The Investigations of Avram Davidson (10 page)

For a while Carpius managed to forget the bus. He thought of a villa in the South of France, a well-furnished flat in Paris, and a certain hotel in Switzerland, where he had once stayed briefly—not a large hotel, but admirably appointed. In this pleasant dream (in which Cyprus, with its rains and mud, its turbulent population, and its few good resorts crowded during the brief season with rich and vulgar Egyptians, played no part) Carpius remained until the bus stopped suddenly and jerkily at a crossroads store. All the passengers got off, chattering loudly—some to stretch their legs, some to use the sanitary facilities, some to get coffee, some because this was their stop. Carpius got off not quite last, his bundle under his arm. He suddenly realized he had been here before. The vague memory which the monk's words, “Saints Barnabas and Basil,” had aroused in his mind was based on this single visit.

While en route to the mountains one summer to sell a genuine forged Alma-Tadema to a cotton pasha at one of the hotels, he had stopped here briefly. The day had been especially clear. Some distance down the smaller road a path branched off and led to a large stone house a mile or so away. Idly he had asked what house it was and had been told, “The Monastery of Saints Barnabas and Basil.” (The pasha had bought the Alma-Tadema. It was crowded with decorously semi-nude young men and women, the pasha's own taste tending rather toward the latter, though by no means excluding the former.)

While the passengers trooped into the combination shop and café, Carpius faded away into the mist. He had bought his ticket to the end of the line, but he did not think his absence would be noted. Sticking closely to the side of the road, he came presently to the path he remembered. He was not used to carrying bundles, or, indeed, to walking more than very short distances. It was fortunate that the route lay downhill. In less time than he would have thought, the world lay wrapped in silence. No sound from the road reached him. The trees and bushes crowded close to the path, discharging part of their moist burden upon him as he brushed by. Head down, he trudged along, and hardly noticed when he entered the monastic grounds. He came face to face with the house and stopped abruptly.

It was old and heavy and made of stone. The windows were few and narrow. Architecture was not Carpius's forte, but he thought that at least part of the structure dated from the reign of the De Lusignan dynasty, the “Latin” kings of Cyprus, before the days in the island of Genoa and Venice, and poor lost Othello. Later additions to the house had copied the same style. The roofs, which were on several levels, were mostly large slabs of mossy stone (the walls would have to be thick to support their weight), and partly tiles, black with age. Carpius knew that he could not expect plumbing, running water, electric lights, or other features he had found in up-to-date, more prosperous monastic establishments. He viewed the lack of these conveniences with philosophical detachment. He could enjoy them later—in the South of France, in Paris, in the Berne-Oberlandt.

To the monk who received him he explained that he wanted to see the Archimandrite, or Father Superior. Only after presenting Carpius with a tray on which were a glass of water and a small dish of preserves—traditional symbols of hospitality—did the monk depart, his feet echoing on the stone floors until the sound of them died away. After a long time the sound began again. The Father Superior was an old man with a vast gray beard. Carpius stood up and bowed. The old man inclined his head.

“Yesterday, Archimandrite, I bought from your monk, Theodoros, an ikon of the Prophet Elijah.”

“Brother Theodoros? He has not yet returned. There was nothing wrong with the ikon? Brother Constantine painted it.”

“Oh, no,” Carpius hastened to assure him. “It is a very good ikon. But it has troubled me that he asked so little for it.”

The Archimandrite said nothing, so Carpius decided to skip the gambit of offering to add to the price, and continued.

“In fact, I scarcely slept the whole night. I kept thinking of the holy Prophet and how he fled into the wilderness to escape the wickedness of the priests of his day, and of the government.” The old man looked up. There was a gleam of interest in his eyes. “Surely, in a place where the priests do evil and the government supports them, the people are corrupted as well.” The old man nodded slowly. “When I considered the action of the Archbishop in changing the calendar,” Carpius went on, “I was troubled. But I said to myself, ‘Surely what this venerable and holy man does cannot be wrong?'”

The Archimandrite frowned, and Carpius hastily resumed: “But last night it came to me, as if in a vision, that he
was
wrong. What right had he to tamper with the ancient traditions of the Church, with the Julian Calendar that was good enough for the Fathers of the Church—Origen, Polycarp, Ephraim of Edessa, and the others? And I was obliged to admit—no right at all! The Established Church of Cyprus is now in a state of heresy, of apostacy! Its festivals are all on the wrong days, and hence are no festivals at all. Most reverend Archimandrite, I have come here to seek the true religion from you.”

The old man's face was illuminated with joy. He stretched out his hands.

“My son,” he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, “you speak with the tongue of angels. You have not come here in vain.”

*   *   *

L
ATE THAT NIGHT
, while Carpius was trying to compensate for the frugal supper of the monks with a late snack of deviled ham, biscuits, and brandy, he reviewed the situation. How right, how lucky and right, he had been in his guess as to why the ikon of Elijah was so venerated here. In the prophet of Israel, the short-tempered Tishbite, the dissident clerics of the monastery saw the forerunner of their own order. As Elijah had denounced false worship, so had they. As Elijah had been obliged to flee into the wilderness from the anger of authority, so had they. The only thing Carpius had not calculated was the vision which the Archimandrite had had: With tears running from his eyes, and protestations of his unworthiness, the old man described how, in a dream, Elijah appeared before him, chariot and all, holding out his mantle with the words, “Thou art cold. Cover thyself.”

Actually, the monks were retreating from more than a change in calendar. They were retreating from the airplane and the jazz band and the hand grenade, the tumult and weary unrest of the present troubled age—retreating from it and turning back to the long and deep slumber of Byzantium. Off on their side road they need never even smell the fumes of an automobile. And deep in the cellar where the ikon reposed, in a special tiny chapel all to itself, no bigger than a dungeon cell, each monk in turn venerating upon his knees, they found the peace they sought—sweet and silent and heavy.

Carpius took the copy of the ikon from its wrapping and mentally compared it with the original. As to whether or not Spendlove had been correct in calling it Alexandrian, he could not say; but certainly it was Hellenistic. It had nothing of the rigidity or formalized stiffness which characterized later iconography; it was purely natural. Perhaps the Monk Prokopios, before his turning to the religious life, had painted many a late Roman patrician or tribune or matron; perhaps he had even done bacchanalian scenes for the walls of some pagan tavern or villa.

Putting speculation aside, Carpius rose and removed his shoes. Finding the stone floors cold to his feet, he added a second pair of socks. In one pocket went the copy painted by Brother Theodoros. In the other went a small bottle and a thick gauze pad; this might not be necessary: very likely the monk on vigil would be dozing at this hour, in which case it would be the work of a few moments to make the exchange. But just in case … And if the bottle and gauze were needed, what then? They were always having visions, these monks; let him make the most of this one when he recovered. In the dim light cast by the tiny lamp, no one could tell the difference between the old ikon and the new.

Silently Carpius went through the corridors and down the steps, flashlight in hand. Here and there a monk snored, or breathed heavily in his sleep. Down, farther down, deep into the cellar, along a cold, cold hall—at last he saw ahead of him the pale glow of the tiny chapel lamp. He switched off his flashlight and crept slowly ahead. In the cell a monk crouched on his knees, elbows resting on the floor, head buried in his hands. His breath came and went, smooth and even.

“Asleep,” Carpius thought, inching forward. He reached out his hand for the ikon, and in a moment—so swiftly that his eye retained no image of an intermediate picture—the monk was on his feet, howling wildly and grappling with him.

“Satan!” the monk shrieked. “Father of lies, and of thieves!”

He's an old man, Carpius thought; how does he have the strength to shout like that? And with his free hand Carpius lifted the heavy flashlight and struck.

Then, looking at the monk lying there, another thought came to him—lines from something he had once read, something an Englishman had written:
Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?

Perhaps the struggle had taken longer than it seemed; perhaps he stood there longer than he thought; but when he looked up he saw them at the door. Carpius stood there, stupidly, motionless. He heard their voices, saw them lift the body, felt the cold seeping through his stockinged feet. One syllable began to beat in his head like a pulse.
Why?… Why?… Why?…

“Why?” asked the Archimandrite. “Why did you kill Brother Damianos?”

“I didn't mean to … He saw me reach for the ikon … I didn't mean to. I am very sorry, believe me—” His mind was clearing now, swiftly; it darted this way and that, seeking a point of escape. “I only wanted to look at the ikon, but he thought I came to steal it. He took me by the throat and I was frightened.”

He dropped to his knees and clutched the Father Superior's hand. “Do not turn me over to the police! It was an accident!”

“An accident,” murmured the old man. The monks muttered and crossed themselves. “Moses appointed cities of refuge for the manslayer to flee to,” the Archimandrite said. “Sanctuaries for those who had killed accidentally. You say you are sorry … I shall choose to believe you.” The Archimandrite disengaged his hands.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Carpius said.

The monks moved backward—moved away from him, away from the blood.

“We shall not call the police,” the old man said. “But you must pray—pray for Divine forgiveness. You must repent. Pray without ceasing.”

“I shall.” Carpius rose.

It
had
been easy, after all. He turned to pick up the ikon, hiding it by standing between it and the monks. The copy lay on the floor beside the original. He slipped the real one in his pocket. A grating noise interrupted him. He turned to see the door swing shut. A key clattered in the lock. He looked through a small opening in the door. It was a thick door, bound with iron. He pressed his face to the opening, not understanding.

“Pray without ceasing,” the Archimandrite repeated. “We shall bring you food and water twice a day, and oil for the lamp. We shall feed you as the ravens fed Elijah. As long as you live we shall feed you, and you must pray for forgiveness.”

They moved away.

Carpius stared at the walls around him. The roof was made of stone—he had noticed that; in order to support such a heavy roof, the walls must be very strong and thick.…

T
HE
C
OBBLESTONES OF
S
ARATOGA
S
TREET

A
LTHOUGH
A
VRAM
D
AVIDSON
was born in the nearby suburb of Yonkers, and in his seventy years lived in many corners of the globe, from Belize to Beijing and from Jerusalem to Amecameca, I suspect that “Little Old New York” was really his favorite city. He studied its history and geography, as many of his stories show.

“The Cobblestones of Saratoga Street” (
Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine,
April 1964) takes place in a thinly disguised version of the tiny, tidy, very-very, upper-upper neighborhood surrounding Gramercy Park, located at the lower end of Lexington Avenue in Manhattan. If you've never been there and you get a chance, you should make it your business to amble through this quiet enclave where the New York of Stanford White's era (or earlier) survives amidst the noise, dirt, and bustle of The City That Never Sleeps.

As you stroll beside the park (you won't be able to stroll
in
it unless you have a key!) you may wonder how this odd revenant persists in the modern world. It is not by chance, believe me, but by means of the determined efforts of the neighborhood's well-to-do and tradition-loving residents.

Avram Davidson was a man fascinated with the past; at times he affected deliberately anachronistic mannerisms and words. I think that his heart is truly in this warm and affectionate story.

—
RAL

 

Cobblestones to Go
said the headline. Miss Louisa lifted her eyebrows, lifted her quizzing-glass (probably the last one in actual use anywhere in the world), read the article, passed it to her sister. Miss Augusta read it without eyeglass or change of countenance, and handed it back.

“They shan't,” she said.

They glanced at a faded photograph in a silver frame on the mantelpiece, then at each other. Miss Louisa placed the newspaper next to the pewter chocolate-pot, tinkled a tiny bell. After a moment a white-haired colored man entered the room.

“Carruthers,” said Miss Augusta, “you may clear away breakfast.”

*   *   *

“W
ELL
,
I
THINK
it is outrageous,” Betty Linkhorn snapped.

“My dear,” her grandfather said mildly, “you can't stop progress.” He sipped his tea.