These are the first three chapters of a novel with a unique approach to the vampire theme.  Literary agents take note.

Download  chapters 1- 3 in pdb doc format.

Chapters 4 to 6 can be found here.

A TRUE SON OF ASMODEUS

a novel by

Zvi Zaks

(About 100,000 words)

Part One

Prologue

There are two versions of Stephan Harper’s fate. They agree on the timing of the incident --1888, the year before A. Hitler was whelped -- but little else. The police record Stephan’s death as a simple murder. Though the perpetrator was never found, they note that an expensive brooch, which he had perhaps shown to too many people, was missing. There is no suggestion of a supernatural element or connection to past events.

The archivists for the Perceptives insist Stephan’s death was merely the latest in an ancient series. According to them, Stephan, a bank clerk, finally closed his ledgers late one evening, stood from his desk and took a small box from his waistcoat pocket. Inside lay a rather extravagant jeweled brooch he planned to give his fiancיe the next day.

The young man donned his overcoat, pushed open the thick wooden doors and stepped outside. Wind howled and frost stung his face. He hugged himself and started walking the empty street towards his boarding house. The buildings lining the empty roadway were dark, like black cliffs against an abandoned canyon. Not a soul or carriage or cat crouching in the darkness disturbed the desolation. Clouds passing over the moon cast shifting shadows like rats sneaking along the curbside. Stephan shivered and grabbed the top of his coat tighter.

Two blocks from his residence, footsteps, the relentless smack of stiff leather on hard stone, echoed behind him. He turned his head and saw a shadowy figure. Rumors of a fiend that stalked young people and drank their blood had terrorized the city for weeks, and had left Stephan’s fiancיe in constant dread. Just yesterday, he had laughed at her fear, but now, with that ominous figure trailing, terror colder than the wind pierced his chest. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had become dry. He walked faster. The footsteps drew closer. He panicked and ran.

A dark alleyway appeared, and with it a thought entered his head -- hide here. Panting in terror, he turned in. But the alleyway ended after just a few yards, leaving him trapped.

The figure approached. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ a voice in his mind said, but it lied. As the drab and weary looking form advanced, Stephan knew this was the supernatural killer. With a grimace, he unbuttoned the top of his greatcoat, and pulled out his defense -- a silver crucifix. This holy replica, a gift from his mother, would surely protect him.

His voice rang out in the night. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost I bid you depart.”

The specter ignored the adjuration and walked to his victim, yanked the icon from its fragile chain and stared at it, turning it back and forth. With an expression of contemptuous sadness, he shook his head and stared up at the young man. “You’ve been reading too many novels. This doesn’t bother my master.” He stuffed the cross into Stephan’s coat pocket. “And in no way will it help you, young man.” He put his hand on the youth’s shoulder and drew him closer.

A stench of vomit coming from that minion from Hell made Stephan retch. “Jesus, save me,” he said, his voice too quiet, his hand struggling to trace the sign of the cross. But his neck obeyed the vampire and bent to the side, exposing the jugular vein to the apparition’s lengthening fangs.

#

A rational person would rely on the official accounting. The Perceptives, wise sages though they are, weave a fanciful tale and offer no evidence to support it. Still and all, I keep wondering -- what if I had believed what they said from the beginning?

Chapter One

My own involvement began on a warm summer night in 1990, a year before the first Iraq war, two years before Bill Clinton defeated Bush senior. The moon was full and bright when paramedics wheeled a girl -- she could not have been more than sixteen -- into the LA General emergency room. Her face was cherubic, but grime and tears stained her cheeks, and a strip of spiked purple hair divided her otherwise bald scalp. From my writing desk a few yards away, I saw her kick off the sheet covering her. She wore a leather vest and miniskirt, nothing more, and had left herself with legs akimbo, exposed. I sighed and got up to replace the sheet. Someone had taped to her chart an empty bottle of Xanax, the pills she had used to try to kill herself.

Brenda Anders, the ER resident, passed by while I was tucking the sheet under the gurney mattress. She snickered. “Eli, she’s too stoned to care who sees her twat.”

“I care,” I muttered, but Brenda had already left to check her latest crisis.

A young orderly threw Brenda a glance and grimaced. “Is she always that gross?”

I shook my head. “Never. The workload is stressing her out.”

The number of people in the ER would stress out anyone, I thought. Brenda’s new patient, an intoxicated biker, spat obscenities against a background cacophony of voices crying out in pain and despair, some loud, others scarcely audible, all reverberating from the dingy walls. Most were Brenda’s to care for.

One person in particular, an emaciated, unshaven man, caught my eye. He rattled the side-rails of his gurney and repeated, “I am Christ Jesus, come to save the world.” Parched lips and sunken eyes revealed severe dehydration while blood oozed from puncture wounds in his hands and feet. He could have been twenty or sixty. The chart said only that his landlady had found him nailed to a wooden cross on the wall of his apartment and had called the police.

To my eyes he looked Jewish, which was strange because thinking you are Jesus Christ is a Christian delusion.

Fighting to stay awake, I returned to the counter and continued writing admission notes on my patient, Consuelo Gutierrez. Consuelo, a middle-age woman with pneumonia, should have been the ER’s patient, but I had known her for years. Moreover, she spoke only Spanish. I am pretty good with that language, so when the supervisor asked, I came.

Consuelo lived in constant terror that a breast cancer removed five years ago had returned. To her, even a cold meant the malignant growth had come back.

Sheila, the head nurse, a buxom woman in her late thirties, bustled by to check the medication cart. “Thanks for covering up that girl, Eli. This place is a real zoo tonight. Is there a full moon?” Metal cabinet drawers squeaked as she pulled them open and rattled little glass bottles, releasing a medicinal smell.

My smile was wry. “There is, but that shouldn’t make a difference.”

“No difference?” She snorted, blonde curls shaking with mock indignation. “Check out that hallway. One gurney after another with overdoses, psychotics or both. Dr. Anders is two hours behind, and you say the moon makes no difference? Get real.” She grabbed a vial from the cart and sucked out yellow fluid with a syringe.

I laughed. “Don’t worry. The ER will quiet down in another hour, though I’ll be working much later.”

She turned towards me with an uneasy giggle. Her eyes were wide.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You just made another prediction.”

I lifted my eyebrows.

“Don’t you know?” she asked.

“Know what?”

“Your predictions. The nurses here laugh about them, but they’re so on track, they’re creepy. You don’t just guess good, Eli. When you say we’ll be swamped, the head nurse calls in more staff to handle the extra work. The one time you were wrong, you were sick yourself.”

I grimaced. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She trembled with determination. “Eli, I’m serious.”

“Stop it. I don’t want to hear that nonsense.” My voice was loud.

She shifted the stethoscope around her neck and looked puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

I forced myself to lower my voice. “Galileo wouldn’t like it.”

She screwed up her face. “Galileo? The guy who discovered the world goes around the sun? What on earth does he have to do with it?”

“Before him, people could believe that the sun went around the earth. He discovered Jupiter’s moons. Then it became too complicated to think the earth was the center of the universe. If you want, I can explain…”

She held up her hands. “No, please don’t. Galileo isn’t upsetting you. Eli. You’re so bummed out, you’re quivering.”

I turned away and mumbled, “It’s not important.”

She pulled up a chair, sat near me, and put the syringe on the table. ““I’ve known you since you were a green resident. Your face says it is important. Spill it.”

“You have to give an injection.”

“Trust me, it can wait.”

I took a deep sigh and let it out slowly. In truth, I did want to unload the story. “When I was ten, I told everyone that a cousin with meningitis would get better. The doctors said he would die, but I had a premonition he would pull through, and he did -- 100 percent. After that, my mother kept talking about ‘psychic powers’ and saw any lucky guess as more proof. I got a lot of attention, and at first, it was fun. Then Dad got involved. He had been laid off and insisted I coach him in a card game to help the family. It didn’t work. He lost his shirt and screamed at me for not cooperating.” I hesitated. “When I reminded him that the card game was his idea, he hit me. He and Mom fought with bitter screaming matches for weeks afterwards until he got another job. I thought I had pushed them to the edge of divorce. I know better now, but it was a miserable, wretched time that taught me an important lesson -- don’t trust magic. The whole idea of ESP is distasteful to me.”

She suppressed a smile. “Oh. I’m sorry, Eli. I didn’t mean to pry.”

I writhed at the unhappy memory. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“Forget it, but I hope you’re right this time. I’m tired of these weirdoes,” she said and then scurried off to give her injection. I shook my head. She too thought I had psychic powers. How could an intelligent and educated nurse like Sheila believe such crap? It was infuriating.

In all honesty, I did remember a strange dizziness when Mom spoke of another prophecy, and some episodes had seemed like more than lucky guesses. But they must have been coincidences. Our rabbi insisted I did not have any special powers, and after that unhappy card game, I was more than ready to put the matter out of my mind.

Sheila was right about one thing -- the strange patients. Brenda’s drunken biker, just fifteen feet from my desk, took first place for weirdness. The patient, a muscular, hairy man reeking of stale sweat and booze, struggled against his restraints and screamed that a vampire had attacked him. A long, bloody gash in his throat -- a cut that a friend said he had made himself -- looked horrible, but was too shallow to endanger him.

“You God damned motherfucking bloodsuckers with God damned voices telling me don’t fight. You smell like a shithole. Get those teeth the hell out of my neck!” he shouted.

The nurses would not go near him.

Brenda tried to examine him but his thrashing made that impossible. With a tired and disgusted frown, she trudged to my desk and leaned towards me. “Eli, I’m going to do you a favor. This patient is a real learning experience. I’m going to let you have him.”

I laughed. “Thanks a lot, but I couldn’t deprive you. I treated enough PCP freaks in my own residency.”

“Ah, but listen to him. He has a slit neck, a vampire attack. You’ve never cared for vampire bites, have you?”

“Tell you what. If the vampire comes to the emergency room, I’ll take him.”

“Why would the vampire come?” She pushed her thick glasses back up her nose.

“Are you kidding? After drinking from that psychopath, a vampire would get blood poisoning.”

Not amused, Brenda returned to her patient, whose urine, it turned out, did show PCP as well as alcohol. No doubt about it; phencyclidine fries brains. I stifled a yawn and wondered what would happen if an actual vampire bit the neck of someone on that drug. Would the bloodsucker become psychotic? A second thought -- could the frantic struggles of the PCP freak rip the puncture wounds into a gash like this man had?

“Hey, Eli,” Sheila called. “Elizabeth Forest just came in. She’s got a fever of 103.”

The name rang a bell. “Isn’t she one of Andrew Netter’s leukemia patients?”

She smiled with saccharin sweetness. “She sure is. Be a dear and take her case. Dr. Anders is swamped.”

I glanced at my watch and yawned. It was eleven o’clock. I should have felt compassion for this woman who had a “legitimate” illness -- leukemia -- in contrast to self-induced problems like drug overdoses, but I felt exhausted. “It’s late, Sheila.”

She patted my shoulder. “C’mon, Eli, Dr. Netter would want you to take over. You even have the key to his office and her records. Besides, you said yourself you have to work late tonight.” She smiled again.

“Please, no more talk about predictions.”

“Okay. But you know you won’t finish before midnight no matter what.”

She was right. I ordered a chest X-ray and blood tests on Mrs. Forest, and walked out of the emergency room into the moon-drenched night. Crickets called to their mates and a breeze carried the fragrance of eucalyptus as I jogged to Andrew Netter’s office several hundred yards away.

I unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Pastel purple rugs blended with original oils hanging on textured wallpaper. A fifty-gallon aquarium burbled while indigo and bright vermilion fish swam through synthetic seaweed. I sat for a moment in the executive’s chair behind the oversized mahogany desk, smelled the odors of wood and leather, and smiled. Sitting in that same chair, Andrew Netter had often said I could have an office like this if I wanted. No question that it was beautiful. The question was -- did I want it?

Netter was my idol. A portly, graying gentleman a little taller than me -- about 5’10” -- he wore a mantle of geniality and quiet dignity, and treated us residents and fellows -- the peons -- with uncommon courtesy. The big brother I never had, he often invited me to dinners in his elegant house or swimming parties in his Olympic-sized pool. Though as a rule I do not go to Christmas celebrations, I never missed his. His wife was less sociable, and his teenage children were downright rude, but Netter himself was a prince.

Six months ago, he had invited me to join his prestigious oncology group after my hematology fellowship ended. I would be guaranteed status and money. Karen, my girlfriend for the past half year, kept saying I would be crazy to refuse.

Yes, he had a nice office, I mused, but not for me.

Without warning, dread that something horrible had befallen Netter made my head spin. I shuddered. Could this be a return of those damn premonitions I had told Sheila about? I pushed the repulsive thought away, pulled Mrs. Forest’s three-inch chart from the file cabinet, and leafed through the pages.

My pager, quiet and unobtrusive, buzzed against my hip. I jumped. The little green screen flashed, “Call Sheila stat.”

I dialed the ER. Sheila picked up on the first ring. “Eli, get back here right away.” Her voice quavered.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just hurry!” she cried and the phone went dead.

I grabbed the chart and sprinted back to the ER. Sheila’s worry, audible even over the phone, scared me. Sheila could handle anything an emergency room could throw at a nurse, so what could frighten her? If she was scared, it was serious.

A siren wailed as I ran to the emergency room and inside. A nurse pointed without speaking towards the curtain half shielding a gurney. I dashed to the cubicle and gasped. My idol, Andrew Netter, lay comatose and scarcely breathing, an empty bottle of sleeping pills taped to his chart.

Brenda worked on him with efficiency and admirable detachment while I stood immobile next to the gurney. She pushed thick needles into Netter’s arm and mumbled something about a pulmonary doctor. The nurse next to me, a tiny Filipina woman, touched my arm. “Dr. Rothenberg, Dr. Anders is asking you a question.” Her voice was gentle.

Brenda glanced up at me. “You okay, Eli?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m sorry. What were you asking?”

“I know he’s your friend. Would you like the pulmonologist to take over?” Brenda opened the stopper on the IV bag, letting clear fluid pour into his arm vein. Then she took a large syringe and plunged it into an artery in Netter’s groin. Bright red blood filled the barrel and reassured me that at least he had enough oxygen.

I shook my head, trying to clear my brain. “Are you having trouble?”

“Oh no, I could do this with my eyes closed. I just wanted to check if you wanted one of the attending docs on the case.”

A baby in the next cubicle cried in fury. My head spun. “No. You go ahead.”

Brenda stuck a thick orange tube down Netter’s nose to wash out his stomach. She even hooked him up to a respirator because his breathing had slowed so much. Andy Netter had become another overdose, another attempted suicide in the emergency room under the full moon. Emergency rooms are strange places indeed, with bright lights, constant alarms, scurrying white-garbed personnel, and the smells of sweat and dying. Life and death decisions are so common here that we doctors become numbed to their importance. Agonized faces of fear, guilt and grief pass by us unnoticed and unmitigated. But when the gurney holds your mentor, when your friend is covered with wires and tubes, life hanging on a machine, then the numbness disappears. Detachment vanishes, and the agonized face -- at least for a while -- is your own.

#

The ER emptied out at midnight, but I did not get to the tiny on-call room before two a.m. Though exhausted, I tossed and turned in the narrow cot while ruminating on Netter’s suicide attempt and also worrying about the strange premonition I felt just before Sheila’s call. When sleep finally came, I dreamed of the patient with the neck gash, now a vampire himself, stalking the corridors of an ancient London hospital.

Next morning I checked on Mrs. Forest and then visited Netter in the ICU. His face was pale and gaunt, but the breathing tube was out and he was awake. “How do you feel?” I asked, pulling up a chair.

He shook his head. “I have a headache.”

“Do you feel like talking?”

He closed his eyes. “I’ve been such a fool.” With the cardiac monitor pinging in the background, he told the story. He and his wife had been seduced by their huge house and its implied status, and had fallen into massive debt. Trying to catch up, he worked too many hours and neglected his family. His son had been suspended from high school for using drugs and his daughter was pregnant. Frantic, he saw his life deteriorating, but could not stop the downslide. The final blow was finding his wife with a lover. “That’s when I took the pills,” he said in a voice so low, I strained to hear him.

The confession overwhelmed me. To me, Netter epitomized the successful doctor, one whose footsteps I might follow; did those footsteps lead to such an end? I mumbled some platitudes and, fighting fatigue, left, the image of Netter’s anguish floating in front of my eyes, to finish rounds.

I escaped from the hospital around mid afternoon and went home, or rather, went to Karen’s apartment. I had moved in with Karen Lodge five months ago. She was the most affectionate woman I had ever met, always hugging and touching me. I loved it. In her red Corvette, her long blonde hair framing long ruby earrings, she was gorgeous, a photographer’s dream.

But I was Eli Rothenberg, a gangling, awkward man from Philadelphia, the classic ‘before’ model for a bodybuilder’s ad. I was underweight, had acne scars, and, instead of a sports car, drove a Pontiac sedan. I could not find myself in Karen’s picture, and that bothered me.

Karen should have been a football hero’s girlfriend. I never played sports. I was a bookworm even in the second grade, and spent hours reading about scientists like Darwin and Galileo who fought superstition and enlightened humanity.

At that age, I read fantasy stories as well, and often imagined myself a magician like Merlin or one of the legendary Jewish miracle workers of my grandmother’s fables. Locked in mortal combat with an evil wizard, I would vanquish the cad with cabalistic incantations to win the hand of a fair, if imaginary, maiden.

After the fiasco of my Dad’s card game, his hitting me and the months of screaming bedlam that followed, I chose Galileo over Merlin. Herb, a high school friend, and I even made a group called “Friends of Galileo.” The rules described by giants like the old astronomer offered a shield against disorder that reassured both of us. Camelot myths, grandmom’s fantastic stories, or anything else that reminded me of magical premonitions made me uneasy. When then universe did not follow its own rules, it turned chaotic and frightening.

The fair maidens of the fantasies, unlike Merlin himself, stayed with me several more years since as a youth I felt too self-conscious to date. Medical school was not much better even though med students are supposed to be irresistible to the opposite sex. When Karen and I started up, it amazed me. I had never dreamed such a beautiful woman would like me.

Karen’s apartment, with plush maroon rugs, a picture window view of the mountains, and a balcony overlooking the pool, oozed luxury. Her furnishings, including a fine French provincial table and chairs, added to the air of richness. It was nice living there, but I could not share her taste for expensive surroundings.

I liked her waterbed, a king-size hardwood piece with a carved sun god adorning the headboard. More precisely, I enjoyed the time we spent in the bed. We had our differences and occasional bitter arguments, but our sex life was always great.

The past few weeks we had talked about maybe making our relationship permanent. Karen was twenty-seven and did not want to hit thirty without a husband, but like with many men, the thought of getting married scared me.

My Mom did not like Karen -- no surprise there. Dad was neutral, but to Mom, Karen epitomized the stereotype of a beautiful but scheming shixsa trying to steal her Jewish son.

Karen did not come home before six on most evenings so I dropped onto the sofa and fell asleep. A kiss on my forehead and a “Hello sleepyhead,” ended my nap.

I smiled at her and yawned. “Hi sweetie.” It took a few seconds for me to orient myself. I stood and walked to her kitchen, a small area, but equipped with every appliance imaginable. I put leftovers in the microwave. “Did you hear what happened in the ER last night?” I asked in a soft voice. The little oven hummed as the smell of chicken and buttery potatoes filled the kitchen.

“No, I didn’t hear anything. Did you hear what happened in administration today? The CEO called an emergency meeting on HMO contracts, giving me just three hours to update my summaries. Then my hard disk crashed. I swear I was going crazy.” She set the table, sat down and attacked her meal. Sweaty and with her burgundy business suit rumpled, she looked not at all her usual glamorous self, but, had I not been so upset by Netter’s plight, that would have made her even more desirable.

I joined her at the table and stared at my plate. “Andrew Netter tried to commit suicide. Took an overdose of pills.”

“Oh Eli, that’s a shame.” She stopped eating and reached her hand out to mine. “But I’m not surprised.” She turned back to her meal, a faint smile on her face. “He found that his wife was screwing around, right? Don’t worry. His group will want you even more if he doesn’t go back to work.”

I looked up at her, opened my mouth, closed it, then finally spoke. “How did you know about his wife?”

She shrugged. “Everyone knows. It’s his own fault for working so much and ignoring her.”

“I didn’t know. Neither did he.” I stared at my plate. “I’m not hungry.” I stood, went to the living room couch and opened a hematology journal. Instead of medical articles, the pages kept turning to classified advertisements. “Position available, northern Minnesota.” What a laugh. Who would leave southern California for there? “Hematology research grant, London and Munich.” That sounded more enticing, but not practical.

Next morning, Karen left before breakfast to try to salvage her ailing hard disk. After feeding her cat, Slinky, I sat at the wooden kitchen table and sipped coffee while my mind churned. Karen’s reaction to Netter’s suicide attempt reminded me of an incident at a party some weeks ago. Someone told a rabbi-minister-priest joke in which the rabbi throws his collection money in the air and says, “What God wants, he’ll keep. I’ll take the rest.” Karen had laughed and clapped her hands. I felt then as if I had been slapped. I felt the same now.

I picked up the medical magazine and reread the ad for the European fellowship. The University of Heidelberg, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, and the University of Munch Hospital in Germany had all joined to sponsor a year of research in hematology, along with teaching and clinical duties. That would be fun. Except for a couple of quick visits to Tijuana, I had never left the United States even for sightseeing. To leave now would be frivolous. I had a good job and a beautiful, rich girlfriend in LA, even though right now I was angry with her. Yet how delicious and exciting did that frivolity appear.

I applied. I sent a letter with copies of my diplomas, credentials and reprints of the two journal articles I had been involved in to Heidelberg. However, I did not tell Karen. Six weeks later the answer arrived in my mailbox -- I had been accepted. I would spend six months with a Dr. S. W. Rodger in London and another six with a Dr. Hermann Kצrnig in Munich. They would send contracts and give further details. I would be in Europe for a full year.

In actuality, the grant, a strange mixture of three hospitals and two countries, had come too easily to be natural. Nevertheless, when the acceptance letter came, my only reaction was a broad smile.

#

That evening, after we had gone to bed, I told Karen about the grant.

“That’s nice,” she said in a sleepy voice, her forefinger tracing warm, comfortable circles on my chest. A moment passed. “How long is it for?”

“A year.”

The finger disappeared. “Are you going to take it?”

“Yes. I think so.”

She sat up, turned on the nightstand lamp and looked at me. Waves in the waterbed crisscrossed. “You’re going away for a year? When did you apply for this grant?”

“Oh, about a month, month and a half ago.”

Her brows furrowed. “Eli, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

I shrugged and looked away. “I didn’t want to upset you. It seemed like such a long shot I never thought I’d be accepted.”

She stared at me, round-eyed. “You’re not proposing marriage and asking me to come with you, are you? Not that I want to leave LA.”

I gulped. “Well no, that’s not what I was thinking.”

“And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

“Ah, I don’t know. I guess I can’t ask you to wait.”

Her voice rose. “You mean you’re dumping me?”

“Well, maybe I should have told you sooner.”

“You bastard, you selfish bastard.” I winced, though the epithet was justified. She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, stomped over to the closet and covered her short, pink nightie with a long, blue flannel robe. I winced again.

“Come on Karen. You know I’ve always wanted to do research. This is the chance of a lifetime.”

“Do research if you want. Do whatever the hell you want. But for Christ’s sakes, you could have told me. It’s so humiliating, having a creep like you sneak away like this.” She started to cry, then grabbed my arm and, almost dislocating my shoulder, yanked me out of the bed. “I don’t care how rich you’ll be. Get the hell out of my bedroom.”

I trudged off to the sofa where I tossed and turned for hours. Not telling her earlier had been selfish, but where had the comments about me being a creep and becoming rich come from?

When I awoke next morning, she had already left. After work that afternoon I found my bags packed and a note taped to one of them:

Eli,

I’ve gone to visit my parents. Get your things out of here before I return.

Karen

What a way to start a trip.

#

Consuelo Gutierrez was the first patient I told about Europe. She did not like it. She said in Spanish, “Don’t leave, doctor. No one else in this clinic speaks my language.”

I looked away. “Several nurses speak Spanish.”

She looked down. “They don’t like me.” Then she cleared her throat. “Ah, Doctor...”

I knew what she wanted to hear. “No, Mrs. Gutierrez, there is no sign that the cancer has returned. That pneumonia last month didn’t mean cancer.”

She sighed with relief. “Thank you, Doctor. I will miss you,” she said, and walked with slow, small steps from the examining room.

I felt like a deserter.

#

Telling Netter was worse, like abandoning my father. Andy looked surprised. Astonished might be a better word. For several seconds we avoided each other’s eyes over that huge desk.

“Andy, you know I’ve always wanted to do research, at least give it a try.”

“Yes, I know that.”

The aquarium bubbled in the background. “It has nothing to do with your ... with what happened.”

He frowned. “Please, Eli, don’t try to protect me. You don’t open up much, but when you do, I’ve always relied on you.”

“Well, that wasn’t the only reason, not by a long shot.”

He nodded. “Well, good.”

I thought of the patients in his waiting room. Some were poor, but most wore furs or custom tailored suits. “I’m just not cut out to be a society doctor.”

“Funny, I never thought of myself as a society doctor.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It’s okay. Maybe I am. I’ve been looking at things in a different way since that … incident. I have a lot of changes to make. But don’t worry about me. I’ll never do that again.” He took off his glasses and leaned forward, holding his bald scalp with his hand.

I stared down at my shoe and rubbed it on the plush rug. “I’ll write you, Andy, and let you know how I’m doing.”

He sighed and looked off to the side. “Yeah, Eli, I’d like that,” he said and showed me out of his office, that expensive office with the mahogany desk and the textured wallpaper. I had always disdained that luxury. Now that it was unlikely ever to be mine, I missed it.

#

Twelve weeks after that horrific suicide attempt, my belongings sat in storage, my Pontiac was sold, and my clothes packed. I was ready to leave LA. A friend, Bob, drove me to the airport in his father’s Cadillac. To my surprise and discomfort, Karen came with us. As we drove, the three of us in the front seat, I smelled her delicate musk perfume and saw her beautiful smile. Her face ignored me, but her thigh pressed against mine.

We had not parted on good terms. Was this sabbatical, the immediate cause of our breakup, a mistake? In spite of the rough spots, I had enjoyed that half-year with Karen a lot. Standing in front of the bustling terminal entrance, I wanted to embrace her. Instead, we shook hands, my heart melting with nostalgia and regret.

We had planned a rich life together. Working with Netter, I would have earned a six-figure income for us to buy a seven-figure house and a Mercedes and Porsche. Our two children would have gone to the best schools and we to the best country club. And we would never recognize anyone who had known us when we were poor.

Would I have paid the same price as Netter?

Then I saw the cross again hanging from her neck. She did not attend church with any regularity, but she did wear that pendant from time to time when we first dated. Though just an inch of filigreed metal, it would catch my eye and annoy me, like a bug whispering in my ear, “I do not share your values or your aspirations. I am different from you.” It distracted me most when we made love.

“It’s just a necklace, Eli, an heirloom from my grandmother. Don’t take it so seriously,” she said. My intellect understood, but that inner voice would not be quiet. After a while, she put the cross away. Now once more it hung from a chain around her neck.

Today, I wore my own symbol, a mezuzah -- a pendant containing parchment with a specific verse from the Bible. If any Jewish sign matches the cross, this would be it. Were Karen and I still together we could have a war of the icons. But one difference stood out. Her cross hung in public for everyone to see. The mezuzah lay under my shirt, a private statement.

Regret vanished. I knew why I had to leave. Andy’s suicide attempt had shocked me, but that alone would not lead me to Europe. Karen herself and the temptation she provoked for me to forget my Jewishness provided the rest of the reason. My grandmother had been the only religious one in our family, but being Jewish had been important to all of us. Non-Jews might think that silly. Nevertheless, to preserve my identity, I did not have choice.

Netter and Karen represented different aspects of the same trap -- following the easy path. Falling into assimilated materialism would take no effort, yet somehow I knew -- I did not want to call it a premonition -- it wasn’t for me.

Chapter Two

Inside the terminal, I stopped short. Bob wanted me to write him, but had not given me his new address. I turned and ran back outside only to catch him and Karen driving away, his arm around her shoulder. As they passed, she nibbled on his ear. So that’s why she had come with us to the airport.

The public address speaker blared a warning to watch your suitcase. I strode with resolute steps back towards the departure gate, where passengers were already boarding. As I walked down the jetway, my knees trembled and my palms sweated. This journey, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, frightened and excited me.

Inside the plane, I put my suitcase in the overhead cabin and looked around. Two rows behind stood a strikingly beautiful girl. She was stunning, a woman with shining eyes, perfect skin and gorgeous long black hair. Her lips were full and pink, even without makeup. Her mauve skirt and white silk blouse hid her skin but accentuated her figure. She reached up to put a bag in the overhead storage, every movement as graceful as a ballet dancer’s. She laughed at something a companion said. The crystal clarity of her voice entranced me.

Love, I thought, oh how I could love her. How sweet it would be to walk to her seat, engage her in chitchat, and perhaps even ask for a date. What heaven to stroll down the street holding her hand. I couldn’t envision kissing her. She was too exalted for me. As for further intimacy, that was unthinkable, a delight I couldn’t even imagine.

I stared like an idiot, pulse racing, wanting to say something. However, she was guarded by two black-garbed, Hasidic men and a middle-age Hasidic woman, and was no more approachable than a nun.

Enjoying the dream of what could never happen, I sat in the aisle seat and smirked. Luckily for me, Jewish spirituality does not encourage people to live like monks.

When an attendant closed the front door, I moved to the empty window seat next to me. The plane pushed off towards the runway and rose with an ever-increasing roar, pressing me gently back into my seat. As the aircraft banked, the sun cast golden sparkles on the Pacific, and the morning shadows in the valley depths threw into stark contrast the tree covered mountains. A scattering of fleecy clouds passed beneath us.

The plane leveled off, and the noise subsided. I took out a diary I had bought yesterday, and began writing: instead of striving for country clubs and Porsches, this plane trip marked the beginning of spiritual growth. I filled a page with musings. It looked good.

Just then, the sound of Yiddish caught my ear. I had not heard that language since leaving home. The Hasidic men with the beautiful young woman were discussing prophecies from something called “The Book of Splendor.” I looked back. The elder of the two smiled at me.

I returned to my diary:

For years, I have denigrated orthodox Jews as fanatics clinging to outworn traditions. Perhaps I should shed this contempt. I don’t want to follow their rules and let others tell me how to be Jewish. That’s for me to decide. However, I don’t have to despise them for their choices. I can respect them without adopting their extremes. I will follow Jewish tradition in a modern way and have the best of both worlds.

This plane was taking me away from Netter and Karen, from materialism and from assimilation. For breakfast, I had eaten bacon and eggs. For lunch, a kosher meal awaited me. My journey had begun.

#

To me, a transcontinental flight is a world unto itself high above the Earth, unmoved by storms or conflicts below -- at least for a while. My brain lulled with complimentary wine, I watched the terrain slide beneath us and drifted off to sleep as we sailed into a blanket of clouds.

The captain’s voice announcing the Rocky Mountains below startled me awake and shattered a half-remembered, luxurious dream. Yawning and stretching, I looked around and saw a flight attendant bring snacks. My stomach growled and I sat up, waiting for her. However, the snacks, little cubes of ham and cheese speared on a toothpick, were the most traif, that is non-kosher, combination imaginable. I stared at the tray. If I wanted to live a Jewish life, I could not eat that.

An hour later, I smelled the tantalizing aroma of roast chicken, but the stewardess, instead of taking my order, loudly announced, “You’re the one who ordered a kosher meal, right?” I will swear people turned to stare at me. When the meal, covered with sheets of plastic and foil, arrived, I lowered the seatback and unwrapped the layers, trying to squeeze the mess into a manageable-size ball. The main course, brisket of beef, tasted dry and stringy.

Following the ancient traditions was harder than I thought.

After lunch I started to write Karen an apology for ‘sneaking away’ as she put it, but her comment -- that I was just a jerk who would someday become rich -- burned. I tore the letter to shreds. Granted, I should have told her my plans when I first applied for the grant, I still could not bring myself to apologize to the contemptuous gold-digger.

With nothing else to do, I opened a medical journal when a deep voice asked, “May I join you?”

I jerked my head to see the elder Hasid standing by the empty aisle seat next to me. “Sure,” I said.

He sat down and extended his hand. “Abram Rabinowich.”

“Eli Rothenberg,” I answered, taking his hand. His grip was firm. A long, light gray beard and wrinkles made him look about sixty or sixty-five. He wore a black frock, black pants, black shoes, black stovepipe hat nearly covering a black skullcap, and a starched white shirt without a tie. With sharp creases and a total absence of wrinkles, stains would not dare to intrude on his appearance. The uniform was typical Hasid, but his skin was atypically ruddy. A faint, ironic smile played around the corners of his mouth, as if savoring a riddle he would reveal in his own good time. He had a straight nose, not a “Jewish nose” like mine, and his eyes -- black -- were magnetic.

“Let me give you a tip,” he said, his accent more British than Jewish. “If you want to follow tradition, some meals on a plane are less objectionable than others. But the appetizers are always abominable.” He shook his head with a mock serious frown.

A little embarrassed, I laughed. “I am sort of new to this game.”

“Wonderful. Perhaps I can help. The more you play ‘the game’, as you call it, the more enjoyable it becomes.”

I hesitated. Some Hasidim push their orthodoxy on non-observant Jews. I wanted to follow my own path, not his.

“What brings a young man like you from balmy Los Angeles to frigid Philadelphia? There is an unseasonable cold spell there.”

“I’m going to visit my parents for a week.”

“Wonderful. A dutiful son is a blessing. And from there?”

“After that, England.”

“Ah. You’re a physician, aren’t you?”

My eyebrows rose. “Yes. How did you know?”

He laughed, though not with his eyes. “Careful observation and a keen knowledge of human behavior. I could tell by the angle of your mouth, the timbre of your voice, and the determined way you hold your pen. Seeing the New England Journal of Medicine on your lap also helped.”

I laughed also. He sounded pleasant enough, but projected a self-confidence that bordered on aggressive. One would not want him as an enemy. “You’re very observant. I’m taking time off from clinical medicine to do research. London is my first stop.”

“Your parents must be proud of you.”

“I hope so. My father had always wanted to be a doctor, and I suspect he enjoys my career vicariously.”

“Are your parents observant of the traditions?”

“A little. I was Bar Mitzvahed and we lit candles at Chanukah, but little else. They weren’t that interested in ritual. My father always said -- excuse me -- that religion was a hoax.”

He chuckled. “No need to apologize for your father, but do let me mention that in ordering a kosher meal you are striking out on your own. That is admirable.”

I blinked. I had intended to resist his “help,” but he had set me up. Had I said my parents were observant, he would have praised me for being a good son. Either way he would encourage me to follow tradition. The man’s smile was unassuming, but his charisma gleamed.

“You’re not married,” he said, speaking as if he had known me for years.

“That’s right. I’m not.” I smiled in spite of myself. This mind-reading act, though a little unnerving, was a lot better than sitting alone and fretting.

“And your parents ... hassle you, if that’s the right word, about it.”

“That is indeed the right word. You must be telepathic.”

He laughed again. “Some people think so, but again I’m just being observant. Most married men abroad for a year take their wives, and parents of young men usually want them married before they get too old.” He still smiled, but only with his mouth. His eyes, so black one could not see the pupils, made me uneasy.

“Your observations are good. My parents want grandchildren. To them I’m not dutiful at all.”

He nodded. “Mothers are often like that, especially with young men of about,” he lifted an eyebrow and stared with those magnetic black eyes, “thirty-one”.

“Exactly right. I’m impressed.” If Mom thought I had psychic abilities, she would probably think Abram was Elijah the prophet in disguise.

The Hasid’s grin was huge. “Give your mother this message. Tell her that Abram Rabinowich says that she should ... get off your case and you’ll end up giving her a Jewish daughter-in-law and five grandchildren to spoil to her heart’s delight. I promise it will happen.”

He seemed to enjoy this prophetic role so much, I laughed in spite of my nervousness.

“Five is a lot. How can you promise that? You can’t foretell the future, can you?”

“There are other possibilities. Take your time and pick the right woman. Then you’ll fulfill the commandment given to Adam and to us all -- to be fruitful and multiply.”

Ah, another setup for me to follow the commandments. Like my parents, he wanted me married, though his urgings were much smoother than Mom and Dad’s.

“How did you like your kosher lunch?” he asked.

I lied. “It was good. I liked it.”

His smile vanished. He stared, eyes hard as if he knew I was lying. To my surprise, I shuddered at this hint of sternness. “Well, perhaps on your flight to England you will enjoy kosher food more. Dr. Rothenberg, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. Have an enjoyable sabbatical in England. And remember, avoid the appetizers.”

“I will.” We shook hands and he returned to his seat.

Smiling, I shook my head. He was a character -- witty and friendly, but intimidating. The precision of his guesses made me uncomfortable. I sighed and gazed out the window. He could almost have ESP, but it was far more reasonable that he was just a skilled student of human nature. Depression now gone, I found myself intrigued by this strange man.

The movie began soon afterward. Instead of second run films, the airline was featuring classic comedies and screened “The Frisco Kid.” I laughed a lot, but just as the film ended, the plane buckled and dropped sharply. Overhead lights flickered and motors whined while drinks spilled onto the floor and on people’s laps. Two children cried and a man across the aisle paled. The seatbelt sign flashed on and the captain announced “a little turbulence, but nothing to worry about.” Nothing to worry about? Was he kidding? I’ve seen turbulence before, but never like this.

The plane’s engines groaned as the aircraft bounced up and down, churning my stomach. Had we lost control? I closed my eyes tight and gripped the arms of my chair until my knuckles ached. We were going to crash. I knew it.

I forced my hands to relax and made myself breathe slower. I had wanted to live as a Jew. If we were to crash, I would at least die as a Jew. I started to recite the Sh’ma, a biblical passage that observant Jews chant three times a day and also, if possible, just before death. I had not recited that prayer since my Bar Mitzvah and so remembered only the first sentence. I repeated it over and over, sh’ma yisroel, listen Israel, adoshem elokaynu, HaShem our God, adoshem echad, HaShem is one. The plane bumped and shook as if falling apart as I silently moved my lips and wished I knew the rest. .

Then, with no change in the flight, my fear ebbed and vanished. The shaking continued. My stomach could not keep up with my head, but I no longer felt scared. I listened to the tortured whine of the plane’s engines and opened my eyes, grateful, but puzzled as to why I was no longer afraid. Outside, the clouds had cleared, showing us flying perfectly straight. A few minutes later the turbulence subsided. My fears had been groundless. An hour later, we landed with no difficulty.

Thank God the trip had ended.

#

When the plane docked, a crush of passengers filled the aisle. I stood and found myself standing next to the old Hasid. He stared at me with such strength in those black eyes that I squirmed. “Eli, du redst Yiddish (You speak Yiddish),” he said. It was not a question.

“A little,” I answered in English.

He snickered. “More than a little. You’re fluent,” he said, still in Yiddish.

I shrugged and answered in the same language. “My grandmother taught me when I was little. She lived with us before she died. How did you know?”

He ignored my question. “You’re an internist, aren’t you?”

“Proctologists don’t often read The New England Journal of Medicine,” I said, trying to make a joke.

“A sub-specialist, in hematology perhaps?”

“Still in training. I’ll finish after I return from Europe.” He must have seen one of my sub-specialty journals.

He furrowed his brow. “That turbulence was unpleasant.”

I nodded.

“You must have been frightened. You kept repeating the first line of the Sh’ma.”

My face turned red. “You heard me?”

“No one else did,” he said in a soft voice. “I perceive things which others do not. I knew you were worried so, though that isn’t the purpose of the prayer, I finished it for you to set your mind at ease.”

He shifted his gaze from my eyes to my shirt. “You’re wearing a mezuzah.” Again, he was making a statement, not asking a question even though the pendant was not visible under my clothing.

“‘And these words, which I command you this day, shall be upon your heart,’” he said, reciting in Hebrew the biblical verse on the mezuzah. He switched back to Yiddish. “Yes, placing the words physically over your heart is better than ignoring the commandment.”

He pushed his fingers between the buttons of my shirt, grasped the mezuzah, and rocked it between his thumb and forefinger. That upset me, but I could not push him away or even speak. I was paralyzed. The mezuzah grew hot, burning. After a half a minute, he let go and murmured, “It’s later than I thought.”

He sniggered. “Good placement, Dr. Rothenberg, right over your atrium.” He touched his palm to my forehead and his expression turned cynical and somehow uncanny. Those pitch-black eyes shined with abnormal, terrifying wisdom. Flames, actual fire darted out from the pupils and spread from him to enclose the two of us. At least, that’s what it looked like as panic enveloped me. We started spinning, and passed without explanation through a hell populated by millions of souls who cried in torment while a hideous monster fed itself on their pain. I fell down, down into those piercing, perceptive, deep, black, burning, all-knowing eyes.

The next thing I knew, the old man was grasping my arm as we again stood in the crowded plane. “Dr. Rothenberg, are you all right?”

“I think so,” I said, shivered and broke into a cold sweat. Once more, I could move and speak.

His eyes were bright but no longer preternatural. “You had a dizzy spell. Sit down a moment.”

I complied, and, still scared, stared at him. “That was no ordinary dizzy spell.”

He smiled like a parent soothing an anxious child. “You had some vertigo, nothing more. There is no need to worry,” he said, passing his hand in front of my face, calming my fears.

Abram put his hand on my shoulder while my gasping subsided, then turned around, reached up to grab his luggage, and asked, “By the way, you mentioned you were starting your sabbatical in England. Where will you finish it?”

While opening the overhead bins, he had exposed a part of his forearm with tattooed numbers from the Nazi concentration camps. I stared, speechless. The man was a holocaust survivor. How could I tell him I planned to work in Germany?

A steward opened the front door with a loud thunk. The crowd thinned as people started disembarking. Abram saw my expression and, with an ironic expression, answered his own question. “To Germany perhaps? That’s all right. I visit Deutschland myself. I even have a house there.” Abram grabbed his suitcases, spoke to his companion, and turned back to me. “May God bless you and protect you in Europe. And let me give you another tip: if you follow the Jewish path and keep your wits together, you’ll be able to smell evil in time to avoid it.” He wriggled his nose.

I did not like this conversation any more than the dizzy spell. “Why do I need to avoid evil?”

“Did I say evil? I should have said trouble, the everyday difficulties of life. We’ll meet again when you arrive in Munich this coming January. Look me up. The synagogue knows me. It will be worthwhile for both of us.”

A chill went threw me. “Why did you mention that particular city, Munich? I never told you where I’d be.”

People were moving down the aisle of the plane. He glanced at me with benign amusement. “You must have. How else could I have known?”

“And in January. I didn’t say when I’ll arrive.”

“Come, Dr. Rothenberg. You’re blocking other passengers.”

I shook my head, grabbed my own suitcase, and walked on unsteady feet out of the plane. Mom and Dad were waiting for me just past the security checkpoint. Even in the crowded terminal, they stood out. Mom, wearing a new brown leather coat, her white hair styled, waved furiously, a big grin on her face. Dad, quiet and hardly moving, stood with a more subdued smile. His bald spot now covered half of his scalp, and his mustache had turned gray. He was pale and thinner than I remembered, and looked old.

“How’s my son the doctor?” Dad asked, only half joking at the clichי. His voice was raspy.

“Eli, you have such a nice tan,” Mom said, as always.

I wanted to introduce Abram Rabinowich to them, but he had disappeared. I looked around for the strange Hasid without success.

Mom asked, “Is something wrong, Eli?”

“No, Mom. Everything is fine,” I said, but it was a lie. The premonitions, those weird sensations I came to hate and fear when my parents almost separated because I could not predict a poker hand, had come back. First, they had warned me about Netter. Now, they were telling me that a crisis approached, a dangerous crux point that would transform my entire life.

Chapter Three

That evening, my sister and brother came over. Mom prepared a fried chicken dinner with au-gratin potatoes and broccoli drenched in butter -- the cholesterol special. Since it had meat and dairy, it was not kosher but if I said anything, Mom would feel hurt, and Dad would make a sarcastic remark. So I ate it without comment. It was delicious.

Herb, my old high school friend, stopped by after supper. He had just finished his psych residency in Temple University and was busy building a practice.

We all sat around the ivory colored Formica kitchen table and talked for hours. Mom and Dad contradicted each other, my sister complained about her husband, and the rest of us chimed in from time to time. Strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifted in from the living room stereo. “Mom, do you ever not play classical music in this house?” I asked.

“Oh, Eli, you like it too.”

I told them that Karen and I had broken up. Mom tried not to smirk. “Well, don’t feel too bad. There is a very nice girl I would like you to meet. You don’t have to make any commitments.”

Mom always knew a ‘very nice girl,’ invariably Jewish. This time I had a ready answer. “Ma, on the plane from Los Angeles I met a Hasidic soothsayer who told me to give you a message.”

“A soothsayer? Is this a joke, Eli?”

“No, Ma. I really did meet a soothsayer. His name is Abram Rabinowich and he said you shouldn’t worry because I’m destined to marry a wonderful Jewish girl. I just have to take my time and pick the right one.”

“I should live so long.”

“You will Ma. He said you’ll be delighted with my family -- five children, he said.”

“Hey Eli, didn’t he predict anything for me?” Dad asked.

I shrugged. “Nope. He said Mom will be allowed to spoil grandchildren rotten. No one else.”

My sister frowned, but Dad and I laughed. For once, Mom had nothing to say.

#

The day before I was to leave, Herb and I visited a park we had frequented when we were kids. The cold weather had broken, and warm breezes rustled the greening bushes and trees. Herb skipped flat stones across the creek while I sat on a huge rock overhanging the water, listened to a nearby waterfall, and thought about Abram Rabinowich.

“Tell me more about this Hasidic soothsayer,” my friend said, as if he too could read my thoughts.

I took a deep breath and related the details of the plane trip, Abram’s uncanny guesses, and the vertigo.

Eyebrows raised, Herb turned towards me. “Are you taking the incident seriously?”

I let out a long sigh. “It unnerved me.”

He laughed. “You stood up quickly after a long trip and felt dizzy. Why should that unnerve you?”

“The Hasid knew too much, Herb. For example, I never told him where I was going in Germany or when I’d get there.”

“You must have told him. You just don’t remember what you said.”

I stared at him.

“This reminds me of when your Mom thought you could see the future. Our rabbi, I hate to admit, was the one who put that all in perspective. Narrishkeit, foolishness, he said and he was right. Come on, Eli, we’re the Friends of Galileo. Supernatural events always have natural explanations, often some detail that someone overlooked or forgot. Which is more likely – that you had given hints to your soothsayer without realizing, or that he actually can read minds and everything we have learned about science is worthless? You choose.”

*

Driving down the tree lined expressway to the airport with my parents, I thought of Herb’s comments. He was right. I had let my imagination take over. When we entered the perimeter of Philadelphia International, excitement and apprehension welled up. This was it -- the real beginning of my adventure. Though my hands were sweating, I itched to get on the plane.

At the terminal, Dad strode ahead, pushing through crowds and pointing out our direction -- as if I could not find my own way. His jacket hung too loose on his shoulders. He limped and winced with pain so often, it upset me. Rheumatoid arthritis, his torment for the past ten years, had devastated him. I worried about him, but knew better than to comment or ask questions. He hated to talk about his health.

Finally, suitcases checked and only forty minutes till takeoff, we stood in front of the security checkpoint. The public address once more warned us to guard our luggage.

Mom, her eyes moist, turned to me and brushed a speck of lint from my shirt. “It’s a strange place and you don’t know anyone overseas. They don’t even speak English there.”

“In England they speak English. And I learned German in college, Ma. Besides, Yiddish is similar. Don’t worry so much.” She hugged me tightly. Dad just shook my hand, cleared his throat, and assured me I would do well. These good-byes were well-rehearsed scenes and always left a lump in my throat.

The moving walkway past the checkpoint took me down the concourse, out of sight of Mom and Dad and into the waiting area. Heavy air and the smell of sweaty bodies dulled the buzz of conversation, and crowds milled around endless rows of cramped black plastic seats. I sat in the only available seat, wedged between a perfumed dowager and a fat teenage boy, and closed my eyes.

Except for the hospitals I would be working in, this trip was uncharted. Anything could happen. For six months, I would be in a country where people didn’t even speak English. Was this journey right or even sane for me?

The alternative, returning to Karen and Andrew Netter, was worse. When the loudspeaker announced boarding of the plane, passengers coalesced into a long line with me close to the front. As I gave the boarding pass to a steward, a burden left my spirit. With no more chance to back out, I sighed with relief. I had made my own decision and carried it out instead of following what fate or other people had planned.

At least, that is what I thought at the time.

#

Though I had boarded the plane before almost everyone else, my seatmate, a fiftyish, paunchy man, had somehow slipped in ahead of me, and, curled up in the aisle seat, snored. Squeezing past him to my own place, I brushed his knees. He stirred, head and limbs twitching in bizarre, asynchronous fashion. A ridge of brown hair rimmed his huge bald spot. Thick wire rim glasses perched precariously on his nose. He needed a shave. His brown corduroy sport jacket had curled collars and frayed cuffs. Not my choice of seatmates, but at least he would be someone to talk to -- if he ever woke up.

Out over the ocean, the Eastern Coast far behind, my anxiety ebbed. Flight attendants pushed appetizer carts down the aisle. Remembering Rabinowich’s warning about appetizers, I refused. But these snacks were only cheese spread and pretzels, a ritually acceptable combination. So the fortuneteller had erred. Thanks to his prophecy, I had missed a snack. It was worth it to see his soothsaying debunked.

I started reading a science fiction book, “Ab’s Story”, about life on a space station. An hour later, loud snorts from his my neighbor’s seat interrupted my concentration. My neighbor coughed and twitched, and at one point looked like he might have a seizure. Finally, he opened his eyes and blinked, pulling himself together. He ran pudgy fingers through remnants of his hair and yawned, mouth hanging open as he straightened up.

“Did I fall asleep?” he asked.

“You sure did. You’ve been sleeping more than an hour.”

He clapped his hands. “Praise the Lord. I needed that.”

For dinner, another kosher meal awaited me. The steward, a pretty, young woman with an infectious smile, offered the “special tray”, as the airlines call it, without comment except to say, “Enjoy.” There were no neon lights this time. I unwrapped the tray and picked up a fork only to feel eyes fixed in my direction. My neighbor was staring at my plate and at me.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked. He looked so upset I checked my platter to see if anything was amiss. The tray held roast beef, vegetables, rolls, margarine, fruit and a piece of cake. Nothing was out of place.

“No, nothing,” he said, quickly turning to his own meal, defrosted fried shrimp. “Is that a kosher meal?”

I stiffened. Not another fortuneteller, I thought. But my tray held a note printed with Hebrew letters. He must have seen that.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you Jewish?”

Would a non-Jew order a kosher meal? I just answered yes.

“I’m Jewish also. I’m a completed Jew.”

“No sense in halfway measures,” I said between bites. This meal was good.

“My name is Sam Weinstein, but my friends call me Shmuel.” He leaned over, extended his hand and smiled. His breath smelled foul.

I suppressed a grimace. “Eli Rothenberg.”

“Where are you from, Eli?”

“Philadelphia, and before that L.A. This is my first trip to England.”

“You’ll like it. I go to Europe a lot.”

I thought of the mind-reading tricks Abram had played. “How long will you be there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It depends on how my business goes.”

Well, I thought, most married men in Europe for an indefinite period would bring their wives. “You aren’t married?”

“No, I’m not.”

Aha. That old soothsayer Rabinowich had nothing on me. You just have to use your head.

“My wife died last year,” he added.

Uh oh. Mind-reading was not so easy after all. “I’m sorry.”

“We had been married thirty-one years. She developed a blood clot in the lungs and passed away two days later. It was a horrible blow. I never realized how much I needed her until she had gone.” As he spoke, his face and voice lost all expression.

Why had I brought this subject up? “You must have been close.”

“Yes. The loneliness was excruciating. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t do anything. I wanted to kill myself.”

With such emotional statements, I thought he would cry, wring his hands, or do something, anything to show his grief. Instead he sat immobile, his voice flat and impassive, his grayish-brown eyes blank behind thick glasses. His uninflected words sounded reptilian, like the hiss of a small snake. I shrank back in my seat.

He said, “Then a handsome blond man came to me at midnight. The bell had not rung, but I knew he stood outside so I opened the door and invited him in. We talked until just before sunrise. He gave me dark red wine and told me not to despair.”

For some reason, my chest now felt hot and itchy. I rubbed it with my knuckles and tried to sound interested. “That sounds like good advice.”

“He took me to the synagogue, Beth Moshiac. They welcomed me and I joined them. I became like them so I didn’t need to feel alone.”

Had there been another seat, I would have moved. This Shmuel acted too bizarre for my comfort, but the plane was full. I felt obligated to respond. “Religion can be very helpful in times of grieving over the loss of a loved one. Though I’ve never heard of a temple with a name like that.”

His face remained a mask, his eyes blank. Only his lips moved. “They told me that I’m still a Jew.” Suddenly he blinked and shook his head as if waking from sleep. His face came alive and his voice regained its normal timbre. “Yes, I’m a Jew. I’m a completed Jew.”

“You mentioned that.”

“Do you keep kosher at home, Eli?”

“No, not usually.”

Sam -- or Shmuel -- leered. “You know, you don’t have to follow all the commandments in the Bible. Many of them are out of date.”

“That’s the way I feel. Many of the rules are cultural anachronisms, good for when they were written, but unnecessary now.”

He leaned over and whispered through a mouthful of food. His halitosis was fierce. “But one thing we Jews should do is study the Bible. I mean the whole Bible. Certain passages, when properly understood, give an entirely different understanding of the Holy Scripture.”

“I suppose so.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“In London. I’m working at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

“Good. I’ll look you up there.” He took out pencil and paper and started scribbling. “Check these quotations. See what they mean.”

I stuffed the paper in my pocket.

“Have a nice trip,” he said, finished eating and lay back, a satisfied grin on his face. Soon he was snoring again.

What a strange man. His story about a mysterious stranger with a nocturnal glass of wine bordered on psychotic. I felt sorry for Shmuel, but antagonized without understanding why.

Between Abram Rabinowich and Shmuel Weinstein, I seemed destined to fly with religious fanatics.

#

After dinner, the captain turned out the overhead lights. Too excited to sit, let alone sleep, I stood to stretch my legs and made my way down the narrow aisle to the tiny galley in the back of the plane. At the rear of the cooking area, large black garbage bags held half-full coffee cups and dirty trays from the night’s dinner. On the front shelf stood rolls, coffee and orange juice for the morning breakfast. The coffee smelled good, but a cup then would make me even less sleepy. The stewardess who had brought my dinner slouched on one of the seats. “You look tired,” I said, sitting across from her.

She sighed. “Yes, I really am.” She glanced at me with an apologetic smile.

“Busy day?”

She nodded. “One of the stewards is sick, so we don’t have a complete crew. But the plane is full. We can’t keep up.”

“I guess having to serve me a ‘special meal’ didn’t help.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t a problem. Special meals are pre-planned and part of our jobs. It’s people’s whims that must be satisfied immediately, right now, that are tiring. ‘Give me a magazine. Give me another dessert. Give me everything and give it without any delay.’”

I nodded. “Some people treat you like a servant when you try to help them.”

She straightened and stretched, her movements like a dancer’s. “That’s well put. I’m not a servant. Yet some passengers never stop calling. This is the first chance I’ve had to sit all day.”

My eyes wandered over her and enjoyed the sight. Perky more than pretty in her navy blue uniform, she radiated a friendly energy that made me smile. She stood a little shorter than I, slender, but distinctly feminine. Her hair, dark, fell almost to her shoulders, and her face, round with hazel eyes, crinkled with dimples when she smiled, which was often.

“I know the feeling,” I said.

“Do you work with people also?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a doctor, in my last year of training.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m surprised. I didn’t think people treated their doctors as servants.”

I told her about people who call at three a.m. to complain of constipation. She showed me the patient’s view of socialized medicine in Great Britain. We talked about London and its beautiful sights that I had never seen, and Los Angeles and Disneyland, which she had never seen, but wanted to.

“Next year, you should visit me in LA and I’ll show you Disneyland,” I said.

“That sounds like a marvelous idea. I’d like that.” She hesitated a moment. “And this weekend I could show you London if you liked.” She had a delightful British accent.

I could not have planned it better if I had tried. We exchanged addresses and made a date for the weekend. True, I had planned to live a more Jewish life, and I did not think she was Jewish, but for a simple sightseeing date, that didn’t matter.

#

I slept a few hours until the captain turned on the overhead lights for breakfast. Susan and I exchanged smiles when she brought the meal, but she was too busy to talk. Shmuel slept through breakfast.

We landed at Heathrow without problems -- a simple thud, the hiss of the braking jets and we were on the ground. Shmuel awakened just as the plane touched down and stared at me, a nervous glint in his eye. For a second, I thought he would pull some trick like the elderly Hasid had carried out in Philadelphia, but when the plane docked, he jumped from his seat and squeezed halfway down the aisle before I even stood up. By the time I left the crowded airplane, he had vanished. I took a deep breath. My chest felt light. A sense of inordinate relief swept over me.

I looked around the terminal, and a grin spread over my face. I was in London and had made the break that would change the course of my life. Bubbling with nervous, happy energy, I almost skipped while navigating the long corridors down to the main concourse. Out in the street, I stopped by a little shop for something to eat. Hearing British accents, smelling foods like Cornish pasties, and even getting change in euros instead of dollars, all excited me. In the cab to the hospital, I rubbernecked, luxuriating in the newness of trivia like double-decker buses, or people driving on the wrong -- certainly not the right -- side of the road. This was my first real stay in another country and it was a kick.

St. Bartholomew’s hospital -- “Bart’s” -- had given me a temporary on-call room, small, but comfortable enough with a maroon sofa bed, nightstand, chairs and a desk, all well used, but all hospital clean. Cracks darted down from the ceiling near a faded reproduction of van Gogh’s “Sunflowers”. No luxury, but it would do until I found my own apartment. I lay down for a moment to test the mattress and did not awaken until late afternoon.

The next morning, fighting off jetlag, I walked around the hospital and gossiped with some of the doctors, most of whom warned me about my new project director, Sandra Rodger. One potential research physician showed me the lab Rodgers had assigned her -- a small, smelly, dark room with little more than an incubator, an old centrifuge, and no modern equipment. “Maybe I should forget experimental medicine and just be a clinician,” she said.

That afternoon I met the famous Dr. Rodger, a hematologist with an international reputation in blood clotting disorders. My own interest was in leukemia, but Rodger was investigating a promising new anticoagulant derived from the salivary glands of vampire bats. She stood on the verge of a breakthrough, so the chances of a scientific paper or two to add to my resume were good, but after the warnings given me by the staff, I dreaded meeting her.

Doctor Rodger, a bony woman with drawn lips and white hair in a tight bun, scowled through wire-rimmed glasses and deepened the furrows in her brow when I entered her office. While sitting at a monstrous wood desk and leafing through papers, she described the project she had assigned me -- to compare her new vampire bat anticoagulant with heparin, the standard drug for blood clots. She cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, a laboratory isn’t yet available for you. In addition, Dr. Roberta -- she’s one of our fellows -- is currently on a prolonged maternity leave, leaving the department under-staffed. So, Dr. Rothenberg, would you mind terribly taking her place for a while?”

“Your letter said I’d see patients less than half of the time, not fill in for regular staff.”

She glanced up at me. “I didn’t specify how much time in the clinic. Eventually I do want you to concentrate on the laboratory. However, you must agree that now it simply is not possible.”

I stiffened. “A hospital this size must have at least one unused laboratory.”

She sighed and stared at the ceiling. “You’ll just have to believe me that there isn’t. I’m afraid your choices are to wait one week -- two at the most -- for your own lab, or to return to the states.”

I stared at her and my head started to spin. “The doctor on maternity leave just had her first child at the age of 41. You knew months ago she’d be likely to have complications, and arranged to join the Heidelberg fellowship program because I would be cheaper than hiring a replacement.”

Her face flushed. “Dr. Rothenberg, be fair. Yes, it would be convenient to have you take her place, but that wasn’t the main reason we invited you.”

The idea of returning back home was too unappetizing. “I’ll help you out, but with the condition that you promise to find me a lab within two weeks -- a well equipped lab, not a renovated broom closet.”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise.”

I hoped my nervousness did not show. “Of course you can. You’re the head of the department.”

“What if Dr. Roberta hasn’t returned to work by then?”

“Don’t worry. She’ll be back. Please, I don’t want to return to the states and have to explain to Heidelberg why I left. Give me your word you’ll get me a modern lab within two weeks, I’ll fill in for Dr. Roberta until then, and the matter will be closed.”

She glowered. “All right. I do not like your pushiness, but I want to be fair. Moreover, we really are hoping for you to make worthwhile progress on this anticoagulation project. Believe it or not, that is the reason we asked you to come here. From the papers you’ve published, I think you have a lot of promise.”

Papers I published? What bullshit. My name had been fifth on both of them, which made them a long way from being ‘my’ papers. Still, I forced what I hoped was a warm smile, we stood and shook hands, and I left her office.

I walked down the corridor with the adrenalin pouring. I had confronted her and won a reasonable compromise. Ever since my father had hit me for standing up to him, I had avoided showdowns with authority figures. Maybe I was getting over that.

Then I stopped short. How in the world had I known so much about the doctor on leave? Sheila, the ER nurse, would call it another premonition. I shivered with the thought. Herb would insist that someone had mentioned it in a conversation that morning that I had forgotten because of jetlag. Herb would be right. I determined not to give into superstition and went searching for the chief resident who showed me the night duty schedule. I had call once each week. Less would have been nice, but this was tolerable.

My second day in the hospital, the pager blared, summoning me to a code 99. Someone had stopped breathing, or their heart had stopped beating, or both. I ran down the hall to a room where a two-year-old girl in irreversible coma from meningitis lay limp as a rag doll in her crib. Prompt medication cures most children with this disease, but not her. The bacteria had destroyed her brain weeks ago.

The resident assigned to her case, a harried young man with a shock of thick black hair, had taken charge, and slipped the pencil-thin endotracheal tube through her mouth into the lungs on the first try. I admired his dexterity, but the sight of that tiny body spread-eagled on the bed made me wonder why he bothered. Then he pressed electrodes onto her chest and charged them.

That was too much. “Why put her through all that? She’s terminal.”

“I don’t have a choice, Eli. We have to do ‘everything’,” he said with the grim determination of a man who knows that any mercy on his part will be punished. “Off the bed,” he shouted and pushed the defibrillate button. The baby’s body convulsed as the smell of burned fat filled the room. I clenched my fists. The resident listened to the baby’s chest with his stethoscope, then pushed rhythmically on the baby’s breastbone. Heart in my throat, I turned around and left the room.

That code angered me. I am used to death, even in children, but the ordeal -- tubes, electric shocks, needle sticks -- inflicted on the little girl was cruel though she most likely had not felt it. This code could bring only futile pain. Who had insisted on this hopeless rigmarole? It was a bad scene and bad medicine. I stomped down the corridor and felt my stomach sour.

I was in a real funk that evening. I wanted to talk to someone, but did not know anyone in London - except that flight attendant, Susan. I picked up the phone on my nightstand and started to dial, but how would she respond? I hung up the phone.

We had planned to meet the next day, Saturday. I felt so distraught, I almost canceled, but the thought of hanging around the hospital alone all weekend made me shudder. The next day, I took the tube to a station three blocks from her apartment building. Walking past stores and a large park, watching children at play and lovers hand in hand, my mood lightened.

Her roommate, a younger woman with mousey brown hair, opened the door. “You must be Dr. Rothenberg. Come in. Susan will be ready in a jiffy.”

And so she was. “Eli, it’s nice seeing you again. Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“No, your directions were great.”

“I’m glad.” She smiled warmly. She wore a light pink blouse and checkered skirt, an outfit much prettier than her flight attendant’s uniform. “Anna,” she said to her roommate, “Eli and I will be out all day. We’ll see you when we get back.”

“Have fun,” Anna answered and Susan and I left.

The day, crystalline autumn with a bright blue sky and brisk, invigorating air, cheered me even more. From the top of a sightseeing bus, we admired St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace. Then we took a tour covering the haunts of Jack the Ripper, Count Dracula, and other villains, both real and mythological. The descriptions of those malefactors were just vivid enough to stimulate without being repulsive. Susan giggled and held me tight. This was a wonderful way to play tourist.

Afterwards we strolled hand in hand along the bank of the Thames, talking about the city, the tour, and the birds in the trees. We sat on a bench near the river. I put my arm around her shoulder and she snuggled closer. A gentle breeze blew. A squirrel inspected us from a distance, then scampered up a tree. Noises of children’s play drifted from a nearby playground.

I told Susan about the death of the little girl.

She took my hand in both of hers. “Oh, Eli, that’s so sad.”

That was all she said, but the concern in her voice resonated. She talked about herself, how she had studied music and showed enough talent to win a partial scholarship. When her dad died a few years back, she had to drop out of school to help her mother. The stewardess job interested her and paid well, but was temporary. Eventually she hoped to become a professional flautist.

Unlike Karen, she had no plans to marry a rich doctor.

We had dinner in the Alcove, a seafood restaurant in Kensington that Susan had suggested. By then the sun’s warmth had gone. I felt relief at entering the bustling, steaming restaurant. I rubbed my hands to work out the cold and also with delight at the clinking glassware, hot buttery smells and sight of black-suited waiters rushing trays of food to diners. This would be a good place to eat. Susan smiled at my enthusiasm.

While waiting for seats, we watched lobsters climbing over each other in the tank. “Poor things,” Susan said, “about to be eaten. They even have their claws taped shut. It must be awfully uncomfortable.”

“That’s so they don’t fight and injure each other.”

“I know, but it’s still a shame. Not that it makes them any less tasty. I like lobster.” She giggled.

The waiter led us to a pleasant little table near the lobster tanks and lit a decorative candle. I ordered sole, my favorite dish, while Susan studied the menu. As it turned out, sole was the cheapest item there.

Susan mused. “Now let’s see, where’s the lobster? Ah, here. Oh my.” Her eyes widened. She closed the menu. “I’ll have the baked sole also,” she told the waiter.

Oops. That is one reason to let your date order first. “Why not the lobster? I thought that’s what you liked.”

She smiled impishly. “Funny, I thought you liked it, too.”

Actually, steaming and dipped in hot butter, I do. However, I did not want to order it now because, like all shellfish, it is not kosher, not that I wanted to explain that on a first date. “Hmmm. Perhaps I’ll have the salmon.”

“Go right ahead,” she said. “I want the baked sole.” So I ordered a bottle of expensive champagne and we both laughed.

The dinner was delicious. Afterwards, high and happy, we went back to her apartment and she invited me in. The living room, with floral prints and modern furniture, lacked the plush luxury of Karen’s place, but was bright and spacious. A note on the coffee table told us her roommate had left for the weekend. We sat next to each other on the couch, and I leaned over to study a heart-shaped pendant on a golden chain around her neck. It was beautiful. I unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse to examine the pendant more carefully. She giggled, but made no protest. Soon, with both breasts bare, I kissed each nipple and then the pendant, going around in a lovely circle. I liked that pendant much more than the one Karen wore.

I also admired her bedroom that evening, not that I paid much attention to details except to notice the mattress was nicely soft. It was a delightful night. This woman was not Jewish, but she was pretty, pleasant, smart and sexy. She did not have Karen’s money, but she did not have Karen’s rich tastes, either. I could get serious about her. Even Mom would like her. I would have to watch myself.

The next morning we awoke early, kissed and arranged to see each other the following weekend. I went back to my room and, thinking how relaxing this sabbatical was likely to turn out, fell asleep.

The following week, a mad killer appeared on the scene.

Revised 8/05