The Madonna on the Moon (41 page)

Then came Tchaikovsky. The beaming Yury Alekseyevich Gagarin waved for the cameras. A lot of cameras. Then another picture of a rocket on a launching pad, tall as a castle tower. The name of the
space capsule, Vostok, means “the East.” The name alone would annoy the Americans. Countdown in Russian, 9:05 a.m., Moscow time. Again, smoke and flames. Fantastic launch. A perfect
dream of a vapor trail. Higher and higher. Gagarin’s voice: “Looking at the earth. Good view. Everything normal. Everything functioning excellently. Still flying. Mood optimistic.
Everything running well. Machine working normally. Looking into space.”

Cut and flashback. Scenes from his career: Gagarin, from a poor farmworker’s family, son of the people, diligent, ambitious, looking ahead. The pupil Gagarin, the student of mathematics,
the party comrade. Gagarin the scholar, Marx and Lenin under his arm. The air force major, always the best, always with distinction, everything maximal. Cosmonaut, Hero of the USSR, first man in
space, weightless, immortal. Enough Gagarin.

Khrushchev appeared on the screen. Superior, self-assured, jovial. Waved a telegram from the American president. Kennedy sent congratulations, spoke of noble aspirations of mankind and even
offered the Soviets his cooperation. Explore the heavens together? Khrushchev smiled and shook his head. Who wanted to make a deal with losers? The viewers already knew the Americans couldn’t
cut it. Then Khrushchev shaking hands, patting backs. He took Gagarin’s hand, raised it into the air. “Well done, Yury!” Storm of flashbulbs. A historic event.

Then the crucial question: “Tell me, Comrade Yury, did you see God up there in space?”

“No,” Gagarin replied.

“Good question from Nikita,” remarked Nico Brancusi.

“Good answer by Yury,” added his older brother Liviu.

Nobody from Baia Luna contradicted them. The special broadcast was over. Ilja turned off the TV. His guests went home as though nothing earthshaking had happened. Only Grandfather, Dimitru, and
I remained in the tavern.

“Don’t you agree it’s time for a little glass again after my epoch of abstinence?”

I got up. But unlike past years when I served Dimitru as the taproom gofer, now I put the Gypsy’s bottle of
zuika
onto the table in my capacity as barkeeper. “On the
house.”

“Man, Pavel.” He looked up at me. “You’ve turned into a real man.”

To my astonishment and Ilja’s, too, the Gypsy drank just one glass.

“It’s not looking good for America,” said Grandfather. “Their rockets are no good. But I think Khrushchev made a mistake.”

Dimitru nodded slowly. “Oh yes, my friend, that he did. A
grande error fatal
.”

“If the Yanks are smart,” Grandfather continued, “they know by now why the Russians are sticking cosmonauts into rockets.”

“But the Americans aren’t smart. They’re just lucky that Nikita is dumber than they are. He’s so stupid he broadcasts every fart of progress on his project to the whole
world instead of waiting until the final blow can be struck. The Russkies aren’t on the moon yet. They haven’t got the Madonna yet. The question about God came too soon.”

“Much too soon,” said Grandfather. “The Yanks already smell a rat. How many billions you think they’re going to fork over now to prove there’s a God in heaven after
all? They’re not about to get caught with their pants down and then have to burn all their dollars.”

“Absolutely exact,” Dimitru confirmed. “Khrushchev blabbed too soon. A cardinal sin. He fell into the trap of vanity.
Superbia
is well-known
causaliter
causalis
as the essential source of human stupidity. I bet Korolev knows his president is pretty much of an idiot. But that’s politics: some people have the knowledge; others have the
power. That’s what happens when proletarians instead of intellectuals rule the world.”

Grandfather scratched his head. “To summarize: the pope’s dogma certifies that Mary the Mother of God was transported bodily to heaven. And she’s on the moon; God himself
guarantees it in the Revelation he revealed to Saint John the Apostle. Now the decisive question is, What will the Bolsheviks do when they find the Madonna?”

“That, Ilja, my friend, is the question of questions. And I can only think of one answer if I stick to the laws of logic.”

“And that would be?”

“The Soviets will reverse the Assumption. They’ll return the Madonna to earth.”

“And then? They won’t do anything to her, will they? They wouldn’t kill her? Or would the Bolsheviks not even draw the line at killing the Mother of God?”

“They wouldn’t kill her, for sure. Korolev’s no stupid Marxist; he’s a clever Nietzscheist, if you know what I mean.”

Grandfather shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. Listen: if they bring Jesus’s mother back to earth, then Korolev will draw the logical conclusion that God exists even if Gagarin didn’t see him out the
window of his rocket. But if God exists, then Engineer Number One can forget his project to become God himself. And he will not touch a hair on the head of the Mother of God, much less have her
snuffed out by the Securitate. ’Cause then he’d have to kiss good-bye to the eternal life Jesus promises after death. There’s no point at all for a Madonna killer to even think
about detouring past God’s throne on Judgment Day. He can save himself the trouble and go straight to hell.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Ilja. “But what does Number One do with Mary here on earth?”

“He lets her go. With his good wishes. She’s free to run through the streets in broad daylight claiming to be the Mother of God. If she’s lucky, people will laugh at her. If
she’s not, she’ll end up in one of those psychiatrical nuthouses for the rest of her days. And Korolev can claim he meant well and wash his hands in innocence like that Roman Pontius
Pilate.”

I yawned and remarked that it was well beyond official closing time. Dimitru handed me the opened bottle and asked me to put it away until tomorrow evening. Meanwhile, Grandfather fetched a
glass of water to take his epilepsy tablets.

Although I went up to my bedroom without having untangled the nonsense Dimitru and my grandfather had discussed, I did have an idea. The longer I thought about it, the more I saw a way I could
put the wild notions of those two to my own uses.

When Dimitru arrived at the tavern the following afternoon, ambitious to get going, I steered him and Grandfather into the kitchen and asked them to have a seat. Then I hung the
CLOSED
sign on the door, took out Dimitru’s bottle of
zuika,
and sat myself down at the kitchen table. I got right to the point.

“Do you have any idea how big the moon is? One thing we learned in school, in physical science, was that it’s about two thousand one hundred fifty miles in diameter. That’s
about a quarter of the earth’s diameter.”

“Really?” Grandfather was surprised. “That’s pretty big.”

“Voluminous, in other words,” observed Dimitru. “You wouldn’t think so from here.”

“Exactly,” I said portentously. “And that’s going to be a problem for the Soviets.”

“What kind of problem?”

“If I understood you yesterday, you’re both convinced that the Madonna has been living on the moon since the Assumption and the Soviets intend to bring her back to earth.”

“That’s right.” The Gypsy nodded. “And that rocket scientist Korolev is behind it all. A cunning materialist. Earth to earth. And since you’re so well informed,
Pavel, promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“Word of honor.”

“Good. Our mission is to warn the Americans. They have to get to the moon first—in anticipation of the Russians—and protect the Madonna, see?”

“I understand. But that’s where the difficulty lies, as I see it. In the size of the moon. Russian or American, it makes no difference, they’d both have to spend years looking
for the Mother of God. Like finding a needle in a haystack. And maybe they’d never find her, if she goes into hiding.”

The two of them looked at each other. You could tell from their expressions that they were following me.

“From that I conclude,” Grandfather submitted, “that we have to more or less know where the Mother of God is located before we can write a letter to the American president or
set off across the Atlantic.”

“Exactly how I see it,” I said.

“Man oh man.” The Gypsy groaned. “The stuff you have to keep in your head. But how are we supposed to find out where the Mother of God is? From down here you can’t see a
thing with the naked eye.”

“I think I know a way to make the distance sort of shrink and bring the moon closer.”

Four eyes stared eagerly at me as I let the cat out of the bag: “You need a telescope.”

The recommendation had the intended effect. I mentioned that just such an optical instrument was on display in an antiques-shop window in Kronauburg. Dimitru and Ilja were itching to get going.
I continued that in addition to the telescope, the mentally ill antiques dealer by the name of Gheorghe Gherghel also had photographic equipment—including a camera with lenses. At first the
pair of them didn’t see the use of such an apparatus, but they went completely nuts when I explained that although you could find the Madonna with the telescope, you needed a camera with film
in it to have visible and lasting proof in the form of a picture.

Dimitru started performing one of his dances of joy again until Grandfather brought him back to earth.

“If you’ve been to this shop already, Pavel, did you ask what the whole shebang would cost?”

“It’s fairly inexpensive, considering the quality. Fifteen hundred or two thousand at most. For everything. Complete.”

Grandfather stroked his chin and nodded. “Sorry, but I don’t have that kind of money. I’d have to save for at least a year.”

Dimitru swore. “What a dope I am. Why did I have to keep silent all those years? That meant I couldn’t hawk those relics. You really can’t unload stuff like that without
talking, you know.”

Then Ilja snapped his fingers. “I have an idea how to get some money. But I don’t know if you’ll get mad and stop talking to me again, Dimitru.”

“Never again in my life will I be angry at you for anything.”

“Your birthday present to me—we could sell it. You know, the TV.”

“You’d do that? Sell my present to you? You’d really do without the set so we can foil Korolev together?”

“It’d be worth it to me.”

As the sun rose the next morning, I was sitting on the wagon box. Grandfather and Dimitru were sitting back in the wagon, their arms resting on a crate covered with a blanket.

We reached Kronauburg early that afternoon. I drove the wagon to a square at the foot of Castle Hill, not far from the clock tower. After I’d made sure that Gherghel’s Antiques
Bought and Sold still existed and the telescope was still in the window, I hauled the heavy TV into the shop.

“Hang on, gentlemen,” called out a man in his seventies with snow-white hair. “I’m not buying anything more.”

Dimitru pulled the blanket off the set, and Mr. Gherghel put on his glasses. He gave it an expert, appraising look.

“Whew, you don’t see something like this very often. A wonderful set. A dream. Top-notch quality. Loewe Optalux, from Germany. The Germany in the West, mind you . . . but
you’re too late. I’m really not buying anymore. By the end of next week I have to move out of this place. I’ve got a clearance sale on right now.”

“What would you have paid for it if you were still in business?” I persisted.

“A set like that would have just about brought me to the limit of my financial capacity. Sixteen, maybe eighteen hundred. If that’s not too low for you. And, of course, only if you
can prove where you got it. I never took anything from customers without a receipt of sale. At least, nothing expensive. If I’d received stolen goods, I’d have one foot in Pitesti
already. But as I said, I’m not buying anymore. I’ll be happy if I can get rid of the rest of this stuff.”

I looked around to make sure all the objects of my desire were still present. Then I ticked them off: “That telescope in the window, the camera with the lenses, and the darkroom equipment
with everything included—trays, paper, chemicals—what would all that come to?”

“All together? Do you have that much?” Mr. Gherghel thought it over. “Around two thousand. That’s really more than fair.”

Grandfather jumped in. “Let’s make a deal: we’ll trade. The TV for all that stuff. Is that fair, too?” And he put the sales receipt onto the counter.

Gheorghe Gherghel was speechless. He went to the stairs leading to his private rooms and called for someone named Matei. His nephew came right down and recognized me from my first visit.

“Hello! Are you still interested in the enlarger?”

Before I could answer, Matei’s uncle said, “Take a look at this TV. We can have it in exchange for this optical stuff. What do you think?”

The only thing Matei said was “Then you wouldn’t have to be bored to death staring out the window all evening long.”

A quarter hour later, none of us had the slightest doubt that Gheorghe Gherghel was not just an honest but also a happy man. When we mentioned that we lived in the mountains, he threw in a
somewhat-battered but still-functional radio set with a green dial. Matei asked if my friend from the last visit was still hot for one of his rifle scopes. When I answered,
“Absolutely,” he added one of his army-surplus ones to our pile. “No private party’s going to buy these anyway, since they’ve made hunting illegal.” While I was
imagining Petre Petrov’s shouts of joy, Gheorghe Gherghel took the telescope out of the window and explained that it had an achromatic lens according to Kepler’s principle with an
impressive magnification factor.

Dimitru asked, “Will an unchromed lens work for the moon, too?”

Gherghel was momentarily at a loss, but then he assured him that the instrument was positively designed to see even the smallest details on distant celestial bodies. “You’re in luck.
Along with the telescope I’ll give you an old map of the moon by an astronomer named Giovanni Battista Riccioli, a learned Jesuit from Italy. The map’s from the middle of the
seventeenth century. It’s not the original, of course—that would be priceless—but it’s a good modern reproduction. It will help you get oriented in your lunar
studies.”