The Righteous Men (2006) (34 page)

Looking at it now, Will remembered his initial impression of the cathedral
when he had first arrived in New York. It struck him as vaguely ridiculous.
Despite his love of old buildings, this vast, vaulted structure, which would
have fitted in fine in Paris, London or Rome, looked absurd in the middle of
Manhattan. Sandwiched between steel and glass skyscrapers, its arched windows,
crenellated towers and heaven piercing spires were not only out of place but
out of time. They seemed to embody a kind of futility, an attempt to hold back
the onrush of modernity. This was the fastest city in the world and the
cathedral stood implacably at its centre — trying to stop the clock.

What could it mean? Beckoning Sandy to follow him, he waded through the
tourist throng and stepped inside, enveloped immediately in the deferential
hush vast houses of worship wreathe around themselves like fog. Will marched forward,
his eyes scanning for anything that might fit that message. Who was lord of the
heavens but not of hell?

He looked over his shoulder. Sandy had barely advanced from the door; he was
gawping at the impossibly high ceiling, then startled by the rebounding echo.
Clearly, he had never been in such a building before. The contrast with the
lino-and fake-panelled gymnasium that served as the Hassidim’s synagogue
had overwhelmed him. Will remembered something his father had once said, that
religious people had much in common, even when they did not share a faith: ‘The
same magic works on all of them.’ There was no doubt about it: Sandy was
moved to be here.

Will, who had gone to school and college in buildings older than this one,
was not overawed by the cold stone floors or medieval architecture. He was on a
mission, to find a lord of heaven but not of hell. He faced the Grand Organ and
then the smaller Chancel Organ. He checked out the altar and the pulpit, raised
like the crow’s nest of a ship. He examined the narrow shelves holding
glass jars for the lighting of candles, and the boxes of new ones, available
free of charge. He had a look at the small, private chapel, apparently closed
off for private ceremonies. He looked upward, to see two flags: the first
belonging to the United States, the second to the Vatican. He had no idea what
he was looking for.

He walked the length of the nave, studying the blocks of pews. He glanced up
at the loudspeakers and screens attached to the pillars. There were tapestries
with inscriptions, but no reference that might fit the message. There were
stained-glass windows with pictures of saints, shepherds and the odd serpent.
Will thought he saw an angel or two.

Hold on
. Directly above, dominating the space around, was a huge
crucifix, with a sculpted Jesus. It was picked out in strobing white light, as
tourists queued to photograph it.

Was this the lord of the heavens but not of hell? After all, the underworld
was the realm of Lucifer rather than Jesus. Maybe it was as simple as that.
Maybe he was meant to look at Jesus. But then what?

He wished TC was with him, another pair of eyes, another brain. Sandy was nice
enough, but he did not have the kind of laser observation or brainpower Will
was sure he needed right now.

Will headed for the exit, shoving a dollar bill in the glass box marked for
donations — and filled with what seemed to be the coins of a thousand
nations.

Outside, he dialled TC’s number. ‘Look, we’ve been inside the
cathedral. I’m meant to be finding the lord of the heavens but not of
hell. There’s nothing that seems to connect with that. Nothing I can see.
Yeah, I’ve walked up and down. It’s just pews, crucifix—’

He could feel Sandy tugging at his elbow. He tried to shake him off, but the
tug was persistent.

‘What is it? I’m talking to TC ‘Look.’ Sandy was
pointing, not back at the cathedral but directly across the street.

‘TC, I’ll call you back.’

They were facing the Rockefeller Center, Sandy breaking into a semi-jog so
they could get a closer look. Barely checking the traffic, he crossed the
street, Will behind him, until they were standing before it.

Or, rather, him. Even in shimmering metal, his stomach rippled, the lines of
a perfect, mythic abdomen. His thighs were enormous, each one as thick as a
bison. One leg was placed before the other, in the manner of a weight-lifter steadying
himself. Except this was no ordinary weight.

His arms were fully outstretched at his sides, curving slightly upward to
mould themselves around his load. For there, on his shoulders, was nothing less
than the universe itself, rendered as an intersecting series of circles, like
the lines of latitude and longitude that girdle the globe. On each of the metal
arcs were marked the names of the planets. They were looking at the Rockefeller
Center’s largest sculpture, the two ton statue of Atlas.

‘Behold the lord of the heavens but not of hell.’ Sandy was murmuring
the words almost to himself.

‘I can see why he’s the lord of the heavens,’ said Will. ‘But
what’s the hell thing?’

Sandy was struggling to get the words out. He was panting with exhilaration.
‘It’s a famous thing about this statue. When they did it—’

‘Yes?’

‘—they hadn’t discovered Pluto yet. So there’s no
Pluto on here.’

‘And Pluto’s the God of the underworld,’ whispered Will.
Behold
the lord of the heavens but not of Hell
. This was the right spot. He
dialled TC’s number and instantly described what he could see.

‘OK, you need to pick me up,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll
go to your apartment.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think I finally know what’s going on. And Atlas has
just confirmed it.’

T
here was no time to be
self-conscious. Even so, he could tell TC felt strange to be in this place, the
home of the man she had once loved and the woman he had made his wife. He saw
her stealing glances at the photographs, especially the wedding collage —
perhaps two dozen pictures, pressed under glass — that hung in their
kitchen.

If it was odd for TC, it was horrible for Will. He had not been back since
the day Beth went missing, visiting here only in his mind. Now he saw the
calendar, covered in Beth’s handwriting. He saw a cardigan of hers, slung
over a chair. He felt her absence so strongly, it made his eyes sting.

‘TC, you have to tell me what’s going on.’ Throughout
their journey from Central Park, from the moment they had ditched Sandy, he had
been pressing her to talk. But she was adamant.

‘Will, I’m not sure I’m right. And I know you: the moment I
start talking, you’ll run off and do something and it could be a big
mistake. We have to get this right. One hundred per cent right. There’s
no room for guesswork.’

‘OK, I promise I won’t run anywhere. Just tell me.’

‘You can’t make that promise. And I don’t blame you. Trust
me, Will. Please.’

‘So when am I going to find out?’

‘Soon. Tonight.’

‘You’ll tell me tonight?’

‘You’ll find out tonight. It won’t be me who tells you.’

‘Look, TC. Seriously. I’ve just about had it with riddles. What
do you mean, it won’t be you who tells me?’

‘We’re going to Crown Heights. That’s where the answer is.’

‘We? You mean, you’re coming with me?

‘Yes, Will. It’s about time.’

‘Yeah, that’s true, I mean it makes sense—’ Will
stopped himself. TC was staring at him expectantly. It took him a while to
realize what her expression meant. She was waiting for him to ask another
question.

‘What do you mean, “it’s about time”?’

‘Haven’t you guessed, Will? This whole weekend, everything we’ve
been doing? You really haven’t guessed?’

‘Haven’t guessed what?’

She was turning away, avoiding his gaze. ‘Oh, Will. I’m really
surprised.’

His voice rising: ‘What are you surprised at? What are you talking
about?’

‘This is very hard for me, Will. I don’t quite know how to say
it. But it’s about time I went, you know, back.’

‘Back? To Crown Heights?’

‘Yes, Will. Back to Crown Heights. I thought you’d guess ages
ago. And I’ve been meaning to say something, but the moment never felt
right. There’s been so much to think about, so much to work out. The
Hassidim, the kidnapping and … Beth. But you have a right to know the
truth.

‘So here is the truth. My name is Tova Chaya Lieberman.

I was born in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. I am the third of nine children.
There’s a reason I know this world, Will. I’ve always known it,
inside out. It’s my world. These crazy Hassidim? I’m one of them.’

W
ill could say nothing. He sat
pressed against the back of the sofa, as if pinned there by a fierce wind. He
listened hard, his mind trying to absorb everything TC was saying. But it was
also racing, rewinding wildly through the events of the last forty-eight hours,
seeing each moment in a new light.

And not just the last forty-eight hours, but the last five or six years.
Every experience he and TC had shared now looked utterly, entirely different.

‘You saw those families with a dozen children. That’s what my
family was like. I was number three and there were six more after me. Me and my
older sister, we were like mini moms: cleaning and preparing meals for the
babies from the day we were old enough to do it.’

‘And did you, you know, look like that?’

‘Oh yes. The whole business: long dresses brushing the floor, mousy
hair, glasses. And my mother wore a wig.’

‘A wig?’

‘I never explained that to you, did I? Remember, the women with “unnaturally
straight” hair you saw, and how they all seemed to wear their hair in the
same style? Those were
sheitls
, wigs worn by married women as an act of modesty:
they’re only meant to show their real hair to their husbands.’

‘Right.’

‘I know you think it’s weird, Will, but what you’ve got to
realize is, I loved it. I lapped it all up. I would read these folk tales in
the
Tzena Arenna
, old legends of the Baal Shem Tov—’

Will turned his face into a question mark.

‘The founder of Hassidism. All these stories of wise men journeying
through the forest, paupers revealed as men of great piety and honoured by God.
I loved it.’

‘So what changed?’

‘I must have been about twelve. I would doodle in my exercise books a
lot. But at that age I started surprising myself with what I could do. Even I
could see the drawings were becoming more elaborate and, you know, quite good.
But there were so few pictures to look at. You see, ultra-orthodox Jews are not
that big on graven images. There were hardly any around. And then, one day at
sem — sorry, seminary; kind of the girls’ school — I found
one of those “Introduction to the Great Painters” books. On
Vermeer. I stole it and hid it under my pillow. I’m not kidding, for
months I would wait till my sisters were asleep and then, under the covers, I’d
stare at these beautiful pictures. Just staring at them. I knew then that’s
what I wanted to do.’

‘You started painting.’

‘No. There was never any time. At sem, it was just study, study,
study. Holy texts. At home I had to clean, cook, change diapers, play with the
baby, help the younger ones with their homework. I shared my room with two
sisters. I had no time and no space.’

‘You must have gone out of your mind.’

‘I did. I’d dream every day how I could get out. I wanted to go
to the Metropolitan Museum. To see the Vermeer. But it wasn’t just the
painting.’

‘Go on.’

‘I know this sounds funny, given what I’m like now, but I was
really good at religious studies.’

‘No, sorry, I don’t find that surprising at all.’

‘I was top of my class. I found it easy. The texts, all those multiple
meanings and cross-references, they just seemed to open up to me. Once a rabbi
told me I was as good as any boy.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I was furious. It was like, girls are only meant to go so far. Once
you’re seventeen or eighteen you become a woman — and that means
getting married, having babies, keeping house. Men could carry on at the
yeshiva
forever, but girls were only allowed to acquire the basics. Then we had to stop.
Those were the rules. Five Books of Moses, a bit of Gemara maybe. That’s
a kind of rabbinic commentary. But that was it.’

‘So all this kabbalah, you never studied that.’

‘Wasn’t allowed. Only men over forty can even look at it, remember.’

‘Christ.’

‘Exactly. You know me, if there’s a forbidden zone, I want to go
there. I found the odd book among my father’s things, but I knew I couldn’t
do this on my own. I needed a guide. So I asked Rabbi Mandelbaum.’

‘Who?’

‘The one who told me I was as good as a boy. I told him I wanted to
study. I came to him with all the relevant texts that proved I had the right,
as a woman, to know what was in those books.’

‘And did he agree? Did he teach you?’

‘Every Tuesday evening, a secret class at his house. The only other
person who knew about it was his wife. She would bring a glass of lemon tea for
him, a glass of milk for me and rugelach, little pastry cakes, for both of us.
We did that for five years.’ She was smiling.

‘What happened?’

‘He got worried. Not for his sake — he was too old to care what
people thought — but for me. I was approaching “the age of marriage”.
He told me, “Tova Chaya, it would take a very strong man not to feel
threatened by so learned a wife”. I think he was worried that he had
ruined me: that, thanks to him, I would not be happy keeping house. I wouldn’t
be a good wife like Mrs Mandelbaum. He had lifted my sights. In a way he was
right.’

‘But he needn’t have worried; by then I had planned my escape. I
applied to Columbia; I gave a PO Box address so that no one would see the
correspondence. I applied for tons of scholarships, so that I could afford a
room. I presented myself as an independent adult; as far as the college were concerned,
I had no parents.’