The Rising: Antichrist Is Born (2 page)

Marilena shook her head. “He’s not a believer.”

Viviana smiled. “Not a believer.” She lit a cigarette. “Are you happy with him?”

“Reasonably.”

The older woman raised her eyebrows, and Marilena fought to keep from letting down more of her guard.

“He’s brilliant,” Marilena added. “One of the most widely read men I have ever known.”

“Which makes you ‘reasonably happy’ with him.”

Marilena nodded warily. “We’ve been together eight years.”

Viviana slid her chair back and crossed her legs. “Tell me how you met.”

What was it about this persistence that had such a dual impact on Marilena? To anyone else she would have said, “I don’t know you well enough to tell you about my personal life.” Yet despite the direct approach, Marilena felt bathed in some sort of care, compassion, interest. She was put off and intoxicated at the same time.

She allowed a smile. “We had an affair of sorts.”

“Oh!” Viviana said, leaning forward and crushing out her smoke. “I must hear it all. Was he married?”

“He was. But not happily. 1 Ic did not even wear his ring, though the whiteness near his knuckle was still fresh.”

Nostalgia washed over Marilena as she recalled her days as a doctoral student under the quiet flamboyance of the strange-looking professor so enamored of classical literature. By her questions, her participation, her papers, he had been able to tell that she was not there to merely fulfill a requirement. He engaged her in class, and the other students seemed content to act as spectators to their daily dialogue.

“He was a god to me,” Marilena said. “It was as if he knew everything. I could not raise an issue, a point, a subject he had not studied and thought through. I suddenly knew what love was—not that I believed I loved him. But I could not wait to get back to his class. I threw myself into the work so I would be prepared. I had always lived for learning, but then I burned to impress him, to be considered his equal—not as an intellectual, of course, but as a fellow seeker of knowledge.”

  It was the wine, Marilena decided. How long had it. been since she had been this effusive, this transparent? And with a virtual stranger, no less. Of course, Viviana Ivinisova reminded her of Sorin in Marilena’s impressionable days. She was just as drawn to this woman who seemed to know so much, to care so deeply, and who was so willing to open an entirely new world to initiates. How could Viviana know who would respond to things beyond themselves, truths most would consider coarse and mystical, outside conventional academia? What would Marilena’s colleagues think? Well, she knew. They would think of her what Sorin now thought of her. His indifference spoke loudly, as did his absence from the meetings after a mere two weeks nearly three months before.

“Did you pursue him?” Viviana Ivinisova said.

“I never even considered it. I pursued his mind, yes. I wanted to be near him, with him, in his class or otherwise. But I believe.it was he who pursued me.”

“You believe?”

“He did. He asked if I would consider serving as his assistant. I suspected nothing more than that he respected my mind. He had to consider me his inferior, yet I allowed myself to imagine that he at least respected my intellectual curiosity and dedication to learning.”

Viviana seemed not to have blinked. “You were not used to being pursued.”

No debate there. Marilena barely spoke to males, and not only had she never flirted with or pursued one, but neither had she ever considered such interest coming the other way. Certainly not with Dr. Carpathia. Not even when he insisted she call him Sorin. And have a meal with him. And spend time with him aside from office hours.

Even when he became familiar, touching her shoulder, squeezing her hand, throwing an arm around her, she considered him brotherly, or more precisely, avuncular, for he was ten years her senior.

“But at some point you had to have known,” Viviana said. “You married the man.”

“When I first accepted his invitation to the apartment we now share,” Marilena said, “we spent most of the night discussing great literature. He made dinner—very badly—but I was too intimidated to agree when he said so. We watched two movies, the first a dark, thought-provoking picture. He sat close to me, again in a familial fashion, leaning against me. I was so naive.”

Viviana’s eyes were dancing. “Then came a romantic picture, am I right?”

Were such things so predictable, or was this part of Viviana’s gift? In the meetings she had oft proved her ability to foretell, but now she knew the past as well?

“And not a comedy,” Marilena said. “A thoroughgoing love story, full of pathos.”

“And true love.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me how he seduced you.”

“I didn’t say that—”

“But he did, Marilena, didn’t he? I know he did.”

“He put his arm around me and left it there, and during the most emotional scenes, he pulled me close.”

“You spent the night, didn’t you?”

Astonishing. Sorin had, in fact, sent her home for her things after they had made love.

“Not very chivalrous of him,” Viviana said. “No wonder it hasn’t lasted.”

“It has lasted.”

Viviana shook her head with obvious pity. “You coexist,” she said. “And you know it. You’re more like brother and sister than husband and wife. And you don’t sleep together anymore.”

“We have only one bed.”

“You know what I mean.”

“But I never wanted that anyway. Really, I didn’t. I was smitten by Sorin’s mind. Truthfully, I still am. There is no one I’d rather converse with, argue with, discuss ideas with.”

“You never loved him?”

“I never thought about it. His seduction, as you call it, gave me an inside track on what I really wanted: to stay in proximity to that mind. He never loved me either.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me by never telling me.”

“That he loved you.”

Marilena nodded and a foreign emotion rose in her. What was this? Had that been what she wanted? Had she wanted Sorin to love her and to say so? She honestly believed she had never longed for that. “I must have been an awkward lover.”

“He lost interest?”

“In that. We still spent hours together talking and reading and studying. We still do.”

“But the romance died.”

“Within months of his divorce and our marriage two years later,” Marilena said. “Except for his occasional necessities.” She emphasized it the way he had. “And who knows where or to whom he goes now when necessary}”

“You don’t care?”

“I don’t dwell on it. I didn’t marry him for that. I am a born student, and I live with a born teacher. I am not a physically passionate person. I have all I need or want.”

When they were on the street, Viviana walking Marilena to the bus, the older woman took her arm. “You’re lying,” she said, and Marilena felt her first rush of guilt since childhood. “We’re getting close to your bitterness, aren’t we? Your loneliness. Your emptiness. The hole in your soul.”

Marilena was glad she had to keep her eyes forward to avoid tripping in the darkness. She could not have faced her new mentor. My soul, she thought. Until a few months before, she had not believed she even had a soul. Souls were for religious people. She was anything but that.

Marilena wished the bus would come and whisk her away. Even facing Sorin’s bemusement at her newfound interest in what he—”and any thinking person, including you”—considered anti-intellectualism would be respite from the relentless searchlight of Viviana’s prescience.

They sat on the bench at the bus stop, Marilena hoping a stranger would join them, anything to interrupt this. “You have discovered something within yourself beyond what I have been teaching,” Viviana said.

It was true. So true.

“You pushed it from your mind the first several times the stirring came over you. You reminded yourself that you and Sorin had discussed this, had dismissed it. He’d already had a family. Besides, the apartment was too small. Your work could not be interrupted. It was out of the question.”

Marilena’s jaw tightened, and she would not have been able to object had she chosen to. She pulled herself free of Viviana’s arm and pressed her palms to her face. How long had it been since she had wept? This longing, this stirring, as the older woman referred to it, had nagged at her until she forced herself to push it away. Out of the question was an understatement. She did not want Sorin’s child, especially one he would not want. And neither did she want to deceive him into producing a child within her. All of a sudden, after years of looking the other way when he took his “necessities” elsewhere, she would—what?—begin to be his lover again until hitting upon perfect timing?

The whine of the bus in the distance was a relief Marilena could barely embrace. She stood and fished in her shoulder bag for her transit card.

Viviana faced her and grabbed both shoulders. “We will talk next week,” she said. “But let me tell you this: I have your answer, bitter one. I have your light.”

Nine-year-old Ray Steele raced up the soccer field behind Belvidere Elementary, outflanking the defense and anticipating a pass from Bobby Stark. He cut across the field about twenty feet from the goalie box, and though the feed was behind him, he quickly adjusted, spun, and dribbled the ball with his feet. Juking two defenders, he drove toward the goal, the goalie angling out to meet him.

“Go, Ray, go! Beautiful athlete!” It was his father. Again. Truth was, Ray wished he would just shut up. It was bad enough his old man really was an old man. His parents were older than anyone else’s and looked older than that. Once another father had seen Ray walking to the car with his dad and said, ‘“Hey, isn’t it nice your grandpa could be here to watch you play?”

“Grandpa’s here?” Ray said before figuring it out. The man and Ray’s dad found that hilarious. Ray had just jumped into his parents’ beater car and hidden his head.

Even Ray’s mistakes worked out. He faked left and went right, but the goalie was on to him. Ray reared back and drilled the ball off the goalie’s chest. It came right back to him. With the goalie now out of position and the other defenders sprinting toward him, Ray calmly toed the ball into the left side of the net.

He shook off his teammates as they tried to lift him onto their shoulders. Why did everybody have to act so stupid? It wasn’t like this was the championship, and it certainly wasn’t a deciding goal. In fact it put Ray’s team up 7-1, and the other team hadn’t won a game all season. Big deal.

Ray Steele was good at soccer, but he hated it. Too much effort for too little result. He couldn’t stand watching it on TV. All that racing up and down the field and the incredible skills of international stars, usually resulting in a scoreless tie that had to be decided by a shoot-out.

He played only to keep in shape for his favorite sports: football, basketball, and baseball. In reality, however, Ray was better than good. He was the best player in the soccer league, the top scorer, and one of the best defenders. Young as he was, the attention of the cheerleaders wasn’t lost on him. He wasn’t much for talking with girls though. Didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like he was going to do less than his best so people would leave him alone. He had to admit, if only to himself, that the attention wasn’t all bad. But usually it was just embarrassing.

Ray was taller than the other kids and an. anomaly. First, he could outrun anyone his age and even a little older at long distances. When the team took a couple of laps around the field, he sprinted to the front and led the whole way. And when they finished and everyone else was red-faced, bent over, hands on their knees, gasping, he recovered quickly and chatted with his coach. If only the coach hadn’t told his father, “That son of yours is a beautiful athlete. Beautiful.”

Second, Ray was faster than anyone in short races too. That was unusual for someone his height at his age. Longdistance runners weren’t supposed to also be fast in the dashes. What could he say? His dad claimed to have been a great athlete when he was a kid, but how long ago must that have been?

Third, Ray was an anomaly because he knew what anomaly meant. How many other fourth graders had a clue? Being known as the cutest kid in the class made him self-conscious too, but he had to admit he’d rather deal with that than the opposite. He sure didn’t envy the fat kid, the ugly girl, or the nerd. He had it all. Smartest, best athlete, fastest, cutest.

That didn’t change the fact that he was ashamed of his parents. And their car. No one kept a car as long as Ray’s dad. Oh, the plastic polymer still shone. It was designed that way. Cars simply weren’t supposed to look like they aged anymore. But everybody knew, because the auto manufacturers now had only two ways to make cars look new: they changed styles every year, and color schemes changed every three or four years.

When his dad first got the yellow Chevy, it was already used. “Don’t knock it,” his dad said. “It’s got low mileage, and I know cars. It’s been taken care of, and it should give us lots of years.”

That’s what Ray was afraid of. It seemed his friends’ families were getting the latest models all the time, and they were forever bragging about all the features. There was the silver and platinum phase when cars were designed to look like classics from the first decade of the new century. Then came the primary colors, which didn’t last long—except for that Chevy. According to Ray’s dad it was going to last as long as he could make it last.

Ray wished it would get stolen or burn or get smashed. He’d made the mistake of saying so.

“Why, Rayford!” his mother said. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Come on, Ma! Everybody knows that rattletrap is at least six years old.”

“In real years, maybe,” Mr. Steele said. “But the way it’s been maintained and the way I take care of it, it’s almost good as new.”

“Shakes, rattles, squeaks,” Ray mumbled.

“Important thing is the engine. It’s plenty good for the likes of us.”

That was one of his dad’s favorite phrases, and while Ray knew what it meant, he could have gone the rest of his life without hearing it again. He knew what came next. “We’re just plain and simple, hardworking people.”