THE DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL

DANS LA VILLE D'OR ET D'ARGENT

2011-04-15T09:45:00.001-04:00

Dans la Ville d'Or et d'Argent

Le dernier roman de ma cousine, Kenizé Mourad, vient de paraître. C'est un chef-d'oeuvre à lire absolument!

Kenizé Mourad est une romancière et journaliste française d’origine turco-indienne.

Née à Paris en 1940, Kenizé de Kotwara est la fille d’une princesse turque, membre de la Dynastie ottomane (petite-fille du sultan Mourad V par sa mère Hatidjé Sultane) mariée à un rajah indien mais réfugiée à Paris. Orpheline de sa mère peu après sa naissance, elle est élevée dans un milieu catholique.

À l’âge de 20 ans, la quête de ses origines l’amène à découvrir l’Islam dans les textes des grands soufis. Percevant l’Islam comme une religion ouverte et tolérante, elle conçoit son identité musulmane comme « une appartenance plus qu’une religion » à une époque où elle adhère aux « valeurs gauchistes » ambiantes. Tout en effectuant de longs séjours en Inde et au Pakistan, elle suit des études de psychologie et de sociologie à la Sorbonne. Mais, si elle travaille comme journaliste indépendante à partir de 1965, elle vit surtout à partir de 1968 de son métier d’hôtesse de l’air. Elle exerce encore cette profession lorsqu’en 1970, elle rencontre Hector de Galard qui l’introduit au « Nouvel Observateur ».

D’abord attachée au service documentation, elle commence à y publier des articles en mars 1971. Chargée de couvrir le Bangladesh et le Pakistan, où elle a vécu quelques temps, elle voit sa situation régularisée en décembre 1971. Elle élargit son domaine de prédilection aux questions moyen-orientales. Correspondante de guerre au Bangladesh, en Éthiopie, au Liban, où elle passe trois mois pendant le siège de Beyrouth en 1982, elle couvre également la révolution iranienne pendant plus d’une année.

Mais au cours de ses reportages, elle se rend compte de l’importance de la psychologie des gens par rapport aux grands discours politiques. C’est parce qu’elle n’a « pas la place d’en rendre compte dans ses articles » qu’elle quitte le journal en septembre 1982 pour se lancer dans l’écriture. Après avoir enquêté en Turquie, au Liban et en Inde, elle publie en 1987 un roman racontant l’histoire de sa famille, « De la Part de la Princesse Morte », chez Robert Laffont. Best-seller international, son roman est vendu à plusieurs millions d’exemplaires et traduit en 34 langues.

En 1998, elle publie la suite de son premier roman, « Le Jardin de Badalpur ». En 2003 elle publie « Le Parfum de Notre Terre, Voix de Palestine et d’Israël », un livre d’interviews et de portraits d’hommes, de femmes, et d’enfants palestiniens et israéliens, pour tenter de faire comprendre le drame des deux peuples.

«Dans la Ville d’Or et d’Argent », Paris, Éditions Robert Laffont, 2010 (ISBN 978-2221095249)

Présentation de l’éditeur

Dans la veine de son best-seller « De la Part de la Princesse Morte », la nouvelle saga historique de Kenizé Mourad - l’histoire fascinante et méconnue de la première femme indienne qui, près d’un siècle avant l’indépendance de son pays, osa défier l’occupant britannique.

La Compagnie anglaise des Indes orientales règne sans partage sur le pays en ce milieu du XIXe siècle. Exerçant sa suprématie tant sur le plan commercial que politique pour le compte de la couronne britannique, elle a désormais annexé la majeure partie du territoire. Parmi les États encore indépendants, l’un d’eux surtout attise les convoitises : Awadh, l’État le plus prospère du nord de l’Inde, et sa capitale Lucknow - dont la richesse et la beauté lui valent d’être surnommée la « ville d’or et d’argent » -, une cité à l’architecture splendide où plusieurs communautés ethniques et religieuses vivent en harmonie.

Au tout début de l’année 1856, la Compagnie décide de passer à l’offensive en plaçant le souverain d’Awadh sous tutelle britannique. Cette annexion déguisée déclenche aussitôt un fort courant de protestation ; la bégum Hazrat Mahal, quatrième épouse du roi, condamné à l’exil, prend la tête de l’insurrection. Au côté du fidèle rajah Jai Lal et avec l’aide des cipayes, soldats indiens de l’armée britannique ralliés à sa cause et prêts pour elle à tous les sacrifices, Hazrat Mahal va incarner deux ans durant la résistance à l’occupant, et être le fer de lance et l’âme de la révolte. Vaste fresque sur fond de passion amoureuse entre Hazrat Mahal et Jai Lal, l’héroïque et loyal chef militaire, Dans la ville d’or et d’argent a le souffle épique des grands romans historiques. Faisant alterner les points de vue britannique et indien, Kenizé Mourad retrace la révolte des cipayes, premier mouvement de lutte pour l’indépendance indienne - depuis ses origines jusqu’à son écrasement dans le sang et la destruction de Lucknow. Elle propose également une lecture très actuelle de ces événements lointains, dénonçant avec force et justesse le droit qu’au nom de prétendues valeurs civilisatrices certains s’arrogent de faire le bonheur des autres, y compris contre eux-mêmes…

1856

La Compagnie anglaise des Indes orientales, qui règne sans partage sur la majeure partie du pays, décide d’annexer Awadh, l’État indépendant le plus riche du nord des Indes, et d’exiler son souverain. La population se soulève : Hazrat Mahal, quatrième épouse du roi, prend la tête de l’insurrection, épaulée par le rajah Jai Lal, et avec l’aide des cipayes, ces soldats indiens de l’armée britannique ralliés à sa cause.

Lucknow, la capitale du royaume d’Awadh, appelée « la ville d’or et d’argent » pour sa splendeur et pour l’harmonie dans laquelle vivent ses communautés hindoue et musulmane, est le foyer de cette première guerre nationale. Peu à peu, l’embrasement se généralise. Deux années durant, la bégum Hazrat Mahal sera l’âme d’une révolte qui aboutira près d’un siècle plus tard, en 1948, à l’indépendance de l’Inde, sous la conduite de Gandhi.

Vaste fresque historique sur fond de passion amoureuse entre Hazrat Mahal et Jai Lai, l’intrépide et insolent chef militaire, « Dans la Ville d’Or et d’Argent » relate le destin d’une femme héroïque et méconnue, qui pourtant, la première, traça la voie de la libération des Indes. A l’aune de ces événements lointains, Kenizé Mourad s’interroge sur le droit que se donnent certains d’imposer leur vision du bonheur aux autres.

1856. Lucknow, capitale du royaume d’Awadh (nord de l’Inde). Dans cette ville parfois décrite comme « la Constantinople de l’Inde », vit une jeune femme appelée Hazrat Mahal. A sa naissance, dans une famille d’artisans, elle se prénommait Muhammadi. Orpheline très tôt, elle est prise en charge par un oncle. A l’adolescence, elle est repérée par deux anciennes courtisanes qui vont faire de la jeune fille, férue de poésie, une courtisane. Remarquée par le nawâb (souverain musulman), elle devient une concubine puis sa quatrième épouse. Lorsqu’elle lui donne un fils, Birjis Qadr, elle reçoit le nom de Hazrat Mahal.

Le royaume d’Awadh est depuis la fin du 18ème siècle un vassal de la Compagnie anglaise des Indes Orientales qui, peu à peu, grignote l’Inde. En cette année 1856, elle convoite ce royaume qui renferme nombre de richesses. Le roi, un amateur de poésie, d’architecture et plus largement de culture, est déposé en février 1856 et exilé à Calcutta. Il espère pouvoir faire entendre sa voix à la reine Victoria. Dans son exil, il amène quelques unes de ses épouses et quelques uns de ses enfants, mais ni Hazrat Mahal ni Birjis Qadr.

Enfermée dans son palais, la jeune femme va d’abord vivre les évènements de l’extérieur avant d’y prendre part. Elle écrit continuellement à son mari afin de l’informer de la situation à Lucknow mais ne reçoit jamais de réponse. L’agitation couve à Lucknow mais aussi un peu partout dans le nord et le centre de l’Inde. Plusieurs faits sont à l’origine du mécontentement. L’un d’entre eux concerne les cipayes, ces Indiens servant comme soldats dans la Compagnie des Indes Orientales sous les ordres d’officiers britanniques. Une rumeur affirme que de la graisse animale (porc et bœuf) est utilisée dans la fabrication des cartouches. Un sacrilège pour les cipayes ! La révolte des cipayes commence.

Hazrat Mahal n’y prend donc pas part dès le début. Ce n’est que quelque mois après qu’elle se révèle être une femme forte. Son fils devient nawâb et elle, régente. Elle participe à toutes les réunions et prises de décisions. Elle est aidée dans sa tâche par son plus fidèle serviteur devenu ministre et par un rajah. Après deux ans de combat, les Britanniques regagnent du terrain et Hazrat Mahal se retrouve exilée au Népal

« Dans la Ville d’Or et d’Argent » est un roman historique pour le grand public, accessible même sans aucune connaissance de l’histoire indienne. Un style simple mais efficace qui nous transporte dans la Lucknow du 19ème siècle, d’abord au cœur des fastes du palais puis au cœur de la révolte. L’Histoire a permis à cette jeune femme de dévoiler sa véritable personnalité. Quelqu’un a dit un jour que ce sont les évènements extraordinaires qui révèlent les hommes extraordinaires. Ce fut le cas avec Hazrat Mahal que rien ne destinait à prendre la tête de troupes d’hommes, elle la jeune courtisane devenue une princesse soumise à la purdah (stricte séparation des hommes et des femmes ; pour respecter cela, Hazrat Mahal portait, avant la révolte, la burqa en présence d’hommes).

About the origin of evil and the re-making of God

2010-04-02T21:04:00.007-04:00

The origin of evil

Over the years, the idea of God had evolved. In Luria’s days, the Jewish theology of Kabbalah distinguished between the essence of God and the God whom we glimpse in creation. The essence of God was inscrutable, inaccessible, and unknowable. To distinguish this hidden God from the other, they called it En Sof—literally, «without end», in Hebrew. The other, they called Shekinah, God’s presence on earth. We know nothing of En Sof. He isn’t even mentioned in the Bible or the Talmud. To make Himself known to humanity, En Sof manifested Himself to the Jewish mystics under ten different aspects or sefiroth. Each aspect represented a stage in En Sof’s unfolding revelation and had its own symbolic name.

In his effort to explain evil, Isaac Luria imagined what had happened before En Sof created the world.

The world according to Luria

Luria called this withdrawal tsimtsum. He visualized the empty space created by tsimtsum as a circle, surrounded on all sides by En Sof. This was tohu bohu, the formless waste mentioned in Genesis. Thus, God’s first act is an exile from one part of Himself, a self-imposed limitation, quite like when the Christian God emptied Himself into the Son in an act of self-expression.

During tsimtsum, En Sof sheared His Wrath from His inmost being and cast it into the empty space. Now that God’s Wrath—which the Zohar had seen as the root of evil—was cut off from God’s Mercy and the rest of His powers, it could turn out to be destructive. Still En Sof did not forsake the empty space entirely. A ‘thin line’ of the divine light penetrated this circle and took the form of what the Zohar had called Adam Kadmon, the Primordial Man.

The big bang

God’s three highest sefiroth radiated from Adam Kadmon’s ‘nose’, ‘ears’ and ‘mouth’. Then, a catastrophe occurred, which Luria called ‘the Breaking of the Vessels’. The sefiroth needed to be contained in special ‘vessels’ to distinguish and separate them from one another and to prevent them from merging anew into their primal unity. These ‘vessels’ were not material, but were composed of thicker light that served as shells for the purer light of the sefiroth. When the three highest sefiroth had radiated from Adam Kadmon, their vessels had channeled them perfectly. However, when the next six sefiroth issued from his ‘eyes’, their vessels were not strong enough to contain the divine light, and all this fragile construction shattered to pieces and dispersed. Some of the divine sparks rose upward and returned to En Sof, but others fell into the empty waste and remained trapped in chaos. From then on, nothing was at its proper place. The original harmony had been ruined, and the divine sparks were lost in the formless waste of tohu bohu, in exile from En Sof.

The meaning of (our) life, part one

Again, God set Himself to create the world. His intent was to make it in such a manner that man’s ultimate goal would be to recover the divine sparks and help Him build Himself anew.

However, that was before Adam had sinned in the Garden of Eden. Had he not done so, the original harmony would have been restored and the divine exile would have ended on the first Sabbath. But Adam’s fall repeated the primal catastrophe of the Breaking of the Vessels. The created order fell and the divine light in his soul was scattered about and caught in broken matter. Thus, once more, in this trial and error manner, God evolved yet another plan with the difference this time that only Jews would be assigned a special mission. Since Israel, just as the divine sparks themselves, is scattered throughout the Diaspora, from then on, it would be its duty to redeem the fallen atoms. As long as these transcendent sparkles are separated and lost in matter, God shall be incomplete. Only by careful observance of Torah and the discipline of prayer, each Jew will help restore the sparks to their divine source.

In this vision of salvation, God is not gazing down on humanity condescendingly, but, as Jews had always insisted, actually depends on mankind, for only Jews have the unique privilege of helping God re-form and recreate Himself anew.

Luria’s mythology was embraced eagerly by Jews around the world. Recast in Jewish terms, it was able to touch a buried chord and give new hope in the midst of despair. It enabled the Jews to believe that despite the appalling circumstances in which so many of them lived, there was an ultimate meaning and significance. By the observance of the mitzvot, they could rebuild their God again.

The meaning of (our) life, part two

Sometimes, the Hasidim went to somewhat far-fetched extremes in their attempt to save the world: many of them took to smoking a great deal to rescue the sparks in tobacco . . . One of the Besht’s own grandsons had a splendid court with magnificent tapestries and furniture, which he justified by declaring that he was only concerned for the sparks in these wonderful trappings. Others used to eat gargantuan meals to reclaim the divine sparks in their food . . .

Surely, from an outsider’s point of view, the whole Hasidic enterprise must have appeared as an attempt to find a meaning in a dangerous and cruel environment, by stripping the veil of familiarity from the world to discover the glory that lay within.

From the perspective of a devout Hasid, through the various disciplines he performed, he only knew that, day after day, he was becoming more and more aware of the divine energy that coursed through the whole created world, transforming it into a glorious place, despite the sorrows of exile and persecution. Gradually the material world would fade into insignificance and everything would become an epiphany.

The Hasidim considered both man and God as being part of the same process of self-realization, created by it, creating it, mutually interdependent. God was no longer perceived as an external, objective reality. Indeed, the Hasidim believed that in some sense they were creating Him by building Him up anew after His disintegration, and that by becoming aware of the Godly spark within them, they would become more fully human.

THE DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL - Geneve, Suisse - Petites Annonces Gratuites sur Twitter

2010-04-02T20:44:00.000-04:00

THE DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL - Geneve, Suisse - Petites Annonces Gratuites sur Twitter

2010-03-03T16:36:00.001-05:00

5. WHAT DOES THE DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL BRING THE READER?

• In The Dark Side of the Soul, the author answers the only valid question and that is not whether we have chosen to play God, but whether it is our destiny.

• The author reveals the secret purpose of incarnation.

• The author reveals Humankind’s mysterious mission in the overall scheme of things.

• The author reveals the reason why and how souls redeem the fallen angels.

• The author makes one aware of the purpose of one’s life, helps the reader find his place in the large scheme of things, and helps him/her understand her/his relationship between self and inner self.

• The author wishes to stress that his novel not only entertains, but brings understanding and insight into key questions pertaining to every human being’s existence.

• The Dark Side of the Soul is a unique story, both a novel and global theory with the objective to explain both the physical and metaphysical realms.

• This book brings a different understanding of the Nature of God, of His objectives. Nothing is the known universe is here by chance; there are no coincidences; everything has a purpose and has its place in the unfolding of God’s overarching plan.

QUESTIONS CONCERNING MY NOVEL - PART THREE

2010-02-15T18:04:00.001-05:00

3. Why do souls forget everything when they become incarnate?

• If they remembered, they would know that one day or another they’d return, they’d feel homesick, like people who believe in heaven, I guess, but it wouldn’t be as painful as not knowing at all.

• They would feel exiled and constantly yearn to return to heaven… But that doesn’t explain why souls must be stripped of all their powers and of all their memories in the first place.

• Some theologians explain this by saying that souls never completely forget. They dimly remember the lost paradise and long to return to their divine source. If they remembered that whatever terrible trial they must face, that in the end they will go back into the light, they would not feel lost and helpless and the whole process would be quite pointless. It is by overcoming adversity that the souls evolve.’

• The fact of the matter is that souls are already perfect. They don’t need to evolve.’

• Other religious people say: It was meant to be. Like everything else, it was part of His grand design.’

4. ‘Why did God choose to incarnate the souls in Humankind? Why not in other species? As far as I know, it didn’t make us any wiser.’

• ‘Perhaps the other species do not need a soul to be wise.’

• ‘Or perhaps it’s the souls that drive us mad.’

BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT - INTERVIEW OF LINDA SIMONI-WASTILA

2010-02-11T20:12:00.011-05:00

Four years ago, I enrolled in a WOW (WritersOnlineWorkshop) webinar whose goal was to teach aspiring novelists the magic spell that would enable them to write a perfect Query Letter. It lasted a month or two. I was very fortunate for taking that class, not because I learnt how to write the perfect QL - I didn’t and I don’t think any of my fellow students did either - but because I discovered two exceptionally gifted writers - Chrys Buckley and Linda Simoni-Wastila. Living in Geneva, not knowing a single English-speaking person, I desperately needed someone to read my manuscript. Thus, a few months after the course ended and I’d sent the ineffective QL all over the US, I sent Chrys and Linda emails suggesting we help each other with our respective manuscripts. Linda and Chrys were already critiquing each other’s novels. I never managed to persuade Chrys; unfortunately for both of us, I’m sure. Not overly enthused, Linda agreed to send me the fourth chapter of her novel Brighter than Bright (BTB). I studied and painstakingly analyzed her text, but after sweating over Linda’s absolute mastery of the English syntax, I decided to analyze the content. I sent Linda some ‘suggestions’, mild criticism at most. This seemed to please Linda, for she sent me more. I became bolder. After some weeks, she asked me to send her a chapter of my manuscript, The Dark Side of the Soul - Bingo! From then on and for over a year, as Jekyll turned into Hyde, Linda became Xena the Warrior Princess and I, Conan the Barbarian. While Conan slashed and sliced BTB, Xenia ripped TDSOTS apart. We both gave free rein to Xena and Conan in their pitiless dance. Whenever Conan struck too fiercely, Linda retreated and would stop sending me emails - criticism is cruelest when directed at what one cherishes most. And Linda loves Ben and Phoebe as her own children just as I love the characters in my novel. In our work together, Linda and I have branded each other for life; we will remain in each other’s heart forever. That is our story. This is my interview:

Are there any autobiographical elements in BTB?
Certainly there are elements that draw on my life, my experiences. Phoebe is a medical student whose passion is working in clay, also one of my passions. And Ben writes, mostly poetry. My story takes place in Cambridge, MA, a city I know well. But autobiographical? I don’t think so.

Why did you, at 43 years of age, suddenly decide to write your first novel, BTB?
I didn’t decide to write BTB – it decided to use me as a vehicle, a medium. I started writing BTB on January 2, 2006. Believe me, writing a novel – writing anything – was not on my 2006 to-do list. But about a year earlier, I woke and said out loud, “Who’s Benjamin Michael Taylor and why’s he in trouble?” I went straight to my computer, ripped off a paragraph about this character Ben, saved the document, and went to work. I’ve never done that before, write down thoughts like that. Ten months later, I was cleaning out my word files, stumbled across one called BENMICH, opened it, and a story tumbled out. I resisted writing, for some reason it scared me, but I kept thinking about the story, imagining it, then finally committed the first words after the New Year. Four months and 183,000 words later, I had my first draft.

What genre is BTB?
God, how I struggle with this question. In my pitches I call it ‘mainstream with literary leanings’, a story that will appeal to ‘new adults’ (i.e., young adult/adult cross-over).

Describe your main character.
Physically, Ben is 5’ 10’’, lean, has a runner’s physique. Blue-black hair from his Italian ancestry, which he wears long and shaggy. Malachite eyes, intelligent eyes, a mouth that twitches into a smile. Long, sensitive fingers, bitten nails. Impatient, edgy, intense, always moving. He now has a tattoo below his left shoulder blade to cover the scar where the bullet exited – Explore transformation throughout (Rilke). When his lithium goes too high, his hands shake. Mentally, he constantly juggles the right side of his mind with his left. He has streaks of genius, but often lacks the attention span to see the thought through to its end, one reason he needs medication. His thoughts go a mile a minute. He thinks in poetry, dissects logic in nanoseconds. Emotionally, Ben is a guy who feels too much. He tends to the blue side of the bipolar continuum. When stressed, he feels tremendous anxiety and insecurity. More than anything, he wants family, wants love. But when love comes close, he overcompensates and scares his intended away. He often feels alone.

Have you met a person like Ben before writing your novel?
No. But I’ve met pieces of him in others.

If not in “real life”, have you met him in your day-dreams?
Ben and I know each other very well. Truth be told, for me to write my characters, and not just Ben, I have to assume their characters. I have to get ‘into role’ to write them well. So there have been nights where I lay in bed and drift into Ben – in the hospital, confronting his father, worrying about school. The next morning, I feel Ben, and I write the scene. I do this with all my characters. If I don’t or can’t, then they fall flat.

Would you like to meet Ben?
There are times when I wander the city, run my errands, and my heart stops – there, is that Ben? Someone who has some characteristic of him makes me pause, and wonder.

Which circumstances helped you write BTB?
I think my ‘day job’ as an academic has given me a lot of fodder and authority to write BTB. I write about science and mental illness and substance abuse, and these are the things I do and research.

Which personal traits helped you?
I’m not a quitter. I finish what I start.

Which conditions hindered you?
It’s very difficult to strike a balance of work, family, and writing. I make it a practice to get up early every morning before everyone else, and write. If I don’t get that bit in, it’s a crappy day.

Which personal traits hindered you?
I am a perfectionist, so sometimes I’d be paralyzed, unable to make progress. I also am a word hoarder – it’s hard for me to slice and dice in the first and second drafts.

****

Read Linda's interview of me
Follow Linda on Twitter
Check Linda's blog

QUESTIONS CONCERNING MY NOVEL "THE DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL" - PART TWO

2010-02-05T14:41:00.001-05:00

3. Why do souls forget everything when they become incarnate?

• If they remembered, they would know that one day or another they’d return, they’d feel homesick, like people who believe in heaven, I guess, but it wouldn’t be as painful as not knowing at all.

• They would feel exiled and constantly yearn to return to heaven… But that doesn’t explain why souls must be stripped of all their powers and of all their memories in the first place.

• Some theologians explain this by saying that souls never completely forget. They dimly remember the lost paradise and long to return to their divine source. If they remembered that whatever terrible trial they must face, that in the end they will go back into the light, they would not feel lost and helpless and the whole process would be quite pointless. It is by overcoming adversity that the souls evolve.’

• The fact of the matter is that souls are already perfect. They don’t need to evolve.’

• Other religious people say: It was meant to be. Like everything else, it was part of His grand design.’

4. Why did God choose to incarnate the souls in Humankind? Why not in other species? As far as I know, it didn’t make us any wiser.

• ‘Perhaps the other species do not need a soul to be wise.’

• ‘Or perhaps it’s the souls that drive us mad.’

Some answers to some questions concerning my The Dark Side of the Soul

2010-01-27T14:40:00.008-05:00

1. Does the title of your novel, ‘The Dark Side of the Soul’, imply that souls are not necessarily all good, but perhaps evil?

• The Dark Side of the Soul brings a different understanding of the Nature of God and of His objectives. Nothing in the universe is here by chance; there are no coincidences; everything has a purpose and has its place in the unfolding of God’s plan. God is everything, whether it is something we consider Good or Evil.

• Because God has a plan, he needs quote unquote Evil Entities to do the dirty work to achieve His objective. Therefore, even though these Evil Entities think they are working against God, they are in fact part of his plan and doing what God needs to achieve his goal.

• If souls must undergo incarnation, it must be for a reason. They must have done something terribly wrong, they must have committed a crime.

2. Why must souls become incarnate? What does God inflict this punishment upon them?

• Souls are sparks of God. They are as pure, wise and all knowing as God is; they have known everything since all eternity, so why does God punish souls by having them forget everything and having them become incarnate? Why must they redeem themselves by becoming incarnate?

• Souls must have committed a terrible crime and, ever since, they must atone for their sins by being thrown into the world of flesh.

• “But what sins, what crime have they committed that deserves such punishment? Why all the trials, why all the suffering? There must be an explanation!”

• It cannot be because Eve ate the apple; they did not make her eat that apple - Souls have nothing to do with that – they have existed since as long as God exists while humankind exists only since what? - the sixth day?’

• ‘So, what are they punished for?’

• ‘Since they are perfect, they do not need pain to evolve – they don’t need to learn because they already know everything. So why must they forget everything and learn what they always knew? Why must they go through all this hurt in order to get what has been theirs for all time?’

• Long before humankind even existed, long before God created night and day, long before He created the cosmos, God knew what He would do with His Divine Sparks, His souls. He knew their purpose.

• In my novel, The Dark Side of the Soul, the characters discover the secret purpose of incarnation and Mankind’s mysterious mission in the overall scheme of things.

• To achieve God’s ambition – quote unquote – EVIL Entities must do the dirty work. In my novel, souls have a secret dark side. The characters discover this dark side at the end of my story, The Dark Side of the Soul.

DELETED SCENES - PART II

2010-01-18T14:12:00.011-05:00

Since my novel was way too thick - over 800 pages long - I had to delete some scenes. Actually, about half the novel went down the drain. I'm posting on this blog in choronological order the deleted scenes. Beware: They appear in a LIFO - Last In First Out - order. So, you must start by reading the first deleted scenes before the last ones I posted.

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CHAPTER 4 — HENRY PRICE

The universe was not pregnant with life, nor the biosphere with man. — Jacques Monod

You are wrong. They were. — Christian de Duve

The universe has invented a way to know itself. — Alan Dressler

The more I examine the universe and study the details of its architecture, the more evidence I find that the universe in some sense must have known we were coming. — Freeman Dyson

Stars have died so that we could live. — Preston Cloud

Humility in the face of the persistent great unknowns is the true philosophy that modern physics has to offer. — Joseph Silk

I was a hidden treasure; I wanted to be known. Hence, I created the world so that I might be known. — Hadith

Majestically tall, Henry Price leans forward onto the stand, waiting for the applause to subside. Professor Emeritus of Theoretical Physics at MIT, Price has a round face, round gleeful eyes, sparkling with curiosity. Despite his appearance of the classic absent-minded professor, penny glasses perched on top of his nose and white unruly hair, he is reputed to possess the sharpest of intellects.

After Yale, he went at Cal Tech, in 1948, to pursue a doctorate in astrophysics, driven by the urge to see through “the apparent antinomy that exists between the laws of the universe that encourage entropy, and the emergence of life.” Forty years later, he’s still seeking to resolve the same brand of mysteries, his passion undiminished. In the first part of his last book, The Cosmic Gene, he claims that not only life, but intelligence, are integral parts of the evolutionary process of the universe, bound to arise as a natural manifestation of matter, written in the very fabric of the universe; in the second, he formulates the hypothesis according to which in a four dimensional block universe wherein time is taken into account along with the three usual space coordinates, teleology should prove to be a much more formidable drive than determinism in the overall shaping of the universe, boldly stating that, as far as evolution is concerned, the former should easily override the latter.

Quite unexpectedly, I found out in the Village Voice that he would be giving a speech in the Rotunda at the Library of Columbia University. On the spur of the moment, I decided to interview him.

I’m scheduled to meet him after his conference, at his office in the Mathematics Building, right behind the Library. I can barely sit still. Since 1972, I’ve been reading all his books and papers, never dreaming that one day I’d actually interview him. In between, I’ve studied at the University of Geneva, where I now work as an assistant professor, after graduating in Mathematics, Biochemistry and Psychology . . . My contract with the University expires in three years. After that, I have no idea what I’ll do with the rest of my life.

So, this is a very special day for me. Over the years, I’ve seen pictures of him, seen him on TV, and now, he’s standing in front of me, at the lectern, wearing an impeccable gray suit and sporting long hair, facing a thousand bright-faced students, eager to learn.

‘Dear friends,’ he begins by saying, adjusting his round spectacles on his nose, ‘esteemed colleagues and fellow professors . . . Today, I would like to share with you the latest conclusions to which my research have led me in regard to the profound relationship that exists between determinism and teleology.’ He stops, removes his glasses and smiles benevolently at the assembly before pinching them back in place and proceeding.

‘In other words,’ he resumes, speaking distinctly into the microphone, ‘on the one hand, we have a vision that postulates that physical causality can be traced directly to the existence of a simple initial condition of the universe and, conversely, that exact and complete information about that initial situation permits exact and complete specification of the outcome. On the other hand, we have the belief that natural phenomena are determined by an over-all design or purpose.’ He pauses once more and peers around before pursuing. Silence in the Rotunda.

‘Let us concentrate for the time being on determinism. Initial causes produce effects that in turn become themselves the causes that generate further effects; and thus, step by step, starting at the dawn of time, we arrive at the present situation, the final outcome of this unbroken chain of causes and effects, firmly linked together from the very start. The entities at work here are a certain number of physical laws—gravity, electromagnetism, thermodynamics, et cetera, et cetera—applied to the universe as a whole and to its parts, from the dawn of creation to this very instant.’ He pauses once more to let his words sink in. ‘In the deterministic view of the world, all things are connected from the very beginning in an implacable web of causes and effects.

‘In the teleological viewpoint,’ he abruptly raises his voice, stressing thus the shift in focus, ‘things do not need to be connected; only a purpose is needed. Whether this purpose is present within all the atoms of the universe, or in the ubiquitous dark matter alone, or whether it merely is an immaterial fact, this purpose shapes the evolution of the universe. All will be done to accomplish this goal.

‘Such as I have defined it, determinism does not require a final goal. All it needs is a set of laws applied to an initial condition. Such as I defined it, teleology doesn’t require anything except a final goal.

‘Let us delve upon the teleological standpoint. The Creator—or whatever conceived and set the world in motion—carves the means it will require to achieve His goal within the heart of the most elemental constituents of the world and infuses the world with the very laws that will mechanically bring about what He desires, given a certain set of initial conditions. In this vision, determinism and teleology are so intimately linked, that they become, de facto, hard to distinguish one from the other.

‘All this, my friends, you have understood by now, is the description of how things proceed in a three dimensional world, a world in which time refers to a direction, a world in which an arrow is drawn in the past and points toward the future. What would the situation be in a timeless world? A world where past, present and future merge into timelessness; a world where every successive slice of present, as thin as it may be, remains present and merely adds itself to the already ever-persistent past; a world in which the future exists alongside the present and the past; a world bereft of past or future; an undisturbed flow of events with nothing to distinguish what has come before from what will come after . . .’

He stops and the Rotunda is hushed. Smiling through at the gathered crowd, I can see he’s gathering himself for the closing moments. Spreading his long legs, he holds the podium with both hands and delivers the grand finale.

‘In such a world, the final goal, the ultimate purpose is reached at the onset. Moreover, in such a world, the mere concept of initial conditions disappears; the mere idea of cause and effect looses all meaning. In the end, in such a world, the only thing that really matters is the final goal that ultimately commands the universe’s laws and shape . . . So you see, my friends, what this simple demonstration reveals is that, in a world of four dimensions, teleology overrules determinism.’

I climb up two flights of stairs, make a left, and find myself standing beside an odd couple. She’s a tall, stern and ageless looking woman, who holds a rickety red purse between her hands, and has long silvery hair perfectly dressed in a tight bun. Wearing a long dark dress with lots of folds and a white blouse with a lace collar and frilly cuffs, she walks holding herself straight like an arrow beside a tall and large Greek bishop, fully attired in a black and white cassock.

Zinon! God!

I stare at him not believing my eyes as he stops before Price’s office, flipping and twining his rosary . . . He’s changed, of course. His hair is gray, his stomach is more bulgy. I’m about to cry out his name and race toward him when Price emerges from the corner of the corridor surrounded by a throng of devotees. Zinon gently raps his chaplet against the closed door, which has the immediate effect of attracting Henry Price’s attention.

‘Ah! My dear friends,’ Price exclaims as soon as he spots Zinon and the ageless woman. ‘I’m so glad you came.’ Visibly quite pleased, he steps between them and spreads his arms around their shoulders. ‘Really!’ he adds, hugging them close.

‘Will an important man such as you have some time for his friends?’ the woman says with a touch of irony, trying her best to keep her footing. Price gives her a quick kiss on the mouth.

‘Henry!’ she exclaims in mock surprise. ‘You’ll never change.’

‘Should I? Shouldn’t you be more indulgent with me, Agatha? After all, aren’t you used to add a touch of eroticism to your séances?’

Agatha Fairchild rolls her eyes skyward and heaves a deep sigh. ‘How much longer will I have to put up with this?’

‘It’s your Karma, my dear. Mediums get a lot of flak all the time. You should be used to it, by now.’

‘Has it anything to do with strip tease and sadomasochism?’ Zinon asks, folding an arm around Agatha’s waist.

‘A long time ago, yes,’ Price says. ‘Now, they merely are content to be the most charming creatures and the best of friends . . . Right! Enough formalities! Come on in.’

While turning the knob, he glances at his wristwatch and says: ‘I just might have to see a journalist for a while.’

‘But of course, professor,’ the woman chides him. ‘You’re so famous . . . We’ll be honored if you share a couple of minutes with us.’

‘After all, we’ve only traveled halfway around the globe to come to see you . . .’

‘I’ll promptly get rid of him, don’t worry . . . I haven’t written my books for the birds . . . I wonder where the dear fellow is . . .’

With a preliminary throat clearing, I say, ‘Over here, professor,’ standing politely a little way back. They turn and stare at me.

‘And you’re?’ Price says, raising a questioning eyebrow.

‘Alex, professor. If you’d rather postpone the interview, no problem. I can wait in the cafeteria or we can arrange to meet some other day, at your—’

‘Alex!’ Zinon exclaims. Throwing his arms wide open, he brushes his friends aside. ‘Alex, my boy! In my arms!’

As Price closes the door behind him, he scratches his head distractedly.

His office is spacious, with high ceilings, entirely decorated with reddish-brown mahogany furniture, and lit on two sides by long windows with a magnificent view of the campus. Two long tables are in a corner of the room, covered by a Sun desktop, a printer and a scatter of paper and notebooks. Books cover a wall from floor to ceiling. I’m familiar with a few authors—Edgar Morin, Leroy Gouran, Gel Mann, Einstein, Watson and Crick, Henri Laborit, Gérard D’Espagnat, Jacques Monod—, but most of them I’ve never heard of. At the end of the room, smaller bookcases hold dozens of textbooks, files, computer manuals and a copy of Origin of Species. No Ego Wall, but instead two large posters hang on one wall. The largest shows a spiral galaxy, with CREATION written below above two Albert Einstein handwritten quotes on a sheet of paper:

«The most beautiful experience that one could have, is the feeling of the mysterious.»

And

«No philosophy has ever shed light on the profound reason for our existence; no religion has even clarified the ‘grand design of God’ when he created the universe.»

The other poster is Andreas Feininger’s Route 66.

‘Such a coincidence that you two know each other,’ he mutters staring at the mess on his desk as he starts shoving papers in all directions until wood is visible. Then, ‘Alex, please make yourself comfortable. You can put your stuff here if you wish.’ He frowns at the heaps of papers and files that still clutter the area before me and sets himself upon clearing it completely.

‘I presume you’re going to tape this,’ he says, carrying a stack of files in his hands.

‘If you don’t mind . . .’

Zinon rubs his hands together and says, ‘You have talked so much, Henry, that you have made me thirsty.’

‘Right!’ Price opens a small fridge and chooses a bottle of Gewürztraminer. While he uncorks the bottle, I set my pen and my notepad at hand and push the tape recorder toward him.

Price finishes filling our glasses. I’ve checked the batteries and have slid a tape in the slot. Assuming I’m all set, he removes his reading glasses, places his left ankle on his right knee. and asks: ‘So, Alex, what precisely would you like us to discuss about?’

‘About four dimensions. How would you describe a four dimensional world?’

‘First of all—I didn’t mention this in my speech—, such a world exists. Right here, right now.’

‘Why can’t we see it?’

‘Oh, but we do see it in all its four glorious dimensions . . .’ He trails off and looks at me with laughing eyes.

Before I can react, he says, ‘When we dream, we evolve through many levels before reaching awareness, just like fumbling in the dark before finding the right door, pushing it open, and finding yourself in broad daylight. When you reach a certain level in your dreams, you enter the four dimensional world. When you wake up, this world overwhelms you,’ he says, waving his hand around him, ‘and you forget. What little remains is not so much a memory. Each time it happens to me, I’m convinced that something vital just happened. In fact, I’m convinced that we only awake in order to eat, procreate and protect ourselves, and that sleep, not wakefulness, is our natural state.’

‘If we could remember, what would it look like?’

‘It would look like this:’ He picks a peanut from the saucer-full of nuts and pops it into his mouth.

‘Meaning?’ I ask, crossing the first line of my list of questions.

‘Okay. Look at my hand,’ he says and starts waving his hand about, forming an imaginary arch. ‘Now, imagine what my hand would look like if you could see its successive positions gathered together as it evolves through this brief laps of time.’

‘Okay. Does this imply that the past doesn’t, huh, evaporate?’

‘It does not evaporate.’

‘So, where is it?’

‘Right here,’ he says. ‘And so is the future. You see, according to the big bang’s intensity, the universe should be expanding at a much faster rate, but its expansion is slowing down because planets, galaxies, stars and everything else the big bang created, attract each other through gravity.’ Price pauses to sip some wine. ‘But there’s a glitch.

‘The estimated total amount of matter in the universe—1050 tons of matter—is not enough to decrease the expansion rate. Physicists explain this by postulating that ninety percent of the matter in the universe is «dark», undetectable by our scientific means. I strongly believe that this «dark matter» is simply the past and the future that still exist, here and now, in a form that we cannot perceive.’

‘Shouldn’t the dark matter be much more than merely ninety percent?’

‘It might be near infinite, yes. Perhaps the past and the future are stock-piled in other dimensions . . .’

‘In From the Cosmic Gene to the Cosmic Bomb—the Third Transition, you wrote that the Cosmic Gene conflicts with the concept of free will. Could you elaborate on that?’

‘I said that, didn’t I?’ He smiles. ‘Well, it seems obvious, doesn’t it? You must understand that when I say that the future is already there, I am not saying that the future can be predicted. When you are halfway through a detective novel, the ending is already there, printed on the last pages, but this does not mean that you can guess how it ends. Your entire life exists as a timeless whole, but this does not mean that you can predict what you’ll do tomorrow, or where you’ll live next year.’

Thankfully, probably because I’m a friend of Zinon’s, the interview doesn’t turn out into a question and answer routine, but rather into a casual conversation in which both Zinon and Agatha Fairchild take part. Zinon is passionate and tongue in cheek, by turns, but always in his typical festive manner, while Mrs. Fairchild counterbalances him by speaking in a solemn manner.

At one point, she says, ‘Relax, Alex, no need to be nervous. Even though this is your first interview, nothing bad will happen to you. On the contrary. Obviously, Vassilli loves you. Both Henry and I see that you are a good man—there’s not a trace of nastiness in you.’ Beats of silence. Then, ‘What worries you?’

‘I forgot the rest of my questions in the Rotunda,’ I say, feeling my face turn bright red.

They burst into laughter. ‘This is your first interview!’ Price says.

‘Alex!’ Zinon exclaims. ‘Everything is perfect! Enjoy yourself! You are doing a terrific job. After all, you know Henry’s books like the back of your hand . . . More than I can say.’

‘This interview is perhaps even more special for you than you think,’ Mrs. Fairchild says, ‘One day, I’m sure, you’ll understand the full extent of my words . . .’

‘All right, then,’ I say. Relieved, I look at Price, ‘Have you any project in the making?’

‘I’ve started writing another book, The Bomb.’

‘Oh? What’s it about?’

He takes a sip of his glass. ‘Hum . . . How could I summarize it?’ Then, squeezing his hands between his thighs while stretching his legs under the table, he says, ‘I assumed that the universe is God, a gigantic living organism that’s able to reproduce itself indefinitely: it expands then contracts itself, from big bang to big crunch, over and over.’

Lapsing into silence, he looks me in the eye.

‘What I believe, naturally, flies in the face of accepted ideas.’

‘Naturally!’ Zinon jests. Mrs. Fairchild pokes him in the ribs.

‘Imagine what it must be to live the same life over and over again, endlessly repeating the same sequence of events. Fortunately, universes are part of the multiverse, in which they are interconnected in an ever-expanding network. Worlds without end driven and held together by their own laws, endlessly converse, exchange concepts as well as creatures, closely observing how these cross-breedings affect evolution, overwatching everything, pulling the strings and making sure that all falls into place smoothly, just as the exchange of fluids between the different parts of a living organism allows it to survive.

‘Unfortunately,’ he points out, ‘They don’t only exchange ideas, but illnesses as well—viruses, parasites. Their games involve wars and epidemics, and the gods study how such or such exchange of entities affects the whole evolutionary process. In some wars, a god may plant time bombs or terrorists in another universe.’

He studies me with intense eyes, uncrossing his legs. ‘Or maybe,’ he says, laying the other ankle over the other knee, ‘one universe might infect another with some intelligent entity, a creature that, because it cannot adapt itself, collides with Nature, with other species, as well as with itself. To survive, this creature must subdue the world in order to make it its home.’

‘Mankind!’

‘Obviously,’ he says. ‘Although we yearn for peace, we do not fit in the Earth’s complex harmony. In order to survive, we must destroy everything that stands in our way: replace soil by plastic, control and slay whole species by developing more and more powerful weapons of mass destruction . . . In the end, we’ll create an awesome device that some sick politician will set off. The explosion will be so cataclysmic that either it will create a third phase transition or it will simply allow God to escape the big crunch and explore whatever lies beyond.’

‘Does all this imply that God does not care about us?’ I ask. Zinon raises an eyebrow.

‘Of course not! Do you think that you’ve crossed Vassilli’s path in my office today by pure coincidence?’ He smiles.

‘Enough heresy for today!’ Zinon exclaims. ‘Class dismissed!’

‘Anything else you wish to talk about, Alex?’ Price says.

‘Yes, professor. I would like to know if, in your opinion, knowledge is essential to lead an interesting life.’

‘Not necessarily. Cows and sheep have contented lives, but in man’s world, their ignorance irrevocably leads them to slaughter.

‘But that’s beside the point. The point is that our lives aren’t random; they were meant to be exactly what they are.’ Price takes a sip of wine. Then, ‘People are so frightened by failure, so hung up on success. Very few realize that whatever they do is what they were planned to do in order to become what they are. Whether it is important to know that or not is pure rhetoric.’

‘Isn’t that a very fatalistic point of view?’

‘Not fatalistic: deterministic. You may think that whatever you do, you cannot change your life, thus you won’t do a thing to improve it because you know it’s pointless, since your life is already programmed. But by thinking that and living accordingly, you just do what you are supposed to do, and thus become what you are supposed to become. On the other hand, if you think that by exercising and studying all your life, you will become a better man, and you live your life accordingly, you are also doing what you were meant to do.’

Price’s answer reminds me of the conversation Gwen and I had, on the rocks, nearby Chryssopighi. On the spur of the moment, I ask him her question.

‘If you had a magic wand, what would you change?’

‘Nothing. I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t have the arrogance to think that I know how to better the world; I wouldn’t want to disrupt the perfect course of events toward the Noosphere. I agree with Voltaire when he says we’re living in the best of all worlds.’

I’m stunned. That’s, word for word, what I had said. Suddenly, I feel so close to her, as if an invisible cord attached to her encircles me and pulls me toward her, reuniting me to her.

Where are you, my love?

‘Isn’t it going against the fashion to stand against pollution, overpopulation, racism, et cetera?’

‘To be totally honest, it all depends in which mood I am,’ he says and sucks his pipe, thoughtfully.

‘Yes?’

‘If I’m pissed off—And God knows I often am!—because of the harm we inflict upon the biosphere, because of our greed, because of our hate, because of our stupidity, because of our irresponsibility, I’d wipe out nearly all mankind . . . I’d get rid of overpopulation.’ He stops short, raising one bushy, white eyebrow, and smiles apologetically.

‘Population growth should be controlled. People shouldn’t be allowed to have kids simply because they feel like it. One should earn the right to raise a kid. To drive a car, mustn’t one pass a test?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I nod in assent.

‘Well, I believe that the people who want kids should pass a test in order to check whether they are able to raise a child or not. Women around the world give birth without really realizing the burden and the responsibilities it involves, and most of the kids end up in the streets as bums, alcoholics, drug addicts, or prostitutes.’ He pauses and smiles musingly. ‘Imagine a world with only a few hundred thousand people . . . The space each one of us would have! A world where men would live in perfect harmony along with the animals and the plants.’ Beats of silence, then: ‘That’s my pessimistic view.’

‘Oh? So, what’s your optimistic view?’

‘It’s quite simple. Even if overpopulation creates a lot of nuisances—unemployment, poverty, crime, noise and people crammed in sordid ghettos—, for each thousand poor souls, a genius is born who may develop an intellectual or a cultural revolution, make the world a better place to live, make it evolve . . . All these creative people, these visionaries, constantly reinvent politics and ethics; artists restlessly create new perspectives and aesthetics . . . So, in the end, the more, the better,’ he says as he pinches his upper lip thoughtfully. ‘And if you ask me the same question about pollution, he says, sliding his pipe into his mouth.

‘Exactly what I was about to ask.’

‘Did you know that when the first plants came into existence, the oxygen they exhaled killed billions of living organisms for which oxygen was a lethal poison?’

I shake my head.

‘Well, that was a major pollution crisis, but it didn’t hinder organic evolution. People often believe that adversity is a curse and that the struggle for life is a calamity, but both are at the crux of evolution: at each crisis that it must face, Nature must surpass itself. It’s the business of the future to be dangerous. The major steps of civilization are processes that nearly destroyed the societies wherein they arose . . . Selection eliminates the cultures less fit to survive . . .

‘Adversity gives us the desire to struggle, to change the situation. And without change, progress is impossible.’ He stops and stares me in the face. ‘Men have three choices left.’ Beats of silence. Then, ‘Destroy the planet by blowing it to pieces with a huge nuclear blast that possibly triggers a third phase transition . . . Kill the biosphere and themselves in the same process . . . Or grow wise and make things better. I think that just might happen: we’ll create paradise on Earth, but we’ll go through Hell before achieving that.

‘To coin a phrase, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs”,’ Price says and glances at his watch. ‘Okay, Alex?’

‘Yes. Thanks a lot, professor.’

As if in answer to my words, the machine clicks as the tape recorder stops.

‘Great timing, Jim.’

CHAPTER 5 — TOM’S RESTAURANT

‘If Mustafa Kemal hadn’t betrayed your ancestors and kicked them out of Turkey,’ Zinon says, his breath coming out in clouds, ‘and if your mother’s family hadn’t fled in the face of the Bolshevik threat, your parents would never had met in Paris—’

‘—and I wouldn’t exist. I know. I’ve thought about that a million times. Thanks Mustafa and thanks Lenin . . .’

After the interview, I had invited Zinon for a snack at Tom’s Restaurant, the neighborhood’s Greek diner. So, here we are, making our way out of the main gate along Broadway through the morning flood of students.

Misty white flakes swirl around us in a chaotic dance. The tiny crystals patter on Zinon’s face and dust the coat tightly wrapped around him. Overhead, the sky is vividly clear. The air is so sharp it prickles my nostrils with each inhalation.

‘Was it really your first interview?’

‘Yep, just like she said.’

‘Really, neh? Agatha’s special. Very special, in the best possible way.’

Yes, today is a special day. Tonight is special, too: for the first time in years, I’ll spend New Year’s Eve with my family.

The freezing wind bulls across Broadway, rattling the paned windows and iron sheets. Bent in two, Zinon and I hurry down the avenue, hugging our coats tightly about ourselves. As we reach Tom’s Restaurant, we scuttle toward a line of people that stand outside. It’s a simple place, nothing flashy about it, but it’s always full. I enjoy coming here just to exchange a few Greek words with the waiters—«Yassou», «Ti Kanis?», «Poli kalà», «Ton katàlogho», «Efcharistò», «Oréa», and, «Tò loghariasmò, parakalò!». Besides, the service is quick and the menu is as thick as a phonebook, filled with a potpourri of American and Greek specialties. Though Sophie and I often come here, we’ve far from tasted everything.

‘Is this it?’ he asks. Turning up his collar, the chill bracing to the skin.

I nod and close my eyes against the sting of the wind.

‘Come on, Alex, let’s go.’

As the people in front of us stand idly in the freezing wind, he makes his way through and pushes the door open. As soon as we’re inside, the owner greets him like a king and all the members of the staff come to shake his hand. While Father Zinon discusses with the owner, I recognize the familiar Greek words that the twenty odd staff hurriedly exchanges between the kitchen and the dining room, over the endless hum of conversation.

‘We’ll have to wait a bit, I’m afraid,’ he says, rubbing his gloved hands and stamping his boots.

‘Better that than freeze out there.’

Glancing around, I scan the tables, barely visible beneath thick gloves and mittens, books and paper bags, platters full of melted cheese and fries, half-eaten triple-deckers and pink or yellow milkshakes.

Tipota, nothing, nitchevo, rien.

We’re lucky. Less than a minute later, two students at the bar start gathering their things. The near identical bespectacled kids stand up, throw their knit scarves around their necks, and slip their thin, endless arms into their heavy caftan, before fishing their wallets out of their jeans. Without wasting a second, I step forward, Zinon close on my heels.

Two waiters bustle behind the counter, exchanging pleasantries. A short one with black hair and glasses mans the milk shake machine while a younger one with a crew cut rapidly clears and straightens out our place. Behind him, two posters of Columbia alumni from the fifties hang from the cream-colored wall, and dozens of boxes of various brands of tea and over a hundred mini Special K and Raisin Bran boxes are neatly stacked on top of the pie cooler.

I order a Gyro pita with fries and melted cheese and a Coke. His eyes still glued on the menu, Zinon orders pancakes with sausages and ham, tzatziki, tarama and a vanilla milkshake.

‘Enjoy yourselves,’ the young Greek guy says and moves on toward the kitchen.

‘Hungry?’ I ask, smiling at my old friend, realizing how happy I am to be with him.

‘You don’t have to be hungry for this. It melts it your mouth! If I listened to myself, I’d order the whole catalog. I’m such a glutton!’

‘Oh, come on, Father! You don’t look like one,’ I say. Then, bursting out in laughter, I finally let my feelings surface and overwhelm me and embrace him.

When we’ve finished our meal, I persuade Father Zinon to try one of Tom’s pumpkin pies.

‘It has nothing to do with Baklava, but I’m sure you’ll love it.’

After our meal, we sit silent for a time, listening to the murmur of conversations that drift from the nearby tables, with a sky clear one moment and full of dark clouds the next, observing the endless river of pedestrians outside—most of them students, headed for Columbia—, glad to be alive and that a twist of life has brought us together.

‘By the way, I asked him Gwen’s question.’

‘What question?’

‘Hum . . . You know, that night in your workshop when you caught me with my pants down?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘Yeah,’ I chuckle, remembering my embarrassment. ‘Well, before that, we were at her place and she told me that if she were to interview a famous person, she’d ask him what he would do if he had a magic wand and were granted three wishes.’

‘Neh? It was her question?’

‘Neh. And I remember that when I answered that question, I said I’d probably not change a thing!’

‘Like Henry?’

I nod.

‘Incredible! Ah, Gwen! A bright young star with a golden touch!’

‘Yeah,’ I mutter. ‘I’m surprised, you know. I’ve always thought that one day or the other, I’d hear about her. I always thought that she’d become famous.’

‘I do not think that fame was ever one of Gwen’s goals. I’m sure she’s doing beautiful art . . . How is she?’

‘I haven’t the slightest clue.’

‘What do you mean? You haven’t kept in touch?’

‘I tried. But, already in Sifnos, her father forbade her to see me.’

‘Neh? Why?’

‘He didn’t like me . . .’

‘Why?’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Maybe simply because he didn’t want his daughter to hang out with someone who wasn’t Jewish . . . Anyway, not long after coming back from Sifnos, she sent me a desperate letter, saying that life was a bum trip and that she had enough . . . She asked me to come as quickly as possible. So, I emptied my bank account, bought a ticket and flew to Los Angeles and, guess what?’

‘What?’

‘I never saw her.’

‘What happened?’

‘I really don’t know . . . I spent three days roaming around their house . . . I saw her mother, her father . . . Her mother even let me in. She was surprised when I told her why I was there. She cried when I told her I had made that huge trip just to see her daughter . . .’

‘But why didn’t you see her?’

‘She wasn’t there. I went to her school, wandered for three days around Tarzana, searching her.’

‘Where she lives, neh? What did it look like?’

‘I didn’t like it. If you don’t have a car, forget it. Lots of beautiful houses and beautiful gardens, but you can’t sit anywhere—no parks, no benches, nothing. One day, I lay down on a manicured lawn and a kid ran out of the house and told me it was a private property and that I couldn’t stay there . . . The third day, her father called me at my hotel and told me a corny story about when he was in Korea and fell in love with this girl, and how bad he had felt when he had to leave her at the end of the war . . .’

‘And?’

‘He told me to leave . . . that Gwen didn’t want to see me . . .’

‘But that’s awful! Oh, Alex! How much you must have suffered . . . Such a perfect couple! You were meant to be together!’

‘I know,’ I say. Then, in a voice that rings hollow, ‘Gwen’s an important part of my past, but I’m with Sophie, now. She’s part of my life.’

‘But you still love her, you still think about her!’ Zinon cries out, rattling his beads on the counter, startling everyone. The person sitting next to him nearly falls off his stool.

His words strike home. In my heart of hearts, I know he’s right. Unable to find anything to say, I fix my eyes upon a plywood coat hanger smothered beneath heaps of anoraks, scarves and coats—

‘Don’t you?’

‘I always will,’ I say, biting my lip not to cry.

‘So you’ll never marry and have children because of that horrible man!’ Zinon slams his prayer rope on the counter once more startling our neighbors.

‘Not only because of that.’

‘What then?’

‘I have sleeping problems and I can’t imagine myself being a good parent when I’m not even able to live like everybody else. My night and day cycle is totally screwed up. I mean, I can never predict when my brain’ll eventually allow me to fall asleep . . .’

‘Half the population of the world suffers from insomnia. I do. It’s a problem, but not to the extent of making you a cripple unable to have a family.’

I know he’s right. Of course he is. I took care of Tania when my sister wasn’t able to because she had just been through a caesarian. Every night, I carried Tania in my arms, sometimes until four in the morning, singing to her, taking care of her . . . As we all still lived together, I had come to regard her as my daughter since Tania never really knew her father. As soon as she was born, her parents began having problems that eventually led to a divorce. My sleeping problems had never been a hindrance then.

I know. In the back of my mind, I know. I wanted Gwen to be my wife. Only her. She was and still is the only one I’ll ever marry, if I ever do.

‘Remember when Henry spoke about Voltaire, neh?’ Father Zinon says, breaking the silence.

I nod.

‘What does Pangloss tell Candide at the end of the book?’

‘That we’re living in the best of all worlds?’

‘Exactly, Alex, that we’re living in the best of worlds, because if Candide hadn’t been through all the troubles he’s been through, if he hadn’t been roughly kicked out of the castle because of his love for mademoiselle Cunégonde, if he hadn’t crossed America by foot, if he hadn’t lost all his sheep in Eldorado, he wouldn’t be there eating crystallized citrons and pistachios.’

‘I hated Candide. I found it so boring.’

‘But now, you know, neh?’

‘Neh.’ If things had been different, I’d probably have never even met her.

Gwen.

Still today, you haunt my thoughts. And yet, even if my life hasn’t always been all peaches and roses, it was worth it. No ride would have been too long and too rough, as long as in the end, it led to you, to those four magic days . . . Nothing feels wrong, Gwen, nothing troubles my mind, nothing, except that you’re not with me, holding my hand, while I show you all the beautiful things in the world.

In fact, as it turned out, you taught me how harsh the world could be.

After a long and sad parting, Father Zinon and I exchange our addresses. I promise him I’ll try to find her to, at least, reach some kind of closure, and move on. I hug him a long time.

CHAPTER 6 — BIG JOHN

Upon reaching 112th Street, Alex slows down as he walks past Tom’s Restaurant, closing the door to his reverie. He peers through the steam-blurred window glass and sees it’s packed. As usual. Several students are patiently waiting for a free table, their coats soaked through, dripping on the floor.

Standing on the sidewalk just outside the diner, he watches the snow dance around him, overwhelmed by a surrealistic melancholy. The snowflakes disappear one by one upon touching the ground, relishing their tiny sting in his eyes. He’s about to resume his walk Downtown, when a mean looking stray dog comes trotting down his way. To avoid it, he veers into 113th Street and heads towards Saint John the Divine, the cathedral that stands at the end of the street.

The interview had been brief. Price answered a few questions as they stood outside his office. He excused himself for not being more available, but two of his best friends had come to see him. Price introduced him to them—a clergyman, Rabbi Yohannan ben Joshua and Mrs. Agatha Fairchild, a medium. Alex asked him several questions before taking a picture of him in his office. Overall, the interview lasted a quarter of an hour.

At least, he reflected, he had beaten the path to Henry Price’s door and, given the circumstances, he had done his best.

Upon reaching Amsterdam, I pause. To a passerby, I might appear like a young, healthy guy waiting to cross the avenue, but in fact, I’m exhausted; I’m fed up and tired. I’m doing all the right things—eat the right food, work out every day, wherever I find myself, whether it’s snowing, raining or stifling hot . . . But I’m lost. I don’t know where I’m going. What’s my goal, apart from being fit and filling my head with knowledge? Knowledge for what?

Simply to know what’s going on, stupid! What all this is about. You want to go through life doing what you’ve been told to do, driven by trends and fashions? Fuck! You’re your own man, free as the wind!

Yes, but I’m thirty and still single . . .

After my failed relation with Gwen, I drifted and lost myself in books and sex. Wherever I went, girls ended up with broken hearts simply because they weren’t as beautiful and as intelligent as Gwen. And because none could write as well as her.

I remember the day I was having diner with Michael at , thinking about that rich and famous man who neglected all the women he met because he searched for the perfect lover. Looking back, he declared it had messed up his love life. I recall thinking I was lucky because I wasn’t eighteen yet and had already found my soul mate. But, what was better? To discover your perfect soul mate early on and loose her, or to never find her? If you never find her, a least, you have someone to look for. However, if you find her and loose her, what then?

What’s the purpose of my existence? What do I hope to achieve? How longer will I go on not knowing where I’m going?

Suddenly, I feel so helpless and insignificant that I just want to lie down on the sidewalk.

Shut up! You’re tired! You’re always so negative when you’re tired. You’ve interviewed Price, did the best you could, so shut-the-fuck-up! There’s no road map, no formula. You can either do like everyone else—have a job, a wife, two kids, a car, a house and a garage. Everybody can do that. Everybody does! It’s the easy way out—or be yourself. You like yourself, don’t you? Stop behaving like a crybaby and look at the cathedral.

‘Come on!’ I say aloud. ‘Must be all this talk about determinism and teleology . . .’

Determinism, teleology, my ass! Quit dreaming! It’s your obsession with Gwen, that’s what it is! You must turn that page or go after her before it ruins your life . . .

It won’t ruin my life. It’s part of my life . . .

Big John!

‘Wonder when they’ll finish them,’ I mutter, peering upward at the incomplete towers.

I check the traffic lights and hasten across the avenue, eyes locked upon the huge, hybrid house of God.

Upon entering the sanctuary, the bustling mass of tourists becomes a serene assembly in which people whisper among themselves, exchange smiles while they wander about peacefully, in silent contemplation, nearly on their tiptoes, dwarfed by pillars so wide that ten men couldn’t girdle them. With their hands nicely tucked behind, they stroll under the stained glass pictures of the seven archangels, gently nodding as they lean forward as if to study every slight detail of the organ trumpet pipes, or to stare with soft and caring eyes at the icons.

Standing by the thick corduroy rope that hangs at waist level between the narthex and the nave, the black man smiles at me as I drop seven quarters in the basket in front of him before making my way into the wide nave.

I head toward the crossing, each step echoing throughout the immense structure. Its size and awesome beauty move me so that I must slow down. Leaning backward, I peer upward to the place in the vaulted ceiling where the massive granite piers and arches converge.

Having reached the center of this gorgeous and gigantic sculpture, my mind reels with the feeling of walking within the petrified innards of a god. I take a look at its eclectic wonders—a huge constellation of quartz crystals, an ostrich egg, an enormous fossil, one hundred million years old, a black life-size bronze of a howling wolf . . .

Passing the white marble pulpit, I climb the steps that lead up to the first level of the choir, walk between the stalls that rise in three tiers before halting before the cathedra. Gazing around, I feel fine.

That’s a good boy. Stop feeling bad each time you think of her. A rare and beautiful thing happened to you. You were lucky. Move on!

Okay, I’ve had it. Time to kick my shoes off, slide into a bath and get ready for tonight.

I exit through the side entrance and emerge in the cold, crisp air.

It’s still snowing. I button up my coat, raise my collar and hasten along the gravel driveway, back toward Amsterdam.

I’m climbing up the several steps that lead to the Peace Fountain, a baroque and astonishing statue straight out of Through the Looking Glass, when a tall man with a flat nose approaches me. His blond hair hangs in disarray and a wispy beard covers his hollow cheeks. I’m sure he’s going to beg for some change.

‘Scuse me, mister’ he says. ‘Want me to tell you the story of this statue?’

‘You work here?’ I ask him. He must be slightly older than I am—thirty, thirty-five tops—, but it’s difficult to tell because he’s so thin and the little that’s visible of his face is riddled with scars. When he answers, I notice that he’s lost most of his teeth.

‘Uh, yes, sir . . . There’s a lot ta learn about this statue. You interested?’

‘Sure,’ I say as I come to a stop before the monument, trying to appear aloof. The fountain isn’t working because of the freezing temperature. ‘Tell me.’

‘The angel that stands on top, with the broad sword, is Michael,’ he says, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice as if he were peddling dope, slightly hunched over, his face too close to mine, while he points at the huge bronze figure with its feathered wings widely outspread. Isn’t it possible anymore to simply stroll in the streets without being bugged by beggars?

‘And the horned head dangling at his feet? That’s Satan . . . Michael’s just cut his head off, so his head hangs down by those two fat arteries. See?’ He glances back at me before leaning forward and touching the twin veins. ‘In the bible, Michael leads the good angels against the evil ones.’

He starts coughing and I realize he’s only wearing a pair of threadbare jeans and a grimy T-shirt. He must be freezing.

‘Sorry . . . Satan can’t die because he’s immortal . . . So, each time Michael slashes his head off, it grows back—’

‘Interesting,’ I say. ‘Where did you get that?’

‘People tell me . . . It’s part of my job,’ he says, staring at nothing in particular. In spite of the terrible scars, the flat nose and the broken teeth, I realize that, at one point in time, he must have been good looking.

‘Still interested?’

‘Sure. Aren’t you cold?’

‘I’m fine,’ he says and runs a hand through his hair. He clears his throat, then, ‘The fountain celebrates the triumph of good over evil; it shows old beliefs in a modern way . . . See the giraffes? They’re supposed to be some of the most peaceful animals.’

‘Those are giraffes?’

‘Yeah. Compared to him, they don’t look bigger than fawns . . . It’s to make him appear like this winged giant around who giraffes gather to celebrate his victory over the devil.’

‘They seem real affectionate.’

‘Yeah, they jump and frolic ‘round him, they want to play . . . They want his protection, his love, his kindness.’ He then points at an enormous, round-shaped, flat thing. ‘All the characters stand on that crab, see?’

It’s a crab all right, with spikes that jut out all around its shell, two huge pincers and long spidery legs, half-concealed under its carapace. Nodding absent-mindedly, I wonder what makes this tall hobo tick . . . I sense strength in this guy. He’s been hit hard, but he’s far from broken.

‘Now, take a look at this,’ he says, pointing at the base of the fountain. ‘That kind of tall, screwy pedestal, here? It’s the double helix of D-N-A, the building block of life, the key molecule of everything . . . Everything stands on it—the crab, the moon, the angel, the giraffes . . . Everything.’

Peering at it, it looks like a tornado that shoots upward through the platform, thirty feet into the air, coiling around the happy moon, twirling at Michael’s feet while he pushes the devil down into the basin’s whirlpool . . .

He’s stopped and now smiles at me. Out of habit, I fumble in my pockets, extract my wallet, pry it open and hand him a five dollar bill.

‘Thank you, sir. You’re very generous.’

‘Isn’t there a place around here where they hand out clothes?’

****

‘Look at all those angels!’ he says as we walk along the ambulatory.

‘Yeah! This one must weigh a ton! It’s even taller than you,’ I say, lifting my chin toward a dark statue that stands at the entrance of one of the numerous chapels.’ Then, ‘Feel better now, uh?’

‘Yeah, thanks . . . I went there before, you know, but I can’t stand the way she speaks to me, like I’m not a human being, but a nuisance, know what I mean?’

On our way in, we stopped at the Clothes Closet. While he rummaged through the racks of ratty clothes, most of which were much too skimpy for him, I spoke with a jovial, fat social worker and asked her if she’d let me interview her one day. She agreed enthusiastically.

He found a shabby dark coat and a shoddy pullover. The social worker asked him several questions to which he answered evasively. When she was done, she offered us a cup of steaming-hot chocolate along with a couple of doughnuts and two food coupons.

To thank me, he insisted to show me something special in Saint John . . . So, here I am again, following this tall guy, who springs in front of me on long, scrawny legs, nearly having to run to keep apace.

‘Look at all those angels up there!’ he says, waving at the clerestory stained glass windows.

‘Yeah!’ I say, craning my neck and screwing up my eyes to distinguish them. ‘You’re really into angels, right?’

‘Uh-huh. You?’

‘Me? No. I’m more into icons . . . Is that why you work here?’

‘Uh-huh, I feel close to angels,’ he says. ‘But I also come here because it’s one of the places where bums like me can live side by side with normal people . . .’ His voice trails off. Looking the other way, he moves toward the end of the ambulatory. I hurry after him and, as we reach the entrance to the last chapel, a somewhat larger one, he stops and says, ‘This is what I wanted to show you.’

Peering upward at the set of clerestories, high above the main entrance, he points at a stained glass window.

‘See those angels?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘This image refers to the final words of Christian Scripture . . .’

‘Really?’ and, ‘What does it say?’

‘See that angel that shows the Heavenly City?’

I nod, observing closely the angels and the squiggly lines beside them.

‘And below that, the symbol of that city on Earth?’ he says, looking back at me. ‘All this has to do with Saint John’s Revelation, his dream to build Heaven on Earth.’

I nod and frown as I look at the faraway images.

‘Below them, there’s two other angels. The one on the left has the first letter in the Greek alphabet written on him; the other one has the last. See them?’

‘Yeah. What are they doing?’

‘They’re saying, in one voice: “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end.” And above each one, there’s an angel who beckons and says: “Come!” ’

‘I bet he’s asking them to join him in Heaven.’

He shakes his head.

‘No? What then?’

‘He’s asking those two souls to become incarnate.’

CHAPTER 7 — SAINT BART – PART 1

High aromas greet us the moment we step into Bobby Van’s, a first rate steakhouse. I acknowledge the good taste with which the furniture has been chosen, and how cleverly the owners have arranged it. Looking around, I get an impression of coziness and simplicity—straight corners, not a lot of frilly-dilly stuff. In the lobby, while a woman helps us with our coats, the manager greets us, displaying just about the right wattage of etiquette while remaining relaxed and friendly. He stands with his hands tucked behind his back, smiling genuinely at Tania, waiting by a heavy looking credenza that groans under the weight of large wine bottles arranged around a likewise large cigar box, now filled with mints, calling cards and matchboxes graced with the steakhouse’s logo—a snarling gargoyle from the front façade of the Helmsley Building.

Bobby Van’s sits at the corner of Park and 46th Street, at the entrance of Helmsley Walk East.

Seventy years ago, trains coming from Park Avenue on their way to Grand Central Station, ran through the twin tunnels built at the foot of the spanking new Helmsley Building. In those days, this was not a chic neighborhood, but a working-class district where people lived by the tracks. Then, the high-rise structure dominated the avenue. Its dramatic three-story-high columns, hundreds of feet above the ground, and its pyramidal roof topped with a highly decorated lantern, remained a focal point for miles north and south on Park Avenue, until the Pan Am Building, now owned by Met Life, went up behind it, in 1963.

While the manager leads us to our table, I take a quick look at the day’s specialties handwritten in chalk on several discretely backlit framed slates that hang from pale salmon walls.

Seating myself between Tania and Sophie, I gaze through the huge frosted windows that overlook 46th Street, at the endless flow of yellow cabs that silently shoot eastward in a flurry of snow, and listen at the muted sound of people sloshing Crosstown on their way to Times Square. Earlier, I had heard on TV that it was swarming with people, some of whom had been waiting since dawn. Groups of pedestrians joyfully cry out each time a gust of wind carries them away in the swirling snow, turning their umbrellas inside out.

My father sits opposite me across the table, between my sister and my mother, scowling at everyone in sight, his lipless and toothless mouth pursed inward.

My parents divorced in the early seventies, and this is the first time since the early sixties that they spend New Year’s Eve together, gathered around the same table. It had taken a great deal of good will, concessions and negotiations to arrange this family reunion, most of all because my parents hate each other, and because my sister can’t stand Sophie ever since she’s realized that she would never be able to sway her against me as she often manages to do with some of my so-called friends.

Tania is the glue that holds us together. We all love her and she loves us back tenfold and forces us to respect each other. Thank God she’s not like anyone of us! Not yet, at least. Although she’s only seven years old, unlike the rest of us, she is a reasonable and caring person. People love her because she is pure and observes the world with wonder. She has a look of expectation and eagerness that gives her an expression of great innocence, as if she were passionately looking forward to whatever lies ahead.

Ever since she’s old enough to let us know how warm-hearted she feels we should be with each other, my sister has stopped displaying too overtly her true feelings toward me. Not because she’s scared of her daughter, but because she’s still tied to our mother’s apron strings, totally dependent, both financially and emotionally. And, since my mother worships Tania, Nathasha has to abide by her daughter’s kindness. As a result, because of Tania’s uncompromising sweetness, the four of us are compelled to reveal ourselves at our best.

The waiter comes at our table and begins taking orders. While my mother orders scampi, my sister wordlessly lines up Tania’s pills on the table, beside her glass. Last year, Tania was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. Since then, she must take all these pills at each meal—eight ones that help her pancreas produce the right amount of enzymes, along with all kinds of vitamins and antibiotics. But that’s only a small part of everything she has to go through, on a daily basis—physiotherapy, breathing exercises. She can’t go to school for fear of catching the other kids’ germs and coming down with terrible fevers . . . What amazes us is that unlike the rest of us who whine at the slightest sneeze, she never complains. She only cares about our wellbeing. What a lesson! And how misfiting it seems that she so completely depends upon a bunch of irresponsible, immature and vain people. Before her arrival amongst us, I was a hypochondriac and spent half of my time in my doctor’s office, showing him my pimples and my beauty spots or simply because I slept badly. How despicable can one get? Thank God, that’s over now, thanks to her example.

The waiter swings around to face me, ready to take my order. ‘Sir?’

‘What’s a Steak à la Stone?’ I ask. He looks like a young and overweight Warren Beatty, wearing an impeccable white jacket.

‘A la Stone is grilled sirloin,’ he answers in a soft baritone. The way he speaks, he could be from New Jersey or Long Island. ‘After it’s cooked and sliced, comes with grilled peppers, mushrooms and onions.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll have that,’ I say and hand him the menu.

He takes it and makes it disappear then makes a note on his pad. ‘How d’you like it cooked, sir?’

‘Hmm? Oh—medium-rare.’

‘Medium-rare,’ he repeats, smiling agreeably. ‘You’re going to start with a little salad, or soup, or appetizer?’

‘Yes, shrimp scampi appetizer . . .’

‘Shrimp scampi appetizer—excellent choice,’ he says, nodding approvingly while he scribbles some more before swinging toward my father.

‘How was your interview? You haven’t told us anything yet,’ Tania asks me.

‘Interesting,’ I say. I had already told Sophie everything down to the slightest detail, but am eager to relate the whole experience again.

While I finish retelling my interview, our waiter arrives pushing an overflowing cart. We all gasp in wonder when he uncovers the food. The size of the steaks is awesome.

‘How much do they weigh?’ I ask.

‘Steaks weigh eighteen ounces, sir. Our porterhouse steaks are prime and dry-aged. All our meat comes from local purveyors. Short loins for the steaks. You won’t find better quality meat elsewhere. We’ve got the most tender, juicy steaks available.’

‘I bet you do,’ I say. ‘I’ve never seen steaks this size. Have you?’ I ask Sophie who has ordered the same thing as I have and seems equally amazed.

‘No, never,’ she replies and pecks me on the tip of my nose.

Tania giggles and immediately starts coughing. We all stop talking, watching her as she takes a sharp breath and sips some iced tea.

‘Is it good?’ she asks me, catching her breath, still a little red in the face, as she dips a long spoon in her shrimp cocktail.

‘Want a bite?’

She shakes her head. ‘Uh-huh,’ she says, ‘I don’t want to spoil my appetite for this.’

‘I love you, Tsapy,’ my mother tells her and kisses her little hands.

‘Does anybody know what Uncle Bill is doing tonight?’ my sister asks to no one in particular.

‘Boring himself to death in front of his TV,’ my father says without looking up, while he wolfs down his sole meunière and mashed potatoes. ‘What else can you do in the boondocks?’

My father spent the first four years of his life in a palace, in Istanbul and clearly remembers the day the soldiers came to their palace to tell his father, His Imperial Highness prince Ibrahim Tevfik, that he, his family and their entourage had three days to pack their belongings. Three days later, they were escorted to a train that would take them to Paris. From then on, my father’s life became a roller coaster, living partly in relative wealth, more often than not in utter misery. During WWII, he enlisted in the US Army, became an American citizen and remained a soldier during the following twenty years. In between, he met my mother and married her. They had two kids—my sister and I. I perceive him as a man split in two—half imperial prince, half GI. Also, I think he’s largely developed his behavior by watching slapstick films—Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, things like that. Ever since he’s put on weight, he’s become as aggressive as Lou Costello. But he never became as funny. I suspect he never even tried.

Tania turns round to peer at her grandmother with wide, caring eyes. ‘Have I been to Connecticut, Gwanny?’

‘Not yet, Tzapitshka,’ my mother says, chewing a large chunk of Maine lobster. ‘But I’m sure we’ll visit Uncle Bill next year.’

‘Oh, but Gwanny, that’s vewy far away,’ Tania says, looking at her disapprovingly.

‘It’s only in a few hours, Tzapili,’ my mother says and winks lovingly at Tania, sending her tiny, little wet kisses between two bites.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ my father says and raises his glass of Pouilly Fusset. Sophie squeezes my hand into her fingers, probably cringing at the sight. The first thing she told me when she met my father, was that, thank God, I didn’t look like him at all because he was the ugliest person she’d ever seen. Nonetheless, she had found him charming—gallant, polite, always in a good mood, and generous . . .

‘Don’t drink so much, Daddy!’ my sister chafes. ‘I don’t want to clean your mess like last time!’

‘Please, Mammy!’ Tania says. ‘Let Daddy have some fun. It’s New Year’s Eve!’

Later, as we’re having desert, my mother asks Sophie where her parents live.

‘In Spain,’ Sophie says.

‘I hate the Spaniards!’ my father barks.

‘Because of the bullfights?’ I inquire.

‘Yes and also because of what they do with the cocks.’

‘What? The cock fights?’

‘No. They hang them by the feet and cut their heads off with an ax. I have pictures!’

‘Why do you keep that kind of pictures? . . . To put them in the family album?’

‘Where else?’ my father snarls and bursts into laughter.

‘Why did they move to Spain?’ my mother asks Sophie.

‘Because it’s sunny and life is cheaper.’

‘Anyway,’ my father says, ‘I am not prejudiced; I hate everyone.’

Gorged, I let myself fall a bit backward in my chair and put my arm around Sophie’s shoulders while peering upward at the thirty feet high ceiling, discovering rows of Champagne jeroboams surrounded by complete sets of magnums and bottles of smaller sizes, all arranged upon large exposed beams, indistinct in the pervading milkiness.

Sophie jabs me in the ribs. When I glance inquiringly at her, she slightly opens her purse on her lap, revealing her pack of super length cigarettes.

Excusing ourselves, we get up and make our way to the bar, holding hands.

I hadn’t noticed it when we arrived here. It’s a narrow alcove with a mahogany counter and cherry paneled walls, just opposite the lobby, on the left when you come in, set apart from the rest of the dining room by a glass-paneled screen. We settle ourselves at the counter. While fixing our drinks, the barman tells us that the bar is the favorite gathering place, and that most people come only for a drink or two.

‘How come you talked so little, tonight?’ I ask Sophie. ‘Did you feel, um, uncomfortable? Ill at ease?’

‘Of course I did,’ she snaps back, irritated, and I feel her grip tighten around my fingers. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘No, I had a good time,’ I say, fondling my glass of Chivas, moving it and watching the ice tumble inside.

‘You’ve had a good meal, Alex; that’s different. For you, that’s enough to make you believe we’ve all just spent a marvelous evening together . . . It was tense, Alex. Haven’t you noticed at all?’

‘Oh, come on, Sophie!’ I sigh, anticipating another scene because of my parents. ‘Nobody’s perfect. They’re getting old and grumpy, that’s all. I thought you got along quite well with Tania and my father. Didn’t you?’

‘With Tania, of course, and with your father, too. But haven’t you seen how your sister ignores me, just as if I didn’t exist?’

‘She talked to you once or twice, no?’

‘Once or twice, yes, as you say, and in such a disdainful manner. It was so obvious—’

‘Sophie, Sophie! Just forget about them and enjoy this place,’ I say, hoping to put an end to this irritating conversation. ‘Don’t you like it here?—Hey!’ I exclaim, catching sight of the manager standing at his station in the lobby, busy on the phone, glad to be able to switch subjects. ‘Look who’s there,’ I say. Releasing her hand, I rise to my feet and walk toward him.

‘Excuse me,’ I say once he’s hung up.

‘Sure.’

‘Tell me: Who’s Bobby?’

‘Your waiter?’

‘The waiter’s called Bobby?’

‘Yeah, the, um, the strong looking one who takes care of you. That’s Bobby.’

‘Has he anything to do with Bobby Van?’

‘No, no!’ he says, chuckling while smoothing out his tie. ‘No relation whatsoever.’

‘So, who’s Bobby Van?’

‘There are actually two Bobby Vans—a deceased actor slash dancer, and a singer slash songwriter.’

‘Oh?’ I say. ‘So? Which one is it? The dead one or the other one?’

‘See that framed painting?’ he says and, laying an arm around my shoulders, he points at the wall in the dining room.

‘Ah . . . Which one?’

‘Right there, over the stuffed ox head.’

‘Oh, yeah!’

‘That’s Bobby Van,’ he says by way of explanation. Just then, the phone rings again. As I watch him hurry away, I’m sure he hasn’t the slightest clue who Bobby Van is slash was.

Hailing for a cab, Alex’s father stands by the curb and tries to convince Nathasha to go to the Plaza for some more dessert and champagne. Holding doggy bags, Sophie and Alex argue by the entrance.

‘So?’ Alex says. ‘What would you rather do? Go with them or take a cab and go directly home? You choose.’

‘I don’t know, Alex,’ she whispers, clinging to his arm, drawing herself as close to him as she can while he gazes at the large, gilded letters on the misted window pane and beyond, at the luxuriant window dressing. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Frankly, I’d like to go to the Plaza, but if it bothers you . . .’ he says while he draws stick figures in the milky spot his breath left on the window, then stares through it at the eclectic objects within—an ancient wooden cartwheel, a Scottish bagpipe, baskets full of brown leaves and huge feathers, stuffed pheasants, bunches of black grapes and several dark bottles with strange names—Cragganmore, Oban, Talisker . . .

It is a trying situation for her for she knows how much he actually loves them, much more than he loves her, in fact. He says that he puts up with them because of his love for Tania. Sophie is sure he believes that, but she knows it’s not true. He puts up with them because he loves them, period. His sister plainly hates his guts because he is financially independent, while she’s been a parasite all her life and she knows it and, most of all because he was bright while she was desperately dumb, yet not dumb enough to acknowledge the situation.

It was more difficult to judge his mother. What Sophie was sure of, was that his she always managed to have it her way and to wind everyone round her little finger. His father, on the other hand, was the easiest to make out. He loved only himself and despised everyone else. A happy close-knit family.

Anyway, she thought, as far as they were concerned, Alex lived with a blanket over his eyes, or even a whole mattress. It would have been far too painful for him to admit that his family rejected him, that he wasn’t loved or even wanted. If not for Tania, he would have stopped seeing them long ago, and it would probably have taken him a long and painful time to recover. If ever.

‘Why don’t we walk there, Alex?’ she comes up with, reaching for some kind of compromise. ‘It could be a nice stroll from here to the Plaza, don’t you think? It’s not very far. Only thirteen blocks.’

‘Going Uptown, plus several blocks, westward,’ he adds. ‘Sure, I love walking, why not?’

‘That’s what I thought,’ she says, more cheerful now, ‘Besides, the air is crisp and invigorating, the sidewalks are deserted. Just the two of us,’ and nuzzles his nose while knitting her eyebrows close together.

‘Come on, you two,’ Alex’s father calls out as he holds the door while Nathasha and her mother dive into a taxi. Tania is still standing on the snow-covered sidewalk, watching at the fat snowflakes whirl in the moonlight then melt as they land on the ground.

‘No, no,’ he calls back. ‘Don’t wait for us. We’ll meet you there.’

‘What do you mean?’ his father says. ‘You want to walk?’

‘Yes, we’ll go on foot, Daddy. It’s not far . . . Anyway, there’s not enough place for all of us. See you later.’

‘All right, all right, as you wish, my dear boy,’ he says, giving in grudgingly.

Why does he always seem so surprised? He knows that each time I come here, I spend most of my time walking all over New York . . .

‘Tania! Jump in, quickly!’ Nathasha cries out from within, ‘Before you catch cold.’

‘No, I’m going with Alex, Mammy!’ she says. Then, ‘Gwanny, tell Mammy to let me go!’

Apart from a few isolated flakes that still float past them, it had stopped snowing. Tania walks in the middle, holding their hands, skipping and swinging between them.

Sophie’s disappointed, of course. She would have preferred to be alone with Alex. Moreover, before Tania had insisted upon coming with them, she had been sure that the others wouldn’t have waited for them at the Plaza and that Alex and she would have ended up spending the rest of the evening together. Now, with Tania with them, naturally, not only will the others wait, but Alex will have to hurry up lest his niece catches cold. Thankfully, she’s fond of Tania. She respects and appreciates this brave little girl who, in spite of having been dealt such a terrible hand from the start, is happy simply to be alive. It is difficult to even feel sorry for her. In fact, she appears so well adjusted, that one easily forgets about her predicament.

Swinging around, Tania gazes up at the Helmsley Building that looms behind them, slowing down the grownups. Standing right below the soaring edifice, she squints as the wind batters her coat, and marvels at the majestic structure. Craning her neck, she peers at grimacing gargoyles and, higher up, at a delicately chiseled miniature castle, like a jeweled crown on the tip of the building.

‘Come on, Baby, let’s go,’ Alex urges her, tugging her hand gently. ‘We’ll never make it if we stop every two steps.’

As they cross 48th Street, Tania is shocked at the sight of a young man, who is hauling a handcart with a sign on top that says «hotdog $1.00» in yellow letters on a red background. It must weigh over a ton, loaded as it is, with everything, from canned iced tea to fruit punch and doughnuts and pretzels, and yet he’s pulling it in the middle of the traffic with the cars splashing him as they rush by.

‘Can’t we do something for him, Alex?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid, Tania,’ he says. ‘That’s life, Tania. Life in the city where the best stands side by side with the worst.’

Still holding hands, they have to walk in single file when they pass in front of the Waldorf Astoria where dressed up people have gathered on the sidewalk while a porter in red livery and wearing a black cap, blows his whistle and hails at the speeding cabs, all of them sporting advertisement signs for Cats on their roofs. Alex feels agreeably surprised by the change of scenery, for, up until now, they had walked past dull black and white marble buildings, mainly banks.

Wherever he took Sophie for a walk, he always made sure to show her something different.

The first time they had traveled to New York together, Alex had insisted that Sophie saw everything. They had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge on foot, sailed around Manhattan on the South Ferry, visited the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, the Village, the Cloisters, Little Italy and China Town; they had looked at Manhattan from the top of the Empire State Building and had diner in the Twin Towers . . . He felt it was his responsibility.

‘Why did you ask for doggies bags, Alex? Are you going to give them to the old lady’s dog?’ his niece asks him, referring to the stinking poodle that belonged to one of his father’s neighbors.

‘Certainly not!’ Alex exclaims and laughs. ‘That old thing’s already much too fat—like its owner. No, I’m gonna eat these steaks, what d’you think!’

‘In fact, we will eat them!’ Sophie rectifies.

‘Really? I thought that you’d warm them for me and look at me lovingly while I gulp them down . . .’

‘You must do something with your sense of humor, darling,’ she says, bursting into laughter. ‘If that’s any indication, it’s getting worse by the minute.’

‘Pick, pick, pick,’ he says, folding his arm around her waist and pulling her closer. ‘Wait until we’re alone and you’ll see what you’ll see . . .’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘I’ve been waiting too long,’ Alex starts singing, sounding like anything but Otis Reeding, completely out of tune, ‘to stop now - ow - ow . . .’

‘Help!’ Sophie wails, covering her ears with her mittens while pretending to be sinking into despair, and Tania starts giggling between two coughing fits.

‘You sing well, when you’re serious,’ Tania says and pulls Alex by the hand.

‘When he’s serious, your uncle has a beautiful voice,’ Sophie agrees.

Upon reaching 51st Street, they stand on the curb, holding hands, waiting for the lights to change. Across the street, clouds of steam rise from the grating, drifting above the sidewalk and, beyond that, a flight of wide steps leads to a salmon colored church with white stone trim, partially hidden behind a succession of slender columns and full-length statues.

‘I’ve never seen a church like that,’ Tania says.

‘It’s Saint Bartholomew’s church,’ Alex says, as he watches a policeman walk up the street, talking in his walkie-talkie, his free hand on his holster. ‘Pretty, uh?’

Tania tugs their hands as soon as the light turns green, ‘Come on!’ she says, ‘Let’s go see it.’

They let the little girl pull them by the terrace of the Community House restaurant, then past the fenced surrounding garden. Up close, with its pink dome, Saint Bart appears to come straight out of the Arabian Nights. With the General Electric towers directly behind, and the Mutual of America building right across the avenue, the whole scene has a surrealistic air to it.

‘Look at all those poor people,’ Tania cries out, dismayed at the sight of a number of derelicts sprawling on the steps. ‘They must be so cold!’

Overhearing her, a black man raises his head and glances at her, looking sheepish and miserable. Feeling like some kind of modern Robin Hood, Alex climbs vigorously up the steps and, smiling sympathetically, he stoops beside the homeless and hands him one of his bulging doggy bags.

‘It’s still warm,’ he tells the man, ‘would you care for it?’

The man takes the bag and smiles uncertainly. ‘What’s in it?’

‘A couple of huge steaks and French fries.’

‘Oh,’ the man says in a sleepy voice, pulling his old blanket over him and smiling a childlike smile, ‘thanks a lot, sir. Happy New Year.’

‘Happy New Year.’

Ashamed of giving leftovers to this man, he turns around and spots a cluster of longhaired beggars kneeling around a smoking barrel filled with burning newspapers and wood scraps. They all seem exhausted and move about slowly and carefully. A tall hooded drifter, with red-rimmed eyes, stares fixedly at him. When Alex looks back, mildly surprised, the man steps toward him, carrying a pair of white wings in his arms.

‘I knew it,’ the man says, a grin breaking over his lips. Startled, Alex recognizes the homeless he had met at the Peace Fountain. ‘Good to see ya, sir.’

‘Oh, hi!’ Alex says. ‘What . . . what are you doing here?’

‘Getting ready to celebrate New Year’s Eve, I guess,’ the man says, visibly pleased to see Alex again.

‘You’re everywhere, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ the man chuckles. ‘This, your family?’ he asks, nodding politely at Tania and Sophie.

‘Yeah,’ Alex says, feeling foolish as they keep on shaking hands. ‘By the way, uh, I think I forgot—’

‘The Kid,’ the man says, ‘name’s the Kid.’

‘The Kid?’ Alex repeats, patting the wings. ‘Real feathers. Wow!’ They look at each other for a moment, uncertain as to what to say next. Then the Kid breaks the silence: ‘Well, have a nice evening, sir, and happy New Year to you all,’ he says and slightly bows at them.

‘Happy New Year!’ Tania cheers right back, smiling kindly at him. They all look at her in silence.

‘Yeah! Happy New Year, Kid!’ Alex says. ‘Oh, and don’t call me sir. I’m Alex and this is Sophie and this is my niece, Tania.’

‘Hi,’ he says, beaming at them. Then, looking back at Alex, ‘You know, I’m real glad to see you again.’

‘Yeah, well, me, too, you know,’ Alex lies, embarrassed. ‘Listen, uh, we’ve got these, uh,’ he stammers, grabbing clumsily the remaining doggy bags from Sophie who appears to be on stand-by, not quite registering what’s going on.

‘Sure. I’ll take one. Thanks,’ the Kid says, raking his hair out of his eyes. ‘Good timing, friend.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s impossible to find an unexplored trash can in this economy.’

Chuckling, he sniffs the bag, ‘Hmm . . . Smells good . . . Hey, Mike!’ he calls out to the comatose black man, ‘Awready ate yours?’ The sleepy man groans painfully and turns his back at them and buries his head deeper into his blanket.

‘You better eat it now, Mister Kid,’ Tania says, ‘before it gets cold.’

The Kid looks at her and slowly squats down before her and stares into her eyes. Seeing the Kid’s eyes fill with tears, Alex fears he’ll break down and cry.

‘Thank you, Tania,’ the Kid says. ‘You’re a very nice girl.’ Laying carefully his wings on the ground, he sits down and gingerly extracts a steak and sets upon eating it. ‘You’ve even brought napkins, Alex! You really thought of everything!’ he nods approvingly and gives them the OK sign with thumb and forefinger. ‘Hmm, man, this is dee-li-cious! Sure beats Saint Agnes’ soups.’

‘Listen, uh, Kid,’ Alex says, after a moment while he observes the Kid wolf down the steaming meat, ‘I don’t want to sound, um, rude or anything, but . . .’

‘What happened to me, uh? You wanna know how come I ended up like this, uh?’ the Kid says while chewing a mouthful. ‘Long story, pal. Story of my life. If you’d been through the wringer like me, who knows, maybe you’d be sleeping on church stairs, too.’ He pauses briefly, smiling joylessly as he gazes up at the slender golden cross standing on top of the dome. Then, ‘But what an adventure! You wouldn’t believe half of it. When I think of it, I hardly believe it myself . . .’

About the origin of evil and the re-making of God

By Rabbi Yohannan ben Joshua

The origin of evil

Isaac Luria was a 16th century visionary who came up with the most astonishing idea formulated about God. He was also regarded as a saint of the Kabbalism in Safed, between Damascus and Jerusalem. It may have been while studying the earliest passages of the Talmud that he saw the light. In those pages, it is said that God had made other worlds and had destroyed them before He created this one. He then filled the world as the soul fills a body, revealing himself in the tiniest breeze, in a blazing fire, in silence, in children splashing and shouting on the beach, in purring cats and swaying flowers, but also in the agony of the dying, in the screams of the injured and the sick, in the tears for a lost child . . . As all religious people experience over and over again in the course of their lifetime, Luria had to face the dilemma of theodicy. Unable to understand how a perfect God could create a world riddled with pain, even less able to discover from where evil sprang forth, he spent his life searching for the answer until it revealed itself to him.

Over the years, the idea of God had evolved. In Luria’s days, the Jewish theology of Kabbalah distinguished between the essence of God and the God whom we glimpse in creation. The essence of God was inscrutable, inaccessible, and unknowable. To distinguish this hidden God from the other, they called it En Sof—literally, «without end», in Hebrew. The other, they called Shekinah, God’s presence on earth. We know nothing of En Sof. He isn’t even mentioned in the Bible or the Talmud. To make Himself known to humanity, En Sof manifested Himself to the Jewish mystics under ten different aspects or sefiroth. Each aspect represented a stage in En Sof’s unfolding revelation and had its own symbolic name.

In his effort to explain evil, Isaac Luria imagined what had happened before En Sof created the world.

The world according to Luria

Long before the big bang, En Sof was boundless and shapeless, and all His various powers mingled together and existed within Him in perfect harmony. On the onset of genesis, He withdrew and formed a tiny pocket of emptiness within Himself in which He planned to make the world.

Luria called this withdrawal tsimtsum. He visualized the empty space created by tsimtsum as a circle, surrounded on all sides by En Sof. This was tohu bohu, the formless waste mentioned in Genesis. Thus, God’s first act is an exile from one part of Himself, a self-imposed limitation, quite like when the Christian God emptied Himself into the Son in an act of self-expression.

During tsimtsum, En Sof sheared His Wrath from His inmost being and cast it into the empty space. Now that God’s Wrath—which the Zohar had seen as the root of evil—was cut off from God’s Mercy and the rest of His powers, it could turn out to be destructive. Still En Sof did not forsake the empty space entirely. A ‘thin line’ of the divine light penetrated this circle and took the form of what the Zohar had called Adam Kadmon, the Primordial Man.

The big bang

The meaning of (our) life, part one

Again, God set Himself to create the world. His intent was to make it in such a manner that man’s ultimate goal would be to recover the divine sparks and help Him build Himself anew.

However, that was before Adam had sinned in the Garden of Eden. Had he not done so, the original harmony would have been restored and the divine exile would have ended on the first Sabbath. But Adam’s fall repeated the primal catastrophe of the Breaking of the Vessels. The created order fell and the divine light in his soul was scattered about and caught in broken matter. Thus, once more, in this trial and error manner, God evolved yet another plan with the difference this time that only Jews would be assigned a special mission. Since Israel, just as the divine sparks themselves, is scattered throughout the Diaspora, from then on, it would be its duty to redeem the fallen atoms. As long as these transcendent sparkles are separated and lost in matter, God shall be incomplete. Only by careful observance of Torah and the discipline of prayer, each Jew will help restore the sparks to their divine source.

In this vision of salvation, God is not gazing down on humanity condescendingly, but, as Jews had always insisted, actually depends on mankind, for only Jews have the unique privilege of helping God re-form and recreate Himself anew.

Luria’s mythology was embraced eagerly by Jews around the world. Recast in Jewish terms, it was able to touch a buried chord and give new hope in the midst of despair. It enabled the Jews to believe that despite the appalling circumstances in which so many of them lived, there was an ultimate meaning and significance. By the observance of the mitzvot, they could rebuild their God again.

The meaning of (our) life, part two

During the 18th century, Hasid scholars, like the Besht, brought yet another interpretation to the fall of the divine sparks. For them, it was a blessing in disguise. Until then, En Sof had been perceived as an inscrutable, inaccessible and unknowable entity. Now, God was again as He had been during the days of the Talmud, and the world seemed to be filled with His presence. A devout Jew could once more experience Him while he ate, drank, made love to his wife, in the wind that stroke his face, in the blades of grass that stirred beneath his feet. In this universal theophany, the Besht set aside Luria’s grand scheme of world salvation and preferred to consider man only responsible for reuniting the sparks trapped in his personal surroundings—in his home, in his wife and in his children. As one of the Besht’s disciples explained: ‘Every man is a redeemer of a world that is all his own. He beholds only what he, and only he, ought to behold and feels only what he is personally singled out to feel.’

Sometimes, the Hasidim went to somewhat far-fetched extremes in their attempt to save the world: many of them took to smoking a great deal to rescue the sparks in tobacco . . . One of the Besht’s own grandsons had a splendid court with magnificent tapestries and furniture, which he justified by declaring that he was only concerned for the sparks in these wonderful trappings. Others used to eat gargantuan meals to reclaim the divine sparks in their food . . .

Surely, from an outsider’s point of view, the whole Hasidic enterprise must have appeared as an attempt to find a meaning in a dangerous and cruel environment, by stripping the veil of familiarity from the world to discover the glory that lay within.

From the perspective of a devout Hasid, through the various disciplines he performed, he only knew that, day after day, he was becoming more and more aware of the divine energy that coursed through the whole created world, transforming it into a glorious place, despite the sorrows of exile and persecution. Gradually the material world would fade into insignificance and everything would become an epiphany.

The Hasidim considered both man and God as being part of the same process of self-realization, created by it, creating it, mutually interdependent. God was no longer perceived as an external, objective reality. Indeed, the Hasidim believed that in some sense they were creating Him by building Him up anew after His disintegration, and that by becoming aware of the Godly spark within them, they would become more fully human.

DELETED SCENE - I

2009-11-27T21:25:00.002-05:00

Dear Friend,

Initially, my manuscript was eight hundred pages long. My word-count was way too high! In order to decrease it, I had to delete entire scenes and chapters. No publisher would accept to read such a voluminous manuscript. Or so I thought. It was a nerve-wracking experience, for I loved (and still do) every single scene...
Each week, I’ll paste one scene or a whole chapter. They’ll appear in chronological order. For those of you who haven't read the book, what follows won't mean much. Taken out of their context, the scenes lose all meaning. But for YOU who have loved my novel (and I know your numbers - I have the means to know. LOL), well, you're in for a special treat. Oh, and before I paste the first deleted scene, know you this: The first one who emails me at princeselim@bluewin.ch from which PART and which CHAPTER I deleted this scene, will receive a DARK SIDE OF THE SOUL much coveted sur-prize. All you have to do is send me an email with the correct information and your address.

*******************************************************

Upon reaching a flat recess, Nimble Foot makes a halt. For hours, he has been climbing alone in darkness so complete, it seems to cut him off the world, even from his own body. Exhausted, he lets himself fall to his hands and knees, and rolls over on his back. Climbing the mountain alone, feeling his way in the dark, has sharpened his senses. Now, as he lies on the moss carpet, he takes a deep breath and gazes up at the leafy universe—trees beyond number crowded together, a myriad of dark leaves waving in the breeze.

‘Who are you?’ he asks aloud.

As if in answer, a fruit drops in his open hand. He clasps his fingers around the berry and resists bringing it to his mouth.

‘How is it,’ he wonders as he touches it, ‘that distorted by the Jimsonweed, the world appears more clearly?’

‘Life,’ the tall smiling man had told him, ‘is like a great song with each voice in perfect harmony with the others.’ Lying in the grass, alone with Him for the first time, Nimble Foot looks at His face and realizes how true the priest’s words had been, how the wellbeing of each creature depends on the wellbeing of the whole, how the animals and plants give themselves up to become a source of food, clothing and shelter to the people.

At peace and rested, he gathers his strength and rises to his feet. Just then, he hears an eerie howl. He stops and listens.

‘Must be the wind moaning on the icy water,’ he muses, trying to find a sane explanation. Sane? On a night like this?

He is about to resume his quest when something horrible springs out of the bushes, screeching like a banshee. Paralyzed with fear, he stands there with his mouth hanging open, gapes at it and screams. With a blood-curdling howl, the hideous thing leaps at him. Instinctively, Nimble Foot throws his hands up just as it lands in front of him. At the sight of its huge wooden skull, he screams even louder and hides himself behind his hands. Its face looks like an inverted blood-red triangle with a ruff of white feathers and two black crow wings where its ears should be. Brandishing a knife in one hand and shaking a rattle in the other, it leans forward and shoves its monstrous face into his. Then, letting out an awful yell, it tumbles backward and disappears into the undergrowth.

Unable to think straight, Nimble Foot turns on his heels in an attempt to flee, but a black long-billed creature steps out from behind a tree and blocks his way. Arms extended, it walks up to him with broken steps, legs wide apart, opens its excessive beak and slams it shut. Another gargoyle jumps out of a grove. This one carries a torch that it waves about, painting flaming patterns into the night. Turning the burning end to its maw, it blows fire and ashes at Nimble Foot.

Then, emerging from all sides, the rest of the chinde reveal themselves. Howling and dancing grotesquely, handling snakes and stomping foot drums, they eat fire and whirl bull-roarers through the air. In an instant, he forgets the quest as crooked mouths, protruding tongues and scowling eyes dance around him.

Out of nowhere, while he helplessly cringes on the ground, teeth chattering, eyes clamped tight, a voice rises above the din and says, ‘Remain still, Nimble Foot.’

At these words, the monsters are struck dumb. Peeking through his fingers, he notices that they appear to be observing him and, like dirt settling in a muddy puddle when the water is no longer disturbed, he lets the agitated thoughts in his mind settle down. At once, he remembers the reason he is here and relaxes. Confronted with such ordeals, more than one youngster would have given up his desire for a vision.

Nimble Foot knows he can endure the hard task. No matter what obstacles await him, he will get his vision; he will no longer be a boy. Resolved, he sings to Wakanda in a high-pitched voice and feels his strength return. When he looks back at the chinde, he knows them for what they are and laughs. While he still crouches on the ground, he raises his hand to salute a man that was with him in the sweat lodge. To his surprise, the man removes his mask. Smiling, he helps Nimble Foot back to his feet and hands him his mask. Gazing through the crude eyeholes, the boy laughs.

After a while, he gives it back to the man who makes him promise not to reveal this secret to the uninitiated before fastening his mask back on.

‘Mitakuye oyasin,’ Nimble Foot says.

At these words, the false ghouls cry out their outrage and slip out of sight, faking defeat.

Unparalleled Novel by Ottoman Prince Released

2009-09-30T23:21:00.003-04:00

Unparalleled Novel by Prince Released Today

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