Part 9 (1/2)
I sat on one of the concrete benches. ”But I don't see that I have a choice,” I added. ”I didn't go looking for this. It came to me.”
”That's the puzzle, isn't it?” The professor's eyes squinted at me. ”Why you?”
I avoided his gaze. ”That's the second time you've asked that question. I'm trying not to take it personally.”
”What do you want to know?” he asked.
”I want you to tell me everything.”
He laughed. ”That would take months, if not years.”
”Then tell me about Semyaza.”
He took a sharp intake of breath. ”I'll make you a deal,” he said. ”Question for question. I answer one of yours. You answer one of mine.”
”Fair enough. Who's Semyaza?”
”He's an angel. My turn. When you said-”
”Wait, wait, wait . . .” I protested. ”I want more than a three-word answer.”
”To what end? You've already demonstrated a familiarity with sources that identify Semyaza. Do you want me to repeat what you already know? All right, he's a Seraph angel who is in league with Lucifer in the war against G.o.d. He has two hundred angels under his command, divided into groups of ten.”
”But he's a myth, right? Like Zeus and Hermes, and all the other residents of Olympus. You speak of him as though he's real.”
”Of course he's real. My turn.”
”Why does he scare you?” I blurted.
The professor shook his head. ”That's an entirely different question. You'll have to wait your turn. How long have you known this man Shepherd you were telling me about?”
”Myles Shepherd? Since we were freshmen in high school.”
”He attended school with you, the entire four years? What about after that? Have you had regular contact with him since high school?”
I started to object. The professor antic.i.p.ated my objection.
”It's not a second question. I'm asking for a clarification. The original question remains, How long have you known him?”
”All right . . . Yes, he attended high school with me the entire four years. Until yesterday, I hadn't seen him since graduation, but I did follow his career. Newspaper articles, things like that. He was California Teacher of the Year.”
”Amazing . . .” the professor mused. His brow furrowed. My answer apparently perplexed him.
”My turn,” I said. ”Why does Semyaza scare you?”
One of the professor's hands sought the other one out, as though to comfort it. ”Among angels there is a hierarchy of power,” he said. ”Semyaza ranks near the top, though it's unclear how near, possibly second only to Lucifer. If indeed he is anywhere close to this region, it's not good . . . not good at all. It would mean that something truly horrific is about to happen.”
A sense of foreboding came over me, an unsettled feeling that a dark cloud was parking over my life.
”My turn,” the professor said. ”Tell me about your parents. Do they still live in the area?”
I frowned, wis.h.i.+ng I'd had the foresight to restrict the questions to nonpersonal subjects. I didn't want to tell him about my parents. But a deal was a deal. ”My mother does. We're not close. My father died when I was three years old.” I fell silent. I answered his question, or so I thought. He apparently didn't agree.
”And . . . ?” he prompted.
”Professor, what does this have to do with-”
”Answer the question. Tell me about your parents. How did your father die?”
”Suicide.”
”Oh . . . I'm sorry.”
His apology wasn't your standard gift-store variety apology, the kind you accept and discard. Heartfelt compa.s.sion filled his eyes. For some reason it surprised me. I didn't know exactly what to do with it.
”Um . . . thanks . . . yeah, well, my mother blamed me for his death. I don't know why. All I know is that she never forgave him and she took it out on me.”
”What did your father do for a living?”
I shrugged. ”Don't really know. I think he tried to produce some films. None of them ever made it to the screen. He inherited money. His mother, my grandmother, was Gigi Beaumont . . .”
Whenever I speak of my grandmother, I always pause at this point, to see if anyone recognizes her. She was big in her day, but now only old people remember her, and even then they need a little prompting.
The professor didn't appear to recognize her, so I told him about her. ”She was an actress. She made several films in the late forties, early fifties, with Ricardo Montalban, Fernando Lamas, Cyd Charisse . . .”
Now the professor's eyes lit with recognition. He recognized those names. Everybody did.
”She started out as a swimmer. Swam with Esther Williams . . .” I named some of her better-known films. ”On an Island with You . . . Neptune's Daughter . . . Dangerous When Wet.”
The professor had not seen any of them. I should have known. When those films were made he probably had his nose buried in a systematic theology text.
”My turn to ask a question,” I said. ”You're obviously an intelligent man, well schooled, articulate, respected . . .”
The professor laughed. ”With a lead-up like this, you must have one doozy of a question.”
”. . . do you believe in angels?”
”You obviously don't,” he replied.
”I'm willing to admit that there's a lot we don't know about this universe, that there might be life on other planets, and that they may have at some time in the past visited earth, giving rise to stories of supernatural visitations from heaven, but really, Professor-angels?”
”They obviously believe in you,” he replied.
I must have rolled my eyes or given some other sign of exasperation because the professor's teaching finger appeared. ”Hear me out,” he said. ”I have a point to make. Do you believe in the terrorist threat al Qaeda presents?”
”It's not your turn to ask-”