The Uncomfortables

By Gates Whiteley

Down Below (also known as Hell), chaos reigns. Junior devils, Ishtar and Scabrous, have failed in their efforts to control the life of their patient, Jack. As punishment, they are transformed into hounds for mortal combat. To escape and avoid execution for their failures, these devil dogs seek refuge in the Harrows.
Since Noah's Flood, the Harrows has been a refuge for those excluded from heaven and hell. In the desert lands of the Harrows, a spring flows at the place where a mysterious itinerate Jewish preacher appeared long ago. The occupants of the Harrows are warned not to drink from the constantly flowing spring.
In 1979, Jack arrives in isolated West Berlin to fulfill his ongoing responsibilities as executor of his murdered wife Sarah's estate. Intent on repatriating Sarah's collection of Nazi stolen art, Jack is distracted by a former lover, Aydin.
Aydin flees from the clutches of her crazed uncle, who, intent on effecting an honor killing, has killed Sarah by mistake. In West Berlin, Jack must stay a step ahead of criminal forces intent on seizing Sarah's art while dealing with Aydin, who has machinations of her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Jan 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666758047

Gates Whiteley

Gates Whiteley is a retired attorney, deacon, and teacher. His prior works include Percy: Life as a Runaway & Hobo; William: The Man, The Myth and The Mafia; and The Uncomfortables, a title he borrowed from a Sunday School class he taught for over twenty years. He and his wife, Joan, live in San Antonio, Texas.

Book preview

The Uncomfortables

1

On a Tuesday morning, just after eleven, I left my Berlin hotel. When I reached Victoria Park, I headed for the eastern gate. From there, I hurried north to a street named Bergamannstrasse and waited impatiently for the light to change. Drizzling rain made cobwebs on my shoulders, and I wished I had a raincoat instead of the light wool jacket I wore.

Heading east, I passed two men and a woman sitting on steps outside a club, their long hair lank with the drizzle. I could smell stale cigarette smoke and the stench of spilled beer and wine through opened doors. A little further on, I came to a corner, turned left, and found the entrance to Anna’s bookshop. Checking my wrist, I was relieved to see I had arrived with two minutes to spare.

Above a glass door, the large sign said, BUCHHANDLUNG—Akademisch, Selten und Erstausgaben. Below the doorbell, a small plaque read, English Spoken. I tried the door, but it would not open. Then I saw the Closed sign and rang the bell.

Through the door, I could see a round oak table resting on an oriental rug surrounded by shelves of books. A woman appeared from this clubby setting, waved at me, and headed for the door. Her blonde hair in a bun, and reading glasses perched on her nose, she looked to be in her late 40s. She introduced herself as Anna and invited me inside.

The tinkling of a bell signaled the closing of the door. After locking it, Anna led the way to a desk at the end of the room. Offering a chair, she began with light conversation, telling me about her father’s bookshop. I was glad for the delay and began to relax until I realized how uncomfortable the chair was. We talked a few minutes more before she asked me where I was from.

I thought you knew, I said. I’m from Texas.

I’ve met a few Texans, Jack, but you don’t have an accent.

I almost laughed. Instead, I asked Anna where she had learned her English.

Anna smiled, "After the War, when the schools reopened, we had English drilled into us. Kriegskinder, they called us kids, but I wasn’t one. Both my parents survived the War."

And your father’s bookshop, I see.

Anna shook her head. What you are sitting in has been rebuilt.

And all your books? How did they survive the bombing?

My father had the foresight to move all his books to the basement. This was before 1945 when almost everything was destroyed. But you didn’t come here for my history of the War, Jack. How can I help you?

I need to prove the ownership of art that belonged to my wife, Sarah. Some people claim the German Government stole the art in the late 1930s. My lawyer, a man named Matthews, said you had some notebooks that might shed light on the issue.

Anna nodded and reached for a notebook lying on her desk. I saw on the cover an eagle whose talons held a wreath with a swastika in the center. The Nazi symbol all the world still hated.

When the alleged heirs contested Sarah’s ownership, all I thought about was trying to save her art. When the court ruled in favor of Sarah’s estate, I felt justice had been served. Now, for the first time, I had second thoughts.

Jack, I may have some good news for you. Anna’s voice had changed, and her gray eyes were filled with excitement. I nodded and tried to clear my mind. There was someone she wanted me to meet. A strange little man, she said, who might be helpful to our cause.

His name is Yunus. He says he came with his parents to Berlin when Germany began to see Islam as politically significant. If you remember your history, you know that Hitler sought Islamic nations as allies. I know this sounds strange Jack, but his story did check out.

I confessed I didn’t know that history. Anna pressed on while I stared at her notebooks and tried to fight off a growing sense of dread.

During the war, Anna said, many immigrants to Germany were Turkish Muslims. Like Yunus’ father, most were industrious and well-off. Yunus’ education eventually led to his becoming a fine art dealer. What’s interesting is that Yunus was also an acquaintance of Gurlitt.

Gurlitt? Who’s that? I asked, rejoining the conversation.

The ringleader of the Goebbels Commission. In 1937, Hildebrand Gurlitt, and some other dealers, raided our museums. They seized modern, abstract art that Hitler didn’t like. They even called it degenerate. Some of it was stored in a warehouse that once stood not far from where you and I sit, Anna said.

I recognized the name Goebbels. Anyone who lived during WWII had heard of that maniac.

From what I can determine, Yunus had no direct connection to the Goebbels Commission, Anna continued. Our government regards him as a friend, and he has been instrumental in recovering several of the lost works.

According to Anna, even the Monuments Men had hailed this Yunus as a legitimate dealer. I hadn’t planned to keep all of Sarah’s art and needed an expert to appraise the collection. Maybe this Yunus could help.

§

Standing at the front door of Yunus’ home, I saw at least two stories. Counting the attic and the basement, if there was one, this was a huge house. In the lot next door, neatly arranged piles of WWII rubble, still around after more than thirty-four years, made me wonder how the house had survived. Across the street, smoke rose from the one remaining chimney of what, before the War, must have been a swanky residence. Anna said it was likely the current occupants were squatters. I had balled my hand into a fist to knock when the door opened.

If it were Yunus, standing in the doorway, he was about eighty, maybe a few years more. Thick white hair, worn long and combed straight back, could not have seen the scissors of any barber in months. A pointed nose, large and pink, sat between two deep-set eyes glinting below bushy eyebrows. Eyes that sparkled like diamonds.

Without a word, he led us through a paneled vestibule, over tile flooring, past coat hooks, with an umbrella stand. In a large foyer that appeared to have been made into an office, a wide, cluttered desk stood against a far wall. To our right, a worn brocade couch, grouped with a wingback leather chair, sat on a threadbare oriental rug. To our left, two hallways met—kind of weird, like a house inside a house. The hall on our left ran a good distance, parallel to the front of the house. Windows that seemed so welcoming outside were shuttered, allowing only faint traces of light. The hall in front of us ran to the back of the house and had a stairway leading up. If art of any value lurked somewhere in this decadence and neglect, I had yet to see it.

Yunus stood staring, his stout figure facing us. Then he asked us to sit. I take up more room than most, so the brocade couch was barely big enough for Anna and me. Slowly, shuffling his feet backward, Yunus came to rest in the wingback leather chair with a sigh. His voice crackled in sharp, dry sounds, asking if he might have the pleasure of knowing the nature of our visit.

Anna spoke first, introducing me. She said I owned several pieces of art whose provenance had been challenged. I thanked Yunus for taking the time to meet with us. Yunus’ response was a long time coming. To fill the silence, Anna apologized for the interruption and asked if we should withdraw and come another day.

At last, he spoke. Pursing small, wrinkled, red lips, he said he was pleased to be of service. From somewhere in the gloom came a large white handkerchief. Dabbing his rheumy eyes, then his nose, he leaned forward into the meager light. His fleshy jowls quivered when he spoke, and his round, expectant face showed a sadness I recognized.

Is there something else?

§

Sarah’s art arrived at Berlin-Tegal airport a few days after I did. Forty pieces her father, Jake Tinsley, bought in 1941 were placed on easels in the hotel conference room I had rented. Even before Yunus started his appraisal, I began to regret what I had done. Why had I come to Berlin in the first place? Why hadn’t I been satisfied with the verdict of the trial court? With the statute of limitations, it seemed unlikely any claimant would prevail, even on appeal.

At first, I had no answer to the question—why, I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Then, I thought about what Sarah would have wanted. She would have insisted we do everything possible to prove the art belonged to her. If Sarah had been alive, and we were wrong, I was sure she would have wanted the art returned. And Matthews said this was the best way. All I had to do now was surrender to the process.

Yunus’ stout figure was wrapped in a long, dark cloak that hung to his ankles; his shoes were scuffed and worn down at the heels. An aged, portly bon vivant, I thought. As he walked in front, his frayed trouser cuffs dragged along the floor. Holding a magnifier, Yunus began with the closest work at hand. Lifting each frame, he turned it to examine the back of the work while asking Anna to make a written entry in her notebook. He moved steadily, pausing only briefly to assess the date and signature on each piece.

Anna was eager to assist. Her slender frame in a smart gray suit with a yellow and gray print scarf around her neck and her head turning quickly from Yunus to her notebook reminded me of a nervous sparrow. The old man stopped to gaze at one of the works from Sarah’s collection done in vivid colors by Otto Lange. One I had not wanted to bring.

Is there a special notation you wish for me to make? Anna asked.

Shaking his head, and with a wave of his hand, Yunus dismissed her question. Irritably, I thought. He continued his examination of the Lange, using his magnifier to examine the back of the work. When I saw Yunus’ hands trembling, I suggested we take a break.

After Yunus finished his examination, we parted with the understanding that he would complete his appraisal within a week. Yunus barely acknowledged our presence when we said goodbye. He had withdrawn into a protective shell that we could not penetrate.

Anna’s bank offered a vault to secure Sarah’s art. I had never seen anything like it. We walked through a door that must have been a foot thick and found ourselves in a ten-by-ten-foot safe. We were told the room used to contain safety deposit boxes. After witnessing the transfer of the art under guard, Anna and I returned to her bookshop and began our examination of her notebooks. There were two, with the Nazi symbol on each cover. Her father acquired them during the War and made Anna promise never to give them up.

I began to leaf through the pages lined with columns. The first column listed the name of the work. The second showed the name of the artist. I saw either the crime scene or the victim’s name in the third column. Next to this column showing the names of museums and private owners were listed the names of art dealers. Gurlitt’s name was predominant among them.

Anna, how many are we talking about?

Jack, if you are asking how many are listed, there are approximately 20,000 entries in the two notebooks.

Twenty thousand? This was going to take forever.

Anna, help me understand. You’re saying there are 20,000 stolen works listed in your notebooks, and they were either stolen from museums or private owners?

Yes. Goebbels’ Commission was very thorough.

And this fourth column showing the names of art dealers means what?

It means they received the stolen art on consignment to sell and finance the war effort. Anna smiled, but of course, most of the proceeds were kept by Gurlitt and his friends.

Just as I was about to ask how they got away with that, Anna told me most of the stolen art was shipped out of Germany and eventually wound up in private collections or museums.

Like Jake Tinsley? I wondered.

With Anna’s help, and Jake Tinsley’s paperwork, I figured out how to recognize Sarah’s art if any showed up. The postings on the first few pages were all written in the same hand and I was making good progress until the handwriting changed. I stopped reading and flipped through some more pages. Many different hands had made these postings.

A week passed. Paging through more than 20,000 entries, one at a time, we had traced a half dozen of Sarah’s works, and not finding them meant Sarah’s art was passing muster. It was tedious work, and we took frequent breaks to rest our eyes. Usually, we did not work through lunch. Occasionally, I glanced at my lifeline—her father’s paperwork that Sarah had saved—receipts, letters of authentication, and so on. I began to feel confident this would all work out fine just before the first blow came.

It’s a Picasso, Jack, Anna said and looked sad.

Anna took off her readers and set them on a page in her notebook. She said she was sorry. Before she went on, I nodded and said it was okay, but that was a lie. It was not okay. I had come 4500 miles to prove the art belonged to Sarah.

When I agreed to come to Berlin, Matthews never said anything about losing it. He was upbeat and told me I was doing the right thing. He agreed that this was what Sarah would have wanted. Then it hit me. What did Jake Tinsley know? He bought the art in the 1940s, during the War. So how did the art get to New York? And how much did Sarah know?

No, that’s stupid thinking. If Sarah had known, she would have already done what I was doing.

It’s getting late, Anna, I said. I needed to get away and have some time to myself. At least six of Sarah’s forty works were in the clear. Maybe, just maybe, this thing would not be as bad as it seemed.

Back at my hotel, I had a few cocktails before dinner, then a few after. I was pretty far under when I learned my nightmare knew how to swim.

Outside, on the lawn. Useless pistol. Voices. Neighbors. Jack! Are you hit? Jack, what about Sarah? Jack, can you hear me? I could hear. Did someone call the police? I could hear him too. My God, Jack! You’re bleeding. But it’s not my blood. It’s not mine.

§

On his worktable rested a magnifier, ruler, pens and pencils, art histories, and guides—tools from a lifetime of deceit well documented by his collection of photographs. Hundreds, Yunus knew, though he had never counted them. On the back of the photograph he held, the RO written in his hand marked the piece as a Rothschild that Reichsmarschall Goering had not wanted.

Then again, Goering had done his part to try and save the best of the modern works. Unlike the Nazi troops who seized the so-called degenerate art, Goering had paid for most of the paintings he acquired. It was the only way, Hofer said, that made it possible for him to work for Goering.

Yunus smiled at the irony. After being declared degenerate, Karl Hofer’s works were seized by the Nazis. Things had been very difficult for his old friend until he learned of Goering’s desire for the moderns.

Yunus’ mind went back to that day in March 1939. In the courtyard of the old fire station, the thousands of works Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, had publicly ordered burned. He had been silent then and over the years about that deception and the burning that never happened. Let them think I am willing to burn, and they will come flocking to buy, Goebbels had said.

They had not come, at least not in great numbers, but enough had been sold to bring this new trouble into his life. He had done the appraisal, and the money was good. Now, if the young man and this pious bookseller would just go away. During the war, he had done what he was required to do. Far better now to let the past remain dead.

§

Outside the damaged mansion, smoke curled in slender threads from the one remaining chimney. Inside, the man stirred the embers in the fireplace, added a few logs, and stoked the fire. Again, there was nothing to report. The old man had not left his home since that day at the airport. No visitors, no deliveries, nothing to raise interest or alarm. Walking upstairs to wake his relief, his body ached for sleep.

§

After Picasso, the next discovery was a hammer blow. We were sitting at her old oak table in the middle of Anna’s bookshop. I stared at the entry in Anna’s notebook, a work by Paul Klee. Then I heard Anna groan. Now it was three. Why did I let Matthews talk me into this? I could have stayed home and never known the truth.

Suddenly, the door to Anna’s shop opened, the bell rang, and two well-dressed men stepped inside. This was unusual. We had seen only a few book lovers on an average day. None looked as official as these two. Anna rose to greet her visitors, whispering to me to cover the notebooks. While her figure blocked their view, I piled on the papers of Jake Tinsley’s provenance and hoped that would be enough.

Their conversations were in German, and I couldn’t understand a word, but I could feel the tension. Anna’s voice was controlled; she spoke with authority, gesturing to emphasize. She shook her head several times, and at the end, I could hear her polite tones of regret.

After the two men left, Anna locked the door and turned to make her way back to our worktable. I could see the relief on her face.

Thank you, Jack.

Who were they?

Not who they claimed to be, of that I am certain.

We moved to a small worktable in Anna’s rare book room, a place that provided more privacy and, to my relief, a more comfortable chair. Here, Anna hid her father’s notebooks among the first editions. She told me later that the Federal Republic, or the West German Government, would probably confiscate her father’s notebooks if they found them in her possession.

The telephone in the shop only rang a few times a day. Anna would let it ring a couple times until her machine picked up the call. On this day, which was a Friday, the shop phone rang several times. Anna said her answering machine reported eleven messages. She asked if I was expecting any calls.

I said I was not.

Then mine can wait. Would you like a glass of wine?

While Anna poured, I thought about Yunus’ strange behavior. Anna thought Yunus’ irritability and his preoccupation with the Lange meant trouble. Anna’s phone rang again, and she spoke briefly before hanging up.

I should check my messages. I might find a rich collector seeking one of my treasures. Anna chuckled. She put on earphones, pressed a button, and began making notes.

Sitting at the worktable, my mind drifted . . . those days with Sarah. Sarah on the day we first met. Her golden blonde hair. The blue dress she wore. Then her bloodied, bullet-riddled body. There was no way out. I had to stay on in Berlin until this sorry job was done. If Sarah knew . . . but there was no way she could.

Jack!

Anna’s voice broke through the fog.

Jack, you have a message. Someone named Aydin, and she sounds frantic.

What now? How did she find me?

Is she a friend, someone from the States?

Where to start? There was so much about Aydin, Sarah, and everything in between.

Dialing the number Anna gave me, I got a busy signal. Got through on the third try. I recognized her voice, but it was shaky and loaded with fear.

Is someone threatening you? I asked in a voice calmer than I felt.

I’m in a call box, and it’s raining. I can barely hear you, Jack! Speak louder!

Is someone threatening you? Can you see anyone?

No, no one. But I can’t go back. They’re too many of them.

Aydin thought she was in danger and needed help. I told her to take a cab to the London airport where I promised a ticket would be waiting. Ringing off, I looked at Anna and saw a sympathetic smile.

Can I help? Anna asked.

I think you deserve an explanation, I said. At one time, Aydin and I were very good friends. I mean, before I met Sarah. We, well, we were living together and . . .

You don’t have to tell me more, Anna said. But I did. With Aydin’s call for help, things were getting way more complicated. We parted with a great sense of relief. I never wanted to see her again. She was not to blame for Sarah’s death, but everything about her reminded me of that horrible day when Sarah was taken from me.

"Aydin comes from what our Western Culture would call . . . a very dysfunctional family. Her family is strict Muslim, and her father threatened her when we first started dating. I’m what they call a kafir, an unclean non-believer. In their faith, killing Aydin for dating a kafir would be justified. They call it an honor killing to protect the family name. Her father’s brother, Mahzun, did try to kill her, but killed Sarah . . . by mistake."

"Oh, how horrible! Jack, I . . . I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for you and Aydin."

When I found my voice, I explained to Anna that Aydin had escaped to London, where a cousin agreed to take her in.

How can I help? Anna asked again.

I’m not sure. She’ll need a place to stay. My hotel is . . . well, it’s expensive, and Aydin doesn’t have much money. I don’t know how she will make it here in Berlin, with no friends and no family.

Jack, I can help, Anna said. There is a spare bedroom upstairs. Come, let me show you.

§

Anna insisted on driving us to the airport. That gave me time to think. As far as I knew, Mahzun had not been apprehended and was still at large. I doubted that he could have been involved. But then hate does not need airplanes to travel.

On my way to Berlin more than two months ago, I went with Aydin to London. I met her cousin and her mother’s brother and spent several hours with the family. They seemed a lot more moderate than her father’s family. Her London uncle might have been a little rigid. Maybe he and Aydin had argued about her wanting to work and getting a job. But to feel so threatened as to run? It didn’t add up. Now that she was here, I did not want her to stay.

Outside at the arrivals level, I saw Aydin waiting with her purse over her shoulder. She must have been freezing, with only a light jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes. Out of Anna’s car, I waved, gave her a brief hug, and now she’s in the back seat.

My friend, Anna, I began.

So good to meet you, Aydin. Welcome to Deutschland. Anna said.

Thank you both, so much. Her voice choked, and I turned to see Aydin with her head down, her hands folded in her lap.

§

The ringing of the bell and voices of customers entering Anna’s bookshop barely registered where Aydin sat upstairs with the door to her room locked and bolted.

She ate and slept on Anna’s narrow childhood bed. Anna left some books and brought her food along with an English-language newspaper. The International Herald Tribune, which she read daily, cover to cover.

Over time loneliness replaced what had been an overwhelming, imprisoning fear, and Aydin worked up enough courage and confidence to join Anna in the shop below.

I looked up to see a sad face with dark circles under her eyes. Blemishes that should have gone away and no trace of a smile. How beautiful she must have been before all this . . . except for that nose, perhaps.

Would you like some tea?

Shaking her head, Aydin said she was afraid it might keep her awake.

I said it had been a good day for the shop. Several tourists (imagine!) had come in, looking for maps and books about the history of Berlin.

Is it true about the Wall? Aydin asked, They are going to make it even higher?

Who can doubt it? I put down my pen to explain this monument to fatuity. If China’s Great Wall was the first Wonder, the Berlin Wall had to be the latest. Since August 1961, the East German government had tried something different every year to stop the exodus. Everyone knew someone who died trying to escape the Soviet sector.

Since the end of the War, we have lived surrounded by the Soviets and their satellites. You will find West Berliners are rather proud of their stubbornness. Seeing the smile on Aydin’s face, I continued.

When you are ready, you will discover we are a polyglot city. Some say that in a one-hour walk, you will hear every language. Aydin, do you speak Turkish?

My parents do, but we spoke only English at home.

Here in West Berlin, it is different. Instead of learning German, our immigrants expect us to learn their language. They complain about their wages, even when they earn three times what they would at home. I saw questions on Aydin’s face, but I had no good reason to hide anything about living in a remnant of the city of my birth.

"Are you religious, Aydin? No? Well, that is perhaps for the better. We’ve had some trouble with a particular sect, Die Wahre, the authorities named it. As Islamists, they seem to have a problem with our ‘permissive’ culture. Imagine, Germany thought to be permissive."

There were draft dodgers, of course. Everybody living in West Berlin was exempt from military service. Our unique status made for an influx of men and women seeking alternative lifestyles if they did not already have them. With housing limited, many immigrants found shelter in abandoned buildings that survived the war in various stages of ruin. The Federal Republic did not have the resources to drive them out and tended to leave them alone. Overall, I thought this was a good thing. Many of the fine, old houses remained along with the possibility of their restoration.

2

Down Below, the Archbishop of Hell produced a large black handkerchief and wiped his perspiring face. No, he snarled to his new class of junior devils. He was not their mentor. Mentoring would come later, should any of them survive orientation and training.

It is all about numbers, pure and simple, the Archbishop said, launching into a detailed description of monthly quotas.

Scabrous had grown restless, along with the rest of the junior devils in training. His long, thin face, with its sharp pointed nose and thin, compressed lips, projected a look of contempt—the result of years of practice when he lived in the Earthly Realm. Or, as it was commonly referred to, the ER. His patience exhausted, Scabrous interrupted.

A question, if I may, Archbishop.

The Archbishop’s eyes widened, and the cruel smile that played out on his rubbery lips bothered Scabrous not at all.

If you must interrupt, the Archbishop snarled, it had better be a good one.

Unperturbed, Scabrous continued, "You say on no occasion, my lord, may the patient be allowed to be joyful. What if his joy is of a kind most pleasing to us? Might that be the exception?"

Back on his perch, Scabrous retrieved his patients’ files. Despite his protestations, the Archbishop had assigned him only three, claiming that was the limit for a junior angel in training. Reading further in the girl Aydin’s dossier, he came to the report of her father, Efe, with the knife in the kitchen. What a pity all that did not go farther. Ah . . . but there was plenty of time for all his patients. And most had been doing rather well—especially the foolish blonde woman, Anna, who was blissfully unaware of her contribution.

Suddenly, a vulture arrived with a folded paper in his beak. On the front, Scabrous read the word, Quiddity. During orientation, the Archbishop rebuffed his request for a definition and suggested he look it up. With no dictionary in sight, Scabrous had queried some among his classmates. One among them had sneeringly obliged, It is the essence of a thing that answers the question, ‘what is it?’

The term seems to refer to some kind of a dispatch, a message of some kind, Scabrous observed.

Yes, you idiot, his classmate replied, and you best pay attention to your quiddities.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Scabrous took the quiddity from the vulture’s beak and began to read.

My Dear Scabrous,

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Asmodeus, and please feel free to address me accordingly.

In his infinite wisdom, the Archbishop has chosen me to be your mentor. This means, for the time being, that you are judged sufficiently competent to continue your training. Indeed, for you to remain credentialed, it is true that training never ends.

Your patient Jack’s circumstances seem favorable now. I am pleased to find that he is fully committed to his work. Whether you can influence him in ways that will assure his failure is now of little concern. Keep him focused on his work. Let nothing distract him from his labors, so at least we can ensure burnout and, thus, despair. At that delicate point, be prepared to strike with the mightiest of blows.

And what of his former girlfriend? Is she no longer of interest to him? Or him to her? Explore the possibility—that we might contrive to unite them once again. The opportunities for further mayhem and destruction make one’s mouth water in anticipation.

Indeed, numbers count.

Most devotedly, Asmodeus.

Scabrous reread Asmodeus’ letter, written in ornate baroque script, and wondered why there were no telephones Down Below. Even a telegraph might be more efficient than a vulture. Scabrous looked up to see the messenger had remained in place, opened his mouth to say that he would respond when convenient, but immediately thought the better of it. The vulture’s huge black body hovered, intense red eyes glared, and its beak worked obscenely, demanding a response.

Cringing, Scabrous reached for his quill. Dipping into the inkpot on his perch, he began scribbling. He wrote frantically, assuring Asmodeus he was his willing pupil. Whatever Asmodeus wished would be his command. When he was done, the vulture seized the note and flew away.

Scabrous returned to the files and read several lines before his plan began to form. Asmodeus might not have all the answers. The arrival of the girl Aydin presented a host of opportunities for not only distracting Jack but sabotaging his mission to restore the lost art. Scabrous paused to think. The man was lonely, near exhaustion, and perhaps, vulnerable to the charms of his former girlfriend. Suddenly, the vulture returned with another quiddity in its beak.

Damn quiddities! How would he ever get anything done? He took the dispatch resentfully, opened it, and began to read. Hardly believing what he was reading, he looked up at the vulture, who merely nodded. Scabrous had been summoned to join Satan and his senior advisors for the next meeting of the Council. Quite an honor for a junior devil, Scabrous thought pridefully.

Standing near the stage, Scabrous watched while the crowd gathered in the open theatre. Rock benches arranged in a semi-circle on a floor of sand, he thought, would accommodate several hundred. He looked for familiar faces and found none. He was the only junior to have been invited to the gathering. But it was hard to find comfort in that, with dozens of huge, dog-like, and ferocious beasts roaming the crowd. He had been warned not to pet them. Trained for one purpose, it would be wise, Scabrous was told, to do nothing to attract their attention. Having obeyed, he was doubly troubled when one of the beasts came near. Larger than the rest, with an enormous collar around its neck, the beast’s eyes locked with his. Briefly, Scabrous thought something had passed between them.

Satan appeared, and the crowd began to chant, Our Father, Down Below. Scabrous was jostled by those around him and, fearing condemnation, soon joined in. While he and the crowd chanted, Scabrous watched in awe as Satan strutted about the stage. He had no tail. He was taller than most of the devils Scabrous had seen. His face reminded Scabrous of a few photographs of male models he had seen in magazines. Handsome beyond belief, with a dark, curly head of hair, it was impossible to judge his age. No horns were visible.

After an extended period of chanting, with apparent reluctance, Satan raised his right hand to silence the crowd. He then announced that he and the Council would adjourn for their business meeting.

Scabrous watched with apprehension as the crowd withdrew. Alone, he saw a dozen devils emerge and seat themselves on the first bench. Satan came down from the stage to stand in front of them. Scabrous saw Satan make eye contact with each devil, saw them shrink from his gaze, and feared his turn was coming. Satan never looked his way before beginning his address to the Council.

The Father Down Below announced the first subject to be discussed would be just punishment. After tracing the events that led to the destruction of both Hitler and Mussolini, what came next shook Scabrous to the core of his devil’s being. It was a surprise to hear the Father Down Below denigrate those that Scabrous thought had been entirely committed to his service.

He was a Teutonic imbecile! Satan said, speaking of Hitler. Of the two, Mussolini was the more interesting. Consider how difficult he was at first to turn. Satan continued with a history of the incarcerations of several notable despots. Among them were Tamerlane and Robespierre though there was no mention of Ivan The Terrible. Scabrous’ mind filled with memories of his cellmates bickering and taunting. He had not thought until now how unjust their punishment seemed. During their shared confinement, Scabrous thought only of his miserable circumstances. But now, nagging thoughts flooded Scabrous’ mind.

Why were those who served the Father while living in the ER not rewarded but punished instead? What about loyalty and commitment? Would all of his future work be dismissed or disparaged? And what would happen to him? In his existential dread, Scabrous failed to hear the Father Down Below change the subject.

The Father was talking about Jesus, and Scabrous heard him say, He once came to visit me here, Down Below. At the time, it was alleged that Jesus had risen from the dead. This canard has been widely reported. In human terms, his visit may have lasted a day at the most.

Rumors had circulated for some time, perhaps millennia. Scabrous had heard that some from the olden time had escaped with Jesus from Down Below. It was during his absent-minded reflection that Scabrous saw Satan smiling at him.

\~/

Like some strange cloud, swaths of color moved across a bright lapis sky. All colors, plus other hues the junior angel had never seen, billowed and gathered above a portico where the mechanism stood. Steve watched, mesmerized by a moving panorama of Creation events. His first view of the Timeline of All Creation and only a little time remained.

Moving on, Steve and his mentor, Sam, arrived at a small mountain. There was an opening, a portal for passage between Heaven and Down Below. Sam explained that Steve’s duties manning this portal were few. There was no pedestrian traffic save that of a solitary, shadowy figure that infrequently came and went.

Let’s talk, Sam said, bright light shining from his smooth, unwrinkled face. It was time to consider Steve’s first assignment.

His name is Jack, Sam continued. He may have come to a point where you can help him.

How do I do that? Steve asked.

As all guardians do, Sam thought to Steve. It was time to address the art of pushing, a term used to describe communication with his human patient.

Just think about what you want to say to your patient. Then visualize a tube through which thought can pass and focus on pushing your thought through to your patient’s mind.

Do we have conversations? Steve wondered at the power of pushing.

Not usually, Sam said. Most patients would think they heard their thoughts. Some might, Sam conceded, be aware of a still, small voice different from their own.

Ummm . . . has this fellow Jack had a guardian already? Steve asked.

Sam nodded yes.

What happened to the old one?

Sam looked at him curiously. Seeing those merry eyes dancing, Steve wondered what was coming next.

He’s on a sabbatical, Sam replied, straight-faced.

§

Sarah had never mentioned any problems with the provenance of her father’s art. By provenance, I mean the paperwork that proves ownership. Receipts of purchase, letters of certification from art experts, and all the stuff I brought were piled on the table where I sat in Anna’s bookshop.

We were at eight and holding, each one dutifully recorded in Anna’s notebooks. Despite the evidence, I wanted to believe that Jake Tinsley had purchased them legitimately. But, no matter how this all turned out, I had to believe I was doing what Sarah would have wanted.

While I consulted the Tinsley family files, Aydin and Anna sat at her desk, talking quietly. Nearby, Anna had stacked a few old French Gazette des Beaux-Arts magazines. When she said some of Sarah’s art had been mentioned, my first thought was why Anna did not tell me what she found. I didn’t stop to think about how difficult this might be for Anna.

Eventually, I found what I was looking for. The invoice from a gallery in New York, with purchase receipt dated Jan. 41. Picking up a July 1939 Beaux-Arts, I adjusted the shade on the reading light and opened the magazine to the article earmarked by Anna. The reporter referred to an auction held in Lucerne just days before on June 30.

The auctioneer, M. Theodore Fischer, seemed to take an almost wicked pleasure, saying at one point, ‘Nobody wants that sort of thing,’ as he ordered the piece withdrawn. After noting that several works of art had been removed from the auction in this preemptory manner, Beaux-Arts also mentioned a celebrated collector who had emigrated from Germany in 1937.

Mr. Curt Valentine, late of Hamburg and owner of the prestigious Buchholz Gallery in New York, has purchased five notable works, among them Paul Klee’s ‘Around the Fish’ and Henri Matisse’s ‘Blue Window.’ One of the five had been a cornerstone for Jake Tinsley’s collection. The Lange that captured Yunus’ attention.

Could I ignore what I just learned and keep the Lange? Who would know? No one knew that Sarah and I both loved the Lange. Aydin had no idea that the Lange was our favorite.

How long had Anna known about the Lange? What else was she not telling me? And why didn’t we find the Lange in her father’s notebooks? It had to have been stolen from its owner, right? Then sent to Lucerne, where it showed up at auction. But maybe not. It just might have been sold.

Other questions bothered me more. Was Anna testing me? Was she waiting on me to decide before insisting I turn over the Lange? She could do that. As far as I knew, she had not notified any museums or tried to contact any heirs, but I knew she would.

Beaux-Arts noted that attendance at the auction did not meet M. Fischer’s expectations. The more scrupulous institutions and individual collectors had stayed away. Poor sales from a like auction held earlier in Zurich, coupled with this one, may have accounted for the auctioneer’s peevishness. And then I realized how difficult all this might be for Anna.

Sarah’s art was not her problem. The problem was mine, and blaming Anna made no sense. I held my anger in check and tried to think. Only one person I knew might know the answers. Answers that I might not like might mean I could