arms,
landing on the sand in front of me. I went down on my haunches to see
that no harm had come to her-strange, I suppose, but there was Some
comfort in concerning myself with the animal's welfare when the

gronnd was being remade nnderfoot, and the stars burning too bright in

	above. Bnt Tansy wanted none of my help now. She was off before I

	could touch her, with that comical rolling gait of hers. I watched her
go

	perhaps three yards from me before lifting my eyes. What I saw when I

	did so put the thought of her out of nay head completely.

		There was no apocalyptic scene before me; no vanlts of fire, no

	panicking animals. There was instead a landscape that I knew. I'd never

	walked there, except in my imagination, but perhaps I knew it all the

	better for that fact. to

		Off to my right was a forest, thick and dark. And to my left, the
lisping waters of the Caspian Sea.

		Two souls as old as heaven came down to the shore that ancient

	nOOn . . .

		This was the place where the holy family had walked; where Zelim

	the fisherman had left his bickering comrades and gone to engage in a

	conversation that would not only change his life, but the life that he

	lived after death. The place of beginnings.

		There was no harm here, I thought to myself. There was just the

	wind and the sand and the sea. I looked back toward the door; or rather

	the spot where the door had stood. It had gone. There was no way out

	of here, back into the house. Nor was there any sign of Cesaria's
presence along the shore. I thought I could see some hint of habitation
in

	the distant dnnes-a new Atva, perhaps, or the old--and there was the

	skeletal remains of a boat, the bones of its hull black in the
starlight, a dc

	distance away, but of the woman we'd come here to see, not a sign.

		"Where the hell are we?" Galilee wondered aloud.

		"This is where you were baptized," I told him.

		"Really?" He looked out toward the placid water. "Where I tried to

	swim away?"

		"That's right."

		"How far did you get?" Rachel asked him.

		I didn't hear his response. My attention was once again upon the

	porcupine, who having waddled away some distance had now turned

	round, and with her nose to the sand, was snuffling her way toward the

carcass Halfway there, she raised her head, made a

	of

		the

			boat.

					small

noise in her throat, and quickened her pace. She wasn't sniffing her way
any longer: she knew her destination. Somebody was waiting for us in the
shadows of the vessel.

	"Galilee... ?" I murmured.

	He looked my way, and I pointed along the shore. There--sitting

in the boat--was the storm-maker, the virago herself, a scarf of dark
silk draped over her head.

"You see her?" I murmured.

"I see," he said. Then, more quietly. "You go first."

I didn't argue. My anxiety had faded, calmed by the tranquillity of the
scene. There would be no great unleashings here, I sensed; no forces
raging around. Of course that probably meant that my hopes of being
raised out of half-breed state were dashed. But nor would I come to any
harm.

Following Tansy's tracks in the sand, I approached the boat. The
starlight was no longer brightening, but its benediction showed me
Cesaria clearly enough, sitting there on a pile of timbers, looking my
way. With the ribs of the wreck rising to either side of her she looked
as though she were sitting at the heart of a dark flower.

L'Enfants . . . she said to us... you took your time.

Tansy was at her feet. She bent down and the creature clambered up into
her embrace, where it perched in grunting bliss.

"We looked for you downstairs..." I began to explain.

I won't be going back there, she said. I've shed too many tears down
there. And now I'm done.

She hadn't taken her eyes off me since we'd started toward her. It was
almost as though she didn't want to look past me toward her son; didn't
dare, perhaps, for fear of shedding the very' tears she said she was

done with. I could see how close they were; how full of feeling she was.
"Is there something you need from me?" I asked her.

No, Maddox, she said, with sweet gravity'. There's nothing now. You've
done more than enough, child.

Child. There'd been a time when she'd enraged me with that word. Now it
was wonderful. I was a child, still. My life, she seemed to say, was
still to be lived.

You should go, she said.

"Where?"

Through the forest, she said. The way Zelim went.

I didn't move. Though I'd heard the instruction, I couldn't bring myself
to leave. After all my trepidation, all my fears of what being in her
presence might bring, I wanted to stay a moment longer, two moments,
three, to enjoy the balm of her eyes and the honey of her voice. It was
only with the greatest difficulty that I made my limbs obey me, and turn
me toward the trees.

Travel safely, child... I heard her say.

Lord, but it was hard, walking away, even though in a sense I was

	being set free. I'd paid for my freedom in words; every thought I've
set

	on these pages has been a ransom against this release. But still, there

	was a sadness in me, to be going.

	I didn't look back until I'd taken perhaps twenty: paces. When I did,

	however, I stopped for a few minutes, just to watch what ensued, This

	was the moment. Galilee and Rachel, hand in hand, were approaching

	the boat. ldid not

	Brat, Gesaria said to him. You took your time. Lthe footsteps I

	"I got lost, Mama," Galilee said. "I got lost in the world. But I'ming
the reun:'

	home now." trees, and

	There's nothing left to come home to, Gesaria said. It's all gone. gave
up

	"Then let me build it again," Galilee replied, through

	You don't have the wits, child, particular

	"Not on my own," Galilee said. "But with my Rachel--" emerged

	Your Rachel, Cesaria said, her voice softening. She rose from her ier;
hoped,

	throne of timbers, and beckoned to Rachel. Come here, she said. ine,
she was"

	Rachel let go of Galilee's hand, and walked toward the boat.
sightlessness

	Cesaria stepped out between the ribs of the hull and looked her up and
The

	down. I was too far from them to see the expression on her face, but I
tain the

	could well imagine how scouring that scrutiny felt. I'd experienced it
darker. I

	myself; or some measure of it. Cesaria was looking into Rachel's soul.
in front of

	Making a final judgment as to the appropriateness of this woman. At
keep my

	last, she said: my feet

	Are you sure you want this? Several

	"This?" Rachel said. for

	This house. This history. This brat of mine. was her

	Rachel looked back over her shoulder. In the long moment that she not

she gazed at Galilee I thought I heard the stars moving overhead, steady
No

and content, be

	"Yes," she said. "He's what I want."

	Then he's yours, Cesaria said.

	She opened her arms. It

	"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" Galilee asked.

	Gesaria laughed. If not now, then when? Come into my arms, before on-as

you break my heart again.

		Oh, area

	He went to her then, with such abandon, and pressed his face light

against her shoulder while she wrapped him in her arms. toward

	.... ,, 	tinted forgiven, the said. come

	Forgiven, she replied, I.

I did not expect to come to the last few pages of this story following
in the footsteps of Zelim the fisherman, but that's what happened.
Leaving the reunion to take its happy course behind me I headed for the
trees, and stepped beneath their cap.opy. It was dark, and I very soon
gave up any attempt to plot a course for myself; I simply plunged on
through the undergrowth, letting accident decide my destiny. I wasn't
particularly reassured by what I remembered of Zelim's journey. He'd
emerged from this forest only to be raped by bandits. I hoped to be
luckier; hoped, indeed, that though I'd left the shore and Cesaria far
behiud me, she was watching over my progress, and would guide me in my
sightlessness.

There was little sign of a guiding hand, however. Just as I was certain
the darkness around me was as profound as it could get, it became
darker. I was soon reduced to stumbling forward with any arms stretched
in front of me, to prevent myself from walking into a tree. That didn't
keep my face and hands and chest from being scratched by thorus, or my
feet from becoming entangled in the ropes of root across my path.
Several times I fell headlong, the breath knocked out of me. So much for
Cesaria's final blessing, I thought sourly. Travel safely, indeed. If
this was her world I was stumbling through, as I presumed it to be,
might she not have put a moon up there above me, to light the path?

No, I suppose that would have been too easy. She was never one to be
ueedlessly kind, even to herself. Perhaps especially to herself. Just
because her child had been returued to her, she wasn't going to change
her ways.

It was too late for me to turn back, of course. The shore had long since
disappeared from sight behind me. I had no choice bnt to wander on-as
Zelim had done before me--hoping that the torment would eventually come
to an end.

And so, after a long, long time, it did. I caught a glimpse of amber
light between the trees, and fixing my eyes on the glow, I Stulnbled ou
toward it. Dawn was coming up, ahead of me; I could see layers of tinted
cloud, their flat bellies stroked by the emerging sun. And to welcome
the light, birds in bright chorus, filling the branches overhead.

My legs were weak by now, and my body shaking with fatigue, but the
sight and sound gave me a fresh burst of energy, and within five minutes
of first seeing the light I was emerging from the trees.

My night journey had been far more elaborate than I'd realized. Somehow
while I'd been blind Cesaria's enchantments had led me out of the house
and across the grounds to the perimeter of L'Enfant. That was where I
now stood: at the borderland between sacred ground and secular; between
Barbarossian territory and the rest of the world. Behind me was a solid
mass of trees, the thicket that swelled and blossomed between them so
dense that I could see no more than three or four yards, while ahead of
me lay a landscape of simple virtues. Rolling hills, rising away from
the swampy ground that bounded L'Enfant; scattered trees, uncultivated
fields. I could see no sign of habitation.

The birds who'd been greeting the dawn now took flight from the canopy,
and I watched them rising up, wheeling around overhead before taking
their various ways. I felt suddenly immensely vulnerable, seeing them
rise into that bright, wide sky. It was so long since I'd been roofless;
I was sorely tempted to turn round and go back to the house. I had
unfinished business there, I reasoned: I couldn't just walk out into the
world and leave the life I'd been living behind me. A journey like this
needed thought and preparation. I had to say goodbye to Marietta,
Zabrina and Luman; I had to append a few closing paragraphs to the book
on my desk; I had to tidy up my study, and lock away my private papers.
There was this to do, there was that to do.

All excuses, of course. I was just trying to find ways to postpone the
fearful moment when I actually faced the world again. That was why
Cesaria had tricked me into this sudden exile, I knew; to deny me my
procrastinations, and oblige me to venture out, under this expanse of
sky. In short, to make me live.

I was standing there, facing the empty vista before me, chewing all this
over, when I heard a motion in the thicket behind me. I turned around,
and to my astonishment saw Luman digging his way out through the
shrubbery, cursing ripely as he did so. When he finally emerged from the
tangle he looked like some half-crazed spirit of the green, twiglets and
thorns in his beard and hair. He spat out a mouthful of leaf, and gave
me a fierce look.

"You'd better be grateful!" he groused.

"For what?" I said.

He raised his hands. He was carrying two leather knapsacks, both much
battered and beaten. They were packed to the point of bursting. "I
brought you some stuff for your travels," he said.

"Well that's good of you," I said.

He tossed the smaller of the knapsacks over to me. It was heavy. It also
stank.

"Is this another of your antiques?" I said, looking at the Confederate
insignia on the flap.

"Yep," he said. "I got them the same place I got the saber. I put your

pistol in there, along with some money, a shirt and a flask of brandy."
"And that one?" I said, eyeing the bigger knapsack. "Some more clothes.
A pair of boots, and you know what." I smiled. "You brought me my book?"

"Of course. I know how much you love that damn thing. I wrapped it in
the o1' Stars and Bars."

"Thank you," I said, taking the second knaNack from him. It was quite a
weight. My shoulders were going to regret my verbosity in the days to
come. But it felt good to have the thing with me; like a child that I
could not bear to be separated from.

"You went into the house for the book," I said. "I know how you hate it
in there..."

He threw me a sideways glance. "Used to. But it's changin' isn't it?
Animals shittin' on the floor. Women everywhere." His face broke into a
puckish grin. "I'm thinkin' maybe I'll move back in. Them ladies is
mighty fine."

"They're lesbians," I pointed out.

"I don't care if they're from Wisconsin," he said. "I like 'em." "How
did you know where to find me?"

"I heard you walking by the Smoke House, talking to yourself." "What was
I saying?"

"Couldn't make no sense of it, I came out and you jus' walked right on,
like you was sleepwalkin'. I kinda figured she'd put you up to this. Old
Lady Love."

"You mean Cesaria."

He nodded. "That's what Paps used to call her, 'Old Lady Love, all

ice and honeysuckle.' Didn't you ever hear him call her that?"

"No, I never did."

"Huh. Well, anyhow I figured she'd decided to be rid of you. So I
thought I'd just give you something to be going with."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." Luman looked a little uncomfortable that I
was thanking him.

"Well..." he said, plucking another fragment of leaf from the corner of
his mouth. "You've been kind to me, brother."

I wondered, watching him separate leaf and beard, if I'd missed

some simple pattern in my investigation of our family; if he wasn't Pan,

by another name, and my brother Dionysus, and-- I caught myself in this,
and growled. "What is it7"

"I'm still writing that damn book in my head," I said.

"You'll forget about it, once you get out there," Luman said, his

gaze drifting past me to the landscape over nay shoulder. There was a
certain wistfulness on his face. I thought about our conversation about
how he couldn't possibly face the prospect of returning to the world:
that it would make too crazy. But I could also see how the idea of
risking the journey was deeply tempting to him. I decided to play
Mephistopheles.

"You want to join me?" I said.

He didn't look at me. Just kept his eyes on the sunlit hills. "Yeah.. 7
he growled. "I want to join you. But I ain't gonna. Least, not

today. I got shit to do, brother. I got to arm all them ladies."

"Arm them?"

"Yeah... if they're staying--"

"They're not says staying." they

	"Marietta are."

	"Really."

"That's what she says."

Oh nay Lord, I thought: the invasion took place after all. L'Enfant

has fallen. But not to the Gearys: at least, not yet. To a tribe of
lesbians. "But you know what you promised--" Lmnan went on. "You mean
about your kids?" "You remembered."

"Of course I remembered."

He beamed, his eyes shining. "You'll go look for them."

"I'll go look for them."

He came to me suddenly, and clamped his arms around me. "I

knew you wouldn't let me down," he said, planting a noisy kiss on my
cheek. "I love you, Maddox. And I want you to take that love along with
you, to keep you safe out there." His hug tightened. "You hear me?"

I hugged him back, though it was a messy embrace, with both knapsacks in
nay arms.

"You know where you're going to start looking?" he asked me when

the hugging was done.

"No idea," I said. "I'm just going to follow my instincts." "You bring
my kids back with you?" "If that's what you want."

"It's what I want..." he said.

He fixed me with his gaze for a long moment, and I swear there was more
affection in his expression than I'd seen directed at me in many a long
year. He didn't linger, but broke the gaze, and turned away,
disappearing into the thicket. In four or five strides he'd been
eclipsed by the green, and the wall between myself and L'Enfant stood
resolute.

ii

Luman's a lot snarter than a first impression might snggest. He didn't
just pack the book, he packed a sheaf of plain paper, some pens, even
ink. He knew I'd want to record my departnre from L'Enfant; that my
farewell to the house would also mark my farewell to these pages.

So here I am, sitting on the roadside maybe three miles from where he
and I said onr goodbyes, committing these closing thoughts to paper. The
day's been kind to me. There's been a gentle breeze blowing since
midmorning, and the sun's been warm, but not hot. I came upon this road
after a couple of hours of walking, and decided to follow it, though I
have no idea where it's going to lead me. In a sense--though I'm a very
long way from the Caspian Sea-I'm still following in Zelim's footsteps;
traveling blind, but in hope. Of what? Perhaps of a little wisdom; a
clue to the question I'd wanted answered by Nicodemus: what am I for?
It's probably too much to expect; the world grants an answer to that
question rarely, I think, and when it does usually makes the recipients
pay dearly for the information. The tree of that knowledge has its roots
at Golgotha.

In lieu of that, I have no clear agenda. I've been living under a
despotic regime for a long time now, with the heel of nay own ambition
on my neck. Now that it's almost lifted, living free may be satisfaction
enough. I am hereafter only the man who told a prodigal's story; who
chronicled the return of Galilee and his beloved to the place where they
could begin. Forward of that moment is an empty page. And though I will
be walking there, I intend to leave no trace of my passing; at least not
in words.

All of which is not to say I won't wonder, as I go, how the lives and
afterlives of those I've written about here will proceed.

I can see Garrison Geary even now, home from burying his grandfather and
his brother, sitting in what used to be Cadmus's sanctum. On his lap,
Charles Holt's iournal. On the wall in front of him, the great Bierstadt
canvas. In his mind he has become the lone pioneer on the crag in the
painting; but it is not the plains of the Midwest he imagines
possessing. It is L'Enfant. He plans to take it by force. He even knows

what he's going to do once he's become the Lord of that house, and it
will change the course of history.

In Washington, Loretta is alone; also meditating on what lies before
her. Seeing her men put into the ground, side by side, made her wonder
if she hadn't been hasty when she'd told Rachel that these mysteries
were beyond them all. We're little people, she'd said. We don't have a
prayer. But in the dusk, listening to the traffic, she wonders if that's
the very thing she has: a prayer; and someone to deliver it to. It will
take her a little time to make sense of things; but she's a clever
woman, and now she has nothing to lose, which makes her formidable.

Meanwhile, Luman's bastards pass the grimy days in some city I cannot
name, the wisest of them expecting nothing; though they may yet be
astonished.

And the shark deities move in the clear waters around the islands.

And the dream spirits of the Geary women sit laughing under the eaves of
the house in Anahola;

And certain powerful men, weary from their day of politicking, come
reverentially into a temple close to Capitol Hill, and pay their sullen
respects;

And the gods go on, in spite of themselves; and the human road stretches
out before us; and we walk, like wounded children, waiting for the
strength to run.

