From the Teeth of Angels Read online

  “Like living out your life in someone else’s skin.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, what’s up, Jesse? Sounds as if you’ve been having an adventure.”

  “That’s a good word for it. Have a seat on Frau Spusta’s couch.” He pointed me to a plump zeppelin of a thing, where we sat on either end and faced each other.

  “What do you know about birds, Wyatt?”

  “Some of them sound nice and others taste good.”

  “That’s true. But listen to this.” Reaching to the coffee table in front of the couch, he picked up a small blue book filled with white paper markers sticking out the top. He counted a few and then opened the book to one. “Have you ever heard of the ortolan? It’s called Emberiza hortulana.”

  “No.”

  “I guess it’s delicious. Listen to this: ‘When eating particularly succulent ortolans, European gourmands cover their heads with large napkins so that oily juices do not squirt their dining partners.’ What do you think?”

  “I think I don’t care about ortolans, Jesse. I’m exhausted and sick and not in the mood for gourmet fare. I think we’d better talk about other things, because you’ve got two women downstairs who are pretty damned worried about you.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “You’re not my friend. Your sister is, and I worry about her.”

  “Fair enough. But listen carefully.” Annoyingly, he read the passage about ortolans again. “Ian McGann gave me this book. He marked specific passages for me to read. That was the first one. I didn’t understand what it meant either. He sat and watched me but I didn’t know what to say. I’d found him to ask about these dreams and what was happening to my life. He was the only one who would know. Instead of answering, he gave me a book about birds.

  “He and his girlfriend—her name is Miep—are in this small hotel in Venice next to the Danieli. It has the same view of the water as the Danieli at a third the price. Nice place. Cozy, and perfect for them. He knows about it because his agency sends customers there on package tours. Ian can’t move well now, so he spends a lot of time sitting at the window watching the boats and the water. Or, if he really feels up to it, they go to Gaffe Florian nearby for a few hours. It’s amusing, because Miep told one of the waiters there Ian is a very famous English writer who’s recuperating from a serious illness. They treat him as if he’s royalty. Whenever he comes in, they clear a table for him and make sure he’s given the very best service. Miep’s wonderful; he’s lucky to have her. Funny how some people have the best things in their whole lives happen when they’re about to die.”

  He spoke quietly but warmly, as if recounting a particularly happy anecdote that had happened long ago but was so gratifying that it was still flower-fresh in his memory. I wanted to interrupt and ask my questions, the ones that were burning up my mind, but I knew that wasn’t correct. Jesse had to tell it his way. Besides, I was sure everything would come out in time. Everything I needed to hear.

  “Actually, we were in Florian’s when this happened—when he showed me the book and told me to read the passage about ortolans. After I finished he asked what I thought. What could I say? It sounds funny. That’s what I said. The picture of people sitting at a table with napkins over their heads so they don’t squirt their neighbors with bird juice? Come on, it’s a giggle.” He rubbed his hands together, then held them out at arm’s length and turned them up and down. “Don’t you think? Anyway, I looked at Miep but she wasn’t smiling and neither was Ian. He reached over and put a hand on my knee. ‘It’s me, Jesse. I did that to you; squirted my dreams all over you the moment I told you in Sardinia. And see what’s happened to you now because of it. I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry for what I did.’ At that moment, even with all the terror that was inside me, the only thing I felt was profound pity for the man.”

  “What does he look like now?”

  “Ah, that’s interesting! He looks as if he’s been very ill—no question about that—but not much worse than when we saw him in Sardinia. I was expecting much worse; I was sure he’d be dead. But for a time when I first saw him in Venice, I thought he might actually be getting better.”

  “Does he still have the dreams?”

  “Yes, but recently he’s been able to understand some of the answers. That’s why he hasn’t gotten any worse. Unbelievable, but he’s actually been able to do it. He also said he’s been reading all the literature he can find on death and dying. One of the things he’s discovered is that sometimes the terminally ill come to a kind of peace once they accept that they are going to die. That was one of the fundamental changes for Ian: now in his dreams, he isn’t angry anymore at Death for what He’s doing to him. He says that anger wastes vital and important life energy. He’s simply trying now to find the right questions to ask so that he can keep Him from taking away any more things.”

  I didn’t say a word, because I had not had that experience. For me, Death was as viciously sadistic as the worst criminal and I hated Him more than ever. My life had become worse and more painfully beautiful as the end closed in. Besides the never-ending fear of the coming unknown, the details of the world I would soon leave were now more wonderful than ever. Each day I lived, my heart grew more love for what I was losing. That wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right. One or the other, Death. Take your pick, but don’t take them both. Leave me with something at my end.

  “Ian’s learned, even in sleep, to ask only certain questions, small ones that’ll bring answers he can understand.”

  “Like what?”

  “He couldn’t tell me. Or wouldn’t. He’s convinced that the more he tells, the more things will worsen. Sardinia convinced him of that.”

  “Why hasn’t Miep been infected? Why you and not her?”

  “He doesn’t know, but thinks it’s because of love. There is definitely a correlation between really loving someone and keeping Death away.”

  “So you’re not worried about Caitlin?”

  “She’s the only thing I ever have loved in my life, Wyatt. No, I’m terrified for her, but I must talk with someone about this or I’ll be lost. I have to believe what Ian said about love.”

  “Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “Because McGann said you’d be coming and that we’re important to each other.”

  I snapped to attention. “He knew? How?”

  “In a dream he saw you here in Vienna with me. He also knew I would go looking for him. Besides the evil things, his dreams have become more prophetic. The way he looks and talks, he even reminds you of a Greek prophet. Like Tiresias in Oedipus Rex. You know, in those ancient stories seers are almost always blind or handicapped in some way. That’s what allows them to perceive and understand things we can’t.”

  “What did he say about me?”

  “He described you in detail and said you’d be in Vienna by the time I returned. I swear to you I had no idea you and Sophie were coming.”

  “Why? Why is he dreaming about me now?”

  “Because you’re the only person who can save me, Wyatt. You’re the only person who can stop the dreams from killing me.”

  “How?”

  “By finding Death. That’s what you want anyway, isn’t it? That’s why you came with Sophie?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do.” I waited for him to go on but he only looked at his bird book and slid a hand back and forth across the cover.

  “What are you saying, Jesse?”

  His mouth tightened, and when he looked at me, his face was set in fury. “You said you didn’t want to waste time! Okay, fine, Wyatt, so let’s talk about what happened to you before you came here. Let’s talk about that cop you met in the store and what he said to you. Okay? Let’s talk about that.”

  “How do you know—”

  “I don’t. Ian did. He knows all of it now. He’s this wonderful sick man who’s fighting the most impossible battle, yet has time to worry about me. And he worries about you. H
e knew about you. That’s what I’m trying to say—he can see things now.”

  “He’s also the one who made them happen! What about that, Jesse? So what if he can see? He’s the one who infected you.”

  “Maybe we’ve got to wash our attitudes.”

  “Watch our—”

  “I said wash, not watch. Maybe what lan’s done is save me. Maybe it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “You’ll have to explain that one. I don’t see dying as being a best thing.”

  “Do you have courage, Wyatt? Are you a courageous man?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been in a position to find out.”

  “Neither have I. But wait a minute. May I read you something else? It’s important.”

  “All right.”

  He sat unmoving for a moment, as if making a decision, then got up and took another book from a nearby table. “How’s your Bible knowledge these days?”

  I shook my head.

  “Listen to this.

  “ ‘And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the break of the day.

  “ ‘And when the man saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob’s thigh was out of joint, as he wrestled with him.

  “ ‘And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And Jacob said, I will not let you go, except thou bless me.

  “ ‘And he said unto him, What is thy name? And he said, Jacob.

  “ ‘And the man said, Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel; for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.

  “ ‘And Jacob asked him, and said, Tell me, I pray thee, thy name. And the man said, Wherefore is it that thou dost ask after my name? And he blessed him there.

  “ ‘And Jacob called the name of the place Peniel; for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.’ ”

  Jesse closed the book. “It’s one of those famous stories we learn as kids and end up ignoring for the rest of our lives. But I think this says it all. These dreams have been forced on Ian and me. You are being ‘forced’ to die of cancer. They are the same thing. None of us is prepared for the challenge. One minute we’re alone, the next we’re wrestling with a stranger intent on hurting us. No matter what kinds of lives we’ve lived, we’ve never been forced to ‘wrestle’ with anything until now. Can we do it? Do we have any strength? Do we know even one hold? Who knows?

  “Now look at Jacob. He didn’t know either, but he dropped everything and jumped right in. One minute he’s traveling with his family, the next he’s wrestling with a total stranger. Then it turns out he’s a good wrestler and can fight this angel or whatever it is to a draw. To fight. I never understood the point of the story, though I’ve been reading the Bible my entire adult life. Courage. Courage means facing what you have to and doing it with no hope that you’ll succeed. ‘For I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.’ That has got to mean something.”

  “But it isn’t God we’re wrestling,” I interjected. “It’s Death! He’s not going to bless us or let us go. He’ll kill the three of us. There’s no way to wrestle Death to the ground or understand Him. There’s only suffering and fear. We’re beaten before we start.”

  “Not true! Not if you accept the challenge; not if you’re willing to wrestle. Doesn’t matter if this stranger is God or an angel or Death. If we lie down and say, ‘You win. I quit!’ then we are doomed. Look at me.” He pulled his sweater over his head and pointed to a bandaged shoulder. “I’m getting the same scars as Ian. I’m terrified to fall asleep. Your wounds are inside. There’s no difference; both are deadly. But what if we try to stop our fear and try instead to understand? Only by accepting the challenge did Jacob come to understand who his opponent really was. And he won! He fought an angel to a draw.”

  “Death is not an angel!”

  “Maybe it is, just not the kind we dreamed of as kids. I saw you looking at the statue downstairs. That’s what we hope for: children with haloes and smiles and blessings for us all. But what if angels are as complex as humans? Good and bad, dangerous and benevolent.”

  “That’s clever but it’s not real.”

  “How do you know? What if the whole world is Peniel? The angel changed Jacob’s name to Israel. And Israel became a nation. Life is constantly wrestling with forces we don’t understand. Maybe if we win, those forces have to bless us.”

  Almost to myself, I murmured, “The policeman in that store said there is free will. We’re allowed to live the way we want until we die.”

  Jesse nodded. “Ian said the reason you’re in Vienna now is to find Death in life. Not in sleep like us, because we don’t understand the rules or the territory there so we have no control. Here in the real world, like Jacob. Because Death is here and only you can face Him successfully.”

  “What am I supposed to do if I find Him? Play chess with Him?”

  “No. Ask all the dangerous questions you can imagine. See if you’re courageous enough to do that. You’re the only person who can save McGann and me. He said that’s one of the things he’s ever fully understood in his dreams: you’re the one.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why Jacob? Why are we having dreams that eat away at us like hungry mouths? Why do you have cells in your body that hate you so much they want you dead? Because everyone has to wrestle, and some do it for all of us.

  “Come over to the window. Let’s look at our angel again.” He stood up and smiled. “Maybe she’ll tell us something this time. I keep hoping.”

  I joined him at the window and we looked down at the pretty courtyard below. To my surprise, standing beside the angel were Sophie and Caitlin. I guess they couldn’t see us because neither reacted to our presence, although both were staring up at us with almost identical expressions on their faces—worry, confusion, hope. As if any minute something would happen. As if it already had.

  ARLEN

  April 20

  Dearest Rose,

  It was good to talk with you and Roland last week, although I must say again that I like talking to you in these letters just as well. Telephones make me feel so pressured to say everything fast and completely and full and precise and… unnatural. There’s the word for it. Everything is unnatural over the phone, no matter how close the friend or how long the conversation. Don’t you agree? You hear the real, wonderful voice, which is frustrating because it makes the friend almost there; you’re dying to reach through the receiver and pull her through so you can have the rest of her with you too. And no matter how long the call lasts, if there’s a lull or a pause, my mind starts working double-time to think up something, anything to say to fill that dead space, like a disc jockey on the radio. Even with someone like you, my other self—alter ego-soul mate, I feel the need to entertain or at least be interesting so that we get our money’s worth from these transatlantic calls. I know you’ll think that’s stupid—the paranoid actress at work in me, because I really don’t have to feel that way with you, of all people. But I do, so despite being almost with you via the telephone, sometimes I prefer writing you another of our never-ending letters. How long was my last one, twenty pages? Yummy. I love it. On a piece of paper I can take my time, stop for days or hours to think about what I want to tell you with no pressure on, smoke my cigarettes (which you so dramatically hate), and if there are no matches about, I can get up and go looking for some without worrying about irritating you with smoke in your face or leaving you (via the receiver) down on the chair too long.

  Because I live so far out of town, the mailman usually doesn’t arrive here till after two in the afternoon, and if he brings something interesting, I torture myself by not opening it right away. Instead, like a stoical child holding a birthday present on her lap for minutes before attacking, I put whatever it is (a letter from you, a book I’ve ordered from America and am dying to read) on the couch. I go to the kitchen, grind some coffee, get out that favorite fat gray
cup and the rest of the fixings. Wait around till the kitchen is filled with the great bitter smell of fresh brewed, wondering all the time what’s in that letter, what’s back in the other room waiting for me. Waiting, waiting. Put the coffee on a tray along with a clean ashtray and a Kipferl or a couple of slices of bread if it’s fresh. Take the spread into the living room. Don’t hurry, go slow. Make the wait even more painful and delicious. Walk purposely by the couch and look hungrily at the white mail sitting on that fat chunk of black leather. Go out to the terrace and arrange everything just so. Only when the world out there is perfectly set up am I allowed to go back for the letter and read it.

  The irony of last week’s conversation was that I got your latest a day after we spoke, but was just as excited to see your handwriting as I was when I heard your voice on the phone. People will say we’re in love.

  Today I want to answer your question about living overseas. You asked what it was like to live in a place for a long time where no one speaks your language. As I said, it’s lonely and certainly isolating in a way. I talk out loud to myself a lot more than I ever have, but that could be a result of growing older and more—gulp—eccentric. One of the things that drove me mad about living in California was the sickening amount of talk I heard every day that added up to nothing. Everybody talks out there, especially in the business. Everybody has lots and lots to say, but too often at the end of a conversation, even when I thought hard about it, I couldn’t remember what they’d said! And if you don’t watch out, you become like them—both your tongue and brain click onto that deadly L.A. mental cruise control. Know what I’m talking about? When you’re awake and aware and not stoned and your lips are moving normally—but what’s coming out of both your head and mouth is oatmeal? No, right now I prefer the rigors of this goddamned German language. It’s a nice challenge, staggering around my short moronic sentences and being proud when I get them right.