Dust

By Erik Adler

Shimmon Lehrer has given up on life. Loneliness, age and household chores have defeated him.
That's why he created Joseph.
Joseph is a golem. He looks human, but he's as strong as Hercules - and invulnerable. He's also missing a soul, so he can't speak, think or feel emotion. He has no concept of right and wrong.
Fortunately, a golem will only obey its master and, since Shimmon only wants help with the housework and groceries, what could possibly go wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erik Adler
• Release date: Sep 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370001637

Book preview

Prologue

Prague – March 1587

It began as a distant murmur.

At first it sounded like wind-driven rain and then, like a swarm of bees. But as it drew closer, it became more distinct and soon there could be no mistaking it.

Voices.

Human voices.

Angry human voices. Their words were unintelligible, but their intention was not.

The mob finally came into view when it crested the hill and began its descent down the narrow lane toward the market square.

Father Thaddeus led the unruly horde. They rumbled past ramshackle houses, waving pikes and clubs and, as they squeezed past shops and homes, they smashed doors and pitched torches through windows.

In the market, panicked vendors abandoned their carts. They grabbed what they could and scattered into side alleys.

A woman fled a blazing house, clutching a baby. A boy, clasping his skullcap to keep it from falling, ran in her wake. He leapt over a puddle, slipped and fell. When his mother stopped to help him up, they were pummelled with rocks and dung.

Just then, Rabbi Loevy stepped into the street. He halted, then turned to face the murderous throng.

The mob faltered, taken aback by the audacity of this old man and, in that brief hiatus, the mother and her children scurried for shelter.

Leave us in peace, the Rabbi said. We do you no harm.

Thaddeus laughed. Liar! Blasphemer! Son of Satan! To his followers, he added, They are all children of Satan! Deceivers every one! Murderers of Christ!

The mob roared. They threw rocks and other debris as they advanced once again.

A stone clipped the Rabbi’s brow, opening a gash. An egg splattered on his chest. But he did not retreat. He whispered a single word. Joseph.

At that, a muscular man with a calm face and expressionless eyes emerged from an alcove. Though barefoot and clothed in rags, he moved with the grace of a prince. He strode into the street and stopped beside the Rabbi.

Again, the mob faltered.

Rabbi Loevy whispered something, then walked away, leaving Joseph to face the horde alone.

A rock struck Joseph on the cheek, but he did not flinch. A shower of stones followed and still, he stood his ground.

The crowd surged forward, led by a giant who swung a pike-pole at Joseph. It splintered on impact, but Joseph remained unmoved.

The giant charged at him – to no avail. He bounced off and fell to the ground, stunned. Joseph lifted him as if he weighed no more than a feather pillow and flung him at a group of rioters.

Undaunted, the crowd attacked. Joseph flailed and kicked and easily dispatched the first half dozen men. But eventually, the numbers overwhelmed him and he was overrun by the mob.

Rage, hatred and bloodlust fuelled the ensuing chaos. In the confusion of thrashing limbs, clubs rose and fell, knives stabbed and slashed.

And then ... A man flew out from the centre of the swarm, his body twisted and broken.

Seconds later, another man, also torn and battered, flew out.

Then another. And another. One by one the scrum shrank and all around, heaps of the dead and wounded began to mount.

In the centre, Joseph continued to kick and bite and gouge at anyone within reach.

The few men left standing retreated out of range, no longer eager to engage and, for a moment, time stopped. Joseph stood in the centre, surrounded by the ring of men – an apparent stalemate. Then, one man dropped the shovel he’d been using as a weapon and fled.

Within seconds, his comrades followed.

No! Stay! Thaddeus shouted. Kill him! Kill this demon!

But the mob continued to disperse in disarray. Soon the street was empty, save for Joseph, Thaddeus, the wounded and the dead.

Joseph’s clothes were bloodied and torn, and yet, he seemed unscathed by the skirmish. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He approached Thaddeus and stared at him through leaden eyes.

Thaddeus cowered on a doorstop. He crossed himself. Hear me Lord! he cried to the heavens. Let not the ...

His words faded as Joseph raised a massive rock for the final blow.

No! Rabbi Loevy commanded. He stepped into the street and whispered in Joseph’s ear. Joseph dropped the rock.

Loevy surveyed the scene – the burning houses, the debris and the carnage. A tear slid down his cheek. He looked at Thaddeus, who was still cowering in the doorway. This didn’t need to happen, he said. He shook his head with regret and walked away. Come Joseph. We need to deal with this mess.

Joseph stared blankly at Thaddeus, then followed the Rabbi.

Thaddeus curled into a foetal position and sobbed.

Book I

Opening gambit

Chapter 1 - אחד

Montreal – September 1999

Isaac Rubin arrived six minutes early. He could have gone up to the room, but he waited. He didn’t want to appear too eager.

Most passers-by pretended not to notice him – they stole quick glances, then looked away. A couple of teenagers joked about his ZZ Top beard and a nun offered a weak smile when their eyes accidentally met. But some were not so discreet. The hotel doorman, for example, stared brazenly, and two women waiting for a bus couldn’t take their eyes off him. It’s crazy! one of them said in French. Who wears a black wool coat and hat in this heat? He’ll have a stroke!

You’d think no one had ever seen a Hassid before. Then again, in the east end of town, maybe they never had.

Of course, it was true about the unseasonable temperature, but Isaac barely noticed. He was focused on what lay ahead.

He switched his briefcase from one clammy hand to the other, then entered the hotel and hurried to the elevators. He disembarked on the eighth, relieved to find himself alone. He wiped his brow and checked his watch. One minute to go. He paced for forty seconds, then walked to a door at the end of the hall. He waited for the second hand to sweep the twelve and knocked.

The man who opened the door was tall and athletic. His face was narrow, its shape exaggerated by a high forehead, sharp nose and prominent chin. His auburn hair was feathered with grey and his eyes were a striking denim-blue. Isaac had only met him once, a year ago, in New York, and he hardly recognized him now. At that time, Uri Tabor was dressed in a posh suit and his hair had been slicked back. His demeanour had been aloof – all business. Today he wore shorts, runners and a T-shirt. His hair was tousled and a three-day growth grizzled his jaw. He looked fiftyish, but his fitness was that of a much younger man.

Uri glanced at his watch – a Patek Philippe chronograph – and smiled. Right on time. So very nice to see you again, he said. He leaned forward and peered down the hallway. You came alone?

Isaac nodded.

Good. Well, please come in. Uri stepped back to make way for Isaac. How have you been? he added, shutting the door.

The small-talk surprised Isaac – so different from their last meeting. Fine, he muttered as he started down the corridor leading to the main room. After a couple of strides, he stopped.

In front of him, on the far side of the room, stood Ivan Klepko, a bull-like man with a belligerent stance and a Clint Eastwood sneer. A scar traced a line from his ear to his chin. His nose looked like it had been broken many times. To Isaac, it was almost comical to see him there – this thug, straight from Central Casting – standing against a backdrop of delicate chintz curtains and floral wallpaper. In fact, the juxtaposition might have been funny, had it not been for the Glock he aimed at Isaac’s chest.

Isaac lowered his briefcase and raised his hands. As he did so, his sleeve rode up, exposing a tattooed number on his wrist.

Don’t be alarmed, Uri said. He approached Isaac from behind and frisked him. Satisfied, he nodded at Klepko, who lowered the gun, though his glower persisted.

I’m assuming you have it, Uri said.

Isaac nodded. He picked up the briefcase, walked it to the bed and deposited it there. With trembling fingers, he undid the latches. He raised the lid and stepped back.

There, cushioned in foam, lay an ancient golden menorah, its base encrusted with jewels.

Uri slipped on a pair of cotton gloves before lifting the candelabra from its foam bed. He carried it to the window where he held it up to the light. He tilted it one way, then another. He a-hummed approvingly. Remarkable, he said. He removed one glove and, from his pocket, withdrew a jeweller’s loupe.

Uri focused mostly on the larger gems. He a-hummed a few more times before returning the menorah to the briefcase. Very nice, he said at last. Looks like we’ve got a deal.

Uri walked to the front closet and withdrew a wooden box. He carried it into the room and placed it on the bed, beside the briefcase. Found it in Albuquerque, of all places.

The container was the size of a hatbox. The wood was dark and glossy, as if it had been treated with Tung oil. Crude engravings of Hebraic letters and mystical symbols – including a pentagram and the all-seeing eye – adorned the sides. The lid was smooth, but uneven, as though it too had once been carved with designs, but whatever these patterns might one day have been, they were now worn and indiscernible.

The seal is still intact, Uri said.

Sure enough, a blood-red seal, blackened by time, partially covered a tarnished metal latch.

Isaac’s heart boomed in his ears. The room faded away – the bed, the bureaus, Uri – even the man who still clutched the pistol. Gone. None of it mattered. He had found it.

He knelt and ran his fingers over the carved images like a blind man reading braille. He smiled. He examined the markings on the seal and his smile broadened.

Do we have a deal? Uri asked.

The words cut through the fog in Isaac’s brain. Uh … yes, I think so … There’s just … He left the sentence unfinished. From his coat he extracted his handkerchief and a glass vial filled with a dark purple liquid. He uncorked the vial, poured the liquid onto his hanky and reached for the box again.

What are you doing? Uri said, in a concerned voice. You damage it, it’s yours, he added.

I have to check, Isaac explained. With a quivering hand, he rubbed the soiled hanky across the lid. After several passes, the liquid soaked into the wood and three Hebrew letters appeared – the same ones imprinted on the seal – מעת. They spelled the word meth, which means dead.

Uri shook his head in awe. That’s impressive. What’s the liquid?

Wine.

Remarkable.

Isaac stared as the letters faded into the dark grain.

Satisfied? Uri asked.

Yes.

Then we have a deal. Let me get you a bag. Uri walked to the hall closet and returned with a padded nylon case. Do you have a client lined up? he asked as he placed it on the bed.

It’s for me, Isaac said.

Uri grinned. Planning to get creative?

At this, Isaac spun around and glared at Uri. Creative? What do you mean?

Uri shrugged. Nothing. A joke … what with the contents of the box and all.

Oh … that. Isaac forced a laugh, but it came out hollow and he let it drop.

In the silence that followed, they studied each other as they might an opponent at a high-stakes poker game. Isaac held Uri’s stare for several seconds before looking away.

You realize, of course that, financially at least, I’m getting the best of this deal, Uri said.

Then we’re both happy, Isaac responded.

No comebacks? Uri said.

No comebacks, Isaac agreed.

Chapter 2 - שנים

Montreal – December 1999

Shimmon Lehrer was cold – colder than he had ever been.

He had no idea how he’d gotten here or, for that matter, where here was.

He stood in an iridescent circle, surrounded by darkness. But it was not an empty void, like space. This blackness seethed with shadows and hollow, indiscernible whispers.

He turned and found Mina standing there, wearing her satin prom dress. Let’s dance, Daddy, she said, taking his hand.

As they whirled round and round, Shimmon noticed a stranger at the edge of the circle of light. He was tall, with chiselled features and a cold stare.

While Shimmon focused on the stranger, a bony hand suddenly lunged from the darkness and grabbed Mina’s hair. Another, from the other side of the circle, tore at Shimmon’s hip. A third gripped his ankle. A fourth seized Mina’s throat. Shimmon fought to hold onto Mina, but he could feel her slipping away.

The stranger flung himself at the intruding hands. He clawed at them, dug into them with bared teeth, ripping flesh from bone.

At this, the surrounding darkness erupted in howls. The hands released Shimmon and Mina and fell onto the stranger. Sinewy arms enveloped him. Blade-like talons slashed his face. He writhed and kicked, but the hands dragged him steadily back toward the swirling darkness.

Shimmon rushed to help the man, but an icy hand pressed against his chest, restricting his movement.

He pushed forward.

The pressure increased.

Inch by inch the stranger slid closer to the edge.

Shimmon spun around to see if Mina was all right. She was. She smiled, then vanished.

He turned back to the stranger, but he too was gone – most likely swallowed by the roiling blackness.

Shimmon tried to cry out, but pressure on his chest impeded his breathing. Was he having a heart attack? he wondered. Did he have his pills? It didn’t feel like last time, but Dr. Caron had warned him that might be the case. He gulped a breath of frigid air and felt the pressure ease, but then it returned, stronger than before. He gasped and opened his eyes wide.

That’s when he saw her – the lady with the red beret. Her pasty face loomed above him. Her lips moved, but her words were unclear. Who was she? What did she want? Why was she poking him in the chest?

The woman drew back. She spoke again, but he still couldn’t understand her. She rolled her eyes, flicked a ten-dollar-bill at him and walked away.

Wait, he called out to her, but her pace just quickened.

He sat up and looked around, trying to get his bearings. Slowly, it all fell into place. Not the dream – that just faded away – but the rest of it.

He’d gone to the park for some air and must have dozed off. In the interim, night had fallen, as had the temperature. The woman passed and, thinking he was either drunk or dead, she poked him. Though he was too disoriented to understand her at the time, he now realized she’d been speaking French. When he replayed the scene, it was clear she’d told him to buy a hot meal, obviously thinking he was homeless.

He shrugged. He wasn’t homeless, but he could still use the cash. Who couldn’t? He slipped the bill into a pocket, then reached for his chess set at the end of the bench. The pieces were arranged as he had left them. White mates in two. He packed up and headed across the street to his second-story flat.

Thirty yards from home, a man stepped out from behind a car and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, legs apart, shoulders hunched, hands buried in his pockets. He wore a long, hooded coat that barely showed the cuffs of his frayed jeans and ratty sneakers. In the recess of his hood, where his face should have been, there was only darkness.

Shimmon tensed at the sight of him. Why? What was there to be afraid of? Just a man out for an evening stroll. Keeping his pace steady, and trying to avoid eye-contact, he walked on.

As the gap between them narrowed, Shimmon edged to his right. The man moved too. His features remained shrouded in shadow and Shimmon could only make out the whites of his eyes and his crooked teeth.

"Avez-vous une cigarette?" the man said in a husky whisper. Puffs of mist formed in the frigid night air as he spoke.

I don’t smoke, Shimmon responded.

The man shrugged. A pause. T’anks you anyway, he said and he started to shuffle away.

Wait, Shimmon said. He handed him the bill he’d received from the woman.

The man thanked him in French and broken English.

Shimmon smiled and continued home.

"À la prochaine," the man called after him. Nex’ time.

"Au revoir," he responded.

When Shimmon entered the house, he kissed his fingers and touched them to a photo of Sarah, which hung in the vestibule. Sorry I’m late, he said. He dropped his coat on the living room sofa, deposited the chess set on the coffee table and shambled to the kitchen.

This room, like the rest of the house, was a disordered mess – stained floors, dust bunnies and clutter everywhere. He kept promising himself to clean it up, make the place look like it had before Sarah’s death, but he never could find the energy.

He put up the kettle, took a cup from the heap of dishes in the sink and ran a finger around the rim. Good enough. He retrieved a withered teabag from a saucer and dropped it into the cup. When the kettle howled, he poured the water and waited for the tea to steep. He returned the bag to the saucer and added a stroke to a notepad.

Shimmon reached for a newspaper from a stack on the floor. He perused the front page – another story about the Y2K bug and the impending collapse of civilization when computers crash on January first of the new millennium. There was also a local story about language rights and threats of separation … An earthquake in Pakistan … More fighting in the Balkans. The names changed, but the stories didn’t. He flipped to the only news that really mattered to him – the obituaries.

He was sad, though not surprised, to learn Harry Singer had died – funeral at Paperman’s on … Shimmon checked the date of the paper. Five days old. He’d missed the burial, but he made a mental note to call Ruthie to extend his condolences. Then he remembered she’d died nearly three years ago – or was it four?

He sighed. They were all dying – cancer, Alzheimer’s, heart attack … There was always an attributable cause, but in truth, it boiled down to one thing – age. When your time came, you died. Simple as that. He wondered when his time would come. He sometimes wished it would hurry.

He reached for his tea, but instead of drinking, he just stared at the pale liquid, lost in a melancholy stupor. He sat like that until the telephone rang.

Dad? Are you okay?

It was Mina. Of course, I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?

I’ve been calling all day. Where were you?

The park.

All day? It’s freezing!

So you’re afraid your pop might turn into your popsicle?

She groaned. I wish you wouldn’t do that.

Do what? Make bad jokes or go out for some fresh air?

I wish you wouldn’t disappear like that. I worry.

What’s to worry? he asked dismissively.

You’re no spring chicken, she said. You live alone and you’ve had a triple bypass. You’re right. What’s the worry?

I walk four miles a day and Dr. Caron says my ticker’s more reliable than my watch.

Your five-dollar digital watch? It doesn’t even tick.

So, you called to tell me to get a new watch?

She laughed. No. Just checking in. She paused and he heard a voice in the background. Be there in a sec, Mina said to whoever it was, then, I gotta go. We’re having a reading tonight and the author just arrived. I have to get him settled. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Tomorrow?

Your birthday. The big eight-oh. I’m taking you to the Jade Garden. Remember?

Of course I remember, he lied. He preferred to forget his birthday – not because he hated getting old, but because Sarah died on that day, while out getting his cake. A drunk in a stolen Porsche. What about –

I’ll pick you up early so we can go to the cemetery before dinner, she said, anticipating his question. Also, it’s Sam’s birthday on Thursday, so I was thinking, maybe we could do our shopping after the restaurant instead of Thursday.

Thursday was their regular night out – smoked meat at the Main (line-ups at Schwartz’s were too long) and groceries. Fine. I’ll cancel my meeting with the Pope.

* * *

Mina walked to the back of the bookstore. Thirty chairs had been placed in a semi-circle, facing a table where the guest author was arranging a display of his books. He stacked them in two piles and leaned a book against each, so the covers faced out. One read: Dust to Dust by Dr. Theodore M. Besner. The other, his most recent, was a brick-like tome entitled: The Migration and Assimilation of Myth: An Exploration into the Evolution and Influence of Folktales and Legends in the Formation of Cultural and Religious Identity.

He was a last-minute replacement – someone Samantha, her childhood friend and current boss, had dug up when the poet they’d originally booked cancelled. Mina hadn’t read any of Besner’s books. In fact, all she knew of him was that he’d written a best seller about fifteen years ago, but had, since then, published very little. This new book was his first in a decade.

See? I told you we’d work it out, Samantha said, coming up behind her.

We should have cancelled, Mina said, turning. She gestured at a cluster of hipsters chatting in the corner. Wrong crowd.

"Nonsense. He’s a New York Times best-selling author. We’re lucky to get him, she said. And he’s not so bad looking either," she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Not bad, but nothing special, in Mina’s opinion. He had a good face – open, with soft features that hinted at a kind disposition. He was heavy, though he carried it well. But there was a careless, rumpled look about him – the kind of guy who wears socks with sandals. His curly hair needed mowing and his trousers could use a pressing. Still, if he fixed those things, lost the dorky John Lennon glasses and the tweed blazer, he might be attractive. Irrelevant, she said. I’m off men.

Three years is long enough, no?

You’re starting to sound like Lise, Mina chided.

Lise, who wasn’t there that night, was the third member of their trio. They’d been friends since high school and, when Samantha inherited the Biblio bookstore, she’d hired her buddies to help run it. They referred to themselves as sisters, though they shared few common characteristics. Lise was brash, gregarious and big – 5’11 and nearly 250 pounds. By contrast, Samantha was clinically shy, and tiny – 4’5 and seventy pounds. And Mina was as average as they come. Average weight, height, build – almost invisible, except for her green eyes.

Three years. I’m just stating the facts, Samantha said.

You know what they say about people in glass houses?

Fine. We’ll be old maids together, Samantha conceded. Either way, you should introduce yourself and see if he needs anything. I’ll round up the natives. They’re getting restless.

Mina headed to the table. Dr. Besner, she said. I’m Mina Stroz. Thanks for coming on such short notice. We’ll start in a few minutes. Sorry about the wait.

Call me Theo, he said. And as for the weight, don’t be sorry. It’s my own fault. I eat too much.

It took Mina a second to catch the play on words, but when she did, she laughed aloud. That was quick, she said. Did you just come up with it?

No, he confessed. But I own the copyright and I figure it’s okay to plagiarize from yourself. He paused. I’ve always thought it was clever, though you’re the first to laugh.

That’s probably because unsuspecting strangers aren’t expecting you to fire a clever little quip at them, Mina said.

Quip? Theo said. Oh yes, I come fully equipped.

Mina laughed again.

I’m afraid I’m compulsive, he continued. Good, bad, or indifferent, if there’s a pun available, I can’t stop myself. I’m like an addict with a full syringe.

Well, it’s nice to inject some humour into a situation, Mina said. I’ll try not to needle you about it.

He grinned. Point well-taken.

Mina rolled her eyes. You’re incorrigible.

I thought that was pretty good, he said.

I give it a six. Maybe six and a half, she said, then added, Before we get started, is there anything I can help you with?

That depends. Are you a psychiatrist?

She raised her hands in mock surrender. Four. No, three.

Sorry, he said. I get nervous before readings and the words just spew out of my mouth.

I can get you a napkin, she offered.

He laughed. I’ll give you a seven on that.

You’re an easy marker, Mina said. But seriously. Can I get you some water, tea or coffee?

No. I’m fine.

They stood in silence while each tried to think of another witty rejoinder. When the silence got awkward he said, I like your hair.

Was he hitting on her or being sarcastic? she wondered. It was an experiment, she said. She changed her hair often, but this time she’d gone overboard. With Lise’s prodding, she’d cut it short and spiky and dyed it black, with neon-blue tips.

She’d started the hair painting after her marriage collapsed. Lise had goaded her into it. You gotta re-invent yourself. Mina tried it. Nothing crazy. Just an occasional coloured streak or braided beads.

She quickly realized re-invention required more than a new hairdo, but the affectation did mislead others into thinking she was edgier than she really was, and she liked that.

Well, it worked, he said.

What worked?

The experiment.

Oh, the hair … Really? Mina said, still doubtful.

At that moment, Samantha approached. We should get started, she said. To Theo she added, Sorry about the turnout.

Mina looked at the rows of chairs and noted that there were only seven people. As predicted, the cool crowd had left. We had a poet booked, Mina explained. I guess people aren’t that interested in poetry.

I appreciate your tact, he said, but I’m not convinced they’re interested in the migration and assimilation of myth either … Maybe, I should write a cookbook.

Now there’s a recipe for success, Mina said.

Theo Besner smiled. Six.

I’ll introduce you, Mina said. From her pocket, she drew the index card Samantha had given her and moved to the front of the table.

"Welcome to the Biblio, she began. As you’ve heard, Jason Rudner couldn’t make it tonight … but we’re probably better off. I can tell you from personal experience, he’s an asshole." There was a smattering of uncomfortable laughter from the tiny audience.

She went out with him years ago, Samantha explained to Theo in a whisper.

In his place, Mina continued, "we’re joined by Dr. Theodore M. Besner, one of the world’s foremost authorities on religious mysticism and occult folklore. He’s written six critically acclaimed books, including the New York Times best seller, Dust to Dust ..."

Chapter 3 - שלושה

Paris

Avenue Matignon bustled with tourists, strolling at a leisurely pace and stopping often to gawk at a boutique window or read a menu. Irritated Parisians, who had real things to do and no time for dallying, dodged and swerved and cursed as they manoeuvred around the dawdlers.