God's Will Be Death

By Hugh Werister

World famous cognitive scientist John Paulus, inspired by a Spanish short story, practices magical conjurations in order to bring about the death of his wife, Claire. After Claire dies in a house fire set by someone else, Paulus is convicted of murder and jailed, first in a high security penitentiary, then in Penetanguishene’s notorious facility for the criminally insane. However, thanks to the condemned man’s son, Sasha, hope is in sight towards the end. Shades of Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus, Paulus’s pact with the devil, re-told through National Weekly News releases, provides the black-humour framework to this otherwise starkly realistic tale of a miscarriage of justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aguilar Press
• Release date: Nov 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9780991728312

Book preview

God's Will Be Death

by Hugh Werister

Published by Aguilar Press

Toronto, Mexico City, Madrid, Paris, Berlin

www.aguilarpress.com

ISBN 978-0-9917283-1-2

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 © Ernest Werister

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you.

Table of Contents

Marriage and Divorce

Real Estate and Marital Squabbles

Renovation

Deception

Adultery, Love, and Sex

Drinking and Driving

Student Grievances and Parenting

The Family Archive

Kama Sutra Sex and Jealousy

Son Sasha, his Mother's Clan, and Deadbeat Husbands

Ojalá te Mueras

Maple

A Feminist Saga

In Jail

Fame and Infamy

Loveologists

The Night of Claire's Death

Escape Strategists

The Schizophrenic

Pact with the Devil

Penetanguishene

Miscarriage of Justice

Postscript by Sasha Paulus

Marriage and Divorce

That's how it started:

I jumped the gate, then stood amazed: a riot of birds burst from the half-rotten elm trees on either side. They gradually fell into line, forming an undulating carpet of dots, wavelike, settling into a field marked by cow dung and outcrop stone. All chirping had ceased. There was deep silence now as I headed towards the burnt-out house which had caught my eye from the road.

I forced my way through high grass, thistles, and shrubs, then stopped to look at the hollowed-out window frames glaring at me like eyeless sockets. Inside them, I could make out a crisscross of beams, the skeletal remains of a charred staircase threatening to come crashing down at any moment, as well as a jumble of half-burnt clothes drooping from hangers in an open wardrobe.

Stepping back, my heel hit rotten wood.

I spun around. There was a circular lid of planks, their edges barely covering the field stones underneath. It fell apart as I pulled it up by its iron handle. Two outer planks stayed put; the middle one barely held on to a crossbar by long rusty nails. A single piece fell off and tumbled down the black hole. A splash reported that the piece had reached bottom.

One step further and I might have broken through the rotten planks and fallen into the well!

Shaken by my fantasy, I lay down to stare into the gaping hole. Rings of field stones formed almost perfect spirals that seemed to widen as they gyrated downward. Below shone a circle of water, reflecting the silhouette of my skull. Next to it floated the rotten piece of wood, immobile now, as if encased in a magic mirror. Suddenly, the fragment was tossed about in the churning waters. Several snakes had attacked the intruder. I watched spellbound.

John! Where are you? Joooohhhhnnnn!

Claire's strident voice jolted me out of my reverie.

John! Get back here! Now!

Her voice sounded angry, petulant.

Scrambling to my feet, I watched her heading towards the car which I'd parked further down the road. Would she drive off, leave me behind, and return an hour later to play her mommy-forgives-you tricks?

Claire, wait! I shouted.

There was a smirk on her face as I approached the gate.

Claire, you must come up! The view! You've never seen anything like it. Breathtaking!

That's the kind of language she'd use, and I hated myself for parroting it. But I did so for a reason. Running towards her, a vague plan had taken shape in my mind. Bringing her up to admire the ruin would be a first step.

Also, there was no question: the view from up there, little attention that I'd paid to it, was extraordinary. Spanning the western horizon, Serpentine Lake, ablaze from the setting sun; northwards, a dozen tall, wind-bent jack pines raising their unkempt heads into the orange-blue sky; two dozen cows on a distant southerly slope seemed close enough for a Gulliver's hand to pick them off one by one; eastward, the darkening silhouette of a big forest, several cottages of the surrounding Reserve nestled into its margin.

We're trespassing! Claire warned.

But her nagging tone told me she was willing.

It's your fault if we're arrested, she added, defensively.

Anyway, Claire was ready: ready to scale the gate; ready to burst into girlish giggles when, in helping her down, I put one hand around her shoulder, the other up her crotch; ready to bounce up the trail I'd carved earlier, towards the open well. Claire, watch out! I screamed.

I was several steps behind her. She stopped, stared down the well, uttered a scream, then turned around, her body shaken by sobs. I took her in my arms. Seconds later, she raised her head from my shoulder, once again focused her mascara-besmudged eyes on the well, let them swerve along Serpentine Lake, then turned them on the ruin, before starting to curse it all—the idiotic picture-book cows, the orange sky, and, above all, the damned ruin.

I never want to see this wretched place again, she announced.

Her voice had resumed its habitual querulousness.

What are you staring at? Let's go, she commanded, walking away.

I was still looking at the hollow-eyed, burnt-out ruin, when suddenly, mysteriously, a few Spanish words nudged my mind, words I couldn't conjure up, hard as I tried.

Real Estate and Marital Squabbles

Within seconds of breezing into the kitchen, where her husband Ricardo and I sat talking, Mrs. Marion Mannheim reminded me of Vera. She cast me a quick penetrating glance, mumbled an apology for having to run another errand, casually tossed her blazer onto a sofa, then settled down at a small desk, gazing at a letter she had pulled out of a pile. Vera all over again, only some fifteen years older: the glistening legs crossed with geometric precision, the back straight to give prominence to her breasts and buttocks, the head tossed back, the eyelids drooping. —

Vera, the first great love of the teenage freshman who looked up to this mature and obviously experienced woman; Vera, always choosing the same seat by a window in the empty auditorium, gazing at the old lecturer, and once in a while taking notes with a big black fountain pen she otherwise caressed with her beautiful lips. For weeks I'd attended the same lectures only because of her, occupying various seats around her, the determined beast closing in on the enchanted princess. Meanwhile, Vera had simply followed her habitual routine as if I didn't exist. Yet never once had she frowned at or avoided me. So one day, a Friday afternoon, I sat down beside her, my heart collapsing in my chest, stuttering: Could I take you out for coffee—or a drink perhaps?

Why not, she replied, smiling at me before refocusing on the old professor.

That same night we made love, her eyes open and distant, yet her body clinging to mine as if she wanted to keep me inside her forever. —

The bastards shot it point blank from the bush. It was my only male yak. So my stock will probably die out. I used to fly them in from Tibet, but that's recently become impossible.

Daydreaming about Vera had made me lose track of Mr. Mannheim's narrative. How had he ended up raising a herd of some two hundred buffalo and yaks? In reply, Mr. Mannheim had talked for a good half hour. Obviously, he liked to explain and make sense of things. Everything happened for a reason, nothing by accident. Later in our friendship, he'd occasionally flare up at my not remembering a specific story he'd already told me about.

I'm not telling stories, he'd protested. I'm talking about facts. —

Suddenly Mrs. Mannheim was back. I noticed she'd put on perfume.

The professor wants to buy your ruin, Mr. Mannheim announced, after introducing us.

Through the county clerk I'd found out they were the owners.

Telepathy, she said, quietly looking at me. Just yesterday I talked to some local real estate people about putting it up for sale.

But why? her husband wanted to know.

Prices are up. Way up. And you know how I feel about the place.

Feel about the place? I echoed Mrs. Mannheim.

Some local hicks like Peach believe the place is haunted, her husband explained, firmly planting his elbows on the tabletop and interlacing his fingers. Peach's cousin Glen Eagle even claims to have seen a ghost hover inside one of its upper windows. I have repeatedly seen him watch the windows with binoculars from his shack across the eastern fields.

Haunted or not, Mrs. Mannheim interjected, it's been burnt down twice already, the second time shortly after we bought it. Probably by the same Natives.

"By your ghost-story tellers. It's their way to devalue the house so they can pick it up cheap themselves. And you fall for it. You got your insurance money, didn't you? So why worry about it? Once fixed up, it'll be the mansion in the entire county. And the view: just fantastic. I guess you've been up there."

I nodded.

Somehow the two were performing like actors on stage.

To tell the truth, I wouldn't mind living there myself, Mr. Mannheim added.

You'd have to do so by yourself, said Mrs. Mannheim, turning to me with another smile.

So why not let me take over, ghosts and all? I said.

Depends on the price, Mrs. Mannheim replied.

What are you asking?

Eighty-five thousand.

For a ruin? I burst out.

Mrs. Mannheim looked at me silently before answering. There's a hundred forty acres. The roof's been done, the septic tank and the well both work.

Eighty-five thousand is simply beyond my means, I confessed. After all, I'll have to spend at least twice as much fixing it up.

I'd take back a mortgage, she said.

She's playing cat and mouse with me, I thought, deciding to remain silent.

Say at 4% for five years, amortization twenty-five years, or whatever shorter period you want.

I'd checked on the going rate the day before. It was 6.5% for a twenty-five year mortgage.

What kind of down payment would you want? I asked her.

Whatever you like, she replied. You have tenure, don't you?

I nodded.

My lawyer will want to see a salary statement, of course. Anyway, here's his card. In case you want the place, give him a ring. It's the second name: Mr. Mitchell. But enough of that for now. How about staying for dinner?

I'd be delighted. —

Three days later, we closed the deal at Mitchell's office.

I hope we'll be able to stay in touch, I said to her as we were heading towards the parking lot.

She gave me a blank stare, slightly wrinkling her brow. But then a bemused smile returned to her face.

Here's my card, she said. I run a car dealership. Not too far from where you teach. Come visit. I'm there Monday through Friday. —

A few days later, Claire and I took a ride around the countryside in my Volvo. Supposedly to look for real estate. Soon we were having one of our by now habitual Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf-type conversations.

You're paranoid, that's all, she told me.

She was in one of her buoyant moods.

Your grand schemes: they're nothing but amplified private obsessions. And this latest one is downright scary, I'll tell you. I'd keep it to myself, or people will think you've lost it. You've got trouble enough as it is.

I should have known better than to tell her about my recent run-in with our faculty's equity officer. Though she sometimes gave me useful advice, Claire always had to stick it to me later.

Have you noticed how you scare people? she resumed. "I have. At parties. Once you get going, people inch away from you. You talk to them about this one, they'll think you're rewriting Mein Kampf. You might as well join the Christian Coalition. And why not? In your dotage, you'll turn religious anyway."

"Have another beer, Claire, and get really angry," I told her.

Me angry? I beg your pardon. I'm not angry. That's your domain. Even your friends know that.

We were sitting at our narrow kitchen table, the tightest spot in what Claire kept referring to as our cramped apartment. Without turning around, I'd opened the fridge behind me, grabbed two more beer bottles, cracked them open, and placed them on the table between us.

Have one, I insisted.

To my surprise, she took it. The game was still on.

Listen, I told her. I'm no Pat Robertson. Nor am I Adolf Hitler. There's no such thing as a world-wide corporate conspiracy headed by the International Monetary Fund, or any such nonsense. But since '89, things have gotten amazingly streamlined. I'd call it a consortium, i.e. an association of states and companies, including banks and major corporations. The guys who run the world's monetary transactions. They may not conspire, but they do consult with each other. And at the top levels, they all know each other personally.

Before I forget. Did you phone Deussen about that farm?

I did. Too expensive. I'll tell you in a minute.

Sorry I interrupted. Go on.

Claire started to leaf through the local paper.

You're not listening anyway.

That's what you think. I'm quite capable of running through the for-sale ads while listening to you. Somebody's got to get us out of this rathole! Go on! 'And at the top levels, they all know each other!' See?

I've lost my thread now.

You never had one, Claire retorted.

Quick repartee was something she was good at and proud of.

That's what you think, I continued. Take the Mexicans threatening to default on their debt. That was well before '89, you realize. I've just finished reading Joseph Kraft's book about that.

I'd like to see it, Claire said without looking up from the ads. Who published it?

I don't know how she managed. I knew all her shenanigans inside out, and still got sidetracked by them.

She must have noticed.

I am sorry. I shouldn't interrupt. Go on.

To make a long story short, the Mexican debt crisis was a real turning point, the consortium offering last minute aid in the form of a several billion dollar package, the Mexican government offering to enforce the IMF austerity program, and the taxpayers on either side picking up the tab. It's a formula that's been played out ever since.

Misera plebs contribuens. What's new? Claire asked rhetorically. She'd taken a year's Latin at university, and liked to let it hang out from time to time.

It's a process controlled by the same hundred or so people world-wide. That's what's new. It affects the third world peasant, who will be tortured to death if he rebels, as much as it affects taxpayers like you and me. That's what's new.

Even if one were to admit that you're right, which I don't, what would you do about it? Write another book nobody will read?

Before I could reply, Claire briskly put a circle around an ad, flipped around the paper, and shoved it under my nose.

I think you should check out this one. I'd do so myself, but I'll be working until three tomorrow, and then I have meetings until late afternoon, Claire told me.

Anyway, the farm costs $199,000.00. But I'm working on a new deal, I replied.

As long as you don't make any decisions without me.

I wouldn't dream of it, Claire.

Renovation

Ricardo couldn't agree more. To block off a beautiful structure like my fieldstone well? Out of the question! Ricardo advised iron grates. He knew a guy across Serpentine Lake who did solid work. I had reason to trust his suggestions. Two of his guys, Tom and Dean, were hammering away inside the house as we talked.

But on this one I had to go against Ricardo. Claire liked things simple and tasteful, and I'd have to