Something of This Time to Keep

By Clayton Van Hook

If we happen upon a person ferrying the soul of a lover from a past life, a kind of recognition may occur, often taking the form of blisteringly delicious and ungovernable attraction. A chance meeting between young Californian Dermot Foley and Parisian Anna Levet may not be as random as the pair first believes.
Their magnetic encounter soon sparks shared memories—but not of their current lives in 2013. Both sense that somewhere back in space and time their souls clung together on the very same vine. After Anna and Dermot experience glimpses from their harrowing past lives in Poland and Germany during World War II, they pursue every lead across Europe in a quest to weave the tapestry of their past incarnations. What if our lives are more than a random series of encounters and events? What if there is a grand design, after all? Debut author Clayton Van Hook engineers mysterious and enlightening historical fiction with a metaphysical twist while opening minds to Werner Heisenberg’s premise: “Not only is the universe stranger than we think, it is stranger than we can think.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clayton Van Hook
• Release date: Feb 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005649616

Clayton Van Hook

Indie author Clayton Van Hook is an off-the-grid guy in an on-the-grid world who lives in quiet dignity of the Pacific coast.

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Something of This Time to Keep

Something of This Time to Keep

A Novel

Clayton Van Hook

© 2020 by Clayton Van Hook

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Something of This Time to Keep is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning these persons are entirely fictional and do not affect the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons living and dead is entirely coincidental.

For my family.

For everyone who has stood by me.

For the warmhearted everywhere.

Preface

All sou ls are created equal. Nevertheless, some are rookies, while others have bounced around for centuries. Still, others date back thousands of millennia to the very first one—Soul Zero.

No one can be certain where souls come from or where they rest between ensconcing themselves in our ephemeral incarnations like gallbladders. Yet souls are neither of mind nor body. They carry no DNA or race, gender, tribe, nationality, religion, ideology. The soul we receive seems to have been gifted by the luck of a draw. Yet who can say? Souls are simply unfathomable.

Souls remember everything from the instant of their creation, though the pathway to these memories remains hidden from most of us. Even so, we do experience intuition and déjà vu, two vibrations capable of seeping through the imponderable barrier between our souls and the little-understood realm of human consciousness.

Most tellingly, if we should happen upon a person ferrying the soul of a lover from a past life, a kind of recognition may occur, often taking the form of blisteringly delicious and ungovernable attraction. Those fortunate enough to know this phenomenon’s heart-stopping rush may refer to the moment as being hit by a bus or falling in love at first sight, yet it is actually a much deeper well. And therefore, it follows that someone living today could very well be hosting the soul that once occupied Joan of Arc, Napoleon, Anne Frank, Einstein, or Martin Luther King.

About fifteen years ago, a respected shaman professed to have accessed three of my past lives to the extent of seeing that during my most distant incarnation I had commanded a Roman legion before perishing after falling from a great height. He spoke of me prospering as a celebrated Argentine thespian and mother of three during my subsequent life. It was said I had died most recently while storming Omaha Beach on D-Day.

You may wonder how much credence I place in such tall tales. At this writing, the jury is still out. That said, I have always feared heights, even if only standing on a step ladder to clean out leaf-laden rain gutters. I remain addicted to Latin cuisine, and when I stood knee-deep in the surf at Omaha Beach in 2007, I wept like a baby.

All souls are created equal.

Clayton Van Hook

2020

Principal Characters

American

Timothy Foley

Patrick Foley

Quentin Foley

Dermot Foley

Kate Ryan Foley

Emily Martin Bluntsch

Russian

Sergey Vinukyen

Ilya Vinukyen

Natalya Orlova

Yuri Zarubin

Larissa Polivanova

Marina Sokolovska

Yekaterina Morozova

Shamine Abbas

French

Ava [Avanti] Levet

Anna Levet

Colette

Irma Despreaux

Sylvie Crévecouer

Henri Duval

German

Wilhelm Lehmann

Liesel Lingelbach

Ernst Feuchtwanger

Rafaela Fromm

British

Alessandro Guinta

Not only is the universe stranger than we

think; it is stranger than we can think.

—Werner Heisenberg

1

Paris, 2013

I

t may not be for us to ever know why people in our lives come and go. Dermot Foley never gave a thought to the matter until coming face-to-face with the swirling forces of untamable attraction.

Surrounded by the ageless mystique of a Parisian spring, Foley stood before the stern magnificence of Notre Dame’s gothic façade. Chestnut blossoms dusted teeming sidewalks as trees of every sort exploded in new leaves. Rainbow tulips reached for the brilliant sun.

Swarms of tourists hovered near guides speaking English, German, and Japanese. Cologned with lavender, steak frites, and burning tobacco, a sedentary mélange of people dallied at umbrellaed café tables.

Pope Alexander III helped lay the first stone at the site of a Roman temple in 1163 before generations of architects and craftsmen labored 170 years to complete the flying-buttressed masterwork. Perched above its lofty monolithic doors, time-blackened gargoyles seemed to fix their verminous gaze upon Foley while a lively flock of schoolchildren funneled into the cathedral under the watchful eye of their owl-faced shepherdess.

From the shadows nearby another pair of eyes focused intently on the lanky American. As a compass needle seeks magnetic north, Foley’s head was drawn to his right. The sight of her jellied his legs, and he pulled an arm upward. Time seemed to brake—creeping like molasses—as a woman he’d never seen before drilled through him with impossibly blue eyes.

Don’t stare, he thought, look away. But he could not. Light-headed, with a dizzying desire to smile, Foley surfed a wave of nameless ecstasy beyond his understanding. Yet somehow he knew with utter certainty this woman would define the remaining days of his life and nothing would ever be the same.

She was surpassingly stunning, if not beautiful: willowy and long-branched with glistening locks that caught the light like volcanic sand. With a shoulder shrug and coquettish smile, she moved toward him in sling-back sandals with graceful strides. Well, she said scoldingly, arms crossed beneath modest breasts. If you’re not going to come over and talk to me, I guess I’ll just have to come over and talk to you.

For no reason he could think of, Foley’s words just poured out. I truly wanted to move my legs, but they wouldn’t work. Can’t recall that happening, except once when I’d been terribly overserved. M’moiselle, I must compliment you on possessing the most enchanting eyes on the planet.

You’re very kind. I’m Anna.

Dermot. Happy to meet you, Anna.

So, you’ve come to Notre Dame. Are you religious?

Not exactly. I came mostly to admire the cathedral as a testament to the intellect and technology of its time.

Been inside?

"Not today.

Would you like to go in?

Anna smiled. Actually, I’d prefer to walk—that is, if you’re able to move your legs.

Anna and Foley strolled beside the Seine, bonding in effortless conversation, spontaneous laughter, and subtle flirtation. Blissful hours seemed to pass as though they were minutes. Midway across the Pont-Neuf, the city’s oldest standing bridge, they paused to lean against the balustrade. As Foley watched the current breaking feathery-white against the piling, Anna continued to eye the alluring Californian. In manhood’s full bloom, he radiated disarming warmth from gold-flecked chocolate eyes and a beaconing smile. Unmanageable waves of dark hair tumbled to the shoulders of a rumpled sporting jacket.

I noticed you gaping at that quirky-looking fellow trying to retie his shoelace at the Compass Stone, Anna said. What’s your take on him?

Foley turned to Anna, still unaccustomed to the lure of her presence. Not sure, he said. "I recall him from the Metro yesterday. Doesn’t appear older than us, yet it seems his youth has been scraped away by life, rather like paint on a car that has been repeatedly driven too close to the wall. He sat on a side seat across from me, sort of pigeon-toed, combing out wet hair, much as a woman might do. So slight of build, bordering on frailty, there was more than a hint of bewilderment in those tired eyes, and I wondered what he was thinking. After using a rubber band to pull a ponytail tight, he brought out a small black pouch. Reminded me of my granddad, many years ago. Removing a thin cigarette paper, he masterfully rolled a joint before carefully placing it in the pouch.

Guess I take him as the kind of soul one feels sorry for without ever really knowing why. His body language seemed like that of a dog that has been generally mistreated. When you reach out to pet it, it cowers and shies away. When the train reached my stop, all I knew for certain was that he was going to light up as soon as he reached his destination. And for his sake, I hoped it was a really good blunt.

Anna stepped closer, crossing the international personal space boundary. Dermot, she said haltingly. At the risk of you thinking me a fool, I’m compelled to ask a rather weighty question.

Fire away.

Anna jotted something on the back of an envelope pulled from her pocket. As my curiosity is rather personal, it’s only fair for me to answer the same question without knowledge of your response. I’ve done so here. Yes?

I’m with you.

Okay, here we go. If I had a magic wand, I would have you share your innermost thoughts and feelings during the first moments of our meeting. Of course, if you’re not comfortable, I completely understand. After all, we just met a few hours ago.

The light in Foley’s eyes seemed to momentarily depart for a faraway place. Funny you should ask, he said. I first sensed your presence pulling me to the right, and the sight of you flat-out buckled my knees. I was overwhelmed by insanely intense attraction, and something in my very essence felt an undeniable familiarity, as if I knew you from somewhere. I even started to wave. Foley lowered his eyes before going all-in.

At the risk of you thinking me a fool, I know we have a shared past as friends and lovers. It’s rather like experiencing a wondrously vivid dream that somehow becomes unrecallable in the morning. I believe we’ve enjoyed an intimate bond. I just can’t remember it.

As Foley spoke, Anna’s face seemed to grow ever more radiant, her eyes pooling before releasing a single tear. Thank you, she whispered while passing the envelope.

Foley read her flowing cursive aloud: Somewhere back in space and time, our souls clung together on the very same vine. A shivering army of chill-bumps quaked over him. Very close now, their lips brushed together like the feathery caress from a butterfly’s wing before slow-dancing tongues twisted together.

Anna smelled of jasmine; she tasted moist and sweet as a Georgia peach. Foley rejoiced as the epic import of her words soaked in. She felt what he felt. She knew what he knew. Their souls would now cling together once more.

2

Moscow, 2013

Ilya Vinukyen arranged his six-foot frame across the smooth teak bench in his private steam room. The son of a decorated Red Army field marshal, he had used a brilliantly intuitive mind and indomitable heart to navigate the minefields of international espionage and sharp-elbowed Kremlin politics for over three decades. Now heading the FSB, Mother Russia’s state security service, Vinukyen remained ruggedly good-looking at two years shy of sixty. Unfairly green eyes dominated his strong angular face. While he was still fit, wiry, and agile, the short-cropped black hair of youth had become abundantly seasoned with salt.

Eucalyptus flavored the sultry mist as he admired Larissa Polivanova moving through her au natural yoga asana to a soothing Mozart piano concerto. Vinukyen’s loyal aide-de-camp for eight years, Larissa lived in the body of a ballerina, her delicate face shrouded in a curtain of silky gold. During her final pose, a two-minute headstand, she slowly scissored her legs. Still alive, Ilya thought as Larissa lowered herself into the lotus position, dewdrops rolling from ruby-tipped breasts.

Ready to discuss Shakespeare?¹ she said before gulping from a bottle of mineral water. As of an hour ago, he remained in a drug-induced coma at a London hospital.

Let’s be certain I have the facts straight. Last evening Shakespeare struck his wife after accusing her of infidelity. The wife told her mother. The mother told her son. The son entered Shakespeare’s home, savagely beating him with a pound of bacon. Seriously? Bacon?

I’m afraid so. The brother is a real bruiser, one of those professional cage fighters. Told police he knew better than to use his fists. Just wanted to slap his brother-in-law around a little, dissuade him from raising a hand to his sister again. Didn’t think he could do serious damage with a package of bacon.

Bizarre, tragic…yet oddly humorous in a disquieting way. I’ve pondered the problem in terms of a balancing scale. On one side rests the risk of our asset exposing his cover, identifying details of our network, being turned by the Brits. As Shakespeare is weaned from the drugs, his behavior will be unpredictable for many hours. Even though he’s the victim, any interrogation by authorities while he is recovering from the coma could be very damaging to our interests. On the other side, we must place the value of human life, his family, our investment, and loyalty to our warrior. In my judgment the scale does not balance in Shakespeare’s favor. Regrettably, the risks are too great. Have Jovanovich arrange an accident today.

3

Paris, 2013

Arm in arm Anna and Foley hustled to the Saint-Michel–Notre-Dame Metro stop, embracing as they waited, standing close together on the train even though half the seats were empty. Almost imperceptibly their hips ground together, each enraptured by the mere sight of the other.

Ten minutes found them bounding up the stairs to Anna’s third-floor Montmartre flat. Before the door closed behind them, she’d slipped from her sundress. Foley dropped his jacket to the floor, pulling a sweaty T over his head.

The sight of the other’s bare chest ignited a fumbling strip-down frenzy. Anna grabbing at Foley’s zipper while he struggled to lower her undies. At last, unencumbered by fabric, they sank to the floor intertwined, walking the razor’s edge of pent-up passions from a distant age. They fit together like Cinderella’s foot in the glass slipper; waves of unrestrained emotion washed over them—two spirits through space and time once again combined.

4

Moscow, 2013

Beneath its lofty barrel-glassed roof, Larissa and Vinukyen wandered the immense two-tier arcade of the former Soviet Union’s State Universal Store, commonly known as GUM. Though it was infamous during the Cold War era for perpetually inadequate supplies of shoddy goods, Russian-style capitalism transformed GUM into a 150-store omnibus featuring sophisticated boutiques and luxury brands such as Tiffany, Gucci, Prada, and Cartier. While Larissa dreamily window-shopped, Vinukyen people-watched while making mental notes of her favorite things.

With no particular destination in mind, they exited through iron-bound doors directly onto the sunlit Red Square. As they headed toward the bulbous domes of the cathedral of Saint Basil the Blessed, conversation flowed easily between professional and personal matters.

Their pas de deux was at once childlike in its simplicity and achingly complex, an edgy equilibrium painstakingly maintained between contrasting and integrating forces. In the workplace they teamed up to operate with impressive efficiency. Outside the ropes a rich friendship flourished, despite undeniable sexual tensions that required periodic unwinding. At thirty-nine Larissa was lost in love yet resigned to never possessing what she most desired. Vinukyen’s heart belonged to another. She knew not whom, and the name didn’t matter. Yielding to the role of surrogate, whose cantilevered adoration would never be returned in kind, she carried on, unable or unwilling to resist her irrational attraction.

Tell me about the American physicist who recently contacted M’moiselle Levet, Vinukyen said.

"I reviewed Dr. Foley’s jacket this morning. He’s an only child from a beach town in California who recently turned thirty-two. Irish-American father practices orthopedic surgery. Mother’s a retired nurse anesthetist of Italian descent.

"Foley’s believed to be a politically dormant moderate. Earned a PhD in physics from Stanford. Our people describe him as a freak of nature—that is, in a complimentary way. He’s blessed with a genius IQ, photographic memory, and unique intuitive consciousness, and he’s said to be a gifted exponential thinker: quick to tease out connections, see things others don’t, read things not yet written. Reminds me of someone I know.

Foley’s also exceptionally athletic, with an engaging, unpretentious personality. Good company. Low-maintenance. Chased hard by the CIA, he politely declined their overtures, opting to teach sparingly and consult under contract for a Toronto-based think tank. His passion seems to mirror Einstein’s: to peek inside the mind of God, to help unlock the remaining secrets of how the universe works and partake in coming up with the Holy Grail of physics, a single unified field theory of everything. Highly respected by peers, he is known for thought experiments related to string theory.

String?

"I had the same question and called Morozova.² She said the string is a theoretical framework that speculates that the elementary particles we observe are not point-like dots but rather unimaginably tiny, one-dimensional threads of energy, each vibrating in different ways as open strings or closed loops. All mass-carrying and force-carrying particles are thought to be made up of these simple strings. Unfortunately, strings don’t currently lend themselves to empirical analysis; they’re too infinitesimal. Meanwhile, people like Foley seek indirect circumstantial evidence of their existence.

"Morozova has met Foley. Said he’s a very bright, affable fellow who obsesses over questions such as why gravity is so feeble relative to nature’s other known forces. Why, for example, can a toy magnet pick up a paper clip while the gravitational field of the entire planet is pulling against it? She said gravity seems to be about a million billion times weaker than it should be. The gravity we experience may only seem feeble because most of it has been siphoned off by spatial dimensions beyond perception by our biological interfaces. Sort of like passing a bottle at a party: by the time it gets around to us, we’re left with only a few drops.

Although physicists believe their standard model explains how most known particles interact and how matter is constructed, much remains to be learned about the universe, gravity, and a range of mysterious phenomena such as dark matter, dark energy, and quantum trickery. Foley is also active in efforts to confirm the existence of a theoretical particle called the light-sterile neutrino. Although Morozova said it’s a long shot, a conclusive finding would be revolutionary.

Very interesting. Challenges one’s intellectual tenacity. So, what has Anna Levet been up to with Dr. Foley?

Hasn’t left her flat in three days. Seems they’ve been nesting in her boudoir. After all, it is April in Paris.

Rotten bastard! Vinukyen silently cursed while willing his face to remain impassive. Over thirty Aprils had run away since he arrived in Paris for his first KGB posting at the Soviet Embassy. Yes, April in Paris, he sighed. I remember it well.

5

Paris, 2013

Anna’s cozy, custard-hued flat in Rue Lamarck featured high-corniced ceilings, richly grained parquet floors, and tall French windows with peekaboo views of the distant city center and nearby Sacre Coeur Basilica. It was lovingly furnished with a potpourri of eclectic pieces, and her South African stinkwood four-poster seemed to exert its gravitational pull. Atop its feathered bed and eiderdown duvet, the lovers chattered incessantly while consuming copious quantities of French-press coffee, buttery yellow omelets, and Seine-et-Marne cheeses. They made love, rehydrated with vin rouge ordinaire , and made love again.

Common threads surfaced from world-apart backgrounds. Annabella Vivienne Levet and Dermot Patrick Foley were both sibling-less. After graduating from the Sorbonne, Anna went on to take her PhD in molecular biology from La Sapienza University in Rome and open her consultancy. Foley had earned his PhD in physics from Stanford, held an adjunct professorship at Cal Tech, and was affiliated with a think tank dedicated to theoretical physics.

On the fourth day, they reluctantly ventured out to restock Anna’s pantry and retrieve Foley’s luggage from a Left Bank hotel. Wow! Anna marveled as they entered the paneled opulence of the art nouveau lobby. You’ve been slumming it with me.

Airline miles, Foley said. A lovely place, but it pales miserably compared to Hotel Levet. And I was creeped out to hear the SS set up their Paris headquarters here during the occupation. Just as well these walls can’t speak.

Suitcases in hand, Anna and Foley couldn’t get back to the feather bed soon enough. Their thirst for each other seemed unquenchable; long-depleted wells of the soul cried out to be replenished. In the face of making up for the lost time, the rest of the world retreated into misty, frivolous oblivion.

6

I think four men have discovered Paris

for every one that discovered God.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald

Paris, 1982

During Vinukyen’s first hours in Paris, the City of Light seduced the youthful KGB officer as it had most beating hearts who had walked its charming cobbled streets and majestic boulevards. Every facet of Parisian life appealed to him, especially the women. It was as if a door to heaven