The Demonologist (5 page)

My Tess. Looking up at me and instantly reading what has transpired in the living room.

She shifts over. Makes room for me to sit next to her.

“Is she coming back?” Tess asks, the first part of our exchange passing unspoken between us.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. No.”

“But I’m staying here? With you?”

“We haven’t discussed it in detail. But yes, this is still going to be home. For both of us. Because I’m sure as hell not going anywhere without you.”

Tess nods as though this—me staying here with her—is all she needs to know. It’s really all I need to know, too.

“We need to do something,” I say after a time.

“Like family therapy? That kind of something?”

Too late for that,
I think.
Too late for the three of us together. But there’s still you and me. There will always be you and me.

“I’m talking about something fun.”

“Fun?” She repeats this word as though it belongs to an ancient language, a forgotten term in Old Norse she needs help with.

“You think you could be packed for the morning? Clothes for three days? Just hop on a plane and get out of here? I’m talking first-class tickets. Four-star hotel. We’ll be rock stars.”

“Sure,” she says. “This for reals?”

“Absolutely for reals.”

“Where we going?”

“How do you like the sound of Venice?”

Tess smiles. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my daughter spontaneously show her happiness—and at something I have done, no less—that I cough on a sob that takes me by surprise.

“Heaven’s purest light,” I say.

“That old man Milton again?”

“Yes. But it’s also you.”

I squeeze her nose. The little thumb-and-forefinger pinch I stopped trying a couple years ago after her irritated protests. I’m expecting another one from her now, but instead she replies the way she did as a child, when this was one of our thousand games.

“Honk!”

She laughs. And I laugh with her. For a moment, silliness has been returned to us. Of all the things I thought I’d miss when my child was no longer a child, I had no idea that the permission to act like a child yourself would be at the top of the list.

I get up and start for the door.

“Where you going?” she says.

“To tell Mom.”

“Tell her in a minute. Just stay with me awhile, okay?”

So I stay awhile. Not speaking, not trying to conjure some soothing platitude, not faking it. Just staying.

T
HAT NIGHT
, I
DREAM OF THE
T
HIN
W
OMAN.

She is sitting on her own in an otherwise empty lecture hall, the same one where I teach my first-year course but altered, widened, its dimensions impossible to estimate as the walls to the right and left dissolve into darkness. I stand behind the lectern, squinting at her. The only lights are the dim ones that illuminate the aisle stairs and the two blazing-red
EXIT
signs at the rear doors, distant as cities across a desert.

She sits in the middle of a row, halfway up. Nothing is visible of her but her face. Diseased, malnourished. A black-and-white newsreel face. The skin ready to tear open over her nose, the tops of her cheeks, the brittle jaw. It leaves her eyes to bulge out from their sockets as though fighting for escape.

Neither of us speak. Yet the silence is full with the sense that something has just been said aloud that never ought to have been. An obscenity. A curse.

I blink.

And she’s standing in front of me.

Her mouth opens. The bared throat papery as a discarded snakeskin. A rank breath passing up from within her and licking against my lips, sealing them shut.

She exhales. And before I can awaken, she releases an endless sigh. One that forms itself into an utterance that grows in volume and force, until it billows out of her as a kind of poem.

A welcome. A heresy.

Pandemonium . . .

I
’
M THIRTY THOUSAND FEET OVER THE
A
TLANTIC, THE ONLY PASSENGER
with his reading light on in the first-class cabin as Tess dozes fitfully beside me, her closed journal on her lap, when for the first time since the Thin Woman visited my office I let my mind turn to what could possibly await me in Venice.

Yesterday offered such a variety of curveballs it’s been difficult to decide which to field first—my best friend’s terminal illness, the once-and-for-all failure of my marriage, or why an emissary suspected to be from an agency of the Church would offer me a pile of dough to visit—well, visit
what
? The only aspect of my expertise she specifically cited was my knowledge of Milton’s work. No, not even that. A
demonologist
.

Even here, in our floating Boeing hotel, I don’t feel comfortable following this line of thought, however absurd. So I return to my reading. A stack of books all belonging to what, in truth, is my favorite genre. The travel guide.

I am the sort of bookwormy fellow who has read about places more
than he has visited them. And for the most part I’d
rather
read about them than visit them. It’s not that I dislike the far away, but that I am always aware of my own foreignness, an alien among natives. It’s how I feel, in varying degrees, no matter where I am.

Still, I’m looking forward to Venice. I’ve never been, and its fantastical history and storied loveliness is something I’m eager to share with Tess. My hope is that the beauty of the place will shake her out of her current state of mind. Maybe the spontaneity of this adventure and the magnificence of the destination will be enough to return the brightness to her eyes.

So I keep reading the blood-soaked back stories of the city’s monuments, the wars waged for land, for trade, for religion. Along the way I note the restaurants and sites that stand the best chance of pleasing Tess. I will be the most well-informed, customized tour guide for her that I can be.

The trip has already been sort of thrilling. Tess telling Diane about our plans just this morning (she asked few questions, the calculations of how all this would give her some unexpected time with Will Junger playing across her eyes), and then the harried packing, the trip to the bank for euros (the Thin Woman’s certified check cashing smoothly into my account), and the limo ride out to Kennedy, the two of us giggling in the backseat like school friends playing hooky.

Because there wasn’t time to call, I texted O’Brien from the airport. I debated over how much of the trip to tell her about. Describing the Thin Woman on a cell-phone keyboard in the first-class lounge proved impossible, as did the parameters of my “consultation” on a “case,” about which nothing has been revealed, other than my over-generous compensation. In the end, I wrote only:

Off to Venice (the Italian one, not the Californian one) with Tess. Back in a couple days. Explanation TK.

Her reply came almost instantly.

WTF?

I get up to stretch my legs. The jet humming and whistling, soothing as a mechanical womb. This, and the sleeping passengers on either side of me, give the odd impression that I am a transatlantic ghost, hurtling through space, the only wakeful spirit in the night.

But there’s another. An elderly man standing between the washroom cubicles at the top of the aisle, looking down at his shoes in the way of the politely bored. When I approach he looks up at me and, as though in recognition of an unexpected companion, he smiles.

“I am not alone,” he says in welcome. His accent charmingly Italian flavored. His face mildly lined and handsome as a commercial actor’s.

“I was reading.”

“Yes? I, too, am a lover of books,” he says. “The
great
books. The wisdom of man.”

“Just travel guides, in my case.”

He laughs. “Those are important, too! You must not become lost in Venice. You must find your way.”

“All the books say that becoming lost in Venice is among its greatest charms.”

“To wander, yes. But to be lost? There is a difference.”

I’m pondering this when the old man puts a hand on my shoulder. His grip strong.

“What takes you to Venice?” he asks.

“A job.”

“Job! Ah, you are a thief.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Everything in Venice is stolen. The stone, the relics, the icons, the gold crosses in every church. All of it comes from somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s
nothing there
. No forest, no quarries, no farms. It is a city that is an affront to God, built solely upon man’s pride. It even stands upon water! Could such an act of magic possibly please the Heavenly Father?”

Despite the devout meaning of his words, his tone somehow communicates its opposite, a kind of undercutting joke. He isn’t the least
concerned about the offenses of “man’s pride” or the displeasure of the Heavenly Father. On the contrary, such things excite him.

He looks over my shoulder at the slumbering passengers.

“The blessed innocence of sleep,” he remarks. “Alas, it no longer visits me with its comforts of forgetfulness.”

Then his eyes find Tess.

“Your daughter?” he asks.

All at once, I’m struck by the certainty that I’ve gotten this guy wrong. He’s not an elderly charmer making conversation with a fellow insomniac. He’s pretending. Hiding his true wants. Along with his reason for standing here, now, with me.

I consider various replies—
None of your goddamn business
or
Don’t even look at her
—but instead just turn and head directly back to my seat. As I go, I hear him enter the washroom cubicle and shut the door behind him. He’s still in there when I settle in my seat.

I pretend to read, keeping my eye on the cubicle door. And though I remain awake for the next hour or so, I don’t notice him come out.

Eventually I get up and knock on the door myself, but it’s unlocked. When I pull it open, nobody’s there.

V
ENICE SMELLS.

Of what? It’s hard to say at first, as it is an odor of ideas more than any particular source. Not cooking or farming or industry, but the stink of empire, of overlapping histories, the unbleachable taint of corruption. In the New World, when a city has a smell, you can say what it is. The sugary rank of an iron-belt paper mill. The roast chestnuts and sewer belches of Manhattan. But in Venice, our North American nostrils are met instead with the unfamiliar reek of the grand abstractions. Beauty. Art. Death.

“Look!”

Tess points at our vaporetto as it arrives to pick us up and take us along the length of the Grand Canal to our hotel.
Look!
is about all she’s said since we landed. And she’s right: There is so much to see, so many details in every building’s façade, there is a constant danger
of missing new evidence of the astonishing. I am more than happy to follow her pointed finger, my daughter close to me, sharing the exhilaration of awakening to a different world.

We board the vaporetto and it chugs off, cutting through the chop of the other delivery boats and gondolas. Almost instantly we are out of sight of any evidence of the modern.

“It’s like Disney World,” Tess notes. “Except it’s real.”

So I point out some of the realities learned over my crash-course reading on the plane. There the gray Fondacco dei Turchi with its imposing, dead-eyed windows. And here the Pescheria, with its neo-gothic hall operating as a fish market since the fourteenth century (“Smells like some of the fish have been on sale since the fourteenth century,” Tess observes). Over here, the Palazzo dei Camerlenghi, where tax evaders were once imprisoned in the cellar.

In what feels like only a handful of minutes the Grand Canal narrows, and we pass under the Rialto Bridge, its span so weighted with tourists I worry it will collapse upon us in an avalanche of digital cameras, sunglasses, and carved stone. Then the canal bends and widens once more. We pass under the less burdened Ponte dell’Accademia and the course gives way to the larger Bacino di San Marco and, beyond it, the glinting breadth of the lagoon.

The vaporetto slows and turns toward the dock of Bauers Il Palazzo, our hotel. Brass-buttoned valets secure our boat, hauling our luggage inside and offering a gloved hand to Tess. Within an hour of landing we have been transported from the anonymous anywhere of an international airport to the almost unthinkable particularity of one of the finest hotels of Venice, of all Europe.

Tess stands on the dock, taking mental snapshots of the gondolas, the lagoon, the San Marco clock tower, and a stupefied me.

“Glad we came?” I ask.

“Don’t be dumb,” she answers, linking her arm around mine.

T
HE
T
HIN
W
OMAN WASN
’
T KIDDING AROUND.

“This place is
nice
,” Tess confirms, noting the polished, brown
marble floor of the Bauer’s lobby, the Bevilacqua and Rubelli fabrics draping the windows. “Who’s
paying
for this?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I confess.

Once checked in, we go up to our room to freshen up. Up to our
rooms
, that is: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an elegant living room with eleven-foot glass doors opening onto a balcony overlooking the Grand Canal.

We shower, get changed, and head up to the rooftop lounge for lunch. From our table, looking one way we can view the lagoon, looking another the whole plaza of San Marco. It is, as the tour guide boasted, the finest vantage point in Venice. And the highest.

“You know what they call this restaurant?” I say. “
Il Settimo Cielo
. Guess what it means.”

“I don’t speak Italian, Dad.”

“Seventh Heaven.”

“Because it’s on the seventh floor?”

“Give the girl a kewpie doll.”

“What’s a kewpie doll?”

“Never mind.”

Lunch arrives. Grilled trout for me,
spaghetti alla limone
for Tess. We eat ravenously, as if merely looking about us the last couple hours has earned us fierce appetites.