The White Road

And while I sat talking to Adele Foster, surrounded by images of spectral women, a disheveled man wearing a bright red shirt, blue jeans, and battered sneakers strolled up Norfolk Street on the Lower East Side of New York and stood in the shadow of the Orensanz Center, the oldest surviving synagogue in New York. It was a warm evening and he had taken a cab down here, electing not to endure the heat and discomfort of the subway. A daisy chain of children floated by, suspended between two women wearing Tshirts identifying them as members of a Jewish community group. One of the children, a little girl with dark curls, smiled up at him as she passed and he smiled back at her, watching her as she was carried around the corner and out of his sight.

He walked up the steps, opened the door, and moved into the neo-Gothic main hall. He heard footsteps approach from behind and turned to see an old man with a sweeping brush in his hand.

“Can I help you?” said the cleaner.

The visitor spoke.

“I’m looking for Ben Epstein,” he said.

“He is not here,” came the reply.

“But he does come here?”

“Sometimes,” the old man conceded.

“You expecting him this evening?”

“Maybe. He comes, he goes.”

The visitor found a chair in the shadows, turned it so that its back was facing the door, and sat down carefully upon it, wincing slightly as he lowered himself down. He rested his chin on his forearms and regarded the old man.

“I’ll wait. I’m very patient.”

The old man shrugged, and began sweeping.

Five minutes went by.

“Hey,” said the visitor. “I said I was patient, not made of fucking stone. Go call Epstein.”

The old man flinched but kept sweeping.

“I can’t help you.”

“I think you can,” said the visitor, and his tone made the old man freeze. The visitor had not moved, but the geniality and passivity that had made the little girl smile at him was now entirely gone. “You tell him it’s about Faulkner. He’ll come.”

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again there was only spiraling dust where the old man had stood.

Angel closed his eyes again, and waited.

It was almost seven when Epstein arrived, accompanied by two men whose loose shirts did not quite manage to hide the weapons they carried. When he saw the man seated on the chair, Epstein relaxed and indicated to his companions that they could leave him be. Then he pulled up a chair and sat opposite Angel.

“You know who I am?” asked Angel.

“I know,” said Epstein. “You are called Angel. A strange name, I think, for I see nothing angelic about you.”

“There’s nothing angelic to see. Why the guns?”

“We are under threat. We believe we have already lost a young man to our enemies. Now we may have found the man responsible for his death. Did Parker send you?”

“No, I came here alone. Why would you think Parker sent me?”

Epstein looked surprised. “We spoke with him, not long before we learned of your presence here. We assumed that the two occurrences were related.”

“Great minds thinking alike, I guess.”

Epstein sighed. “He quoted Torah to me once. I was impressed. You, I think, even with your great mind, will not be quoting Torah. Or Kaballah.”

“No,” admitted Angel.

“I was reading, before I came to you: the Sefer ha-Bahir, the Book of Brightness. I have long been considering its significance, more often now since the death of my own son. I had hoped to find meaning in his sufferings, but I am not wise enough to understand what is written.”

“You think suffering has to have meaning?”

“Everything has meaning. All things are the work of the Divine.”

“In that case, I got some harsh words to say to the Divine when I see Him.”

Epstein spread his hands. “Say them. He is always listening, always watching.”

“I don’t think so. You think He was listening and watching when your son died? Or worse: maybe He was and just decided not to do anything about it.”

The old man winced involuntarily at the hurt that Angel’s words caused him, but the younger man did not appear to notice. Epstein took in the rage and grief on his face. “Are you talking about my son, or yourself?” he asked gently.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“He is the Creator: all things come from Him. I do not pretend to know the ways of the Divine. That is why I read Kaballah. I do not yet understand all that it says, but I am beginning to comprehend a little.”

“And what does it say to explain the torture and death of your son?”

This time, even Angel recognized the pain that he had caused.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reddening. “Sometimes, I get angry.”

Epstein nodded—“I too get angry.”—then resumed.

“I think it speaks of harmony between the upper and lower worlds, between the visible and the unseen, between good and evil. World above, world below, with angels moving in between. Real angels, not nominal ones.”

He smiled.

“And because of what I have read I wonder, sometimes, about the nature of your friend Parker. It is written in the Zohar that angels must put on the garment of this world when they walk upon it. I wonder now if this is true of angels both good and evil, that both hosts must walk this world in disguise. It is said of the dark angels that they will be consumed by another manifestation, the destroying angels, armed with plagues and the avenging wrath of the fury of the Divine, two hosts of His servants fighting against one another, for the Almighty created evil to serve His purposes, just as He created good. I must believe that or else the death of my son has no meaning. I must believe that his suffering is part of a larger pattern that I cannot comprehend, a sacrifice in the name of the greater, ultimate good.”

He leaned forward on his chair.

“Perhaps your friend is such an angel,” he concluded. “An agent of the Divine: a destroyer, yet a restorer of the harmony between worlds. Perhaps, just as his true nature is hidden from us, so too it may be hidden even from himself.”

“I don’t think Parker is an angel,” said Angel. “I don’t think he does either. If he starts saying he is, his girlfriend will have him committed.”

“You think these are an old man’s fancies? Perhaps they are. An old man’s fancies, then.” He dismissed them with a graceful sweep of his hand. “So why are you here, Mr. Angel?”

“To ask for something.”

“I will give you all that I can. You punished the one who took my son from me.” For it was Angel who had killed Pudd, who had in turn killed Epstein’s son Yossi; Pudd, or Leonard, the son of Aaron Faulkner.

“That’s right,” said Angel. “Now I’m going to kill the one who sent him.”

Epstein blinked once.

“He is in jail.”

“He’s going to be released.”

“If they let him go, men will come. They will protect him, and they will take him out of your reach. He is important to them.”

Angel found himself distracted by the old man’s words. “I don’t understand. Why is he so important?”

“Because of what he represents,” replied Epstein. “Do you know what evil is? It is the absence of empathy: from that, all evil springs. Faulkner is a void, a being completely without empathy, and that is as close to absolute evil as this world can bear. But Faulkner is worse still, for he has the capacity to drain empathy from others. He is like a spiritual vampire, spreading his infection. And such evil draws evil to itself, both men and angels, and that is why they seek to protect him.