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“You said something, too, about this strange feeling that comes over you when you read certain psalms.”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, it seems to be one of the only constants in my life. A link between me and the other. I know because my wife told me that my other personality was attracted by a little book of psalms in a window on Rosiers Street. Attracted in a way that was so unusual, my wife bought the book and gave it to me on one of my lucid birthdays. When I opened it, I felt uncomfortable. Reading a few words made me weak again. I was upset, terrified, without knowing why.”
“What psalms were they? Do you remember?”
“Yes, I read Psalm ninety. When I woke up again, six years later, I found the book again but with a few pages torn out. The pages that I’d read, but also Psalms thirty and seventy-seven. Maybe there were others. All I know is, it reveals a common torment shared by
me and this other person I am most of the time.”
Abraham Chrikovitch sat in silence for a moment. “Thirty, seventy-seven, ninety,” he repeated softly.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
The gabbai didn’t reply. “What has your relationship with God been like so far? When did you stop practicing your religion?”
“I never really practiced. At home, my parents never placed much importance on that aspect of our identity. My father had lost a lot of his family in the camps. He wanted me to become a little Frenchman, freed from the weight of the past. It was his father who changed the family name, trading Wiezman for the more discreet Delègue. But still, we made an effort to celebrate the two or three biggest holidays every year. I believed in God, in my own way. I talked to him sometimes. I talked to him on the day I tried to commit suicide. A lot. It was sort of an intimate conversation that was also violent. Today, however, I realize I saw him more like a man with supernatural powers, who I expected things from. Like a magician.”
“You say you spoke to him during your suicide. Did you realize the religious importance of your act?”
“Not really. Suicide was like a revolt against the genie who refused to fulfill my last wish, the most important one of all.”
“You tried to commit suicide to punish God?”
“In some way. I think dressing my act up as an act of rebellion gave me the courage I needed to go through with it. I’m still confused about the whole thing in my mind.”
Abraham Chrikovitch lowered his head and placed both his hands on his forehead as though he were avoiding Jeremy’s eyes. His lips were moving, barely. Jeremy wondered if the gabbai was thinking out loud or praying. He stayed quiet, hoping for a verdict. But Abraham Chrikovitch stood suddenly. Looking worn, he waved his hand in the air to indicate that the conversation was over.
“I’m going to go. We’ll stick to our agreement.”
Jeremy interrupted him. “Wait, what’s going on?”
Abraham Chrikovitch turned away. He seemed lost. He stumbled and sought out the guard with his eyes.
“You’re hiding something from me!” Jeremy exclaimed. “You thought of something that upset you, didn’t you? You have an idea, I know it. Talk to me.”
The gabbai tried to appear nonchalant. But the slight movements of his mouth and his tense smile betrayed his emotion. He took a step toward the door but turned back to study Jeremy, who had gotten up to try to keep him from leaving.
“Divine punishment? That’s what you think?” Jeremy asked.
“I…I can’t say right now. I’ll call you. I’ll make contact with you again. I made a promise.”
“But good God, give me your opinion! Your opinion!” Jeremy panicked. This man might have discovered the key to his situation, the one that would free him from his nightmare. But he was going to leave without saying anything. Jeremy was desperate.
Abraham Chrikovitch had turned away. He waited in front of the door that would open for him. A guard entered. Jeremy fell back in his chair. He stopped yelling. He was tired of this foolish quest. Tired of begging, crying, thinking, wondering. Tired of hope.
Night was falling, and he hadn’t found any answers. He stared at the man dressed in black as he left the chamber. He was Jeremy’s last hope. The door closed behind him. Jeremy saw only his neck and hat through the little viewing screen. Then Abraham Chrikovitch turned around and stared at him for one or two seconds before nodding slightly. Was it to say good-bye or to give an affirmative reply to his last question? Jeremy didn’t know. But he was sure of one thing: Abraham Chrikovitch was crying.
Back in his cell, Jeremy found Vladimir lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“So, who’d you see?”
Jeremy wished he didn’t have to reply. But without any means of escape, he had to act out his role. “My mistress.”
“Not planned ahead of time, this hot date?”
“No. I’m the one who asked for it this morning. Something I had to do.”
“You better be careful with that guard. He’s too close. He might be in on the ring, but don’t forget, you’re nothing but a con to him.”
