“Do you know or don’t you?”
“I know you,” he said, smiling for the first time. “She spoke of you, of course.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he answered, “that I know you are more than a little aware of such matters yourself.”
“And so?”
“The Arts have a way of bringing the right people together at the proper moment when there is work in progress.”
“And that’s what you think this is all about?”
“I know it.”
“How?”
“It was promised.”
“So you were expecting me?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. Would you care to tell me more about it?”
“I’d rather show you.”
“You say that something was promised. How? By whom?”
“All of that will become clear shortly.”
“And Julia’s death?”
“That, too, I’d say.”
“How do you propose rendering me this enlightenment?”
He smiled. “I just want you to take a look at something,” he said.
“All right. I’m willing. Show me.”
He nodded and rose.
“It’s in here,” he explained, turning and heading toward the closed door.
I got to my feet and followed him across the room.
He reached into his shirtfront and drew up a chain. He lifted it over his head and I could see that it bore a key. He used it to unlock the door.
“Go in,” he said, pushing it open and stepping aside.
I entered. It was not a large room, and it was dark. He flipped a switch and a blue light of small wattage came on within a plain fixture overhead. I saw then that there was one window, directly across from me, and that all of its panes had been painted black. There were no furnishings save for a few cushions scattered here and there across the floor. A portion of the wall to my right was covered with black drapery. The other walls were unadorned.
“I’m looking,” I said.
He chuckled.
“A moment, a moment,” he advised me. “Have you any idea of my major concern in the occult arts?”
“You’re a cabalist,” I stated.
“Yes,” he admitted. “How could you tell?”
“People in Eastern disciplines tend to run a tight ship,” I stated. “But cabalists always seem to be slobs.”
He snorted.
“It is all a matter of what is really important to you,” he said then.
“Exactly.” He kicked a cushion into the middle of the floor. “Have a seat,” he said.
“I’ll stand.” He shrugged.
“Okay,” he said, and he began muttering softly.
I waited. After a time, still speaking quietly, he moved to the black curtain. He opened it with a single quick movement and I stared.
A painting of the cabalistic Tree of Life was revealed, showing the ten sephira in some of their qlipphotic aspects. It was beautifully executed, and the sense of recognition that struck me as I regarded it was unsettling. It was no standard item from some head shop, but rather an original painting. It was not, however, in the style of any of the works hanging in the other room. Still, it was familiar to me.
As I studied it I had no doubt whatsoever that it had been painted by the same person who had done the Trumps I had found in Julia’s apartment.
Melman continued his incantation as I regarded the painting.
“Is this your work?” I asked him.
He did not answer me. Instead, he advanced and pointed, indicating the third sephiroth, the one called Binah. I studied it. It seemed to represent a wizard before a dark altar, and
No! I couldn’t believe it. It shouldn’t . . .
I felt a contact with that figure. It was not just symbolic. He was real, and he was summoning me. He loomed larger, grew three-dimensional. The room began to fade about me. I was almost . . .
There. It was a place of twilight, a small glade in a twisted wood. An almost bloody light illuminated the slab before me. The wizard, his face hidden by cowl and shadov, manipulated objects upon the stone, his hands moving too rapidly for me to follow. From somewhere, I still seems to hear the chanting, faintly.
Finally, he raised a single object in his right hand and held it steady. It was a black, obsidian dagger. He laid his left arm upon the altar and brushed it across the surface, sweeping everything else to the ground.